Beyond The Goal

It was a cold, cold night in Delhi. The mercury touched an all time low in December. We, a handful of journalist friends, thought it would be wise to head towards Jama Masjid. The idea was to grab some quick hot kebabs knowing that Old Delhi is the only place on the earth which would stay awake even after midnight. That’s the best part of purani Dilli. If you are hungry and looking for some food in the night then the Walled City is a heaven for you. Roasted chicken, fried chicken. Rumali, khameeri roti. Shami kabab, boti kabab. Your mouth starts watering understanding that working late hours at office and then frowning over the routine canteen stuff can take you to only one destination for a change of your taste buds. And then a ride through the deserted Bahadur Shah Zafar Marg in a spotless maroon Ambadassador car ignoring the Hondas, Ascents, Corollas. It was all so otherworldly, like being in a hill resort. The city noise had faded to a distant hum. The air had grown thinner. And Ja...

Is it unfair to use the word pseudo for Bengalis? Friends in Calcutta and elsewhere might urge me to choose a softer expression, calling it too harsh.  Yet, the more I reflect on what I see around me, the harder it becomes to avoid the term.  When I watch Bengal’s Leftist leaders, the word seems unavoidable. When I watched Bengali cinema—before I stopped altogether, as producers turned into copycats churning out action-heavy remakes of Bollywood and Hollywood films—I became convinced that originality had given way to imitation. The babumoshai (gentleman) appears to have turned into a pretender. The same sense of loss is evident in football.  Once it was Bengal’s sera khela—its favourite sport.  But today, it no longer seems so. Just as the simple joy of buying fresh fish or shrimp from the macher bazar (fish market) has faded, football too has lost its emotional grip on the Bong psyche.  Old-timers will tell you cricket was once dismissed as an imperialist’s ...

I haven’t seen this Shimit Amin directed movie yet. But listening to the RJs and after reading the reviews I got this impression that Amin has conceptualised the story around sales and salesman. It is a film about the importance of basic goodness. Ditto football . Whether selling computers or football. You need to have your basic elements correct. Well, well, well. Bob Houghton and Rocket Singh. You might be wondering if it is a wonky idea to compare a Sardarji with an Englishman. Hey, Sardarjis can be equally good salesman like any other Englishman (no racial discrimination, please). Isn’t it? The comparision in this context has been done to show just how good Houghton has been at selling Indian football. A job which could have been done by AIFF’s marketing & sales division. But then Houghton never wanted to rely on them for too long. Convinced that football in India can be run clean, Houghton (using his British lineage) asked for what he had 'wanted'. After taking char...

In the thick and crowded Ambedkar Stadium, Salman Khan’s smiley face popped up on the giant screen almost throughout the evening where India was playing their second successive Nehru Cup final against Syria. Sallu bhai seemed happy to be a football ground and witness an Indian team. Even the TV producer was more content at shouting instructions to his crew to focus the camera on the superstar. But amid the cacophony, my mobile phone rang. “Is Sallu still at the stadium?” One of my friends (who however is a Page 3 journo) was deeply interested in Sallu but not about an Indian win. I got a bit angry. But I remained calm. In between, Renedy (Singh) had just scored a gem of a goal from a free-kick to give India the lead. The 30,000 odd fans broke into delirious joy. The noise was defeaning. And once the phone rang: “Is Sallu still at the stadium?” This time I got pissed off with this caller. Later the the calls became too frequent. I was loosing my patience more because Syria had equalise...

It became a daily routine for me. I used to hire a rickshaw and roam around in old Delhi. I think it is the best way to feel the pulse of its historical existence. Rickshaw is the best transport available to pierce through its crowded serpentine alleys. Surrounded by crumbling walls and three surviving gates, purani Dilli is still very vibrant. It seemed so as the driver pedalled his rickshaw through the thick crowd. It is a city within a city. It may not be fascinating for the others but I had enjoyed every bit of my stay in the crowded Idgah Road and Sadar Bazar. So after settling down, I had experienced every bit of those rickshaw rides through its small galis . They are lined with 17th-century havelis whose once ornate facades are now defaced with rusted signs and sprouting satellite dishes. There is this uncanny habit in me. Whenever I am in a new city, I usually drag myself to look for football links. I was told that the Walled City had encourgaged and patronized the game to a gr...

The first time I had heard of nahari was in 1996 when I had come to Delhi for my new job. Before I left my home in Calcutta, I was told to stay close to my family friends at Idgah Road which is at the confluence of new and old Delhi. It was peak and strong winter. Yet I was enjoying every bit of it because Calcutta hardly has its winter seasons. Let me be very honest. I am happy to be a football journalist. You know why? Because it brought me close to the historical purani Dilli and its people. There are no pretensions. There are no egos. They are simple and down to earth who simply loved football and nahari . A visit to the Ambedkar Stadium for Durand Cups and DCM Trophy's (in those days both these events used to be held in thick foggy winters) introduced me to some great football lovers who were from the Walled City. One of them, I was told if I had to beat the Capital's cold, I should have a plate of hot, mirchi nahari with crispy tandoori roti. So after every match got ove...