She glanced at her watch for the seventh time in five minutes. As if history lectures weren't boring enough as they were, this professor wanted to conduct "extra" classes on Saturday afternoons to catch up with the syllabus. Extra classes were where your parents thought you were while you dried your eyes on Rohan's shoulder while watching Shah Rukh Khan and Karan Johar spin the latest tale of woe and love. They were not meant to happen, you know. TRRING! The harbinger of freedom rang loud and long, heralding an evening with Rohan.
She grabbed her bag and ran out of the building. He would have gladly picked her up from college, but she did not trust her classmates to keep mum about him. Instead, she walked for a fair distance and stood in the calming shade of the large Gulmohar. She glanced at her watch again; it was 3.30. Where was he? Why wasn't he here yet? Does he remember they were to meet today? She couldn't call him because she had spent the last of her prepaid currency arguing with him the night before. 3.45. She was getting desperate. It was not like him to be late for a date. Had she told him off too harshly? Had he taken her angry words seriously? Will he never love her the same way again? She couldn't even call him to apologise.
4.00. She was nearly in tears. OH! What was that? A flash of red and green streaked past her eyes. When the streak settled she saw the most beautiful bouquet of red roses in front of her. She heard his voice from behind her, "Surprise!" This moment of sudden joy followed half an hour of frustration and anxiety, and it was too much for her. A lone droplet traced a joyous path over her cheek into the side of her mouth. Her arms moved as though on remote control and wrapped themselves around his neck. "Thank you so much!! I was so anxious!" He merely smiled and led her by her hand into his car.
She was late getting home. Her father gave her a look which said, "I don't know you". Her mother asked her a hundred questions. Why are you so late? Why did you have to wait for the direct bus only? Why is your history teacher such a sadist (a point which she gladly agreed with her mom, though)? Don't you know that good girls are back home before dark? She was hungry. But her father stepped in. "No food for you tonight. Somehow, I don't think you like history all that much." Mother looked aghast. How could her daughter sleep without dinner? The atmosphere was thick with tension. Father knew, but didn't say it out aloud.
She quietly went up to her room and picked up a book to read. She had spent her evening watching a movie and then they had driven to the hilltop to watch the sun go down. She quickly closed the book she was reading. Her stomach was rumbling with hunger, but she slept with a smile on her face. Her sacrifice was not in vain. The thrill of the chase was worth it.
Sunday, June 07, 2009
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Plane Infuriating
8:10 PM. Thirty-five minutes before the flight takes off, not more than twenty before they finally (like, finally) shut the boarding gate. The roadsign flashes past - "Bangalore Interanational Airport - 13km". More nail chewing. I glance at my watch every 30 seconds. Suddenly, the turn-off leading to the airport is seen. Some sigh of relief.
8:31PM. Fourteen minutes for the flight to take off. I plead with the cute girl wearing the tight red jacket. Something is said about missing a friend's wedding party. Right. I'm allowed in. It's a good thing I block my seat when I book my ticket.
8:34 PM. The plane is full. I feel smug about sitting beside the window. And even better that the middle seat in my row is empty. When will I be able to afford business class for personal trips? More immediately, why aren't we taxiing for takeoff?
8:47 PM. The little girl in row 23 starts wailing. She's hungry and she wants to use the loo. Mommy and baby get up. The tall one with the shapely legs approaches them and orders them to sit. Baby wails loudly. Mommy yells even louder. Oh, brother!
8:53 PM. We are still on the ground. Why did I tip the cabbie to drive me faster? Oh look, here's the root cause walking up the aisle. Must be the largest root cause in the world. All 130 kilos of him make a beeline for the one empty middle seat left on the plane. No points for guessing which seat that is. Oof!
9:09 PM. It sounds like there's an earthquake in the kitchen, or like a death metal band gone mad. Something creaks like a window on one hinge in a haunted house. Then the airport lights look like little dots on a map. Confirmation of the fact that we have taken off is received in the form of a banshee wail from row 23.
