Once upon a time life was simple. Cars were not fancy, gas was cheap front lawns were green. Music was confined to cassettes, LPs and showers. And everybody liked the Sunday movies and Enid Blyton. The good guys were good and the bad guys were bad. Every boy wanted a dog and every girl married of their dolls to the other girls’. Life was uncomplicated save the occasional report card that came thrice a year. Friends were genuine. Opinions were voiced in the playfield and the parliament. In nineteen eighty-six, something happened. Something big! I turned twelve years old. I entered the high school circuit. This meant full trousers and no more shorts. Going to school “ALONE” on public transport namely the Golf Green to BBD Bag mini bus, for the other modes was yet to ply those days. Getting Rs. 2 a day as transport and canteen money. My first wet neck in Economics and “Money Management”. No water bottle slung on your neck. Confidence. Brilliance. Introduction to “Back brushed hair”. I’m finally out of my ugly caterpillar skin into the flamboyance of teen age. A budding James Dean. That was me. And these were my times.
The three years between nineteen-eighty-six and nineteen-eighty nine, I entered a particular stratum in the “para” social scenario. I was getting inducted into the league of the big boys. We were invited to play with them. Imagine! These guys were in the 9th or 10th standard who had normally shooed us of the field were joining hands with us collaborating with us – though in a very junior and executive trainee capacity. These were an intrinsic portal in the years of my manhood. Through those portals lay a world the likes of which we'd never seen before. The world of higher social education. The advanced world of female anatomy and psychology. The world of the “the first cigarette”. The world of underhand cricket tournament. (Really!)
This was something never thought of, done, played before in the history of the game. The creativity in cricket may be perhaps blossomed and flourished under Mr. Kerry Packer. But this was our own league. We had our very own Kerry Packer-Mr. Nando Basu. He was my neighbor. We lived in the same building. Those days it was very essential for us to have a patron saint to survive in the playfield of 10th standard boys. Arghya had Deep Chaudhuri. Anil had his own brother. I sort of had Nando. The fact was these patrons we had at Golf Green ranged from the ridiculous “Japani Raja (whose underwear apparently were imported from Nagasaki” to the sublime Saibal (Daduda). From the exasperating Sunil V and Santanu B, to the intimidating Buntyda. From the ineffectual Tanushree di (who sang loudly every evening) to the indecipherable Rajuda. Not that I didn't learn anything from these patrons. It's just that, as with most adolescents my real education began at my own building B9. Nando had instilled in me a deep appreciation of the game of cricket. The man who'd taught me the intricacies of progressive cricket. Arup Das and Mimi Di taught me the concept of independence. All-in-all, I guess you could say B9 and B Block was kind of a proving ground for the lessons of life. I learned a lot of things from a lot of people. Too bad I never learned to deal with the opposite sex. Let's face it - women were an enigma. But, in a lot of ways so was life.
Well this Nando Basu was acclaimed as the “para - good boy”. He didn’t have anything from Bollywood in his wardrobe, religiously went for the weekend Rabindrasangeet classes (a must-do for all acclaimed good boys), was a good student as per the social grapevine and was rarely complained about by the neighbours. There were no romantic inclinations in Nando’s life, well we didn’t see / hear him being associated with any locality girls. Overall he was someone my parents felt safe to give my patronage to. Besides he had his own cricket bat. Having a cricket and the ball was like having the monarchy those days – in the cricket field. Now Nando had single handedly designed the UH Cricket tournament and did it flawlessly. Immaculate rules and regulations were designed and were shoved on the more humble ones. They accepted it without much ado and the lack of a cricket bat.
UH Cricket was played every afternoon from 4PM to 6 PM with rigor, religion and enthusiasm. The games were played carefully – I’m saying carefully as the arena was precariously perched between 3 buildings. It had the occasional hazard and eventual flee from the fields during situations when a Shantanu B or a Sunil V pull or straight drive landed crashing into someone’s window. The most affected was Prof. Bibhutibhushan of B8 whose daughter chose this time to train in her Indian vocals – which was quite unnerving for all in the surroundings. In such times a window being smashed by a straight six could be very disrupting to cultural endeavors. Then there was Mr. Gupta whose small garden was often mauled and marauded by Arup Das and Arghya in an effort to retrieve the ball. Mrs. Gupta’s howl and holler still rings out in my ears. Then there was the Roy’s of DT who along with his 3 daughters declared war on the cricket team openly by cutting a ball into two halves in front of a despaired lot. A war that carried on well during our times till he finally surrendered on account of mysterious occurrings like windows being smashed at night, or dead rats, garbage being dumped on his portico etc.
