10 August,2025 08:13 AM IST | Mumbai | Tanisha Banerjee
Pic/Nimesh Dave
On a late afternoon in Nehru Nagar, Juhu, the sun hangs low, and the heat shimmers off tin roofs. A half-deflated football lies muddy and worn beside a rusting shack. Barefoot children race through narrow lanes that we walk past, their laughter bouncing off peeling walls. A boy disappears into a shaded corner, palms cupped to his face, inhaling quietly.
Hafeem. No one stops him. No one notices. There's little space here to play. The alleys are too cramped, the streets taken over by traffic, bodies, and survival. The nooks and crannies that might have once held dreams now cradle addiction. On a stoop, two teenage boys sit slouched, eyes glassy, too still.
Still unnoticed.
A 30-minute bus ride away we travel to a place where these children just might have a fighting chance. The chance? It's on a turf tucked away in Jogeshwari, where plastic cones mark boundaries and every whistle signals a new start. Here, Total Football Academy (TFA) runs drills, tires out young legs, and calls on the power of play through sport to reclaim what the streets try to steal. Founded by Manivarane Kounder who goes by just Mani back in 2019, TFA is more than a football training centre. Being from Nehru Nagar himself, he provides a shield and a second chance of hope for children from slums like Nehru Nagar.
In these neighbourhoods, drugs don't lurk in alleyways - they live in them. Behind every tarp-covered window or graffiti-streaked wall, a story simmers of idleness and with it, a cheap escape.
According to a 2023 report by the National Drug Dependence Treatment Centre, nearly 1.3 per cent of Indian children aged 10-17 have used substances, many starting as early as 11. In slums, that number is likely higher, buried beneath silence. The first hit isn't rebellion. It's routine. It's watching your father roll a joint in the next room. It's the friend at the corner offering you a puff between gulps of Bournvita.
"A lot of my friends have used Space 7," says 13-year-old Karan, eyes down at his frayed studs. "They say it opens up your chest, makes you feel like you're flying." Space 7, the newest poison, is common industrial glue used to repair slippers. It is easily available, shockingly affordable, highly addictive and lethal. Inhaled or injected, it offers a high that rips children under its current long before anyone notices they're drowning.
More often than not it's the TFA coaches who see the signs before parents do. And they hear the stories of children hiding to smoke, of glassy-eyed boys passed out on staircases, of stolen phones and missing shoes. They also know the truth: these children don't want to get high. They just want something to do. Something that makes them feel alive.
That "something" is what Mani came back to redefine.
Mani grew up playing in cramped neighbourhoods not unlike Nehru Nagar. Football was his escape. His talent took him to the U-16 India team, but what stayed with him wasn't just the game. It was the discipline, the direction, the sense of mattering. In 2019, the TFA started not as a professional training centre, but as a way to create a safe space for his neighbourhood's children like he once was. "I saw so many children do drugs. I understand what it is like to be in their position. And I wanted to do something about it." Providing a football to these children, he realised all they want and need is to do something with their free time. "You can't just tell children not to smoke or fight," he says. "You have to give them something stronger to choose instead."
Mani also understands that it is not so simple, which is why TFA's approach is layered. Yes, there are drills and fitness sessions. But there's also nutrition advice, mentorship talks, team bonding, and lessons on communication and even leadership. They hand out kits, support travel, offer scholarships, and provide food for boys post-practice. "You need structure," Mani says. "Football teaches that. You show up, follow rules, work hard, and you get better. That's life." TFA has grown steadily with one child, one match, one dusty afternoon at a time. They don't charge fees. They don't expect applause. They only hope the children keep coming back.
Sourabh is 12. His smiling teeth are chipped and stained - remnants of a past he doesn't like to dwell on. "Everyone does it. All the time," he says, talking about the drugs that chase his friends. "Recently, a kid passed away due to cancer. He fried his lungs by smoking cigarettes all the time. There are plenty like him. But I can come to the ground to run. I'm not going to be like them."
His father owns a small hardware shop just outside their home. "We have to stock the material that makes Space 7 because some people genuinely need it. But we never give it to the junkies," Sourabh says firmly. "I've seen what it does and it is horrible." Just like Sourabh, there's Karan, also 13. Loud, he is always laughing and never stays still. "Mummy says there is no point in football," he offers a mischievous grin, holding a football between his knees. "I don't mind the taunts as long as I get to play." Karan lost his father. His mother works long hours as domestic worker. "I want to be a footballer," he says with no trace of doubt. "Not playing it does not feel right anymore."
TFA gives him that belief. And here, he chases a dream.
In places like Nehru Nagar, joy and structure are rare luxuries. Most slum areas have no public grounds. The streets double up as football fields until a rickshaw passes or a quarrel breaks out. Schools, often overcrowded and underfunded, offer little to no after-hours engagement. "In these areas, a child can either hang around doing nothing or get pulled into a habit that's hard to break," says Neelesh Kale, director of marketing of TFA. "Sport is that rare third option we provide."
Recreational interventions in such communities are scarce. But at TFA, they're intentional. "We put our matches and player clips on social media because it's the only way we can get noticed," Kale adds. Their account receives over 1.4 million views annually; views that help attract sponsors, fund equipment, and pay for travel. "We hustle for every boot and ball."
And it has paid off as several TFA players now represent districts and states in official tournaments. Some have been scouted for elite training programs. One boy, still just a teenager, is currently training in the UK on a full football scholarship, living a life that once felt galaxies away from Nehru Nagar. "This isn't a hobby or for fun," Kale says. "It's an investment. These boys are building careers by playing and showing up every day."
For children long boxed into narrow lanes, football becomes the passport to possibility. But not every story is a comeback. Some boys vanish for weeks, caught in the grip of addiction. Others steal. A few return, hollow-eyed, high, too distracted to play.
Mani knows this. And he doesn't sugarcoat it. "The lure of the street is always there," he says. "But we don't give up on them." TFA isn't here to rescue. It's here to offer a platform that nobody else is. "If a boy comes to play even once," Mani says, "We'll do our best to keep him here."
As the sun slants low over the turf, you can see remnants of public use. Cigarette buds, tambaku packets, and left over joints are left behind. But this does not hinder the children and their motivation to keep doing what they love. For them, a practice day has high stakes. A wiry boy who drowns in his jersey, darts between cones, tongue jutting out in concentration. He strikes clean and the ball hits the net. Kale claps from the sideline, booming encouragement.
The boy jumps up, beaming. His teammates rush in with high-fives flying and laughter rising as the evening dust dances around them. For a moment, this was not Jogeshwari with its constant humming traffic. It was a field of children filled with joy and hope. Their cheers rise like dreams, lingering in the amber light. "Football teaches you discipline, yes," Mani says, his voice reflecting his drive. "But more than that, it teaches you to show up for yourself and others. All we work for is to create a future for these children."
