Kolkata Maidan

See, nang-u, I was watching Mohammedan's last match on my phone while waiting for a delivery near Lamphel — the referee gave a penalty that didn't exist, and the whole tent club behind me was shouting like someone stole their bike. Houjik, I know all about unfair decisions, I've seen the loan officer call my payment *late* even when I paid on the 28th. So don't tell me these refs are just *making mistakes* — in Manipur we know when the system is rigged, same as in Kolkata.

Oh, I remember sitting on the maidan with my late husband during the monsoon league — a Mohammedan fan next to us was so incensed by a penalty call he spilled his entire plate of jhalmuri on my new sari. Forty years later, I still think referees are human, not villains; they make mistakes just as we do over chai with our grandchildren. But if you ask me, the real culprit isn’t the man in black — it’s the clubs spending crores on foreign players while our local boys warm the benches. The beautiful game never needed all that noise, just a quiet Tuesday under the trees.

Arre bhai, that tackle on the wet grass near the tent club last Tuesday—my father's knee gave way just watching it from charpoy, and I had to check the dawai is ready. You can argue about referee's whistle all day, but tell me, when our chhokra from the slums scored that header, who was measuring his hunger? Fifty years of this maidan, same story: the boy who can't afford proper boots will still run the fastest because the pavement taught him how. Shaabash, beta—but now please, someone fix the floodlight pole before a teenager gets hurt, not just because the club complains.

Reading about the Tuesday chaos on Maidan, with tent clubs and referee debates, I smile thinking of our Sikkim football matches — less crowd, same heart. This morning at Ranka Monastery, the mist held that quiet which always feels like respect, and I remembered the old postcard seller who lost his son in Kargil, how he still brews lemon-ginger tea for everyone. It makes our own struggles with syllabus and fixtures seem both small and urgently precious.

Ah, Cleopatra. Made me think of that dog-eared wrestling magazine I have from '78, the one with the feature on the "Egyptian Surprise" hold — turns out it was just a poorly explained headlock with a lot of sand in the story. My evening session was interrupted by two kids arguing over whether she was Greek or African, and all I could think was, *ketai kotha ase* — the real fight here is who gets to tell the story, not the story itself. Felt just like Tuesday in the Maidan, where the referee’s call is always the least important part of the match.

This afternoon my grandson, the little *chele*, asked why

The mornin hornbill call woke me before the tin roof could groan today, and I sat on the verandah thinkin about the Adarsh Baal Vidyalaya business. My granddaughter, she goes to the government school here—two rooms, one blackboard, and the teacher comes maybe three days out of five. These fancy private schools promise the moon, but who pays for it? Our village cooperative runs a small fund for school books, but the children still sit on the floor. I trust the old ways: a good teacher and a full stomach beat any concrete building with a shiny sign.

Hijo evening I was sitting with my clay pots, repotting a rhododendron, and my son called from Kolkata—said he and his friends were arguing about a referee decision at a CFL match near the tent club. I laughed, told him, *"Beta, in Maidan football the referee is just the first spectator to get shouted at."* Reminded me of the time my husband and I watched a match near Mohammedan’s ground, and some uncle on a bicycle stopped to yell

When the bolt on the old squat rack shears off, I don't call a committee — I walk to the hardware shop and fix it before the evening rush loses their turn. Same with these

Arre bhai, Commonwealth Games ka suna — par hamare Bhilai Steel Plant ke workers' football tournament mein bhi teen saal se prize money nahi badha. Ek baar data dekho: last CWG ke medal count se zyada, meri gali ke bacchon ke cricket match ka score yaad rehta hai mujhe.

Watching the second half at the Mohammedan tent with a colleague's cousin last year, the referee argument was so heated my bonda went cold! Makes our Guntur school matches look tame, baaga. Still, that collective groan when a shot sails over the bar—chaala familiar.

बेटा, आज Kargil Vijay Diwas है — मैंने अपने हारमोनियम पर 'देश मेरा रंगीला' छेड़ा तो सुनकर मेरा मुंडा (जो सड़क पर फुटबॉल खेल रहा था) भागता आया और बोला, "पापा, ये वो वाला दिन है ना जब हमारे जवान पहाड़ पर चढ़े थे?" — मैंने उसे गोद में बिठाकर एक पुरानी कैसेट निकाली, जो 1999 की रिकॉर्डिंग है, जब मैं लुधियाना के एक छोटे से स्टेज पर इसी गाने पर तब

The Dhamaal 4 ticket prices mean my neighbour’s son, the Mohun Bagan fan, will have to choose between the match and his daughter’s school books again. My own grandson sends me the highlights on his phone, but it is not the same as the *dada* at the tea stall arguing over a referee’s call from 1987.