But all was not bad. UH cricket greatly enhanced our cricketing skills. Since you could hit in only one direction, the right handers had developed amazing skills in their off drives and cover drives. For us left handers our pull and sweep got amplified. Sirshendu P arose from these tournaments as the Spin guru who could make the batsmen do the tango on the pitch much before Ajantha Mendis had learned to spell. Nando was good too. UHC also had a subtle socio-romantic angle to it. Arup Das wooing Deepa C in the course of the matches, who used to amorously follow his performances from the 4th floor balcony or during her walks along the field periphery. Her giggles had a tremendous effect on Arup’s performance on the field. He won matches single handedly, caught the uncatchables, exclaimed the loudest even the fall of Bhemri’s wicket etc etc. Well years later I’m sure he reminisces on his emotional mercury rising on a glance of Deepa’s sight.
UHC B Block also had players coming in from other parts of Golf Green. Daduda was introduced by Nando. Arup Das introduced Rajan Kensworth (who came to B Block for more than just cricket). Later on we heard that Rajan and Arup split up due to the later’s lecherous intentions towards Deepa. We had introduced a few as well. Madan used to come from overseas that was outside GG with a bat that weighed more than him. Something we never figured out why. Over all it was quite a league of its own goofy merit – but with character. There were fights. There were arguments regarding decisions and deliberations. There were cheerleaders who captivated more than just libido. But there was this awesome unity which was reflected during external threats coming from the likes of Mr. Roy, Prof Bibhuti and Mr. Gupta. I never played UHC anywhere else ever since it stopped somewhere in 1988-89, but till today I hold it as one of the best form of the game that ICC probably would never realise.
In the years between nineteen-eighty-six and nineteen-eighty nine a lot of people were tuning in, turning on and dropping out of the cricket field into outer worlds of college, university, preparation for IIT-JEE etc. As for me I was busy just trying to survive junior high school. And it wasn't easy. I probably wouldn't have made it without my best friends who are now scattered all over the Facebook. It was our first external relationship that was based on community and mutual support. Those years were like a long journey for me. Looking back, it was a time when we were still very small. And the world seemed very big. And I think about those days again and again whenever some blowtard starts talking about the anonymity of the middleclass community or the mindlessness of the Campa Cola generation. Because I know I'll never forget those times. Those years of wonder. You start out life with a clean slate. Then you begin to make your mark. You face decisions, make choices. You keep moving forward. But sooner or later there comes a time where you look back over where you have been and wonder who you really are. The feeling is captured the best in the Beatles song “All these places have their meanings with lovers and friends. Some are dead and some are living. In my life I've loved them all”.
And these memories lose their meaning when I think of them as something new. Though I know I'll never lose affection for those people and things that went before. I know I'll often stop and think about them in my life …and Id love them more.
In My Life - The Beatles
The three years between nineteen-eighty-six and nineteen-eighty nine, I entered a particular stratum in the “para” social scenario. I was getting inducted into the league of the big boys. We were invited to play with them. Imagine! These guys were in the 9th or 10th standard who had normally shooed us of the field were joining hands with us collaborating with us – though in a very junior and executive trainee capacity. These were an intrinsic portal in the years of my manhood. Through those portals lay a world the likes of which we'd never seen before. The world of higher social education. The advanced world of female anatomy and psychology. The world of the “the first cigarette”. The world of underhand cricket tournament. (Really!)
This was something never thought of, done, played before in the history of the game. The creativity in cricket may be perhaps blossomed and flourished under Mr. Kerry Packer. But this was our own league. We had our very own Kerry Packer-Mr. Nando Basu. He was my neighbor. We lived in the same building. Those days it was very essential for us to have a patron saint to survive in the playfield of 10th standard boys. Arghya had Deep Chaudhuri. Anil had his own brother. I sort of had Nando. The fact was these patrons we had at Golf Green ranged from the ridiculous “Japani Raja (whose underwear apparently were imported from Nagasaki” to the sublime Saibal (Daduda). From the exasperating Sunil V and Santanu B, to the intimidating Buntyda. From the ineffectual Tanushree di (who sang loudly every evening) to the indecipherable Rajuda. Not that I didn't learn anything from these patrons. It's just that, as with most adolescents my real education began at my own building B9. Nando had instilled in me a deep appreciation of the game of cricket. The man who'd taught me the intricacies of progressive cricket. Arup Das and Mimi Di taught me the concept of independence. All-in-all, I guess you could say B9 and B Block was kind of a proving ground for the lessons of life. I learned a lot of things from a lot of people. Too bad I never learned to deal with the opposite sex. Let's face it - women were an enigma. But, in a lot of ways so was life.
