The Changing Face of Cricket

Love at First Sight

My first tryst with cricket was way back in the winter of 1982 when as a youngster, I remember seeing on television how Imran Khan mesmerized the Indian batsmen with his in-dippers.  While most Indian fans would want to forget the series merely because we lost the 6 test match contest 3-0, it left an indelible impression in my mind. A handsome Pathan with unruly hair running in, followed by a lethal leap as he hurled the ball at break neck speed, the next moment you see the rattle of the timber as one of the most famed batting line ups of that time crumpled like ‘nine pins’. It all seemed to be so romantic. Imran, who had claimed 41 wickets to win the “Man of the Series”, tormented the Indian batsmen but admittedly, he was instrumental in instilling in me an everlasting love for the game.

Today, at thirty seven, as I reminisce over the last twenty seven years, I feel that cricket has given me much more than it has taken. My studies did suffer as my addiction for the game grew by the day and I can never forget the bewilderment of my infuriated father as he had to silently tolerate the long hours I spent watching as he called ‘ball to ball’ live telecast of almost all of India’s matches from 1983 to 1993.

The real defining moment in my love story came in the following summer when the whole country watched Kapil Dev lift the Prudential Cup on the balcony of Lords. I started breathing cricket. Kapil Dev became my instant idol. For the next decade till his retirement, I would always be more interested in how many runs he scored and how many wickets he took in a match rather than whether India won or lost the game.

It was much later and again courtesy Lords, that I found my second love, Sourav Ganguly. Admittedly, he was a hero, not an idol. About a year elder to me, Sourav was the pride of Bengal. He was a fighter who represented a race long wiped off from the face of Indian cricket so much so that the chauvinistic Bong started comparing him to Tagore, Ray and Amartya Sen. But then, we Bongs have always been known to be that passionate- emotions run high in our blood and our lives border on a thin line of demarcation between heroism and insanity.  Dear reader, forgive me but we still love to believe Sourav is greater than Sachin – (of course on the offside).

Garden of Eden 1983-84

A father would give anything to fulfil the dreams of his son, my father was no exception. So it was no surprise that he decided to take me to see a test match for the first time in Eden Gardens Kolkata when the Windies played against us in the December of 1983.

It was a disastrous test for the home team where we lost by an innings, being bowled out for less than 100 in the second innings after Clive Lloyd scored a marathon century to thwart our bowlers, my only consolation being that I got to see my idol Kapil Dev score a typically breezy 69 on the first day.

Leaving statistics aside, I still recollect my personal emotions.

The feeling for me was ethereal as I entered the ground on a cold winter morning. As is wont with most Bongs, we carried a lunch box full of bread, boiled eggs, fried cauliflower and a bottle of water, not to forget a bagful of oranges. If it was Eden Gardens, if it was a test match, then it had to be oranges, a correlation that existed for decades.

The lush green outfield, the two captains in white coming out to toss, the fielding side getting into the ground, all those things we read in the books  were happening in reality.

Marshall came in to bowl the first delivery, that angular run up with the red cherry in his hand. I did not spot the ball leaving his hand, neither did the greatest opening batsman of our times but all I saw was that the West Indian players went up in a flash and the scoreboard read

Gavaskar c Dujon b Marshal 0  

So the first ball that I saw in a cricket match turned out to be a disastrous one for the Indian team. (Jinxed as I may be, till date, India has lost most of the matches that I have watched at the Eden Gardens, most notably the Nehru Cup loss to Pakistan and the 1996 World Cup semi-final loss to Sri Lanka.)

One could only sympathise with the Indian batsmen as a cordon of four to five huge West Indians stood at slips with a gully, a forward short leg and even a silly point. The saga was indeed no great. Anshuman Gaekwad, Dilip Vengsarkar, Mohinder Amarnath, Ashok Malhotra and Ravi Shastri all followed one after another till Roger Binny and Kapil Dev joined in a rear guard action. The tall Indian skipper just tore into the West Indian bowling reminding one and all that just a few moths earlier, this man had scored a mercurial 175 not out at Tunbridge Wells.

