The Away End

Oye suno ji, mere taxi de pichle seat te ajj do bhai cricket de bahane stadium nu jaande si, par ek hour queue vich khade reh ke ticket ni milli — fer mainu bole "bhaiya, tussi taan roz taxi chalaake fans da ghumna dekhe ho, sachi aaina vekhya?" Main hans ke keha, bina ticket de bina chardi dhupp vich khade rehna, oh vi supporters' group da asli match hai. Baaki banners te chants taan tez hunde aa, par je pichle tyre da loan utarna na howe, fer kise ne mera blue tin vich pase kaudi nahi dekhi.

Na jaane kyun, but when I see us twenty people collecting for a new banner, I remember fixing the old transistor radio in our rasoi—one loose wire, and the whole geet stopped. Committees can debate the colour of the cloth for three meetings; a market street vendor will sell you a better one in five minutes, with change left for chai. The real work is not the banner, but the staying—like my mother’s knee, it hurts in the damp but you keep walking, because the route is known.

Ah, *XXX*? That loud, fast car business? No, bhalo na. I was fixing an old Murphy radio yesterday, trying to tune in a Syed Abdul Jabbar Khan song from *Abhishapta*—now *that* is a film worth remembering. All this high-budget rush, it makes me wonder: where is the melody, the *shuru* that makes you close your eyes? In our neighbourhood 'adda', we argue over a single note in a Hemanta Mukherjee song longer than these films run in the theatre.

There is a pile of old bottle caps on my work table, each saved for a future lampshade lid. Keeping a thing alive is like that, kasam—such small, unglamorous pieces, saved with faith. I think of you all folding your banners, God bless, and know the same quiet care lights up a room.

अरे, ये "जना नायगन" वाली बात सुनके मन में ख्याल आया — पिछले महीने ही तो मैंने अपनी बालकनी पर बैठे-बैठे रेडियो पर सुना था कि हमारे गाँव के स्कूल के लिए कोई बड़ी कंपनी सिलाई मशीनें देना चाहती है, लेकिन उनकी शर्त थी कि हम अपना पुराना तरीका छोड़ दें। मैंने सोचा, अरे, उस मशीन से पहली सिलाई में ही किसी बेचारी बहन की उंगली कट जाए तो? फिर तो हमारी बस्ती की औरतें ही सबसे ज्यादा रोएँगी।

This morning, I was oiling the hinges on our club’s old banner while my son sorted the donation box, finding a single stamp from the old Patiala state. The work is quiet, like polishing my father's bench, but it holds the same stories. Come match day, when that banner rises, every stitch feels like a shared breath with my yaars at the canal.

Here, the most important banner is the one my granddaughter painted in Kolkata. We keep it folded in tissue paper until match day, then hold it high for her father to see on the television. This khunti, this duty, is quieter than your drums, but our hearts beat just the same, bhalo.

We’re hand-stitching a giant flag for the next away match between my bindi orders, and my thali is now dotted with stray golden sequins. The kitna mehnat it takes to keep this pyaar alive, yaar, and here I am, counting coins for our train tickets while my sasuji wonders if I’ve joined a new mandir committee.

Subzi ke saath jo dabbā bharti hoon, waisa hi hisaab chalta hai supporters group mein. Kal raat, ek budhau uncle ne apna puraana jhanda thik karne ke liye apni shawl ki kinari kaat di. Humaara garhwali dhaga bhi aise hi mila-jula hai, na?

bas kar rha hoon shift ki tayyari, balcony mein chai pi raha hoon... aaj kal hamare pahadi gaon ka ek football club, "mountain lions", semi-finals mein pahunch gaya hai. pata hai kya mehnat hai? do saal se mere jaise teen log membership fees ikattha karte hain, har mahina, taaki banner ban sake. aaj office mein ek colleague ne poocha, "itna kyun lagaya?" uska jawab mere spreadsheet mein hai, har paisā uska hisaab.

This Commonwealth Games business — all that crore for a stadium when my gym still uses iron plates from 1992, and we can't afford a decent physio for the pensioner class. Every delay in fixing that inequality is a rep you skip, and the body pays later. The data is clear: the poor lift the heaviest loads with the least support. Kay, beta?

ଆଜି ସକାଳେ ଏକାମ୍ର କାନନରେ ବୁଲୁବୁଲୁ ଦେଖିଲି, ଗୋଟେ ପୁରୁଣା ହାରମୋନିୟମ୍ ଫୋପାଡ଼ା ହୋଇଛି—ତାର ରିଡ୍ ଭଲ ଅଛି, କିନ୍ତୁ ବଡ଼ କମ୍ପାନୀର ନୂଆ ମଡେଲ୍ ଆସିବାରୁ ଲୋକେ ଫିଙ୍ଗିଦେଲେ। ଟିକେଟ୍ କାଉଣ୍ଟରରେ ଲାଇନ୍ ବ

ఈ morning Abhijeet Dipke story చదివేసరికి, నా పాత వాల్పేపర్ డ్రాయర్ తెరిచేశాను. మా తాత్కాలిక ఫ్యాన్ క్లబ్ బ్యానర్ రిస్టోర్ చేస్తున్నప్పుడు, sponsor logos ఏం ఎంచుకోవడం అన్న విషయం లోనే ఇలాంటి డిస్కషన్ వచ్చింది. ఆ ఒక్క small print contract లోనే ఎన్ని రకాల hidden terms ఉంటాయో.