9:25 PM. The problem with seat 29A is that it's too close to the head. That's what they call a loo in an airplane. Most Indians never flush the toilet outside their homes. It's their answer to Hitler and his gas chambers. End result - I ring for the long-legged hottie if they have any air freshener on board. Plastic smile followed by a hollow apology. What's worse is they don't allow liquids on board these days - so my bottle of Dior is safely inside the hold. I wish I was there too.
10:10 PM. Time for dinner. I have a fabulous lesson in eating within a confined space. I can survive the Black Hole of Calcutta now, I'm dead sure. The mountain next to me orders three cups of coffee. If there's anything worse than a fat man sitting next to you in economy class, it's a fat man who stays awake through the journey and keeps shifting his elbows about. I'm thankful I don't have to hear his tigerish snores.
10:44 PM. The sexy voice on the PA enquires if there's a doctor on board. This sounds interesting. Who's had a heart attack? Who's collapsed from a stroke? I am to be disappointed. A lady who looks like she's swallowed her smelly socks is throwing up. If you ask me, it isn't a doctor that's required. Just clear the row next to the emergency exit, open the same and show the lady her place. With luck, she may land into a doctor's clinic. The way the ruling party blows its trumpet about rural healthcare, it's highly likely too.
11:46 PM. Too much traffic over Delhi. They got rid of traffic snarls on the road and put 'em smoky buses and trucks in the air. That explains the brown muck that floats over the capital 365/24/7. Another half hour with the lump of lard, the pair in row 23 and the lady with the socks. Can I have a bottle of water please? No sir, the pilot has asked everyone to return to their seats.
12:23 AM. The outside air temperature is 29 degrees celsius. At midnight? You've got to be kidding me! I wish these scientists devote their time to design an airconditioned shirt. I don't have cancer, so why waste time discovering a cure for it? I thought we lawyers had our head up in the clouds.
8:31PM. Fourteen minutes for the flight to take off. I plead with the cute girl wearing the tight red jacket. Something is said about missing a friend's wedding party. Right. I'm allowed in. It's a good thing I block my seat when I book my ticket.
8:34 PM. The plane is full. I feel smug about sitting beside the window. And even better that the middle seat in my row is empty. When will I be able to afford business class for personal trips? More immediately, why aren't we taxiing for takeoff?
8:47 PM. The little girl in row 23 starts wailing. She's hungry and she wants to use the loo. Mommy and baby get up. The tall one with the shapely legs approaches them and orders them to sit. Baby wails loudly. Mommy yells even louder. Oh, brother!
8:53 PM. We are still on the ground. Why did I tip the cabbie to drive me faster? Oh look, here's the root cause walking up the aisle. Must be the largest root cause in the world. All 130 kilos of him make a beeline for the one empty middle seat left on the plane. No points for guessing which seat that is. Oof!
9:09 PM. It sounds like there's an earthquake in the kitchen, or like a death metal band gone mad. Something creaks like a window on one hinge in a haunted house. Then the airport lights look like little dots on a map. Confirmation of the fact that we have taken off is received in the form of a banshee wail from row 23.
9:25 PM. The problem with seat 29A is that it's too close to the head. That's what they call a loo in an airplane. Most Indians never flush the toilet outside their homes. It's their answer to Hitler and his gas chambers. End result - I ring for the long-legged hottie if they have any air freshener on board. Plastic smile followed by a hollow apology. What's worse is they don't allow liquids on board these days - so my bottle of Dior is safely inside the hold. I wish I was there too.
10:10 PM. Time for dinner. I have a fabulous lesson in eating within a confined space. I can survive the Black Hole of Calcutta now, I'm dead sure. The mountain next to me orders three cups of coffee. If there's anything worse than a fat man sitting next to you in economy class, it's a fat man who stays awake through the journey and keeps shifting his elbows about. I'm thankful I don't have to hear his tigerish snores.