As the West Indian fielders ran to get the ball from the boundaries, I realised that there was so much difference between what we saw on television and what happens on the ground.

The feeling was captivating. Nearly a lakh of spectators clapping as Andy Roberts charged in and delivered a bouncer and before you realised anything, I saw Kapil Dev playing a characteristic Nataraja shot and the ball ricocheting off the fence.

I could go on and on describing the single day although a good twenty eight summers have gone by but that would be digressing from the topic.

The description would not be complete without alluding to the quintessential Bong cricket fan. In those days, a man with a paltry income would blow up a fair share of his savings to spend a day at the Eden Gardens watching a test match.

I have always been amazed by the knowledge the average Bong possesses about the game and the players. They would prophesize accurately which batsman would come in next, which bowler would come on from which end, how the breeze from the Ganges would prompt the fielding captain to take the new ball, why he would not have a third man and so. Even the ladies would accompany their husbands with their knitting paraphernalia.

Last but not the least, the Calcutta crowd has always been hailed as one of the most generous lot of spectators. Branded as hostile, when the home team has miserably failed, they are gracious in defeat when the opposition has come up with a sterling performance and unanimously raise a toast to the winners.

Eden Gardens 1993-94

For the purpose of comparison, I would like to contrast the above experience which I narrated to my experiences when I went to see a one day match in 1994 at the same ground. It was the first time I went to see a day night affair, a game in which we saw the ‘Men in Blue’ take on the ‘Springboks under the floodlights.

Everything was so different, the  white ball and coloured clothing, lots of lofted shots, fours and sixes by scores and dozens and acrobatic fielding ; in summary I had my full share of entertainment.

I was entertained but not captivated; so the event did not remain etched in my memory as the earlier test match, in fact I have even forgotten who opened the batting for India and most other details, all I remember is that Mohammed Azharuddin scored a match winning ninety.

I was happy that we had won, I was satisfied that I got the entertainment worth the money I spent but I left feeling the game had gotten poorer. Something had changed that made me abhor the idea of going to the cricket ground again.

So what has the limited over version done to the game?

Positives

“Do not cherish the unworthy desire that the changeable might become the unchanging.”

— Gautama Buddha

In this fast world, time is the most precious commodity. As the rationalist would argue, no one has time to sit back and watch a game for five long days, with no guarantee of a decisive result. For them, it is a never ending duel between bat and ball meandering to a tame draw. In fact, as one would say, it is a perfect cure for insomnia.

The limited over version provides a rush of adrenalin and test of nerves as we see even lesser known batsmen slog the bowlers to attain the unimaginable. In a nutshell, limited overs cricket acts as a stimulant and has resurrected the lost interest in cricket.

Cricket was earlier a winter sport. As I mentioned , if it was cricket, then it had to be oranges, it had to be pullovers, it had to be the chill wind across the ground. It also meant that cricketers were virtually resting from June to September unless they played in England where the climate was comparatively cooler. Today, the advent of day night matches has made cricket an event of all seasons.  Thus cricket is no longer dependant on the vagaries of the weather. The rain Gods, have in the past, saved so many teams from the jaws of sure defeat. Today, the same rain Gods have been robbed of their divinty. Now, Melbourne has an indoor stadium that can hold a match even when the heavens are pouring.

Cricket now provides us unadulterated entertainment for nearly 365 days in a year. Players have become multi millionaires. BCCI is one of the richest cricket boards in the world. All these have a positive effect on the economy.

Technology developments have progressed by leaps and bounds. Today we have stump microphones to prevent players from swearing and sledging. The extent and scope of human error is minimised by things like the “hawk eye” and the snicko-meter. Today even simple decisions on run outs and stumpings are referred to the television umpire to weed out the possibility of human inconsistency.

