Ma, Me and Maradona
By: Ayan Biswas
Tags: Nostàlgia, Tribute, Mothers, Childhood, Marodona

Source: Wikimedia Commons

“Won’t you guys come to watch the match tonight” asked Raju- our neighbour. It was late in the night, the year was 1986. Television was yet to attain ubiquity in Kolkata. In fact, owning a television signaled pomp and privilege. Raju’s family owned a television and the football world cup in Mexico was underway. We lived in the serpentine lanes of North Calcutta, where people pried upon each other’s lives but also celebrated spectacles with an unmistakable camaraderie of a close community.

When Raju popped the question, I didn’t know what to answer. Raju was almost my age. We were 8 year old boys. So we turned to our respective parents for approval. Apparently, our fathers had also spoken about watching the match together. So without much ado, I accompanied my father to Raju’s place to watch Brazil play Algeria in the 1986 football world cup. Brazil had Zico, Socrates, Careca; Algeria did not have the players to match Brazil’s firepower. Hence Brazil won, relatively easily. My father was happy, Brazil was his favourite team. And I basked in the reflected glory of my father’s happiness. Late into the night we went home to sleep. My mother (Ma) had no interest in football. When we returned home, our entry disturbed her sleep. Without opening her eyes, Ma asked drowsily

“Who won”?

‘Brazil’- answered my jubilant father

“Okay. Good” said my sleepy and nonchalant mother. And ended the discussion.

Several weeks passed by. My father and I ran from one neighbour’s house to the other and remained perpetually sleep deprived. Whatever little time I slept, I dreamt of the Laudrup brothers, Belanov, Butragueno, Platini and Lineker. While my addiction of football grew by the day, Ma largely remained aloof. Daily humdrums and chores kept her occupied.

Quarter finals of the football world cup had arrived. Argentina was playing England. My father and I pleaded with Ma to watch the match with us. We were visiting another neighbour that day. A neighbour my mother was comfortable visiting late at night. Perhaps the sense of comfort, my incessant persuasion or a combination of both, prompted my mother to accompany us to watch the game.

There we saw Maradona play live. For the first time. Many years later after that match, I asked Ma about her first impression of Maradona. Ma said, Maradona looked like God. After a “not-so-eventful” first half, the God scored. Along with the Aztec stadium, we erupted in collective celebration. While the replays clearly showed a hand, we took vicarious pleasure out of God’s “sleight of hand”. Our God had outsmarted the evil Brits- was the mood in the air. And then, about five minutes later, the moment arrived. Maradona received a ball in his own half, ran and dribbled past a number of English defenders, dodged Shilton (the English goalkeeper) and drove the ball to the net. We were watching the match with a room full of people. Perhaps 10–15 of them- all jumped in joy, the noise levels from our rundown Kolkata room threatened to reach Mexico. After 90 minutes of unadulterated pleasure, Maradona and Argentina had won. During all this while, I didn’t observe my mother. But on our way back home, I saw her moist eyes. We didn’t say a word to each other. But I knew my mother had cried during the match. Her tears of happiness, her sense of association with Maradona had begun. God had made a grand entry to our lives.

Ma and I watched in wonder, as Maradona decimated one opposition after the other. Defenders slid under his legs, pulled his shirt, kicked his knees- but Maradona was unstoppable. He ran like a hare, dodged like a dear and cried like a baby. He scored a brace of beautiful goals against Belgium, and set up the deciding goal against West Germany. Argentina had won the world cup. Maradona had won. Ma was ecstatic. So was I. While Baba remained an ardent Brazil supporter till the end of his days, our allegiance had shifted to Argentina. To Maradona.

Ma and I kept following Maradona’s games in Serie A. We saw him single handedly thrash the fancied oppositions. But unlike today, live games on television those days were few and far in between. Although we didn’t see Maradona enough until the next world cup in Italy, he featured prominently in our daily conversations.

Then in Italy (1990), Maradona had passed his prime. But the glimpses of his brilliance was enough to keep us glued to the television. Argentina reached the finals again. And we hoped for an encore. But this time, Argentina lost to an united Germany. A dismayed Ma shrugged in disbelief. As tears began steaming down Maradona’s face, we couldn’t stop ourselves from crying too. Despite the disappointment, we knew that Maradona will be back again. To reclaim his rightful place in the world stage. One last time.

But the world cup in the USA (1994) brought more disappointment. By then, there were growing reports of Maradona’s closeness with Italian mafia. His parties and drunken revelries. But for us, he remained a distant God. A God who could do no wrong. When a doping incident forced Maradona out of the world cup, my mother and I were convinced of a foul play. “They were afraid of Maradona, hence they conspired to throw him out” we proclaimed. And after much misdirected anger and prolonged disappointment, we got used to the reality that Maradona will never play in the football world cups. Ever.

More doping scandals, growing age and a bulging waistline slowed down Maradona. And an eventual retirement followed in 1997. The day Maradona retired, Ma and I felt a strange sense of weightlessness. Perhaps we were bogged down by our own weight of expectations from Maradona. Now that he had retired, we had nothing to worry and expect of him.

More than a decade later, Maradona was the coach of the Argentine football team. During the world cup in South Africa (2010), we saw him live again. Ma was mortally sick. She had a tough time making sense of her surroundings. But her fondness and affection for Maradona continued unabated. When Argentina played, I urged Ma to watch the games, to distract her from the pain and misery she was growing through. My frail and disoriented mother would rise and ask for a pillow to rest her back- just to watch Maradona shout instructions to his players from sidelines. But Maradona’s Argentina didn’t do well, Ma was deteriorating too. A few months after the 2010 world cup, Ma had passed away.

Another decade passed by. I didn’t see or hear much of Maradona during this time. I didn’t see the God but took solace from the fact that he was around. Then came 2020, a year of long quarantines, lost lives and shattered economies. Despite the times, I kept the hope. But on 25th November. I lost hope again. Maradona had passed away. God had returned to his haven- after an eventful and fulfilling life. But the news of his death left me mourning for a month- until today, when I mustered the courage to write this tribute.

Thank you Maradona for inspiring a whole generation of us- for levelling the playing field and teaching us life lessons by being an exemplar. Thanks for the hope and despair, and the magical memories of a forgotten past.

With best regards from,

Ma and Me