The Football; The Bong

Last week after ages I played the game and kicked a ball so hard that my shoe threatened to fly off. And while kicking I started calculating the angle at which my side of my foot needs to touch the ball. And in one of those moments, in the turf laid down at the East Coast Park, I realized I actually miss football.

Every bong is born unto this world with the conviction that he knows football. So every 4 years, he or she trades the Indian nationality to support Brazil, Argentina or at times (surprise surprise) Germany. And when the world is normal, he supports Mohun Bagan, East Bengal or Md. Sporting. The reasons why Bongs love Football are many, but I believe it’s mostly economic. Cricket you see was a game that required significant investment even at the very basic level. For Football, it’s nothing. In fact, if you get a chance, do watch a movie called Africa United. It’s fascinating to see how a football can be made with a condom, a plastic bag and strings. Across Bengal, poverty has been a reality and that’s the reason why we chose to play football over cricket.

Of course there are these new breed of bongs, me included, who act as if they were born at Wembley and played Gulli Cricket with Alex. These guys support typically these teams – those born in the eighties support Liverpool as they had seen the Nineties, the next generation support ManU, the next Arsenal, the new breed without any respect for pedigree support Chelsea and there are whispers that some have begun to support the other ‘chesters this season. Few of the bongs seem to support Napoli and if you wonder why, please stop reading and never ever claim to have a Bong as a friend.

Now my football journey lasted every day since 1989 (till around 2001) for 5 days a week with balls ranging from an innocuous tennis ball on the basketball court, to half the playground as the junior classes, and finally with an actual football, to being the Class 12ers who could play along the entire field, whether they could manage it or not.

The best part about those days was the fact that at any given point in time there would be about 400 students running after 25 balls on a fairly large field with 6 goalposts and 50 goalies who preferred to call themselves “Flying Goalies”

The 2 guys the entire class of 2011 of the greatest school in Calcutta looked up to were Asif Pasha and Niloy Mitra. Of course there were other players, even better players than these 2 but somehow since the beginning till the end of our school life these 2 guys typically were our captains who chose the teams. Somehow I always ended up in Asif’s team and I am yet to figure out if it was because Asif chose me or Niloy did not :)

Anyway, as I said I have had a long and fruitful journey as a footballer. I started as a striker, given the fact in the penalty shoot outs I could shoot really hard and in the 30 minutes rarely did any match have any outcome :) Then as usual with other things in my life, duty called. And I figured out that my services were needed in the mid field. About the time when the world cup was happening I realized that my football idol, Kaizer had made Lothar a Libero. I still don’t exactly know what a libero does, but it sounded a pretty cool thing to say to people. (Or was it not Kaizer who invented it but was in the edition after Italia 90?) Being a libero was of course tiring and I decided to be a back and then a full back, which I defined as never having to go beyond the midfield. That’s when I made my most famous football quote, “the ball might pass, no one else would.”

But as we grew older, the effect was telling. I mean how many footballers have a 12 year long illustrious career? So that’s when I became the “Flying Goalie” though to be absolutely honest I never did much flying.

So I stood under the goalpost and the years flashed before my eyes. Was it this reason for which I had been trained? Was it for this reason that I had become a goalie? To salvage lost pride for the Foods team? I almost could hear Hollywood Sports movies go on around my head (and a little bit of Chak De India) – you know the inspirational dialogue bit.

And yeah these days the goalie does seem to get the captaincy, the cup and the babe! So fate had got me here for a reason.

All such notions were soon laid to rest. We conceded 14 goals in 4 matches. 10 of those were through my “safe” hands. To be fair to myself, I did save quite a few and apparently we fared much better than last year for which we promptly treated ourselves to a scrumptious lunch at Scumpy Murphys but still...

Fate got me here to have a nice laugh on a Saturday morning! Even she needs her funny moments!