Tuk, the CFL referees this season make me think of the man who runs the shared hotplate on our floor—he’s fair, but only when he hasn’t already decided the outcome before the fight starts. That offside call against Mohammedan last Tuesday was like my younger sister’s nursing exam: the rule is clear, but someone always wants to bend it for convenience. I was listening to an old Kishore Kumar reel on the radio while folding my laundry, and it struck me—this league keeps its rhythm because the clubs and the tents sort out their own mess, not because some committee in a room says so.

Achha, and that East Bengal penalty appeal yesterday? Bhaina, I saw it from the north stand myself—the lad stepped on the ball like our junior accountant on a spreadsheet, pure confusion. The referee was standing right there, three feet away; if you need a video replay to see that stumble, you are not watching the game, you are watching the TV. My Bhutu started barking at the commotion when I came home, and I told him, “Baba, at least you know when a step is wrong without a replay.

Arrey yaar, Tuesday night light jhamela—CFL-er Jabaquara vs. George Telegraph er match dekhte giye dekhi tent-er ekta old Philips tube light jhijhire utheche. Ami bolchi, referee er decision niye joto khatir kormo koro, first e ei flicker ta thik koro—bochorer por bochor ekta latch wire aalada kore dilo, bhai, ekhono jonta thik kore na gele khela kemon dekbo? Malaikari r jhale matha garam, kintu light thik korte gele dekhi, ei tent club er committee neta der shob bodhoy shobji bajar theke haat kene enche, wiring ta nijer barir electrician-er haate diye kore felse.

Coming back from the Cutlerly Market lane yesterday, I saw the East Bengal tent club boys washing their jerseys by the pipe — same faded red as the ink in my Goyal's ledger. A man was arguing about a second-half penalty decision, his voice carrying across the maidan like a fishwife's over the bazaar, but really, what is a referee going to do when the grass is this wet and the ball skips faster than the rulebook? The whole thing reminded me of adjusting a misprinted bill in our shop — you can shout all you want, but the numbers are what they are. Bhalo laglo, just standing there with my chai, watching the chaos settle into its own rhythm.

Mohan da sends me a tape of the East Bengal–Mohammedan match from last week, and in the middle of the twenty-third minute, the referee calls a throw-in the wrong way—every tent club in the maidan must have felt the same ripple. I was dipping my nib in ink at that moment, and I thought: this is how the small injustices pile up, one call at a time, until the whole match tilts. Back in my sarkari office days, I used to file audit reports—numbers don’t lie, a bad decision repeated fifty times is a pattern, not a mistake. May the whistle blower find his sukoon before the next Tuesday.

Arrey, Tuesday maidan-e Machhli Bazaar der kore gele ei dik ta dekhte paben — tent club-er boys jhogra korche ref-er ek offside decision niye, r ami bose bose dekchi. Mon kharap na, bhai; Barasat er ek ten-year-old WagonR chaliye, puro maasher hilsa aar potol-er jhogra shunte bhalo laglo. Oi ref-er decision ta bhul chilo, kintu club-er ek karmi amar dike takiye bollo, "Dada, matha kharap koro na, bagh-er maachher thekeo football-er jugglery-e beshi tel ache.

East Bengal-Mohun Bagan derby ki hype mein humare yaha Bihar ke litchi stall par bhi charcha hoti hai, papa har customer ko batate hain! Kal pura Maidan ek different hi energy tha, yaar...tents, chai, aur woh ek uncle jo referee ko literally gappe de rahe the.

Ah, this Tuesday match — I was watching from the corner, near the club tent where the paint is peeling. The referee gave a penalty for a handball, but from my seat I saw the ball hit the boy's shoulder, not his hand — same thing happened last month near the Damodar bridge, when a truck driver got blamed for a pothole that wasn't his fault. Nobody asks the small man his side, not here, not anywhere.

Maa, just saw the fees for that Adarsh Baal Vidyal

da and I argued for twenty minutes about that offside call in yesterday’s Mohammedan practice match, right in the middle of fixing his pandal’s wiring. My voltmeter was beeping, but the debate was more heated! Finally, his wife brought us mishti doi and said, "Ebar shesh?" We both just laughed.

Driving past the Maidan this afternoon, I saw a CFL match halted because the referee’s whistle had truly jammed. The players stood arguing while a club official, bhodrolok in full trousers, tried to fix it with a small screwdriver from his pocket. It felt like watching someone repair my old radio – same concentrated frown, same hope that a small, precise thing might restore the day's melody.

Watching the lively debates over CFL fixtures here, I recall how my father used to bind team logbooks for the tent clubs. This 'Con City' chatter brings back the sting of a paper merchant who took a hefty advance and disappeared, just when my daughter's semester fee was due. But like a determined Tuesday match on the Maidan, we patch up and play, bagundhi.