बस मैच खत्म हुआ है और हमारा काम शुरू हुआ है, जैसे नाइट शिफ्ट के बाद मशीनों की सफाई। आज पोस्टर के लिए नई रंगीन कागज़ आया है, मेरे हाथ उसकी चमक से हरे हो गए। यही वो पसीना है जो हमारी टीम के गीतों में दम भरता है।

Haan, our East Bengal fan club's collection for the big match poster-painting is due tomorrow... and here I am counting coins in my old tawa-katori. But arey, every ten-rupee note from my last litti order goes into this tin, babua. For the roar in the stadium, we first sweat in our own small lanes, ji.

మా ఊరి ఫ్యాన్ క్లబ్ పాత బ్యానర్లు బాగుంటాయి, వాటి మీద వాన నీళ్ళు పడి మసి అయిపోయినా థర్డ్ టైం రీపెయింట్ చేసిన ఆకుపచ్చ లైన్లు ఇంకా కనిపిస్తాయి. నిన్న ఆ టెర్రస్ మీద కూర్చుని చూస్తుంటే, ఈ చిన్న పట్టణంలో ఒక మ్యాచ్ కోసం ఎవడో మూలన కూర్చుని కుట్టిన బ్యానర్ — దాని ఖరీదు 250 రూపాయలు మాత్రమే — నాకు అనిపించింది, ఎంత పెద్ద స్టేడియం వాళ్ళు డిజైన్ చేసినా, ఈ స్థానిక హస్తకళలో ఉండే నిజాయితీ మరెక్కడా రాదు అని.

Aaj subah 4 baje uth ke Prayagraj Junction ke general ticket counter pe line lagi thi for the derby, yaar — ek uncle actually asked "beta, padhai chhod di kya?" before handing over our group's forms. Agar yeh commitment CGL ke paper mein dikhta toh ab tak inspector hota!

Feeding the strays at 4 AM this morning, the rain was just like it was in '99 — bahut zyada. Our colony had a small candlelight march for the soldiers, and I remember thinking, "Yeh desh kaise bachta hai, jab itne kam log hi jaagte hain?" My son was barely one year old then; now he's in Muscat, and I still count the days by the monsoon log I keep in my transistor radio box.

Wangkhei macha leirakle, but I was at Ima Keithel this morning and the old auntie selling ngaari told me they’re putting a new tax on taxi permits—she said "singju pabi, oja Pradhan-gi policy-na taxi driver mama ke thourok pai." My father drives for tourism, you know, and now petrol is already eating his earnings. He came home last night with that tired smile, and I just sat there peeling bamboo shoot for mother’s curry, thinking—why do we always first weigh the poor man’s pocket when someone in Delhi makes a decision? Rules should be fair for everyone, not just for those who can pay.

Ai toh ticket kuthun milnar? Maza shantabai wadal shejari ahe — tyacha mulga Mumbai-la office karto an' online booking karto mhanun tyala ticket milte. Mala tar magun dyayla sangitla, pan mi mhanalo, "Baba, ha data pahije — kiti tickets saglyanna milat?" Asleli chukichya vachana nahi, khara fakt digital box-office chi gati.

Delivery chala slow ayyindi today, all because of this new David Jonsson movie shooting near the market! Traffic jam ante em chestham anna, my scooter puncture ayithe evaru chusinattu undi. My last order tiffin thondaraga reach avvaledhu, customer satisfaction ki pedda dabbu!

You see this old wooden tape? My father’s. Every morning I measure, cut, frame. The boys at Ghora Stand bus stop, they do the same for our club, no? Measuring the perfect chants, cutting the right banners. The unglamorous glue-work that holds the portrait of a season together, bhai. It’s bhishon important.

The ticket queue reminds me of waiting for fresh methi at the sabzi-mandi—everyone jostling, but the ones who need it most are at the back. My grandson says the robotics team shares one soldering iron between five kids, while the private school has three 3D printers. That's the real work, na? Holding the line, not the banner.

The clay was too wet today, couldn't get the diya rim to hold shape, just kept slumping. Just like our supporters' group last month when only twelve showed for the bus to Bhopal. But you know, the ones who stayed, they didn't shout or wave a banner—they just passed chai around and folded the torn seats. That's our real league, bhai; not the stadium committee's spreadsheets, but the one chaiwala who trusts us enough to let the tab run.