Damn I should have remained a striker :)

Five Days of Bongness

Technically it’s not just Bongness. It’s also about being a true blue Calcuttan whether you have bong genes or not and if you are unlucky, it’s also “I am unfortunate to have more than one Bong friend”-ness. October typically is the month when this virus spreads across the world from as I call it, “Beleghata to Baluchistan”.  The only rare exception so far has been Colombo but I am sure it’s because we have not searched intensely.

Anyway, according to last desktop research done through the highly scientific “Eenie, Meenie, Minie Moe” method, I have come to the conclusion that 98.675% of the bloggers who would have written about Durga Puja would have written on the following topics – Durga Puja in Calcutta, Durga Puja outside Calcutta, How awesome bongs are, how awesome Calcutta’s people are, how awesome whoever who sees an idol is, how they miss home, how they miss Cal, how it is never the same. You get the drift. Bongs revel in their nostalgia.

So this year, I decided to write about the 5 things I dislike about Durga Puja.

1. The fact that the food I yearn for during these 5 days is so very hard to get outside my home in Calcutta. The rolls, the puchkas, the bhog - everything seems different and seems to fall below the standards that a young you would have set up. Money can’t buy you the khichuri on the morning on Ashtami made by your mom, for everything else; you can use your credit card. I dislike the fact that we have put a man on the moon and yet we don’t know how to ensure chhanar payesh does not go bad within 2 days!
2. The fact that every self respecting bong starts shouting in a very strange North India influenced way – Durga Mai ki Jai. Now clearly Bongs and Hindi pronunciation don’t go together so it ends up in a form of “Doorga Maaeee Ki Joy”. Now while going to Vaishnodevi you start shouting this I have no issues; in fact if I ever can make the trip I can outshout you. But seriously for us core “Karonbaari” drinking Shaktos it’s cringing to shout Jai Jai instead of rolling all over the floor crying like a baby “Ma Ma” (The Tantric influence is strong in us. We also worship Goddess Kali you see)
3. The fact that all Bong women suddenly start wearing the gorgeous sarees. All through the year, the British taught Bong will be stuck up in his Victorian morality and will not even look up even if Paris Hilton walks past him. But deep inside him, as taught by most of his great ancestors, there is a hidden romantic. And these 5 days the women of Bengal decide to test the resolve of the Bengali man. Age no longer remains a barrier (upwards I mean) and if by chance the woman has decided to let her hair out of the natural work day bondage, the Bengali man starts reciting his Jibonanondo, imagining the long black hair to be the darkness that hangs over the ancient city of Bidisha. Again by desktop research I have found out that in North Calcutta, 76% of the para romance happens when boy meets girl at Pushpanjali.
4. The fact that everyone turns a dancer. Dhunuchi naach is an art. The fire held in the hands is a symbolism of the fire within. But every Ajoy Babu, Bijoy Babu and Sujoy Babu, after their 2 pegs of Old monk will become a dhunuchi dancer. And sometimes, there is flower inside the dhunuchis instead of fire! This is more scandalous than Messi being called the new Maradona. The burn on my left foot starts itching and all I desire is to give the gentlemen a kick like our God Pele had given the phootboll when he had come and played in Calcutta.
5. The fact that there is a logical discrepancy in the prayer. Now having had the Marxist influence on most of our upbringing, these are perhaps the only 5 days we pray. (and also on Christmas but that’s more for the cake I guess) First I dislike the fact that contrary to everything that Howard Roark stood for all neo capitalists start saying dehi dehi. I mean I seldom have seen a race to be such a strong believer in being a Momma’s Boy (I am a proud one) but to even pray asking the Mother of All to just give (almost everything you can think of) is taking it a bit too much. Now I could have survived even that. But the fact remains is that after all these years and carefully listening to every priest I have figured out that nobody knows what the correct “mahastami anjali mantra” is. It completely depends on what mood the priest is in on that day. Since 2000, I have not heard the same mantra being repeated even once!!! I mean the only difference in the Christian call to the Trinity is that some people love to call the Holy Spirit the Holy Ghost. Now that’s still manageable!