Arre, listen — Sonam Wangchuk. I saw his photo in the newspaper while having my tea at the factory canteen. That man made a glacier with his own hands. Here in Howrah, we get water from the Hooghly, muddy and thick, but we don't think twice about it. If someone told me to build a machine that stitches cloth in the rain, I'd try it slow, one monsoon at a time. That man's ice — it took bhalo patience, like the patience my wife has waiting for the mishti doi to set in the clay pot.

बिहार में बैठे बैठे कलकत्ता के मैदान का मजा कैसे लूँ, सोचता हूँ तो दादी की कहानी याद आती है—"मोहम्मडन के गोल में जान होती है, हो..." फिर सोचता हूँ, यहाँ पटना के मैदान में भी रेफरी का वही हाल, बस चाय की टपरी पर बहस थोड़ी कम। असली बात तो वही है, जो सबसे कमज़ोर खिल

You know, I was watching the streams from the Maidan between deliveries, phone battery at 18% and praying the rain doesn't kill it — and that ref today for Mohammedan's match, he was worse than the potholes on my route to Singjamei. At least the potholes are honest about being useless. The tent clubs there, they remind me of the little eromba stalls back home — everyone shouting, nobody agreeing on the recipe, but somehow the end result is always heirok.

Arre yaar, Tuesday ko Mohammedan ke match mein jo referee tha, naah, usne ek penalty to aise diya jaise Diwali ke din bhog baan raha ho — bina soche-samjhe. Main apne 30-minute bus mein, Lata ji ka ‘Aajkal Tere Mere Pyar Ke Charche’ sun rahi thi aur soch rahi thi, itna funding corruption toh nahi hota jitna ye referee apne decision mein corrupt hai. Chaat stall pe baithke Gandhi Maidan mein isse behtar debate hota hai, yahan to crowd hi referee ban jaata hai — jo theek bhi hai, local experience hi sahi judgement de sakta hai.

এই Laughter Chefs নামের অনুষ্ঠানটা দেখলাম, পেটে হাসি না, বরং কষ্ট হয় — ওই হাফপ্যান্টে চেফরা বানায়, আর আমার মেয়ের কম্পিউটার ক্লাসের টাকা জোগাড় করতে আমার এত হিমশিম। শেষ রাতে ব্যালকনিতে টিউবলাইট ঠিক করে চা খেতে বসে ভাবি, ময়দানে যদি মেডিকেল কলেজ আর ডালহৌসির ম্যাচটা ঠিক মতো হতো, তবেই হাসছিলাম। আজকাল মজা বলতে শুধু টিভি আর অ্যাপ, সেটাই যেন নতুন ফুটবল লিগ হয়ে দাঁড়িয়েছে।

The price of sugar has me sighing, but the Maidan still hums on a Tuesday. Saw two young lads from Mohammedan Sporting arguing with the referee near the tent club, their voices hot like my kettle. All the while, my old transistor played *Yeh Dosti* from Sholay—some things, bhalo, never change.

rickshaw waala aaj subah Kishore da ka ‘Mere Mehboob Qayamat Hogi’ chala raha tha, par main sochti rahi — yeh Kolkata Maidan mein jo referee hain, inka *bina kisi size mein difference dekhe* foul dena, sahi hai? Mera bhai school mein cricket umpire kehte hain ‘ball padh ke batao, pahle height measure mat karo.’ Uska school fee bhejti hoon aadhi taan ki shaam ki roti bhi banti rahe. Faasla nahi dekhte toh khel bhi banjar ho jaata hai.

आज सीएफएल में मोहम्मडन के मैच में रेफरी ने जो पेनाल्टी दी, वो रिप्ले में साफ थी। मैं बालकनी पर मेथी उगा रहा था और रेडियो पर यह सुन रहा था। टेंट क्लब में भले ही लोग नाराज़ हों, लेकिन डेटा को नकारना सही नहीं।

Caught the tail end of the Mohammedan practice while waiting for my cafe client near the tents. The argument over that offside call had more passion than most boardroom meetings I've sat through, ka jingrwai. My father would say it's the same focus he uses to debate his insulin doses, sadly.

Eigi cousin Flat-o, Bagan tent club-da ticket ama piba, phone-in minai sengdokchare. Masi aduna referee-da uniform thokta hairiba leihou, stadium gi sound hallakpa.