Negatives

Cricket has lost its artistry; players have lost their artistic touch. The slam bang slog version of modern day cricket has become a bowler’s nightmare. It is an oft quoted fact that even Kapil Dev, the greatest exponent of swing bowling, lost his killer instinct because of excessive one day cricket. The Haryana Hurricane who tormented batsmen world over with his “banana outswing” was a shadow of his former self as he started concentrating on restriction rather than destruction. In fact, with restrictions like one bouncer per over, power plays and so on; asking a bowler to roll his arm over is akin to a gladiator being asked to face hungry lions at the arena so much so that it is a matter of debate as to whether aspiring youngster would want to be a spinner given the plight of spinners in the limited overs version. I am afraid; we may not get to see one more Erapalli Prasanna or Srinivas Venkataraghavan in the future. Brilliant bowlers will strive for wickets, average bowlers will try to contain the batsmen and wait for the batsmen to make mistakes.

We have all read about Abhimanyu being trapped in the Chakravyuha in the Mahabharata. I remember seeing it in Test matches when you had one unfortunate batsman surrounded by three to four slips, a couple of gullies, a silly point and even a forward and backward short leg. It was an intense battle and as spectators we would bite our nails in suspense. It had its own beauty, and it created a very unique impression in our minds. The slips going sown together as the bowler started his run up, all of them up in a flash to appeal. All that is no longer there today. Today that kind of a field setting cannot be imagined as teams score 400 runs in a day’s play of 90 overs; the fielding captain would be termed a lunatic if he tried to attack the batsmen on a rampage.

Test cricket was all about talent, technique and temperament. While talent continues to exist in abundance, technique has changed according to the need of the hour. Test match temperament, the willingness to occupy the crease for long hours etc is a thing of the past. The question now is that whether modern day cricket will give rise to a Sunil Gavaskar or an Everton Weekes whose principal strength was to occupy the crease for hours and hours and test on the bowler’s patience. For that matter, we may not get to see another GR Vishwanath or a VVS Laxman who were more artists than plunderers. Batsmen world over have realised that they cannot afford to play the waiting game unless of course the team is in dire straits and then one would need a Rahul Dravid to help them save a match when a win is clearly impossible.

In modern days, when you see the reaction of a bowler at having dismissed a batsman, the way he swears, abuses, exults and so on; one wonders whether they were playing a game or vying for each other’s blood. They tend to forget that it is a game. We tend to forget Frank Worell’s benevolent gesture when Charlie Griffith hit Nari Contractor, yes they too were cricketers. The lure of money and fame has turned cricketers into warriors. All this is killing cricket. Earlier there was a phrase used “this is not cricket”. That, I am afraid, cannot be said any more.

Finally there is too much of cricket today. I can feel the frustration of  my hapless dad  a good twenty five years ago as he felt my studies were being affected because of too much cricket and that too when there were not so many matches around. Life has gone a full circle.  Work comes to a standstill, productivity is hampered and  the scenario is such that once in a while I genuinely hope there is no match today. 

As far as my dad is concerned, the old man does not miss a single match in his retired days. I fret and fume as I cannot watch any other program on the television. Probably his way of getting back at me. Ha Ha.

All said and done, while cricket boards have become rich, cricketers have become millionaires, in the turn of events; cricket has become poorer.

Trip to Shantiniketan

Finally vacations arrived after nearly a year and needless to say, I was overjoyed at the thought of probably witnessing a spell of Kaalboishakhi, something the Mumbaikar cannot dream of. For those of you who wonder what it is, well, a “Kaalboishakhi” is a sudden shower that hits Gangetic West Bengal during the onset of summer.