10:44 PM. The sexy voice on the PA enquires if there's a doctor on board. This sounds interesting. Who's had a heart attack? Who's collapsed from a stroke? I am to be disappointed. A lady who looks like she's swallowed her smelly socks is throwing up. If you ask me, it isn't a doctor that's required. Just clear the row next to the emergency exit, open the same and show the lady her place. With luck, she may land into a doctor's clinic. The way the ruling party blows its trumpet about rural healthcare, it's highly likely too.
11:46 PM. Too much traffic over Delhi. They got rid of traffic snarls on the road and put 'em smoky buses and trucks in the air. That explains the brown muck that floats over the capital 365/24/7. Another half hour with the lump of lard, the pair in row 23 and the lady with the socks. Can I have a bottle of water please? No sir, the pilot has asked everyone to return to their seats.
12:23 AM. The outside air temperature is 29 degrees celsius. At midnight? You've got to be kidding me! I wish these scientists devote their time to design an airconditioned shirt. I don't have cancer, so why waste time discovering a cure for it? I thought we lawyers had our head up in the clouds.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Monkey Business
Every Indian worth his salt knows the Ramayana. Or he knows at least the point that Lord Ram's army consisted of monkeys. Well, yeah, they are mythological creatures; so they are "holy monkeys", but monkeys nevertheless. The less divine monkeys that we are familiar with are known to be nosey characters who love to pluck a shiny object out of your hand, love to screech and make faces at passers-by, and generally make themselves a nuisance. The more advanced form of monkeys (we call them apes, I hear) make ugly faces at you and thump their chests while issuing a bellow.
At the cost of being grossly misunderstood and misquoted, I say that we have a brand new army consisting of completely non-divine and non-blessed monkeys. And guess what, they are also known as Ram's army! Some vital differences exist, though. For instance, the old Ram's army took pains to cross an ocean and rescue a damsel in distress. The present one takes pains to put damsels in distress. Second, the mythical army had outstanding leaders like Hanuman and Sugriv, each boasting of an impeccable code of ethics and honour. The present army has dodgy politicians in charge, whose only claim to infame is that they never married; so they don't see what joy women can bring (oh Lord!).
And in the middle of the whole hullabaloo, two points are to note. Some young women, not dissimilar to many friends I have and am fond of, got roughed up and had their honour violated by this gang of monkeys and still cower in fear of the society which has labelled them as women of loose character for absolutely no fault of theirs. Secondly, despite all the hoopla, Valentine's Day did not create any demand and Bangalore's shopkeepers continue to face the heat of the recession.
It seems like Harbhajan Singh must now look not in Melbourne but in Mangalore for his next monkey. Although the official version of what he called that burly, curly Aussie would sound better if used against this modern monkey army.
At the cost of being grossly misunderstood and misquoted, I say that we have a brand new army consisting of completely non-divine and non-blessed monkeys. And guess what, they are also known as Ram's army! Some vital differences exist, though. For instance, the old Ram's army took pains to cross an ocean and rescue a damsel in distress. The present one takes pains to put damsels in distress. Second, the mythical army had outstanding leaders like Hanuman and Sugriv, each boasting of an impeccable code of ethics and honour. The present army has dodgy politicians in charge, whose only claim to infame is that they never married; so they don't see what joy women can bring (oh Lord!).
And in the middle of the whole hullabaloo, two points are to note. Some young women, not dissimilar to many friends I have and am fond of, got roughed up and had their honour violated by this gang of monkeys and still cower in fear of the society which has labelled them as women of loose character for absolutely no fault of theirs. Secondly, despite all the hoopla, Valentine's Day did not create any demand and Bangalore's shopkeepers continue to face the heat of the recession.
It seems like Harbhajan Singh must now look not in Melbourne but in Mangalore for his next monkey. Although the official version of what he called that burly, curly Aussie would sound better if used against this modern monkey army.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
No Smoking? Really?