Well this Nando Basu was acclaimed as the “para - good boy”. He didn’t have anything from Bollywood in his wardrobe, religiously went for the weekend Rabindrasangeet classes (a must-do for all acclaimed good boys), was a good student as per the social grapevine and was rarely complained about by the neighbours. There were no romantic inclinations in Nando’s life, well we didn’t see / hear him being associated with any locality girls. Overall he was someone my parents felt safe to give my patronage to. Besides he had his own cricket bat. Having a cricket and the ball was like having the monarchy those days – in the cricket field. Now Nando had single handedly designed the UH Cricket tournament and did it flawlessly. Immaculate rules and regulations were designed and were shoved on the more humble ones. They accepted it without much ado and the lack of a cricket bat.
UH Cricket was played every afternoon from 4PM to 6 PM with rigor, religion and enthusiasm. The games were played carefully – I’m saying carefully as the arena was precariously perched between 3 buildings. It had the occasional hazard and eventual flee from the fields during situations when a Shantanu B or a Sunil V pull or straight drive landed crashing into someone’s window. The most affected was Prof. Bibhutibhushan of B8 whose daughter chose this time to train in her Indian vocals – which was quite unnerving for all in the surroundings. In such times a window being smashed by a straight six could be very disrupting to cultural endeavors. Then there was Mr. Gupta whose small garden was often mauled and marauded by Arup Das and Arghya in an effort to retrieve the ball. Mrs. Gupta’s howl and holler still rings out in my ears. Then there was the Roy’s of DT who along with his 3 daughters declared war on the cricket team openly by cutting a ball into two halves in front of a despaired lot. A war that carried on well during our times till he finally surrendered on account of mysterious occurrings like windows being smashed at night, or dead rats, garbage being dumped on his portico etc.
But all was not bad. UH cricket greatly enhanced our cricketing skills. Since you could hit in only one direction, the right handers had developed amazing skills in their off drives and cover drives. For us left handers our pull and sweep got amplified. Sirshendu P arose from these tournaments as the Spin guru who could make the batsmen do the tango on the pitch much before Ajantha Mendis had learned to spell. Nando was good too. UHC also had a subtle socio-romantic angle to it. Arup Das wooing Deepa C in the course of the matches, who used to amorously follow his performances from the 4th floor balcony or during her walks along the field periphery. Her giggles had a tremendous effect on Arup’s performance on the field. He won matches single handedly, caught the uncatchables, exclaimed the loudest even the fall of Bhemri’s wicket etc etc. Well years later I’m sure he reminisces on his emotional mercury rising on a glance of Deepa’s sight.
UHC B Block also had players coming in from other parts of Golf Green. Daduda was introduced by Nando. Arup Das introduced Rajan Kensworth (who came to B Block for more than just cricket). Later on we heard that Rajan and Arup split up due to the later’s lecherous intentions towards Deepa. We had introduced a few as well. Madan used to come from overseas that was outside GG with a bat that weighed more than him. Something we never figured out why. Over all it was quite a league of its own goofy merit – but with character. There were fights. There were arguments regarding decisions and deliberations. There were cheerleaders who captivated more than just libido. But there was this awesome unity which was reflected during external threats coming from the likes of Mr. Roy, Prof Bibhuti and Mr. Gupta. I never played UHC anywhere else ever since it stopped somewhere in 1988-89, but till today I hold it as one of the best form of the game that ICC probably would never realise.
In the years between nineteen-eighty-six and nineteen-eighty nine a lot of people were tuning in, turning on and dropping out of the cricket field into outer worlds of college, university, preparation for IIT-JEE etc. As for me I was busy just trying to survive junior high school. And it wasn't easy. I probably wouldn't have made it without my best friends who are now scattered all over the Facebook. It was our first external relationship that was based on community and mutual support. Those years were like a long journey for me. Looking back, it was a time when we were still very small. And the world seemed very big. And I think about those days again and again whenever some blowtard starts talking about the anonymity of the middleclass community or the mindlessness of the Campa Cola generation. Because I know I'll never forget those times. Those years of wonder. You start out life with a clean slate. Then you begin to make your mark. You face decisions, make choices. You keep moving forward. But sooner or later there comes a time where you look back over where you have been and wonder who you really are. The feeling is captured the best in the Beatles song “All these places have their meanings with lovers and friends. Some are dead and some are living. In my life I've loved them all”.
And these memories lose their meaning when I think of them as something new. Though I know I'll never lose affection for those people and things that went before. I know I'll often stop and think about them in my life …and Id love them more.
In My Life - The Beatles
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