রেফারির সিদ্ধান্ত নিয়ে যতো কথা হয়, আমার কিন্তু মনে পড়ে — একবার আমাদের পাড়ার ক্লাবের ম্যাচে হাফটাইমে বাদাম খেতে গিয়ে দেখি, প্রতিপক্ষের দলের এক বুড়ো মালি বলছে, "ওই রেফারি তো ওই স্কুলের হেডস্যার, তার ডিসিশন কখনো বাড়ির বাচ্চাদের বিপক্ষে যায় না।" সেটা ১৯৮৭ সালের ঘটনা। সেইদিন থেকে বুঝেছি, ময়দানের ফুটবলেও নিয়মের চেয়ে লোকজনের সম্পর্ক বেশি চলে — আর সেই কারণেই মোহামেডানের সঙ্গে ইস্টবেঙ্গলের রেফারি বিতর্ক শুধু খেলার না, পাড়ার লোকের হিসেবেরও বিষয়।

আজও বুধবারের ম্যাচে রেফারি সাহেবকে লাল কার্ড দেখানোর জন্য পাশের ক্লাবের দাদারা তীব্র চেষ্টা করলেন। আরে, ওই রকম একটা ফাউলের বয়স আমার শিফটের সমান লম্বা! খেলার শেষে টেন্টে বসে চা খেতে খেতে ছেলের সাইকেলের চেইন ঠিক করার উপায় ভাবছি, কারণ এখানকার গোলপোস্টের নেট ঠিক করতে যে দড়িটা দিলাম, সেটাই তো কাজে লাগবে।

Tuesday afternoon, I took a schoolteacher to Mohun Bagan tent club, her bags full of exam papers. She paid with exact change and a fresh-picked rajani gandha, saying it was for good luck before the local CFL match. Even with the referee arguments under the tents, Maidan still runs on such small, kind gestures.

বিকেলের শিফটের আগে একটু সময় পেয়ে ময়দানের পাশ দিয়ে যাচ্ছিলাম, টেন্ট ক্লাবের এক দল ছেলে লাইনের রেফারিকে নিয়ে এমন তুমুল তর্ক করছে যে সুরেই মনে পড়ে গেল "ইয়ে দুনিয়া, ইয়ে মেহফিল, মেরে কাম কি নহি"। আমার ছোটবেলায়ও বাবা মাঠের ধারে দাঁড়িয়ে এমনি করেই ম্যাচ দেখতেন আর ফল খেতেন।

আজ মোহনবাগানের জার্সি পরে ক্লাবের সামনে দাঁড়িয়ে রেফারির বাঁশি শুনতে শুনতে মনে পড়ল—বাবা বলতেন,

Same as yesterday, yaar — that East Bengal defender’s handball was clear from my stall, but the ref was looking at the wrong chai wallah. Everyone’s roaring for VAR, but who’s paying for the cable? I’ve seen three tent club matches this month where the linesman missed an offside because some boy selling poshto bora blocked his view. The system works fine for the big clubs; it’s the little match where the linesman earns his chai that suffers, and nobody asks him.

Found a perfect matchbox label—'Mohun Bagan AC 1977'—stuck to a rusty bench near the tent club today. It reminded me of the goalkeeper’s face last Tuesday, pure bishonoy, when a stray football from the CFL practice landed in my moshla er jhola. These Maidan afternoons, they have their own adda, even for a clay-smeared man like me.

The Mohammedan referee argument last Tuesday reminded me of the time I tried to negotiate jute price at the Bhadrak market — everyone shouting, but no one had the weight slip to prove their claim. I don’t trust a decision unless I can see the scale reading myself. Maybe the match committee should just show the replay data to the tent club uncles, then let the market sort out who was actually offside.

Our village radio crackled the CFL scores last Tuesday while I was tying up the pineapple shoots — my grandmother says the big clubs in Kolkata spend like government monsoon relief, but the tent clubs still patch their nets with hope. Back in Kohima, I learned you can’t trust a referee who doesn’t show you the yellow card number twice; they want speed, but who gets hurt when the tackle is late? Hoi, if the league wants real football, let them ask the old uncles on

ভোরের দিকে কলমের খোঁজে ঘাটের জলের দিকে তাকিয়ে ছিলাম, মনে পড়লো রবিবারের ম্যাচে গোলের পর আরব ভাইদের মাইকের গলায় ‘আল্লা হু’ ধ্বনি আর তার ঠিক পরেই ময়দানের অদৃশ্য ধুলোয় চাপা পড়া রেফারির এক নিঃশব্দ ফ্রি-কিক! পঞ্চাশ বছর আগের মতোই তর্ক চলছে তেঁতুল গাছের নিচে—বিড়ির ধোঁয়ায় ভেসে যাওয়া আইনের চেয়ে আজও সেটাই বেশি নির্ভর করে খেলোয়াড়ের নিত্য পায়ের অভ্যাসের উপর।

Bhai, this Wangchuk business—sitting on a cold Delhi street for weeks—it makes me think of our own Mohun Bagan boys who’d sleep on the Maidan benches during monsoon to save train fare home. My father, he was a third-class clerk, never owned a car, but he knew the exact value of a man’s time versus a government’s promise. I’ve seen enough of these great economic theories that forget the price of one fried egg roll at Tiretti Bazaar. What’s fair in principle is what sticks in the gut, not what looks neat on a news channel ticker.