Bhattacharya Sir

 Patna Collegiate School buzzed with activity after the Summer vaccation in 1959. We were thrust into the new Higher Secondary system, squeezing our 9th class into just six months. New teachers arrived, and so did dignitaries, including Rajkumari  Amrit Kaur, a freedom fighter and Union Minister. Our musical ensemble serenaded them, with science teacher Bhattacharya Sir captivating everyone with his rendition of "Vande Mataram" in Hemant Kumar's iconic voice.

My ten months with Bhattacharya Sir were unique. His Bengali attire and slow, measured speech barely reached the back benches, making him a non-threatening figure. He never scolded or hit, simply offering a single, piercing look when someone erred. He fancied one student sting on the front bench particularly. Perhaps that boy reminded him of his childhood. Even in the lab, asthma confined him to a chair outside, only entering when truly needed. His deep voice and

physique strangely resembled eminent music director Salil Chaudhary. I never imagined the hero he would become.

Every year, after the rains, our school held a football tournament, kicking off with a teacher-student exhibition match. Teachers enjoyed leeway – unlimited substitutions, bare feet for safety, and varied attire. In the initial game, students played playfully, out of respect. But post-intermission, two quick goals showcased their professional talent, leaving the teachers on the defensive. Exhausted and facing defeat, they slumped on chairs next to where I sat near  Bhattacharya Sir. He muttered, his legs fidgeting with anticipation.

Suddenly, Bhattacharya Sir took the field, gesturing for a spot on the left flank. His dhoti-clad figure surprised everyone. Receiving the ball, he stunned us all. He dribbled into the penalty box and unleashed a powerful shot, scoring! But the second goal was unforgettable. From midfield, he dodged opponents, weaving his way to the corner, and unleashed a left-footed rocket that curved into the net. There was stunned silence, replaced by cheers – "Bent just like Beckham!" they might have roared today. The final whistle blew, and amidst thunderous applause, no one noticed Sir gasping for breath on the ground. He recovered to be hoisted on the shoulders of the celebrating students, the winning shield presented to him. The Principal revealed Sir's past as a rising star on Kolkata's legendary Mohan Bagan team, side-lined by asthma.

A year later, I left Patna with my transferred father. To my utter surprise, during my final chemistry practical exam, I saw  Bhattacharya Sir as the external examiner. He wouldn't recognize an ordinary student like me, I thought. The challenging task of creating sodium chloride after preparing Hydrochloric Acid gas consumed my focus. Suddenly, he was beside me for the viva. Two questions were all he asked. I answered accurately, the second being, "Were you in Patna Collegiate?"

Years later,Bhattacharya Sir remains etched in my memory, not just as a brilliant teacher, but as a hero on the football field, his passion and skill defying his physical limitations. He taught me that greatness hides in unexpected places, waiting to be revealed when courage meets opportunity.

From Nuisance to Lullaby: A Gully Cricket Story

Gully cricket, is an informal version of the sport cricket that is played in non-traditional venues such as streets, alleys, parks, and backyards.  It is typically played with fewer players and simpler rules than formal cricket. The equipment is also often improvised, with a tennis ball or rolled-up paper serving as the ball and a broom or wooden stick used as the bat. The pitch is usually marked out with stones or chalk, and the boundaries are determined by the available space.Despite its simplicity, gully cricket can be a very exciting and competitive game. It is a great way for children to learn the basics of cricket and develop their skills. It also provides a valuable opportunity for socializing and building community spirit.

The old house had its charm: a courtyard, a veranda, and a corridor. The corridor, with its endless straight-drive potential and need for just one fielder, was our afternoon cricket haven. Judge Uncle's living room, tucked neatly in the corridor's "short cover," would erupt in commotion every time the tennis ball kissed their wall or window.

Today, playgrounds, verandas, and corridors are luxuries reserved for the lucky few. This made my house's front yard the prime target for the neighbourhood’s afternoon cricket matches. Now, my living room window stood a mere 3 meters away from the swinging bat, right in the heart of the "action." Add to that my

afternoon relaxation time, and you have a recipe for potential annoyance. The chirping chatter about cricket and schoolyard adventures followed them like loyal companions. The game usually ended when their "birth right" - sibling squabbles - took centre stage.

Initially, when the ball landed on my window once or twice, I threatened to knock their teeth out. A chilling silence followed, deafening my afternoon naps. It dawned on me: the silence wasn't due to fear, but a lost ball. That evening, I found myself at the market, buying them a new one.

Now, the symphony of "out!" shouts, bat thuds, and their animated discussions lull me to sleep like the sweetest lullaby. A little window's worth of glass pales in comparison to the magic and vibrancy of gully cricket. It's a reminder that sometimes, the greatest joy comes from unexpected sources, even if it arrives with a few dents and scrapes.