We have a particularly activist, or should I say blindly optimistic, Minister up in Delhi who thinks that by banning smoking in "public places", the average health of Indians is going to improve. Harrumph! In election year, the Ministers reduce taxes, reduce train fares, increase reservation, lay roads, carry out sustained media campaigns of their shining achievements and distribute free liquor to the teeming millions. So where does the smoking ban fit in?
A heavy-smoking friend of mine said he STILL smokes more than a pack a day. The sutta-seller near college says he STILL sells the same number of cigarettes and bidis a day. Large restaurants STILL allow smoking, by a simple process of continuing their existing system of demarcating a smoking zone. Little sutta-shops STILL do thriving business just outside the gates of the many IT companies that dot this city.
What do you say, Mr. Minister?
Therefore, only two categories of people have been affected negatively by the smoking ban - smaller eating joints and non-smokers. Yes, non-smokers. Earlier, office campuses (and buildings, for that matter) used to have smoking zones, where all of 'em got together and kept their stench to themselves. Now, they light up just outside the main gate, which means everyone who wishes to get in or out of office has become a passive smoker. The streets (which, curiously, are NOT "public places") are one place where everyone who wishes to smoke can - meaning more burden on us non-smokers. Talk about law not achieving its stated purpose...
Before I conclude, someone's apparently forgotten to tell the Bongs that there's a smoking ban in place. Or is it that the Minister thought he might get the Tata treatment in Kolkata if he went there to enforce his orders? In any case, the Bongs continue to puff away happily - on the streets, in houses, inside office buildings, in public toilets, in (shared) autorickshaws, in football stadiums, in restaurants, anywhere. Hell, there was this guy leaning against a lamppost which had the "no smoking" sign and blissfully blowing blue-grey smoke to the heavens.
It seems the Minister's plans are up in smoke. As are his chances of being re-elected.
A heavy-smoking friend of mine said he STILL smokes more than a pack a day. The sutta-seller near college says he STILL sells the same number of cigarettes and bidis a day. Large restaurants STILL allow smoking, by a simple process of continuing their existing system of demarcating a smoking zone. Little sutta-shops STILL do thriving business just outside the gates of the many IT companies that dot this city.
What do you say, Mr. Minister?
Therefore, only two categories of people have been affected negatively by the smoking ban - smaller eating joints and non-smokers. Yes, non-smokers. Earlier, office campuses (and buildings, for that matter) used to have smoking zones, where all of 'em got together and kept their stench to themselves. Now, they light up just outside the main gate, which means everyone who wishes to get in or out of office has become a passive smoker. The streets (which, curiously, are NOT "public places") are one place where everyone who wishes to smoke can - meaning more burden on us non-smokers. Talk about law not achieving its stated purpose...
Before I conclude, someone's apparently forgotten to tell the Bongs that there's a smoking ban in place. Or is it that the Minister thought he might get the Tata treatment in Kolkata if he went there to enforce his orders? In any case, the Bongs continue to puff away happily - on the streets, in houses, inside office buildings, in public toilets, in (shared) autorickshaws, in football stadiums, in restaurants, anywhere. Hell, there was this guy leaning against a lamppost which had the "no smoking" sign and blissfully blowing blue-grey smoke to the heavens.
It seems the Minister's plans are up in smoke. As are his chances of being re-elected.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Viva la Mohun Bagan
I have always wanted to watch a match sitting in the Kop at Anfield (and still want to). To be a part of the chants, the cursing, the passion. The Salt Lake Stdium in Kolkata is no Anfield and Mohun Bagan is no Liverpool FC - not by a country mile. Yet for singing, swearing and fanatic passion, I really don't have to travel all the way to the cold and rainy north-west of England. A giant stadium in the east of India is more than sufficient. This last Sunday, I got to watch my first live match - Mohun Bagan versus JCT Mills, Phagwara in the Indian National Football League - at the gigantic Salt Lake Stadium, and I have not only survived the idiosyncacies of Kolkatan football, but also emerged a huge fan of the same.
