Kolkata Knight Riders

I’ve been to the New Home of Cricket today, Calcutta (or Kolkata) to be precise for this month has seen the start of the inaugural season of the Indian Premier League. I’m not sure if it’s making ripples in Europe but its waves have been rising to a crescendo in this part of the world. In many ways it’s bigger than cricket. It is a potent symbol of the emergence of a new world power and encapsulates its brash confidence perfectly. And last night I was there to witness it first hand as I saw Kolkata Knight Riders play their first home game of the season versus Hyderabad’s Deccan Chargers. When I arrived at the Eden Gardens stadium the atmosphere was pulsating. The mid-afternoon heat blazed down on a roaring crowd of 75,000 people who were singing and dancing and may even have been there to see some cricket. Except the cricket was often little more than a break between the cheerleaders, the celebrities, and the Bollywood beats blasting out of speakers. It was like cricket had been crossed with American Football, wrestling, the circus, and a Roman gladiatorial battle. To see how far the game has come you just have to look at the new kits. Gone are the days of whites, and in their place the Knight Riders wear an absurd kit that is mostly golden spangles. Even the helmets and shin pads are gold. Overnight it’s like the sport has mutated from an old respectable albeit slightly dull gentleman into a raving masked wrestler. Presiding over all of this was Shah Rukh Kahn who is officially India’s king celebrity. His God like status dwarfs anything Beckham was able to muster in his heyday. Any time this man waved or talked to a neighbour or stood up the whole crowd went crazy with enraptured adulation, chanting his name cheering and standing on their chairs to get a better look at him. You just don’t see that for Roman Abramovich.

I must confess I felt rather English at times, rather politely tapping on the back of the bloke in front of me who was standing on his chair gyrating maniacally. ‘Excuse me squire I’d dearly like to see some of the game if that’s alright with you.’ No chance. Luckily I’m taller than the average Bengali by a good foot or so which meant I could see most of the game. I’m quite new to cricket but I couldn’t help feeling a buzz of anticipation when Gilchrist and Symonds teamed up at the wicket (is that the expression?) for these players represent some of the best talent in the world. Ponting was out off the first ball and Ganguly did nothing in particular but it was still great to see them.

Then the lights went out. Now the game had not been going as planned anyway. The big screen didn’t work, the water had ran out, the toilets weren’t functioning and the pitch (is it a pitch?) was a shambles. Kolkata were staring defeat in the face and the mood was becoming downbeat if not a little hostile. Then two of the four floodlights failed and we were plunged into semi darkness. The players left the field and the mood of the brooding crowd hung on a knife edge. So what did I do? I left. That meant I missed the end of the game and Kolkata’s eventual triumph as the lights came back half an hour later, but I stand by the decision. I’ve been to many parts of the world and have emerged largely unscathed. This, in my opinion, is partly because I get out of situations that I think may be volatile. The crowds in this part of the world are notorious for becoming very mean very quickly and Bengalis in particular are hot blooded and have shorter fuses than even the Spanish. Imagine, I thought, if the other two lights go out. I’ll be stuck in a stadium with 75,000 miffed Bengalis in almost total darkness. It was like I was stood in a large room full of cans of petrol and boxes of fireworks and someone had just walked in with a match. No thanks.

It was an awesome, exhilarating, slightly terrifying evening. And just to quote a match report from the Indian Telegraph today: ‘The stands were rife with an ominous on-the-edge sense. A trigger and Eden (Gardens) could have become another tragic spectacle.’ Nice to know I wasn’t just being paranoid.

Pohila Boyshack

Happy New Year! The year is 1415 and I hope it’s going to be a belter. 14^th April was Bengali New Year and I’m not sure how they measure it but that’s the year here. Although really they just use the same year and calendar as us on a day to day basis. I know I know, I haven’t written for ages. I have been writing a lot but non of it is suitable for this blog because it’s often angry and overwhelmingly dull and self-indulgent. I could have written about my holiday to India which was lovely and infinitely bloggable (if it really is an adjective). Indeed that was my intention on my return here but then I was mauled by Bangladesh. I’m going to spare you the details because they involve visas and half finished houses and funding and all manner of things I won’t bore you with, suffice to say that the last two weeks have been perhaps my toughest here so far and so I’ve been in no mood to write.

Now with that said, New Year came as a breath of fresh air. In Bengali it’s called Pohila Boyshack, hence the title, and it is by far the most fun I’ve seen Bangladeshis have en masse and in public. I was invited by my good friends at Rajshahi University to come and spend a couple of days with them so off I went. One of them insisted that if I was going to attend the festivities I had better look the part and so they bought me a panchabi and a dhutti. The panchabi is a long sleeved gown that is either made of cotton or silk and comes down to the knees. The dhutti is a very traditional, if slightly antiquated form of dress that is worn around the bottom half. It’s starched white cotton and is folded intricately around until it resembles a skirt or a kilt or something of that ilk. Needless to say that I looked pretty daft, and yet I drew compliments for the entire day. Apparently I looked like an old Bengali prince so I wasn’t really complaining. The first thing I noticed on our walk around the university campus where the festivities were taking place was that this was first big gathering I’d seen that didn’t appear to have any overtly religious overtones. There is a real divide here between Hindus and Muslims and so it was great to see everybody congregate together as Bangladeshis. The day seemed to allow everyone to meet on common ground.

I’ll be honest, that wasn’t the first thing I noticed, rather the thing that struck me were the women. Women here have a habit of being tucked away, out of the public gaze, either in the house or behind the burqa. And yet today they weren’t just visible, they were stunning. The vast majority were decked out in saris of all colours and patterns although most opted for the traditional white and red, often with a gold trim. The fabrics shimmered and shone in the sun and seemed to accentuate the grace with which the women here move. All around us there was the sound of laughter, singing and of traditional music, the harmonium, the khol (a type of drum), cymbals and bells. The air was heady with the smell of cooking as the food stands thronged with people eating ilish mach, a prized river fish, and rice out of earthenware bowls. I found it utterly enthralling and overwhelming. My friends did their utmost to make sure I was included and that I was comfortable but they couldn’t stem the almost constant tide of people coming up to talk to me and to take my picture. Almost all of them were polite and courteous and merely wanted to know where I was from and what I thought of the place but it felt a little bit like some kind of state visit and by five o’clock I was exhausted. I took my leave and went and sat in my cool dark room for a couple of hours in a rather serene daze.

Bangladesh is in the news again. This time for violent demonstrations against women’s rights. It’ll be in the news again, when the floods start, or when another ferry sinks, or to show lines of people queuing for rice. Bangladesh is plagued by poverty but it is not defined by it. It is an incredibly complex and diverse country and yet it is squashed into a strange two dimensional parody of itself in the western media. I want to tell you about my time here because you should know that Bangladesh is more than its poverty, it’s better than its Islamic extremism, it contains beauty and life and it’s these things that I want to cherish and preserve from my time here, things that I hope to share with you.