বাঁকুড়ার বারান্দায় টেরাকোটা ঘোড়া শুকোতে দিয়ে যখন এনজিওর লেজার খাতায় কলম চালাই, মনে হয় মাঠের বাইরের এই কাজগুলো—টিকিট কাটা, ব্যানার ওঠানো, চ্যান্ট শেখানো—যেন মাটি পাকানোর মতোই। বড় বড় অর্থনীতির তত্ত্ব শুনে মাথা ঘোরে, কিন্তু এখানে প্রতিটা লাইন, প্রতিটা টাকা মানুষের মুখে হাসি আনে কি না, সেটাই পরীক্ষা। পূর্বের মতোই সব হয়, ভরা মৌসুমে মাটি আর মন দুই-ই ভালো থাকে।

Sometimes I’ll fix an old radio here in the shop, and my favourite sound is the crackle of a forgotten cricket commentary... it reminds me that keeping a supporters’ group alive is like that, yaar. It’s not just the big matches, it’s the quiet, stubborn work, like stitching a torn banner for the hundredth time while the wife’s chai goes cold. But the day that banner flies again in the stadium, haan ji, every stitch feels worth it.

In the queue for the East Bengal match last month, I counted the same five people selling tickets at double the price—meanwhile, our little group spent three hours just photocopying banners on baba’s shop machine, the calculator humming like a heart monitor. No glamour in that, but the nine of us who stayed till midnight folding flags saw something the price gougers didn’t: the real colour of a terrace is unpaid bills and shared chhana. Fairness isn’t a slogan, it’s making sure the boy who can’t afford a ticket can still wave a paper flag his didi drew at home.

Just spent my night shift organising the Delhi contingent’s banners and flags for the away match in Goa, yaar. Kept thinking how this is like fixing my old radios – all this unseen, patient work so that on match day, everything just sings. My daughter helped me pack them up before school, asking if we’ll ever do an away trip together. Bas, one day, chalo.

After a day at the plywood factory, I walk home and see the vegetable seller packing up with the same order we use for ticket queues. His system is simple—first come, first served—just like our away match waits. Bas, that unglamorous work keeps the group alive, and I find a quiet satisfaction in it.

On Saturday, I had a customer—college girl, barely twenty—who spent the whole time scrolling through Reels of a mall salon in Bangalore. I was mixing her colour, and she was telling me about their 'vibe'. I just smiled and said, “Vibe-ige tumba costu, but my cuticle care is free, chamka.” She laughed, but next month she might not come. That’s the thing about these supporters' groups: we keep the place alive one head at a time, but the mall lights are bright, and young eyes get dazzled easy.

আমার ভেরান্ডায় রোদে শুকনো টেরাকোটা ঘোড়াটার দিকে তাকিয়ে ভাবছি, এই সিনেমা আমার জ

Father used to say the best shawls have a rhythm, like a football crowd when the ball moves right. Heard Neha Bora's story — that girl from Peren who played

these nightshifts and supporter meetings are run on the same fuel—weak canteen chai and a shared dream. last week i skipped dinner to stitch a banner with old bedsheets, because the club ones are too expensive. jab sab milke kaam karte hain, tabhi to kuch ban pata hai.

Every time they talk about "record growth" in Delhi, I look at the queue outside my shop — young boys waiting their turn because their father’s mill job vanished last year. Pralhad Joshi can say what he wants about subsidies and schemes, but the real test is whether the family across the street can afford a second chai without feeling guilty. My mirror doesn’t lie: the same haircut, the same worry lines, generation after generation.

One of the boys, little Pratik, has started repairing our old match-day banners in his craft class, stitching the torn edges with such care. It feels more meaningful than any new, shiny banner a sponsor could provide—this slow work of keeping something alive.

आज एक बुजुर्ग साहब को स्टेडियम छोड़ते हुए, उन्होंने अपनी पुरानी साइडलाइन वाली टिकट दिखाई। बीस साल से एक ही सीट पर बैठते हैं वो, और कहते हैं कि असली जीत तो यह है कि हम लोग अब भी वहीं इकट्ठे होते हैं, चाहे टीम का हाल कुछ भी हो। मेरी वैन के ट्रांसमिशन का लोन चुकाने जितना ही मुश्किल लगता है ये निस्बत बनाए रखना।

ବିକାନେର ମେଚ୍ ପାଇଁ ଟିକଟ୍ କ୍ୟୁରେ ଛୋଟ ବହିଟା ନେଇ ବସିଥିଲି, ଆଉ ତା ଭିତରେ "କନ୍ଧ ପାହାଡ଼" ରାଗର ଏକ ଧୁନ ଲେଖୁଥିଲି । ଆଖପାଖର ଭିକାନେର ଫ୍ୟାନ୍ଙ୍କ ଚିତ୍କାର ଭିତରେ, ମୋର ପୁରୁଣା ଗିଟାରର ସ୍ୱର କେମ୍ବି ମିଶିବ କି ଭାବୁଥିଲି ।