I am Indian football and I will tell you why I am not in the FIFA World Cup

Kashmir, 2026. It’s 3:00 PM. School is over. This is the most exciting part of the day for me. I can finally get out of the classroom and onto the open grass and really dig in watching the meadows. I play until the sunset, looking at the beautiful, snow-capped mountains of the lofty Himalayas. I breathe in the fresh air and listen to the Jhelum hitting the river bank. When I’m in the middle of the field, I have no worries.

O. Good morning. I forgot to tell you my name. I am soccer. Indian football. File photo: Reuters

In the recent past, I have been at the center of several major discussions, many of which have suggested that I am at an all-time low. They say the state of my being is so bad that it could take years to repair the damage done. But I tell you what, I don’t feel that way when I’m in the middle of the pitch.

Today I am with Mehnoor Shakeel, a 17-year-old promising striker from Kashmir. Mehnoor is one of the brightest sparks of the new generation of footballers emerging from the valley. These young girls want to play and are hungry for success. Mehnoor plays for DownTown Heroes FC. She scored 11 goals in a single match last year in the under-19 tournament organized by the Reliance Youth Sports Foundation. It wasn’t a coincidence. She trains every day and hopes to make it to the mainland to one day star in the Indian national team. Mehnoor Shakeel in action. (Photo: Downtown Hereos)

If Mehnoor’s dream is to play for India, sooner or later he will have to leave these mountains. This is where my concern begins. I’m told it’s no better on land either. Football there has stopped.

The All India Football Federation (AIFF), which is supposed to promote the sport in the country, completely lacks vision. This led to an unprecedented crisis for Indian football, which almost saw its first national league, the ISL, scrapped for the season.

The uncertainty of the ecosystem boiled over at clubs who didn’t know whether to keep their staff or let them go. Clubs briefly struggled to hold on, but then wages were frozen.

Fortunately, those fears haven’t gotten to Mehnoor yet, at least for now. Mehnoor is 17, still going to school and doesn’t have to worry about work, salary or taking care of his family. In this sense it is protected.

FOOTBALL IN KASHMIR

Mehnoor is the product of a family that fought the conservatism of Kashmir to bring it to the football field. Her football spirit is indomitable, something she inherited from her mother who was an NCC cadet in her youth.

As the football ecosystem across India descends into chaos, the sign that young girls are taking up the sport is welcome. It marks an important shift in Kashmir, a society that until 15 years ago was averse to girls playing football.

Many tell me that while Kashmir is now better known for its cricket, the real heart of the state is football. File photo: Reuters

In the late 1990s, Kashmiris saw football as a means of community development. It gave birth to homegrown legends like Mehrajuddin Wadoo and Ishfaq Ahmed. Wadoo, who played nearly 300 matches for Kolokatti giants Mohun Bagan and East Bengal, candidly recalls that during his stint in the 1990s and 2000s, many footballers were better than him and Ishfaq.

“They were much better players than me and Ishfaq in the nineties. As it was, many people did not have the luxury of believing that one could become a footballer at that time. Things were not good at that time; bomb blasts, curfews and repression made it impossible to stay out,” recalls Mehrajuddin.

“But people at that time tried to stay in Kashmir; they didn’t want to go out. They tried to play for the state, get a job in the civil service and stay in Kashmir with a salary that could support their family.”

I remember those days too. Mehrajuddin Wadoo in the early 2000s. (Photo: Instagram)

But that has changed. Kashmiri football gained real momentum with Lonestar Kashmir and by 2019, Real Kashmir had introduced the first women’s team in the valley.

Back then, sending a daughter to the playground was a leap of faith for conservative families. Administrators knew they had to gain trust before teaching tactics. They created direct WhatsApp groups, sharing every practice photo, schedule change, and safety update directly with moms and dads.

The win over the parents was just the first win. A tougher fight was yet to come.

Mehnoor was the result of that honest effort. She trains with relentless passion at DownTown Heroes FC, her feet moving with sharp, natural instincts. Photo: Downtown Heroes

How should I view a Kashmiri parent with judgment for holding back? I didn’t give them a single reason to feel safe.

Most families don’t play with the “what ifs” here. Imagine a mother who saves every rupee to keep her child in football boots for six years, only to look up and see that the bridge to a real future has never been built.

This is not just a Kashmiri story. It’s a story everywhere I go.

People talk about the lack of matches all the time. All over the world, kids grow up playing 38 league games a season. Here the ISL club closes just after 20.