I accompanied Anubhav's dad (whose family have been Mohun Bagan fans for generations) and two of his friends (who he met and befriended while watching games at the stadium) for the match. The half-hour drive to the stadium was marked by a full education on Mohun Bagan's history and current squad. "Oh you are from Bangalore! Our centre-half, Manju - watch out for jersey number 3 - is from Karnataka!" "Mohun Bagan defeated Manchester United, played against Pele and gave a testimonial to Oliver Kahn. Which other Asian club can boast of all that?" The pride and the passion in their voices imparted a warm feeling. "You are not going to watch a football match - you are going to watch Mohun Bagan win."
A little aside here. I have heard plenty of fantastic stories about matches at the Salt Lake Stadium. Hotly contested local derbies, especially those against "the refugee team" (East Bengal), have been known to produce plenty of slipper-flinging, face-punching, shirt-tearing episodes of madness. So I was approaching this game with a slight bit of nervousness.
Back to the game. There was NO security at the stadium to speak of, except at the grandstand where the coaches and the VIPs sat. We drove the car through the stadium entrance and right up to the gate laeding into the stands. My companions took a miute off to take a leak on the stadium walls. Then we just walked up the ramp and into the stands - no tickets, no frisking, no fuss. The match had begun and was in its third or so minute. There were around 40,000 fans in the stadium, and it STILL looked mostly empty. "There were 215,000 who squeezed themselves in for Kahn's farewell game".
As we wound our way through the crowd to find a good spot, the home side had their first chance. A massive African (who I later learned was a Nigerian called Odafe) robbed the opposition midfielder and fed the Brazilian striker and fans' favourite Jose Barreto, who played a neat first-time through ball to Mohun Bagan and India captain Baichung Bhutia. Unfortunately, the former JCT and East Bengal star took the shot on his weaker foot and the keeper was able to get down and smother the ball. The crowd was roused and we found a great spot to sit.
A few things were noticeable immediately. The players clearly lacked the pace and the physique of the European stars we are all used to watching every weekend. For some reason, the Premiership players seem to cover 50-60 yards in a dozen or so strides, but these guys seemed to be making a huge effort to make twenty yards. Also missing was off-the-ball running. Except for the strikers and one or two others, no one seemed to be moving around to make space and time to receive the ball. Thirdly, perhaps partially as a result of a not-too-smooth playing surface, most passes were neither along the ground nor long aerial balls - they were being played around three feet above the ground with plenty of (uneven) bounces in between. Fourth, technique in terms of first touch and body position while receiving or striking the ball were far inferior to what I have seen on TV.
Having said that, the match did not fail to entertain. JCT started off by playing delightful one-touch football and enjoyed the lion's share of possession, while Bagan's dimunitive wide players weren't finding time on the ball as they would have liked. One superb move from JCT, a rare pass-and-run, along their left flank released the striker, who held the pace edge over the lumbering Odafe. The Nigerian dived in from behind and upended his opponent half a yard outside the box. I felt he was lucky to receive only a yellow card, but I didn's dare to say so aloud. The resulting freekick was way over the bar, but JCT were winning the opening exchanges.
Then, against the run of play, Mohun Bagan scored. Ishfaq was slowly finding his feet on the Bagan left wing and suddenly found himself on the end of a horror back-header from the JCT centre-half. The bounce nearly beat the 5'6" wide man, but he somehow lobbed his weak header over the advancing keeper. The ball took a couple of bounces and trickled into the empty net. The stadium erupted. The chap sitting behind me nearly burned my ear with his cigarette as he flung his arms up to celebrate. A few firecrackers were flung from the upper tier and most exploded in mid-air. The ones that didn't gave some fans in the lower tier burnt bums.
The goal took the stuffing out of JCT and gave Bagan some steel. Both teams were making horrible fouls and were being unnecessarily physical, possibly as a result of frustration and a lack of skill to beat their man, but only the away side were enjoying the referee's protection. To be fair, though, Odafe was flinging himself around with gay abandon and the ref was showing unduly immense patience with him. Bengali and Hindi profanities flowed from the crowd. One chap some fifteen feet from me took off his slipper and threatened to fling it a hundred yards. Then Mohun Bagan won a dodgy penalty.
