Waste Bengal

The shenanigans have started to sound again. The walls are being painted or rather repainted with the colours of political parties, their emblems and requests. Banners have taken their place along roadsides. But most unwanted of all these and many more is perhaps the regular rally at every locality or junction, which throws life out of gear and makes a moment of silence very hard bought. With yet another election coming up, the race for Writers’ has heated up.

The government with nothing worthwhile to showcase in its last thirty years of governance still feels it is the best candidate to take the state forward. The opposition, although a namesake one, does not have the experience or the ability but is still convinced that it will be the lone torchbearer to the progress of the state. It is ironic that despite such an effective government and a confident opposition the state of West Bengal is well on its way to the ruins. The constant bickering and one-up-man ship has left the state in complete mess. It is perhaps the biggest victim of this political drama that unfolds here once in every five years.

The ever insecure politicians have surely forsaken their moral duties and responsibilities towards the state in lieu of their seats. Such is the addiction to the corridors of power, that the plight of the common man is considered secondary in governance. The roads which are repaired bi-annually are in a state of perennial disrepair. Any person, mobile or otherwise, would vouch for it. Shortage of electricity has reached alarming levels. The length of power cuts imposed makes one wonder the significance of having a state electricity regulation board and its claim of regular, uninterrupted supply. Perhaps it is time to go back to the age where lamps were the source of light, bullock carts used to be the mode of transport and people would work from their homes.

At least it would save the time and energy required to travel from home to office on rickety buses, plying on dug up roads with clogged drains unable to drain out the rainwater. For a city with a history three hundred years, it is surprising that every year the civic authorities are taken by surprise at the extent of water logging. This is what remains to happen when the drainage system that runs underground remains to be overhauled despite its age which would be from the time the English conquered India. Such is the condition of the lone metro city in Eastern India, the previous capital of erstwhile British India. I would love to spare a thought for the villagers but deep inside I can feel that their situation is no inferior to ours.

Only if the government could wake up to the difficulties of the common man; only if the opposition would take its time of bashing the government and sing a tune more constructive – this state would surely be a better place to live. It would not be called a waste.

True Blue, Through and Through

As dust settles on the corridors of Stamford Bridge after what has been a long and arduous year, I cannot help but relive the season which has been by far the most memorable in the century old career of Chelsea Football Club. So much so, that the club has made its space in the illustrious pages of English Football history.

Expectations were always an integral part of the Blues campaign ever since the Russian invasion and with the arrival of a high-profile manager, the bar was inevitably raised higher. Quite expectedly, the season began on a high note with every opposition left high and dry. Even the other three of the chosen top four were left licking their wounds after the first leg.

And then, disaster struck. It was perhaps complacency that had crept in the minds of Chelsea’s princes. The year end saw a series of indifferent performances coupled with a few drubbings from unfancied opponents leaving the Blues clinging on to the top spot, barely. Confidence hit the lowest ebb when the Special One returned to The Bridge, albeit with Internazionale, and much to the heartbreak of the Blues faithful, he sincerely plotted Chelsea’s fall; an untimely exit from the Champions League followed; a Roman dream lay in tatters.

Many had expected and had confidently predicted that this season would go down as another season of expectations going up in smoke; another year of so near yet so far. But they had surely underestimated the steel that this team had imbibed. Convincing victories at home and away against the other title contenders coupled with unharnessed aggression saw hapless opponents steam rolled into submission. Chelsea had risen from its ashes- with a renewed belief and an unquenchable thirst.

Captain, leader and legend John Terry marshaled his troops with optimum efficiency which saw a season with the fewest goals conceded. The Golden Gloves followed.

Upfront, it was the magician par excellence, super Frankie Lampard who netted a staggering twenty seven times this season and provided innumerable assists to the ever hungry hit man Didier Drogba, who brought home the Golden Boot after scoring an overwhelming thirty seven goals.

The season ended for Chelsea with an English double which saw them being crowned the Premier League champions and the FA Cup champions. But more importantly it banished the ghost of Jose Mourinho forever. Carlo Ancelotti, the biggest signing in three years, has certainly proved himself more than Special.

Shattered Skies

And finally the skies parted.

The scorching sun had all but torched the living beings here. Soil had turned into dust; trees drooped and greenery browned out. The onset of summer had sent shivers. If this were to be a precursor, then beware- imagine what lay in store when summer would be at its peak! Day after day, the blazing sun sapped dry everything below. Power cuts only added to the misery. Every mouth here uttered the same prayer. Everybody prayed for rain.

Then one evening the blue skies turned gray. The sun hid itself among the clouds. The wind began to pick up. As the dark clouds rolled in, evening donned the look of dusk. Streaks of lightning dotted the dark skies followed by the boom of thunder reverberating in the distance. The wind blew a real gale. The searing heat began to recede; the winds were perhaps messengers of the impending bliss.

The sun had, by now, gone down completely or was too well concealed somewhere in the clouds. Thunder and lightning echoed across the sky. The trees swayed in the wind, panes shattered and roofs creaked and groaned. Banners on the roadsides held onto their ground hard. Rains could be smelt in the distance.

The pitter-patter started. The first few drops hit the dry ground and formed a perfect medley of light and dark. The pour increased. It turned into a drizzle. The surrounding concrete was beginning to lose its colour. A steady downpour followed. And finally torrential rains swept across. The weather cooled down considerably; the mercury plummeted by quite a few degrees.

As I stood, drenching myself in the first rains of the season, I could feel a sense of relief surround me. The rains, I prayed, will clean the air around, settle the dust and replenish the greenery so badly missed.