When television companies and market researchers ascertain the estimated number of people across the globe that watched the riveting World Cup football final between Argentina and France last Sunday evening, the numbers are bound to be staggering. It is difficult to imagine another event in recent times that involved people in every continent watching a programme simultaneously.
Although there are divergent opinions on the organisation of the tournament in Qatar, there seems to be reasonable unanimity that Sunday’s game was the best World Cup final to have ever been played. Even better, say the pundits, than Diego Maradona’s crowning glory in the World Cup final of 1986 when Argentina beat West Germany 3-2.
The tournament involving a total of 64 matches was also avidly followed in countries whose national teams didn’t qualify for the final 32. This included India, otherwise a cricket-crazy country, where the popularity of football is inversely related to the level of the game. However, there are two states in India where the passion for football is quite staggering. One is Kerala; and the other, West Bengal.
I was lucky to be in Calcutta for the duration of the entire tournament and got a sense of the passion that accompanied the World Cup. On the day of the final game, the support for Argentina was overwhelming. Judging from the flags on display and the lavish show of the sky blue-white combination, it would almost seem that Argentina was the national team. The city, where support for Argentina had coexisted with backing for Brazil, now transferred its full-throated allegiance to the team that was defined by Lionel Messi, playing his last World Cup. As Argentina prevailed over France in the penalty shoot-out, a lusty cheer resonated all over the city, followed by the bursting of crackers. From my window in South Calcutta, I heard drumbeats as enthusiasts spilled over to the streets to celebrate the victory. The only thing missing was the iconic song of the Argentine supporters: “Boys/ Now we’ve got our hopes up again/ I want to win the third/ I want to be world champion/ And Diego from the sky/ Cheering Lionel on.”
As a rule, Indian crowds tend to be fiercely partisan and partial to the national side. This is certainly the experience of the cricket fans whose larger appreciation of Test cricket has been blunted by the flag-waving of the oneday internationals and the T-20 slogging. There used to be a time when the only foreign team that enjoyed sectional support was Pakistan. However, that support was communally loaded and contentious. So what explains the frenzy of support for Argentina, a country that is more distant to the Bengali imagination than Cuba and its iconic leader Fidel Castro?
Part of the explanation certainly lies in the sheer poetry of football in Latin America, so unlike the precision play of good European teams such as France. Undeniably, Kylian Mbappé also enjoys cult status. If luck had favoured France, Mbappé would have won the day for the reigning champions. But there is a difference between the appeal of Messi and Maradona and the attraction of Mbappé and, say, David Beckham. Maybe it lies in the rhythm — in cricket, it is the difference between Michael Holding and Dennis Lillee. The Bengalis fell for the poetry.
In a sense, romantic causes have always exercised a hold on the Bengali imagination, at least in recent times. Whether it was the poetry of Pablo Neruda or the charisma of Che Guevara, exporting revolution into the jungles of Bolivia, the internationalism of the communist movement struck a chord among Bengalis — just as the exploits of Sinn Féin and other Irish revolutionaries moved an earlier generation of impatient nationalists. Maybe it is a stretch to equate Messi’s deft dribbling — witness one of the goals against Croatia in the semi-final — with the romantic revolutionaries of yore. But individual shows of brilliance — a hallmark of the Brazilian team in particular — appear more appealing to Bengal than the long passes and teamwork of Europe. This may well be an oversimplification, but distant shores seem to cast a spell on the fish-eaters.
Sometimes, it can be woefully contrived. I don’t know how many comrades secured junkets for the Beijing Olympics, but during the Moscow Olympics of 1980, which the United States of America boycotted over the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan, a large contingent of Reds took Aeroflot flights to the socialist fatherland. On return, armed with glossy brochures and photographs, many were despatched to offices in Calcutta to lecture babus during lunch breaks on the virtues of the socialist games. It didn’t have much impact, at least not as much as subtitled films of muscular proletarians.
Not that the Reds were pioneers in the business of marketing distant shores that were outside the normal reach of Bengalis. There is the revealing poetry of Madhusudan Dutt, prior to his conversion to Christianity, which should occasion some mirth. “I sigh for Albion’s distant shore,/ Its valleys green, its mountains high;/ Tho’ friends, relations, I have none/ In that far clime, yet oh! I sigh/ To cross the vast Atlantic wave/ For glory, or a nameless grave!” This poem, written as a teenager in 1841, concludes with a grand wish: “And, oh! I sigh for Albion’s strand/ As if she were my native land.”
This is not to suggest that the innocuous endorsement of Latin American football constitutes a form of slavish subordination. Far from it. The vicarious thrill of going the whole hog emotionally in support of a style of football that is unlikely to be even remotely replicated on the Calcutta Maidan is an exercise in pure fantasy. Nearly a hundred years after the young Madhusudan went weak in the knees at the mere thought of England, Malcolm Muggeridge was struck by the unstated misgivings of four nationalist Indian friends over impending Independence. Reflecting over this ambivalence in his autobiography, he wrote: “Our parts in history are allotted, not chosen; and theirs belonged to the Raj, which they hated, rather than to the Swaraj, whose coming to pass they sought.”
This bundle of conflicting impulses, blatant contradictions and unreal fantasies has always defined Calcutta. I can only call it sweet.
