The Indian Express | 6 hours ago | 19-11-2022 | 02:40 pm
It was the summer of 2014. The men’s football World Cup, then in the knockout stage, was blooming with lush Amazonian flourish in what many think is the game’s adopted home: Brazil. I was on an early morning stroll in the deep end of south Kolkata. At the end of my usual set of rounds, I stood by a large billboard. It was a world cup fixture that neighbourhood clubs would put together with sheets of chart paper, coloured handmade rags, sketching pens, and oodles of enthusiasm. I was joined by a past-his-middle-age man, emaciated and wearing casual, minimal clothing. He scrutinised the board like one does in a chess game, turned to me and said, “What are the chances that Messi would make it to the final? If he does not win a world cup for Argentina, he will never equal Maradona.” For the next few minutes we did some collaborative permutation. “From what I see, he does have a chance, don’t you think?”, he said, before he turned to take his leave. It was only then I realised that he was a rickshaw puller, who had stopped on his way to daily waging to have a close look at the state of the contest. Messi did make it to the final at Brazil, losing to Germany, leaving himself and much of the world teary-eyed. Clearly, the man who stood next to me knew the game as well as anyone.In Bengal, Kerala and Goa, this is not an exceptional or dramatic event. For, no other global sport or competition touches the man on the street as the football world cup does in these states. In fact, in much of Bengal, if one sees a touch of colour — the green-yellow canarinho of Brazil, the alabaster-celeste of Argentina, the rojo-gualda yellow of Spain, the Prussian white (and red, black and gold) of Germany — anytime in the heat of the fiery summer (so far), it has to be the world cup. It is the only time apart from the annual pageantry of the autumnal Durga Puja, when urban Bengal’s geography of drab austerity is overrun by a spontaneous outburst of pastels.These are known facts but need a little more thought. Perhaps, because India has never participated in the football world cup; or is unlikely to, anytime in the near future. As is the case for several other countries. After all, only 32 nations compete, out of the 211 member associations that make up FIFA. This is, in fact, 18 more than 193, the number of member states of the United Nations. On a good day, hence, there is nothing as global as football, which is why developing nations partake in it, unlike in anything else. Critics of the game in its current form (and of the event) have spoken out against the game’s capitulation to global capital, the relentless manufacture of on-field stardom, the involvement of Mafiosi and narcotics, spectator-rioting and, in the current edition, Qatar’s abysmal record in human, specially working-class, rights. But one or all of them is unlikely to cause any dent in the beautiful madness that the event will inflame for the next few weeks.In the coming weeks, those who would strain their own nerves, or that of their bosses, go to work sleepless, postpone dates with travel and new film releases, parry allegations of domestic neglect, or work their days around the matches in the evening will become part of this beautiful madness. In the coming weeks, those who would don the colours of another flag, swear by the jersey of a nation that they have never visited, bang their heads when a small west African nation misses a set-piece, bet on the emergence of an Asian dark horse, or dance to the tunes of Samba will all defy, knowingly or unknowingly, the narrow gravitational pulls of cheap, stagey provincialism.Nothing prepares us for the way we have a stake in the agony and ecstasy of another country, of a distant people, of an inconspicuous nation like football does. This is why football, and only football, helps us to think as a people together, as participants in a planetary present, as a member of a global community. It is not for nothing that Pele’s silky feet, Eusébio’s swirling kicks, or Maradona’s piercing dribbles (or airy punch) have historically mirrored the heaving, breathless articulation of those millions who live in the shadows. Or migrate to other places. Or live wage-pay to wage-pay. In his seminal Soccer in the Sun and Shadow, having explained what plagues global soccer, the Uruguayan author, Eduardo Galeano wrote, “In the field you can still see, even if only once in a long while, some insolent rascal who sets aside the script and commits the blunder of dribbling past the entire opposing side, the referee, and the crowd in the stands, all for the carnal delight of embracing the forbidden adventure of freedom.” What is this freedom? Who wins if Messi wins? “We all do”, as the man who pulled the rickshaw would say. It would not be an exaggeration to say that that man speaks for millions who would want to find themselves free of the war-desiring, intolerant, boundary-fetishising machine of propaganda, otherwise known as nationalism.The writer teaches at Ambedkar University, Delhi. Views are personal.
Share:
