Maidan to Modernity: The Story of Bengal’s Football Fever (My Dadai / Grandfather's perspective)
I was born in a city that doesn’t bleed red or green — it bleeds both. (Read 'লাল-হলুদ' & 'সবুজ - মেরুন')
Calcutta, my Calcutta, where football wasn’t just a sport; it was an emotion, a religion, and at times, a declaration of identity.
Image courtesy: Aranyadeb (Source Google Images)
The 1970s: When Football Was War, Not Entertainment
In the 1970s, the Maidan wasn’t just a patch of green. It was a battlefield where pride, class, and cultural roots collided.
I still remember the sound of the crowd at Eden Gardens before it became the Mecca of cricket; tens of thousands screaming for Mohun Bagan or East Bengal, voices cracking, fists flying, hearts racing. Those days, a Derby meant more than ninety minutes of football; it was ninety minutes of social history in motion.
You see, the Ghoti-Bangal debate wasn’t born in football; it came from the refugee crisis after Partition. The “Bangals,” refugees from East Bengal (now Bangladesh), carried with them broken homes, lost lands, and a fierce desire to prove themselves. The “Ghotis,” native to West Bengal, often looked down upon them as outsiders who had flooded their city.
Football became their battleground.
East Bengal stood for the displaced, the fighters, the dreamers.
Mohun Bagan stood for the old pride, the aristocracy, the Calcutta establishment.
Every match was a social drama; a continuation of partition politics, class struggle, and cultural assertion. A victory wasn’t just a scoreline; it was redemption, respect, revenge.
The 1980s and 1990s: Glory and Grit
By the 1980s, Calcutta’s football was at its zenith. The Derbies were blood and poetry combined. The air was thick with smoke, slogans, and sweat.
Names like Krishanu Dey, Bhaichung Bhutia, and Chima Okorie weren’t just players; they were demigods.
We didn’t have Facebook or Instagram then, but we had Chowringhee, Shyambazar, and Gariahat walls painted in green and maroon, red and yellow. And politics; oh, politics was everywhere. From club management to player transfers, the Left Front’s shadow loomed large. The Maidan was a microcosm of Bengal’s political theatre; unions, ideologies, and factions all found their reflection on the ground.
Even tragedy didn’t spare us. The 1980 Eden Gardens Derby, when 16 fans lost their lives, remains a scar that never healed. That day, we realised that football in Bengal wasn’t just passion; it was obsession, one that could even kill.
The 2000s: The Slow Fade
As globalisation hit, and cricket rose like an unstoppable tide, Bengal’s football began to lose its fire.
The galleries grew quieter, the chants faded, and the city that once roared began to scroll. Cable TV and Premier League changed everything; our boys in maroon and green or red & yellow were no longer heroes compared to the foreign stars on our screens.
The political patronage weakened too. Clubs struggled with funds, corruption, and mismanagement.
The old guards clung to power; the young fans drifted away. What was once “our” game began to feel like a relic.
Today: Between Nostalgia and Neon Lights
Now, when I watch the ISL and see East Bengal and Mohun Bagan under corporate banners, part of me feels proud; they’ve survived, evolved, found new life. But another part of me mourns. The chants are digital now, the fights are on Twitter (Oh yes, X), not in the stands.
Yes, the game is cleaner, faster, and better marketed. But is it still ours?
That raw emotion, that deadly rivalry; it’s hard to recreate in the era of hashtags and sponsorships.
The Ghoti-Bangal debate still lives on, but softer, almost sentimental; more nostalgia than nationalism. And maybe that’s how it should be. The city has changed, its people have changed. Yet, on Derby day, when the whistle blows and those familiar colours clash, something ancient awakens in Calcutta’s heart.
Because even after fifty years, I still believe — in Bengal, you don’t support a club, you inherit it.