A kickabout on Morjim beach in Goa.
Credit: Deepak Menon
The East Ground in Bengaluru’s Pulikeshi Nagar, a neighbourhood earlier called Fraser Town, sits between a busy road and a railway station. A self-effacing landmark, it is eminently missable. Yet, behind its high walls, it has nurtured several of the city’s footballing greats.
Every year, on August 15, East Ground becomes a nucleus drawing the city’s football fans. It hosts the final of the Independence Day Cup, a barefoot, small-sided tournament with a history spanning over half a century. It is at the same time the most famous and the least famous football tournament in the city.
The first time I witnessed this black tournament, so called because of its lack of affiliation with state associations, was in 2022. People spilled out from the stands onto the compound walls and even the railway overbridge. An elderly woman sold peanuts, while men read newspapers between games. With no barriers separating the stands from the game, the scene carried a sense of impending chaos.
The crowd spills out from the stands to compound walls and stairs of a railway overbridge to watch the annual I-Day Cup tournament in Bengaluru
The city is full of small-sized competitions, and many players have risen from these black tournaments to become legends. “People wanted to play and represent their area,” says Louis Nickson, a former Mohammedan Sporting Club player from Austin Town. Isaiah Arumainayagam, a Mohun Bagan legend and 1962 Asian Games gold medallist from Gowthampura, says he “learned to play football on these Bengaluru grounds, in these August 15 tournaments”. Another former footballer says consistently playing for local teams is a mark of a good player — proof that one can handle crowds and pressure. Austin Town, Gowthampura and areas in and around Cantonment have long dominated the football scene, a legacy stemming from the British military presence in Bengaluru.
But what was once a clash of neighbourhood teams is now open to talent from beyond their immediate area. The goal is to form the strongest possible team. This is similar to what happens with Manchester United — it no longer draws players just from the Manchester area.
By the time I visited East Ground, I had spent well over a year researching India’s football subcultures. What got me there? Growing up, football was just entertainment for me. We played, we argued about teams and players. It took time for me to view it as a social and political space, as a marker of identity, and as a way of weaving self-worth into jerseys, colours, and emblems. I have never been to London, but I love Chelsea FC. They lose, and my weekend is ruined. I don’t question why.
In the 1920s, the magazine El Gráfico described a unifying identity for Argentina through football in the form of pibe — a street urchin whose skill matched the cunning and street-smarts shaped by his upbringing. Decades later, Diego Maradona would become the living embodiment of the pibe. Brazil’s football, Joga Bonito (‘the beautiful game’), brims with flair, creativity, and individual expression. Their playing style echoes
the rhythms of the Samba dance — footballers sway and dazzle with brilliance, and always with a smile.
Style question
The Golden Lions and Shillong Lajong face off in a ‘basti’ tournament in Mawlangwir, Meghalaya.
Credit: Mawlangwir Sports Club
This made me wonder: what should an Indian style of football look like? Is it even possible to define an Indian style, given the diversity of our cultures, languages, and geographies? Conversations with Richard Hood and Pradhyum Reddy, whom I consider among the smartest voices in Indian football, deepened my curiosity. And as the partner of a PhD scholar, sometimes intimidated by her knowledge of culture and literature, I tried to find answers by reading far beyond my usual interests. It became clear that I needed to see local tournaments in their raw form, unencumbered by professional structures. I was working as a sports journalist then and I set out to 10 football-crazy pockets of India with a notebook full of questions.
Riverside rivalry
I drove three hours to see ‘Sevens football’ in Kerala. This is a seven-a-side version of the game. Umpteen such tournaments run in parallel, without cannibalising each other’s audiences or income. I heard stories of rivalries between villages, some divided by a river, others by distinct playing philosophies.
In Meghalaya, I jumped into a car with a man I had met a day earlier. We travelled three hours to a small village to watch the packed ‘basti’ tournament in a quaint stadium surrounded by grasslands and hills. On the road, the two strangers from the northeast and the south became
fast friends who keep in touch and send each other gifts from time to time.
In Mizoram, locals arrived in packed buses, braving cold, rainy evenings and waving team-coloured flags, to attend an inter-village tournament. The stadium sat on a hilltop, and distant hills glowed against the evening sky. It was a pretty sight. On the sidelines, my local contact and I chatted about his love for Bengaluru and his craving for roadside gobi manchurian.
I was curious about the football culture in Nagaland, the state that gave independent India its first football captain, Dr Talimeren Ao. But since the 1950s, it has struggled to produce talent despite an obvious passion for the game. I visited Manipur, India’s greatest football talent factory, before the ethnic conflict began, and was unable to go there again. So I worked my connections and gathered information. While the Imphal Valley dominates player production today, I was surprised to discover the role of Ukhrul district, the land of the Tangkhul tribes, in the early rise of football in the state.
Kolkata was teeming with its ‘khep’ tournaments, a religion in the suburbs. Down south, in the Thoothoor village of Tamil Nadu, players battled it out near the ocean. In Goa, crowds thronged to watch a village tournament final, part of the Feast Day festivities at local churches. Reminiscent of the three pillars that define Portugal — Fado (traditional music), Futbol (football), and Fatima (pilgrimage site) — the former colony has crafted its own version: Feni/fiesta, Fish, and Football.
Colonial defiance
The Birthplace Effect suggests that a person’s place of birth plays an important role in their sporting success. At the same time, geographical, cultural and historical characteristics shape how a sport flourishes in the region.
Local histories revealed to me why the game mattered so deeply in certain regions. In Kolkata and the Malabar belt of Kerala, football traces its roots to its defiance of colonial rule.
Mohun Bagan’s 1911 IFA Shield victory over the East Yorkshire Regiment, a story told and retold across generations, has become part of the social consciousness, firmly establishing the role of football in daily life. “For men who had lost in life, beating the foreigners at their own game was a major victory,” a college professor who runs a local football team told me, sitting under a jackfruit tree in Areekode, Kerala. Elsewhere, the game spread with help from enthusiasts in the armed forces, educational institutions, and missionary groups.
What I learned was football was quintessential thanks to its marriage with local identity, which could be traced to a locality, parish, tribe or occupation. During my exploration, I also witnessed a great yearning from the people to be understood. A man in Nagaland told me to ‘tell the world what you see here’. One in Mizoram insisted that while he loved my effort, it would be difficult for me to understand the nuances and social complications of his state and its neighbours. In Punjab, stranded at the
Pagwara railway station in the midst of the Farmer’s Protest, an autorickshaw driver braved the hartaal (strike) and shared the grievances of his people.
Inspiring heroes
Football has also been harnessed as a tool to steer youth away from social ills. Local football heroes often become symbols of inspiration. To this day, people in Punjab’s Mahilpur region speak of the exploits of the legendary defender, 1962 Asian Games gold medallist and Arjuna Awardee Jarnail Singh. “He hung a ball from a tree and practised headers for hours”. “His strength came from drinking milk”. “His chest size was massive”. Since Singh, Mahilpur has consistently produced prominent footballers.
In the fishing village of Thoothoor, the craze for football turned into a viable profession after Louis Cleetus broke the mould, alongside coach
E Sugumaran, who scouted for talent and took promising players to Chennai.
Mizoram found its inspiration in Shylo Malsawmtluanga aka Mama. His exploits for the top teams of the country at the turn of the millennium opened the doors for a generation of players. Lalrindika Ralte, seeing Mama featured in a local advertisement, dreamed of becoming a footballer, and he did. Jeje Lalpekhlua, Lallianzuala Chhangte, and scores of others followed. “I didn’t expect to have this kind of impact,” Mama admitted, staring across a field as hundreds of kids played football.
Alongside technology and television, football played a part in Mizoram’s integration into the mainstream consciousness of India. For the state, the game became an olive branch following decades of conflict and demands for independence, which only ended in 1986 with the signing of the Mizoram Peace Accords.