It is characterized by gusty wind followed by a torrential downpour for a good couple of hours, in the process bringing down the mercury levels by a good three to four degrees Celsius, thereby completely paralyzing life in the city. Roads are waterlogged, traffic comes to a standstill and the average office goer is severely inconvenienced, but still the quintessential Bong like me finds a new lease of life. “Shnoda maatir gondho” – the typical smell of wet mud that makes one nostalgic and brings one closer to his roots. The icing on the cake can be the “shila brishti”- the ice-cubes that so typically accompany a Kaalboishakhi”.

No prizes for guessing who would call me “Antel”- (the sarcastic term for intellectual)  but I would not make any effort to curb my sentiments for fear of invoking cynicism.

As the poet had said

“Kaalboishakhir Hobey Je Nachon

Shathey Nachuk Tor Morono Bnachon”

Let your life and death dance to the tune of the Kaalboishakhi storm.

Fortunate as I was, a sudden spell of Kaalboishakhi hit Calcutta and the adjoining parts on the Monday and filled my heart with a profound feeling of happiness so much so, that I decided to undertake a trip to Shantiniketan, the hub center of Bengali literature.

While for the present generation, Shantiniketan is more of a name in the books of General Knowledge, for me it is the nerve centre of Bengali culture. So it was more to bask in the sentiment and philosophy of Tagore than anything else that I travelled to Shantiniketan, all alone, on a hot summer day, ignoring the advice of all at home.

A short but sweet trip that it turned out to be was made all the more memorable by Sir and Angshuman,  I dare not consider myself to be a member of such an erudite statistical fraternity, hence we spoke on politics, the institute education system in West Bengal, Tagore and post Tagore era  and everything except our dreadful subject.

The day began with an eventful journey by Ganadevata Express from Bardhhaman to Bolpur.

No sooner had the train left Barddhaman than the “Bauls”  came inside the compartment and rendered a few unforgettable numbers including  "Lal Paharir Deshey Ja" followed by "Koshto Pabey Sheshkaley"- a song my grandmother used to hum. Accompanied by a single stringed instrument, these simple sons of the soil, render melodious numbers, often oblivious of their surroundings. Some of these songs have a social message; others merely carry the essence of Bengali folk music.

 As I travelled by rickshaw to Shantiniketan, I was amazed by the level of the knowledge of the rickshaw puller regarding Rabindranath and the entire Tagore family. Little hesitation do I have in confessing that he probably knew much more about Rabindranath and his works than many of our so called ‘educated’ brains collectively.

After a long chat with Sir and Kakima and having thoroughly enjoyed their warm hospitality, I set on foot to explore Shantiniketan with the sole intention of inhaling the pristine air and fulfilling my intellectual pursuits.

My first stop was the prayer hall. Disappointed to hear that the same was closed, I managed to click a few photos from the outside.

Visit to Uttarayan was followed by a long session at the museum where I witnessed some of the memorabilia and personal articles of the great man including some rare photos.

After a quick trip to Kala Bhavan and Sangeet Bhavan, I sat down under a banyan tree and proceeded to sing by myself

Modhyo Diner Bijon Batayaney

Klanti Bhora Kon Bedonar Maya Shopnabhashey

Bhashey Money Money

The tired breeze of the lonely summer afternoon is the harbinger of my deep sorrows.

Time flew by till the realization dawned on me that it was time to go home, go back to Kolkata, finally back to Mumbai and the same routine life.

Immersed in the the serene beauty and immaculate simplicity of the life around, it was almost as if I had lost track of my surroundings till I was awakened by Sir’s call inviting me for lunch.

After a sumptuous lunch of paratha and chicken at the Science faculty canteen, I proceeded to visit Khoai and Kopai with Angshuman who was gracious enough to come with me leaving aside his commitments.  A long rickshaw journey through the red soil reminded me of one of Tagore’s very popular number

“Gram Chhara Oi Ranga Maatir Poth

Aamar Mon Bhulaye Re”

My heart gets lost along the red village road 

Drenched in sweat but filled to the brim with happiness, I proceeded to the station to catch the Ganadevata Express. Not the slightest perturbed by the delay of the incoming train, I sat in one corner of the station enjoying the setting sun and singing to myself

“Aji Godhuli Logoney

Ei Badolo Gogoney

Taar Chorono Dhwani

Aami Hridoye Goni

Shey Ashibey Amar Mono Boley

Shara Bela

Akarono Pulokey Ankhi Bhashey Joley”

Sitting by the clowdy dusk, I could feel her footsteps throbbing in my veins as needless streams of tears flowed from my eyes.