But God Bless you Singapore and Bongs of Singapore. You have lived up to the tradition that if there are 3 bongs, there will be 2 political ideologies and if there are 5, there will be 2 Durgapujos. To find 4 in a new city is what I would call a miracle.

After 34 Years

The change is there in Bengal for all to see. Perhaps the last bastion of communism in the world beyond Cuba has finally fallen down (and the only popularly elected). Of course, there always is the possibility of a comeback but if there was ever an age that could claim to be the end of an era this is it.

34 years is indeed a long time and that is something that has always fascinated me. All through my growing years I have tried to understand what made successive generations of Bengalis embrace an ideology which remained mostly confined to trade unions and tea cups at universities. It also was easy growing up in Calcutta. Communist literature was easily available and every Durga Puja stall of the communist party would have translations of everyone from Tolstoy to Marx.

So as I was growing up, the Nehruvian Socialistic ideals in me were strong and I could not accept Ayn Rand and her passionate support of Capitalism; or even free markets. The Government I believed was still of, by and most importantly for the people.

Ever since Kush had told me about Kalbela, I had been searching for it and last time I was in Calcutta, he and I travelled around to pick it up. It is perhaps one of the most honest accounts of the turbulent times of the seventies and what made it special was that it did not accuse anyone. It was a tragic account of dreams turning into nightmares, of the youth asking questions but not understanding the answers.

What started as an outburst of anger against the system confused everyone around. But there were so many of them who went ahead with the hope of believing the answers would come one day if they stayed true to the ideal. It did not. An entire generation was wiped out and the world almost has forgotten them dubbing them as the first naxalites.

As I see the support for the Anna Hazare movement, I am suddenly wondering – do we as a nation require a solo fighter to rally around? Do we need heroes to lead us to battle or can we sustain as a colony of bacteria where the collective decides for the collective. But probably that’s the reason why the first Vedic Societies around the Indus elected their first king and it became etched in our DNA.

When I was growing up, I also heard a lot about Hollywood propaganda - how Hollywood hoodwinked an entire world to believe in The American Dream. But a chance viewing of a few films made me wonder. The first was “College Ties” – a story of the deep roots of anti-semitism in the early days of the “New World”. The other place where I had seen mentions of it were in “Acts of Faith”, one of the lesser known Erich Seagal novels. The Second was “Mao’s Last Dancer” – an autobiography of a ballet dancer from China who defected to the US in the eighties since he wanted to dance and be free. The film accused no one, did not try to make a point, it just tried to showcase the fight of an individual for his dreams. There was a portent scene where Li asks someone in the US, did he love his President? And when he is told, “Love? I don’t even like him.” Li in his innocence asks, “Are you not scared?” The third movie was Charlie Wilson’s War. Classic Tom Hanks, I think there are not many movies which openly accept America’s involvement in arming the Afghans against the Soviets to end the Cold War. “We want it to be their Vietnam”

The reason I came up with this was because while watching the movie I suddenly realized how so many people were castigated for doubting Anna in a democracy! How posters were torn down when “Fire” was released, how Karan Johar had to get his blessings from political parties before he released “My name is Khan”. And there was Hollywood who could openly make a documentary called Zeitgeist which doubts the very existence of Jesus Christ!

Suddenly I realize nothing compares to that freedom. Not the best gilded cages in the world can compare to the open skies.

While tolerance to differing viewpoints is slowly becoming a rare trait in India, I suddenly feel proud of my state. After 34 years there was a regime change. And yet, contrary to all that was being prophesized, there has not been any major backlash or retribution in Bengal barring sporadic incidents of post poll violence.

I hope we rebuild our state. The mandate that was given to a calm and composed Bhattacharya 5 years back yielded no results as the system crushed all hopes of a turnaround. Today a mercurial Banerjee has been given the same mandate and if the press reports are to be believed, the scum has just changed colours at the lowest levels of society and corruption continues unabated.

But I believe and this year when Bengalis pray to their Mother Goddess in Durga Pujo, they will pray for the killing of more than one demon.

Subho Mohalaya.