Bhutia and a JCT defender at least a foot taller than the home skipper went up for a ball which had been lumped skyward from midfield. Bhutia fell like a matchstick in the breeze and the Mallu ref pointed to the spot. All eleven JCT players surrounded the ref and for a while it looked like a fatal Chakravyuha for Mr. Nair. In the end, two JCT men saw yellow cards and Barreto stepped up to calmly stroke the ball to the keeper's left. Apparently, the Indian FA is still wondering whether to allow the Brazilian to play for India - trust the bureaucrats to twiddle their thumbs over the one man of class playing in this country.
After that, the match meandered along without much incident. Some comical defending from the home side allowed a JCT shot to bobble around in the box before finally striking a post. Odafe committed one sin too many and slunk away down the tunnel for an early bath. The Bagan and India goalkeeper impressed with his assurance at catching hopeful punts from anywhere on the pitch. Bhutia received a standing ovation for having aimlessly wandered around the park and maintaining an impressive 100% record at passing the ball straight back to the opposition. Barreto charged with the ball from the half line like a poor man's Steven Gerrard and finally passed the ball into the gleeful keeper's hands. Ishfaq tormented the JCT right-back with some stepovers and delighted some in the crowd by tripping over the ball during some attempted stunt.
In the end, 2-0 was a deserving scoreline. JCT deserved to lose and Bagan didn't play well enough to score more. The Odafe red card and the 14 offside decisions given against the home side were the major talking points after the game. But the main thing was not the football. No one expects Mohun Bagan and JCT Mills to produce a spectacle to savour for the ages. The phenomenal passion with which Kolkatans follow the game, even if they know it is nowhere near world class, is massively touching. Most importantly, the experience of being amongst completely partisan supporters and getting lost in the ocean of curses flying around should be a very important lesson on the Road to Anfield...
I accompanied Anubhav's dad (whose family have been Mohun Bagan fans for generations) and two of his friends (who he met and befriended while watching games at the stadium) for the match. The half-hour drive to the stadium was marked by a full education on Mohun Bagan's history and current squad. "Oh you are from Bangalore! Our centre-half, Manju - watch out for jersey number 3 - is from Karnataka!" "Mohun Bagan defeated Manchester United, played against Pele and gave a testimonial to Oliver Kahn. Which other Asian club can boast of all that?" The pride and the passion in their voices imparted a warm feeling. "You are not going to watch a football match - you are going to watch Mohun Bagan win."
A little aside here. I have heard plenty of fantastic stories about matches at the Salt Lake Stadium. Hotly contested local derbies, especially those against "the refugee team" (East Bengal), have been known to produce plenty of slipper-flinging, face-punching, shirt-tearing episodes of madness. So I was approaching this game with a slight bit of nervousness.
Back to the game. There was NO security at the stadium to speak of, except at the grandstand where the coaches and the VIPs sat. We drove the car through the stadium entrance and right up to the gate laeding into the stands. My companions took a miute off to take a leak on the stadium walls. Then we just walked up the ramp and into the stands - no tickets, no frisking, no fuss. The match had begun and was in its third or so minute. There were around 40,000 fans in the stadium, and it STILL looked mostly empty. "There were 215,000 who squeezed themselves in for Kahn's farewell game".
As we wound our way through the crowd to find a good spot, the home side had their first chance. A massive African (who I later learned was a Nigerian called Odafe) robbed the opposition midfielder and fed the Brazilian striker and fans' favourite Jose Barreto, who played a neat first-time through ball to Mohun Bagan and India captain Baichung Bhutia. Unfortunately, the former JCT and East Bengal star took the shot on his weaker foot and the keeper was able to get down and smother the ball. The crowd was roused and we found a great spot to sit.