The hospitality of Sir and Angshuman, the tranquility of the surroundings, the richness of the culture and traditions, all of it will remain my cherished possessions.

As I reminisced about the entire day, I came to the conclusion that whatever little I gathered during the course of a single day completely satisfied my emotional and intellectual thirst and filled my heart with an intense longing to come back and spend some more time at the abode of one of the greatest human beings to have set foot on this earth.

“Tumi Kemon korey gaan Koro Hey Guni

Aami Abaak Hoye Shuni ………...

Money Kori Omni Shurey Gaai

Konthey Amar Shur Khujey Na Pai.”

Dumbstruck I listen to the ethereal tune that stems from you.  Wishful longing in my heart to repeat thy words, my vocal chords seem too meek to echo thy mellifluous numbers.

Can We Do It

It is 42 hours away from perhaps the biggest sporting event of the year
and as I undertake another gruelling travel from Worli to Kandivilli, ,
I cannot help but think whether the hope, anticipation and expectation
is worth its salt.

My heart wanders back to a summer evening in 1983 when as a kid I
witnessed Kapil's Devils achieve immortality on 25th June in the balcony of Lords. It took the whole world by storm.

Thus far and no further. The crown has remained elusive over the next six editions of the tournament.

Not that we did not raise hopes, we always flattered to deceive. If Sourav's "dadagiri" took us to the finals in 2003 only for us to surrender meekly to the willow of Ponting in the finals, it was Kapil's slog sweep in the 1987 semifinals against England that swept away allthe hopes of a nation.
However,the quintessential cricket fan will agree that intersparsed between the above two, the most painful episode was the 1996 semifinal loss to Sri Lanka- I personally remember seeing Eden burning as whole India wept.

In spite of the episodes narrated above, one and a half billion still believe that eleven can do it.

As far as the World Cup is concerned, I feel that while patriotism is a virtue, rationality is a necessity. Collective superiority is the need of the hour, adrenaline can merely be a catalyst.

It is a little too much to expect a thirty eight year old to weave his magic wand and galvanise a bunch of highly talented, at times over rated but oft erratic individuals into a winning team.

True, a twenty four year old Haryanvi lad did so but that was a good twenty seven years ago when cricket still had some cricket left in itself, more importantly the hero in question was Kapil Dev, rightly nominated as the "Indian Cricketer of the Century", a man who had the ingenious capacity to transform a game either with the willow or thecherry.

Not that he lacked the ammunition. The avid cricket follower may still feel that a batting line up that boasted of Gavaskar Shrikanth,Amarnath, Yashpal, Patil and Kapil himself is always better equipped to handle the complexities of any situation than an order comprising Sehwag, Gambhir, Raina, Yuvraj, Yusuf and Dhoni. Just add that one man Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar and the scales will tilt automatically.

Fifty one test centuries, nearly fifty one day hundreds coupled with an unparalleled,  well chronicled saga of dominance over twenty years on bowlers of all variety, age and land; the story says it all.

But give it a break, the man is thirty eight and the time has come for us to admit that we have depended on him for too much, for too long. If he had hung up his boots by now, no one would have complained. It is that unflinching desire and burning passion in him that has helped him to keep going, let him walk like a Colossus over lesser fellow men, not stoop down due to the emotional burden of a whole country.

Undoubtedly he would want to win the cup for the country and for
himself, but the forces against him are no minnows either. You have the Pontings, Smiths and Pietersens eyeing the most coveted trophy in the cricket world.