My national team suffers from the exact same silence. We don’t play much. I have heard people say that India went the whole year of 2024 without a single win and that we have only won two in the last two and a half years.

Whenever I hear it, it breaks my heart. How are my children supposed to learn to fly if I never give them a chance to spread their wings?

Ayaz, a scout from DownTown Heroes, sighed heavily as he talked about the situation.

“The last official tournament these girls played was in January. Since then, they’ve been sitting ducks, waking up, tying their boots and practicing day after day on the same grass, with no opposition, no referee’s whistle and no match adrenaline.”

The tournament Ayaz is talking about was organized by the Reliance Youth Sports Foundation. The RFYS was launched in India in 2016 but arrived in Kashmir much later, charting the road map for the sport and organizing its first competition after the COVID-19 pandemic. Seeing a clear structure take shape, a new generation of parents felt confident in sending their children into the field. Reliance is fulfilling its role in the Valley and across the country, but the wider lack of national structure fails to tie it all together. Photo: Reliance

THE MISSING PYRAMID

Ayaz’s words stayed with me long after the training was over.

“There just aren’t enough matches.

I’ve heard them before.

Maybe that’s why I’ve never understood the surprise whenever India struggles on the international stage. People often ask why the national team cannot qualify for the FIFA World Cup. They ask about coaches, tactics, players and sometimes me. But they start the story too late.

You don’t make a World Cup footballer at twenty-three. They are shaped like a thirteen. At seventeen they learn who they are.

By the time a player enters the senior dressing room, years of competitive football have taught him how to deal with pressure, how to bounce back from defeat and how to win badly. These lessons cannot be obtained on the training ground. He has to earn it in matches.

This journey is where India continues to lose its way.

For years, Indian football existed without a complete pyramid. The Indian Super League has become the country’s premier competition, but for a long time it operated without promotion or relegation, giving clubs little incentive to look beyond immediate results. Under her, the I-League steadily lost its visibility and commercial strength. A little further down, the state leagues, where thousands of young footballers are expected to take their first steps into senior football, have remained fragmented, underfunded and irregular.

The implication is something I’ve seen time and time again. File Photo: PTI

I bounced across the beaches of Goa, the red earth of Manipur, the rain-soaked grounds of Kerala and the crowded maidans of Kolkata. Everywhere children chase me with equal joy. Kids everywhere are asking their coaches the same question.

“How many matches will I be able to play?”

Young footballers graduate from the academy but have nowhere to go. Some spend months without competitive football. Others spend years sitting on benches.

I remember trying to bridge that gap. They called it Indian arrows. File Photo: AIFF

Indian Arrows have taken raw talent and tested it against grown men, making players like Gurpreet, Jeje and Pronay stalwarts in the national team. It was never flawless, but it gave young dreams a goal.

Then we pulled the plug and left the chasm wide open again.

Without those bridges, how will I save a talent like Mehnoor?

She is talented enough to dream. She trains hard enough to improve. She has coaches willing to invest their time and parents willing to support her ambitions. Yet there comes a point when effort alone is no longer enough.

Cashmere is no stranger to broken texture.

Back in the valley, my state association remains frozen, mired in endless court battles and postponed elections. Without a functioning body, money stops flowing and chances to play in national tournaments simply evaporate. I have to laugh or I would cry. Not too long ago, even my national body, the AIFF, was suspended by FIFA for the exact same mess.

None of this means much to Mehnoor. He does not spend his evenings reading the constitutions of the federation. He doesn’t know why there were no elections. All she knows is that another month has passed without her playing a single match.

FUTURE REJECTED

The tragedy of Indian football is not a lack of talent, it is a betrayal of purpose.

While administrators squabble over voting seats, TV rights and board politics, thousands of kids like Mehnoor are doing their part. They wake up at dawn, push conservative norms, practice on uneven grass and dream of wearing the blue jersey.

An athlete can beat opponents on the field, but no 17-year-old can beat a system built on neglect. File photo: Reuters

As I wandered through the day, it was evening before any of us knew it. The sun finally set behind the snow-capped peaks of the Himalayas, the air cleared and long shadows stretched across the field.

Ayaz blew his whistle to end the session. Mehnoor picked me up, wiped the damp grass from my face and tucked me under her arm as she walked towards the gate with her teammates.

The school bell will ring again tomorrow at 3 p.m. Mehnoor laces up her shoes and returns to this patch of grass, hoping that one day the game she loves will finally love her back.

– The end

Issued by:

Kingshuk Kusari

Published on:

26 Jul 2026 10:34 IST