Probash e Pujo

Since I have started working for SNDU, my Pujo has been highly erratic. Sometimes, I manage to go back home, sometimes the images and the colours of Pujo come knocking at my door. Sometimes I miss all that makes Calcutta the city I have left behind, sometimes I find a small Calcutta in the heart of whatever place I am in. This was my fourth Pujo at SNDU and I missed going back home again.

When I first left Calcutta for the 2001 Pujo, I had felt miserable but within the deserts of Rajasthan I found something that will remain the definition of the Pujos for me. Working weeks to ensure that the Pujo happens without any glitch, acting the senior as well as the obedient junior, running back from classes to give the Anjali and never going back, dancing with the hot dhunuchis, Pilani defined Pujo as it should be. Bangalore was difficult but with the bongs around things was always nice. Whether it was the shamefully expensive buffet dinners we had to the time we made up for it by gorging on sweets at K C Das, it was nice to be around friends watching a new city celebrate the festival so close to our hearts.

My first year in Mumbai Pujo was a crazy trip around the Maximum City trying to soak in as much as I can; the essence of all things Bengali and that had made me yearn to go back to Calcutta. It’s not that I could not find a place to go during these five days. I believe that it’s easier to find a Durga Pujo in this world than finding any semblance of sense in my posts.

So finally last year, I was back in Calcutta. The city, at least the part I have grown up in, had decayed even more. Wherever my travels have taken me I have found that some parts of the city always remains forgotten; a ghost of the glorious past. And no where is it starker than in Calcutta. The glory of the North is lying today amidst forgotten debris. And that’s how life is. We Northies are a dying breed, still stuck in our memories as the realities of life have pushed us out.

Have you seen the new Hero Splendour ads? That’s where I grew up in. The decaying walls, the political graffiti, all that my childhood was made up of.

This year SNDU sent me to a course and thus I was staying back in Mumbai again. And I had time to think about what Pujo means to me. Sitting during the lunch break on Worli Sea Face, looking into the bright sunlit ocean, I wondered. From the times when seeing the maximum number of idols defined Pujo, to the time when we “grew up” at Trincas and wondered about Maddox Square, life has indeed changed a lot. But what has not changed is my endeavour to explain to people, especially non Bongs, why we celebrate the Puja as we do. Why it’s about the daughter coming home and not necessarily of good triumphing over evil. When the family is together, there can be no evil, can it? I remember the generations of Bengali mothers who have sung for their daughters. It’s painful, how a mother and daughter accept their separation when the daughter is married. I have seen the pain in my parents’ eyes when my sis got married and I have seen their eyes light up when she comes back. Who cares about Raavan dying?

But when I stood at Shivaji Park, swamped by people all around me, I could hear the sound of the dhak reverberating through every vein of my body. The most primitive of all sounds, the drums raise the call of the forgotten nomad in our bloods. Its earthiness reminds us who we were, who we still can be. I missed my family and realized that sometimes the strongest bonds are of blood, not necessarily of love. And it’s not a bad thing.

Some called, from Delhi, from New York, from other parts of the world. Others I did. Many I forgot to call and I am sorry for it, but to whoever is reading this post, Shubho Bijoya. Asche bochor abar hobe :)

The Dada in Every Bengali

Before you worry, this post is not about Ganguly, neither is it about the “dadas” of Mumbai. This is about the dada who resides in the heart of every Bengali.

Dada is a nice person. He typically works in one of the offices around Esplanade. But before that there are important things he must attend to. In the morning, he goes to Manicktala market to buy the fish and on his way back he discusses the preparations for the upcoming Durga Puja, whatever time of the year it might be with the youth of the locality, who have just got admission to Presidency. He is back home by 7 and after a nice bath he walks out of his house to take stock of what’s happening in his ‘para’ (locality). Everyone knows him and likes him because if there is ever an issue, you just need to call Dada. He is apolitical, yet both Reds and Greens speak highly of Dada as he can get the locals to organize a cultural program in less than a week.