Cricket is a team game, one man can make a difference in a single game or two, but he cannot pull a team through match after match. An analysis of the remaining players will prove that this team is too dependent on one man.

Sehwag may be a murderer but as impulsive as a child trying to get back home from school. Kohli is yet to be thoroughly tested while Yusuf's claim to fame still hinges on an acid test. Raina is susceptible to short pitched stuff and Yuvraj is well past his prime.
Dhoni has been very scratchy with the bat so much so that a Geoff
Boycott would say "even my grand mom would bat better". Perhaps Sachin can count on Gambhir to sail through.

This bowling attack can never be a captain's pride.  Talk of successful captains; Ponting had Mcgrath and Warne, Lloyd had Roberts, Marshall,Croft, Garner and Holding; Imran had Akram and Saqlain while Kapil had Madan Lal, Binny and Sandhu. Can the most chauvinistic Indian say that Dhoni's brigade of Zaheer, Nehra and Harbhajan has the required horsepower to help us win a World Cup? The only saving grace could be the fact that we have a handful of all-rouunders like the 1983 team, but there again the point is that the current lot can hardly match the Devils of 83.

In short, all I can say is that it will take a miracle for us to sail through.

While I also would love to see Lady Luck smile on Dhoni, deep down in my heart, I have my serious doubts.

A month from now and we will have the answer.

Will be happiest to be proved wrong

Pujas- a confused Probashi Bangalee shares his emotions

One more Puja is over.

Barely ninety six hours ago, as my aircraft was reaching the vicinity of Calcutta, an aerial view gave one the impression that the entire city was resplendent with a feeling of celebration.

The tarmac, the cabbies, the traffic the cops all seemed to echo an unuttered welcome. It seemed that the lights had washed away all darkness that may have existed in the city.

In the words of Tagore

"Akashey Akashey Ayojon

Batashey Batashey Amontron......”

(The wind is the harbinger of the celebration of the celebration writ on the skies)

Needless to say, as always, what followed was four days of fun albeit a little dampening of spirits caused by the rain Gods.

As I lay enjoying the serene tranquillity and immaculate simplicity of life in Bardhaman, I literally lost track of the clock. Spending time with dear ones, complemented by fills of luchi and aaloor torkari for breakfast, a huge spread of traditional Bengali cuisine for lunch and of course an equally sumptuous spread of dinner made me realise utopia.

"Dhwonilo Aobhano Madhuro Gaambhiro Prabhato Ambaro Majhey

Dikey Digontorey Bhubono Mondirey Shanti Shangeeto Bajey".

(The morning skies usher in a melodious welcome song from all directions)

"All good things come to an end"- this was no exception.

Four days flew by in a jiffy and I suddenly realised that it is time to get back to Mumbai, back to the PQRs, the RCs and the ECs.

Now, as I fly back to Mumbai, an eery feeling of voidness engulfs me.

Once more sitting in the aircraft, I stare across the window but it is a different picture on the canvas, a city struggling to shrug off the early morning sleep as it prepares itself for a gruelling day ahead.

It is difficult to believe that the feeling of joy, anticipation and celebration, all of which began with the early morning chanting of "Mahishasuramardini stotram " on Mahalaya, has vanished into thin air, all in a spell of ten days.

The same depression spreads to me and I go into a state of melancholy.  What have we achieved in the last four days is what I question myself. In these changing times, have we been able to hold on to our values, our culture and how do we ensure that we tide over the evil forces that constantly try to break us apart?

The very definition of Pujas has undergone a paradigm shift over the last couple of decades. Cynical as I may sound, one does observe the hugely contrasting mindset and behaviour of the present generation to that of our parents (no prizes for guessing that even in my mid-thirties, I feel that I am a part of the present generation).

For the previous generations, Pujas were a time for family reunions, honouring religious commitments and at the same time indulging in entertainment unique to the occasion and reminiscent of our culture and tradition.