A few things were noticeable immediately. The players clearly lacked the pace and the physique of the European stars we are all used to watching every weekend. For some reason, the Premiership players seem to cover 50-60 yards in a dozen or so strides, but these guys seemed to be making a huge effort to make twenty yards. Also missing was off-the-ball running. Except for the strikers and one or two others, no one seemed to be moving around to make space and time to receive the ball. Thirdly, perhaps partially as a result of a not-too-smooth playing surface, most passes were neither along the ground nor long aerial balls - they were being played around three feet above the ground with plenty of (uneven) bounces in between. Fourth, technique in terms of first touch and body position while receiving or striking the ball were far inferior to what I have seen on TV.
Having said that, the match did not fail to entertain. JCT started off by playing delightful one-touch football and enjoyed the lion's share of possession, while Bagan's dimunitive wide players weren't finding time on the ball as they would have liked. One superb move from JCT, a rare pass-and-run, along their left flank released the striker, who held the pace edge over the lumbering Odafe. The Nigerian dived in from behind and upended his opponent half a yard outside the box. I felt he was lucky to receive only a yellow card, but I didn's dare to say so aloud. The resulting freekick was way over the bar, but JCT were winning the opening exchanges.
Then, against the run of play, Mohun Bagan scored. Ishfaq was slowly finding his feet on the Bagan left wing and suddenly found himself on the end of a horror back-header from the JCT centre-half. The bounce nearly beat the 5'6" wide man, but he somehow lobbed his weak header over the advancing keeper. The ball took a couple of bounces and trickled into the empty net. The stadium erupted. The chap sitting behind me nearly burned my ear with his cigarette as he flung his arms up to celebrate. A few firecrackers were flung from the upper tier and most exploded in mid-air. The ones that didn't gave some fans in the lower tier burnt bums.
The goal took the stuffing out of JCT and gave Bagan some steel. Both teams were making horrible fouls and were being unnecessarily physical, possibly as a result of frustration and a lack of skill to beat their man, but only the away side were enjoying the referee's protection. To be fair, though, Odafe was flinging himself around with gay abandon and the ref was showing unduly immense patience with him. Bengali and Hindi profanities flowed from the crowd. One chap some fifteen feet from me took off his slipper and threatened to fling it a hundred yards. Then Mohun Bagan won a dodgy penalty.
Bhutia and a JCT defender at least a foot taller than the home skipper went up for a ball which had been lumped skyward from midfield. Bhutia fell like a matchstick in the breeze and the Mallu ref pointed to the spot. All eleven JCT players surrounded the ref and for a while it looked like a fatal Chakravyuha for Mr. Nair. In the end, two JCT men saw yellow cards and Barreto stepped up to calmly stroke the ball to the keeper's left. Apparently, the Indian FA is still wondering whether to allow the Brazilian to play for India - trust the bureaucrats to twiddle their thumbs over the one man of class playing in this country.
After that, the match meandered along without much incident. Some comical defending from the home side allowed a JCT shot to bobble around in the box before finally striking a post. Odafe committed one sin too many and slunk away down the tunnel for an early bath. The Bagan and India goalkeeper impressed with his assurance at catching hopeful punts from anywhere on the pitch. Bhutia received a standing ovation for having aimlessly wandered around the park and maintaining an impressive 100% record at passing the ball straight back to the opposition. Barreto charged with the ball from the half line like a poor man's Steven Gerrard and finally passed the ball into the gleeful keeper's hands. Ishfaq tormented the JCT right-back with some stepovers and delighted some in the crowd by tripping over the ball during some attempted stunt.
In the end, 2-0 was a deserving scoreline. JCT deserved to lose and Bagan didn't play well enough to score more. The Odafe red card and the 14 offside decisions given against the home side were the major talking points after the game. But the main thing was not the football. No one expects Mohun Bagan and JCT Mills to produce a spectacle to savour for the ages. The phenomenal passion with which Kolkatans follow the game, even if they know it is nowhere near world class, is massively touching. Most importantly, the experience of being amongst completely partisan supporters and getting lost in the ocean of curses flying around should be a very important lesson on the Road to Anfield...
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