I ran from religion and sports, but they found me anyway

I’ve consciously kept away from two things my entire life — religion and sports (especially football and cricket). The unnecessary hype, the mass hysteria, the blind fanaticism — it just never made sense to me.

When I was pregnant with my eldest, I was told I’d become a mother by August. Like any typical mother (fathers usually aren’t as invested in this part), I set off on an excited, determined hunt for a unique name — something rooted in Sanskrit, something that reflected my values, my philosophy, and the kind of person I hoped my child would grow to be.

But life had other plans.

In July — much earlier than expected — I was rushed to the emergency room, and my son was born almost a month ahead of schedule. By the time I fully regained my senses, my son had already been named — after St. Thomas.

Why St. Thomas? How was this connected to my pregnancy, my delivery, or anything I stood for? I had never known the significance of July 3rd for Indian Christians until my son was born. Suddenly, phone calls started pouring in — apparently, this was considered an auspicious day because it marked St. Thomas’s martyrdom. (How is the day someone was killed considered auspicious?) Family and well-wishers insisted — he had to be named Thomas.

And just like that, all my careful effort to find a secular, meaningful name was overruled. My son was given a name that instantly revealed his religious identity. The family called him Tom, but soon enough, our small village in Kerala fondly renamed him Thomachen.

Well, the naming was done — to satisfy family, society, and tradition.

From an early age, I saw something special in him. He wasn’t the restless, hyper child you usually find at playgroups. He could sit quietly for hours, spinning stories for his toys, giving each of them a voice. He didn’t like lullabies — he only fell asleep to stories, but not the usual jungle tales — he wanted stories from our lives, his life. Before long, he started drawing the stories he told. I was thrilled — my son, a rare blend of storyteller and artist. I imagined a beautiful journey ahead.

But then life threw another twist.

A football coaching camp started in our residential layout. My quiet, artistic son had never shown an ounce of sportsmanship. But all his friends joined, and soon, he too insisted on playing. Being our first-born, we relented.

That’s when football took over his life.

I still tease him, “What is this nonsense of the whole world chasing a poor ball?” I would tell him football is one of the most overhyped games in the world. But no amount of taunting could pull him away. Football became his passion, and the storyteller-artist quietly stepped aside. Now, if he does pick up a pencil, it’s usually to sketch a footballer.

That’s life, isn’t it? Sometimes what you plan may not happen — and that might just be the best thing.

(Sketches by Tom)

Nisha Kurian (O'Rodha)