Furthermore, it used to be an event that brought together the extended family across all age groups thereby having a unifying influence.  Each member was eager to contribute to the whole scheme of things, so that at least for these four days there never existed the concept of a generation gap.

That, is where, the transformation is noticeable, no doubt greatly influenced by the nuclear families as opposed to the joint family system of olden days.

Nowadays the Pujas are more of a pretext to seek a deviation from our daily chores. The religious rituals are performed more with the objective of marketing the concepts than adhering to customs.

 However the most worrying thing, to me, is that the Pujas is not a family event anymore.

Each member of the family spends the Puja in isolation, completely guided by idiosyncratic passion and is not quite bothered about sharing the occasion with the other family members.

While for the kindergarten kid, Pujas mean four days of uninterrupted cartoon show on television, for the teenager or the college goer, it is a 96 hours visa to roam around the town with a ‘special’ friend.  If you manage to drop in to the some of the reputed educational institutes of Calcutta, you should not be surprised to find mass scale pot smoking and other nefarious forms of entertainment crippling the youth of today.

For the middle aged professional, these four days now mean more parties, more drinking and late nights using the pretext of Pujas while for the septuagenarian, these four days merely mean a break from the early morning jogging and laughing sessions; no extra attention from the subsequent generations can be guaranteed.

Talking of food, it is a proven fact that we Bongs have miserably failed to promote our cuisine and give it a global dimension to the same extent as the South Indians or for that matter the Chinese have done. Does it give us the license to identify marijuana as a surrogate for mihidana (a popular Bengali sweet)?

As a proof of the pudding is in the eating, ask the erudite Bong gentleman about his culinary preferences during the Pujas and he will tell you that he preferred Arselan for Hyderabadi biriyani on Saptami or dropped in to Moulin Rouge on Nabami for chicken stroganoff.  No, he did not drop into Nobin Chandra Das for rasagolla or KC Das for “nolen gurer sondesh”.

Sorry did I hear somebody mention of a term called bhog? Bhog is again a part of marketing of Durga Puja, more desired at advertising than appetising.

 It would not be unfair to say that bhog has found a new dimension in Mumbai, where we have the Bollywood celebrities flocking to  Rani's Puja or Abhijit's Puja. There is a grand bhog associated with these Pujas but the attraction is neither the Puja nor the Bhog, it is the Bollywood heroine stepping out  of her "Babli" image to serve the bhog.

As Tagore had said

"Mor Modhuro Adhoro Bodhuro Nobino Anurago Shamo Rokto

Hey Amaro Chiro Bhokto"

(As I encounter my fans, I become flush red in the same way as a newly married bride does in presence of her lover)

Finally the Pujas had a tremendous unifying influence. The juniors  touched the feet of the elders to offer their respects while the elders showered their blessings on the young.

In this age of sms, there is simply no place for exchanging such pleasantries- just a simple sms “Shubho Bijoya”  has replaced the physical exchange of sentiments.

Exchange of sms shows one’s  sense of responsibility and may be at times it is the only recourse given the geographical distance between the two individuals but how much of emotion is exchanged is still a question mark.

 Durga Puja is celebrated across the globe with a level of passion that can be associated only with the people from the land of Tagore and Ray.  In countries like UAE, photos have replaced idols,  closed rooms in 5 Star hotels have replaced pandals,  biriyani has replaced khichuri and begun bhaja. Some of it is inevitable , but in the process the humane touch, the sweet sentiments all is lost.

The day is not far off when someday , Goddess Durga will send an sms saying “Sorry I cannot make it to earth this time as I have personal commitment on those days”

How the quintessential Bengali will react on that day is for all of us to see.

What I have just written is not universal, there are exceptions to the above.  Neither is it a criticism but more of a reflection on my subtle observations.

Would be the happiest person if proved wrong.

Till then…….