Dada lives mostly in North Calcutta, yet unsullied by the South and still having his childhood dreams of socialism intact. He shudders about leaving Calcutta and is often upset by all his younger cousins taking up jobs in Bangalore.

Dada today is sad. His ‘para’ is now a conglomeration of housing societies. The houses have all but vanished. As North Calcutta slowly undergoes its inevitable change, Dada is also fading out. Today’s younger kids still go to Presidency but would rather be seen with their bikes in the narrow bylanes of North Calcutta. Dada is no longer respected by them. They think he is an old good for nothing buffoon.

The other day I was in Calcutta for a few hours and post the Consumer Visits, as I was going around the Hatibagan Market, I noticed a crazy traffic congestion. A car was stuck in one of those narrow bylanes of Hatibagan. Dada was no longer there to help. The kids had parked their bikes on both sides of the road and given their attitude and behaviour few dared to speak to them.

The driver was an old man, looking helpless, there were a couple of kids in the backseat, desperate to reach home, tired after a long day at school.

I am not used to seeing apathy in Calcutta. I tightened my bag around my shoulders, went ahead and started pushing the bikes out of the way. No one seemed to be bothered much. Suddenly, the owners of these bikes appeared from nowhere and demanded an explanation why their bikes were being removed. It did feel a little scary.

But suddenly, Dada arrived. Not one, or two but a whole lot of them. Suddenly Dada remembered that years ago, he dictated the decorum in his para, not some hooligans. The bikers removed the bikes, the kids went home and I went on my way chuckling.

Dada still lives, maybe not for very long but then who knows.

Prose and Poetry

One of the most endearing pictures of the quintessential Indian loser in love is walking crazily across the road, with a bottle in hand and speaking in his mind to his girl back home.

So yesterday I was in a similar situation with a few minor details changed. I had a benadryl bottle in my hand, I was walking unsteadily due to a hurt toe and I was on phone with my grandmom with the headset on. But anyway, my similarity with Dev D is a matter of a different post.

One of the many reasons I love talking to my grandparents is that they are the last remaining lexicons on Bengali poetry in my life. So as the Benadryl was beginning to have its effect on me and the taxis seemed to not notice my sizable bulk, she reminded me of a poem by Kalidas Roy.

Here’s the gist – The master and his disciple decide to go all the way on Rameshwaram to Tribeni to bring the sacred waters and pour it on the head of their deity in Rameshwaram. For days they walked and finally reached Tribeni, filled their container with water and started their long journey back.

On the way they meet a donkey almost dying of thirst amongst parched lands. The master stopped and asked the disciple to give the water to the donkey. A devoted disciple that he was, the disciple agreed without a question. But he wasn’t happy. 

After walking for a few more hours, the master asked, “What happened? You don’t seem to be happy.” 

The disciple burst out, “We went all the way, undertook all the hardships and now we are going back tired, dejected and empty handed because we gave the holy water to a donkey!”

The master smiled and answered, “Don’t you see how lucky we are? Because we were so tired, our Lord himself came all the way from Rameshwaram so that we could give him the water here itself. He did not want us to carry the water all the way with our tired bodies.”

Merry Christmas everyone. Spread the joy.

The Quintessential Bengali and the Durga Puja

Someone told me that we Bengalis have the habit of making life seem more dramatic than it actually is. I believe that it depends on how you look at it. While at home during Durga Puja, I wondered how this festival had turned out to be for us Bengalis. This is a festival where no one bothers about how mythology combines with local traditions. The Goddess is seen as the daughter of every Bengali family; she herself has a family of her own.

This is where your perception about Bengalis comes into play. You could either consider it a huge family melodrama competing with the K-serials for the prime time spots or you could consider it the ultimate simplification of the complexities of religion to a form for the masses. Take your pick.

For me even the incessant noises of Calcutta during the Pujas hold a special meaning. You had introduced me to Neil Diamond. And here’s something from him,

What a beautiful noise
Coming out from the street
Got a beautiful sound
It’s got a beautiful beat
It’s a beautiful noise