“Through football, we started cheering for India. We see our sons, grandsons, or local boys playing for the country. Football has done a lot,” Lalnghinglova Hmar, a state minister and the ‘father of Mizoram football’, told me during an inter-village semifinal. He was attending the match, along with two other ministers, uninvited.
In Manipur too, sport and politics are deeply intertwined. Former
chief ministers N Biren Singh and Yangmaso Shaiza were both
footballers. The state has long held athletes in high regard, and used sport to stay physically prepared during skirmishes and warfare.
Journalists, officers, and politicians playing football together is a common sight in Meghalaya. Once, a friendly match between a team of army officers and bureaucrats, and another comprising politicians ended 5-0, with the former joking, “That is one goal for every year in power”. In Kerala, the political connection is subtler. Growing up there, I played football surrounded by images of Argentine Marxist revolutionary Che Guevara, flags of India and Brazil, and elders discussing politics near the grounds.
Bengaluru game
Even the way the game is played, I found, is shaped by local culture and geography. Elders and historians describe Bengaluru’s style during its halcyon days as one of short, crisp passing and individual skills, developed as a way to escape the kicks from booted foreign teams.
The lack of large, flat grounds in Mizoram produces technically gifted players who must constantly touch the ball to keep it from rolling. “If we kick it long, we will be chasing it for 2 km,” Ralte admitted, laughing.
In Punjab, long fields and flat terrains help well-built players excel in the long ball game, where the ball is moved quickly upfield with long passes. “Everyone in Punjab is born with a sickle in one hand and a sword in the other,” an army officer told me on a cold, windy day, decoding the warrior spirit Punjabis bring to the pitch.
The Sevens format suited Kerala because the early games were played in post-harvest paddy fields, which were smaller than a standard pitch. Today, many tournaments kick off under floodlights as they are avenues for evening entertainment. Goa also hosts 1 vs 1, 3 vs 3, and penalty shootout competitions in villages, depending on ground size and availability.
In Meghalaya, ‘basti’ games are often held on market days, both to entertain and maximise gate receipts. I watched men, women, and children from several villages stream into the grounds to enjoy the spectacle. Being a matrilineal society, women play a prominent role in running these tournaments in the Khasi Hills and supporting the economy around them. I saw them as referees, technical staff, and food vendors. Such a strong female presence is rarely seen in football tournaments elsewhere in the country.
Family distinction
The sport seeps into community life in unexpected ways. In Kerala, football is part of the everyday lexicon. Paral, a streaky freshwater fish, is used to describe a pacy winger. Football phrases like ‘self adichu’ (own goal), ‘post maatalle’ (don’t change goalposts), and ‘whistle adi’ (blow the final whistle) are euphemisms for messing up, shifting topics, and signalling the end respectively. The assimilation is also seen in films. Dulquer Salmaan’s character in ‘Comrade in America’ explains a romanticised notion of communism to his girlfriend while wearing an Argentina jersey sitting next to a playground. Bengali films depict the Ghoti-Bangal divide through the epic rivalry between Mohun Bagan and East Bengal.
Tracing football histories at a micro level was challenging. Academic research is limited in regions other than Bengal. Interviews were insightful. Written documents were scarce. Players could often explain the “how”, but rarely the “why”. I sourced annual reports and souvenirs from associations. One researcher in Goa advised me not to take the documentation too seriously, while a football club associate in Bengaluru dismissed them as fiction. A casual remark in an interview often sparked legwork to confirm or refute claims.
But as I delved deeper, cultural parallels emerged and the dots began to connect. While migration is now discussed negatively, it has historically shaped football’s growth. Tamil Nadu, Kerala, and Karnataka, for instance, greatly influenced each other’s football cultures. Two coaches from Bengaluru helped evolve the Goan style, while players from the city contributed to Kolkata becoming the Mecca of Indian football.
The nearly five years of research culminated in a book. I wrestled with the anxiety of representing the complexity of cultures and the fear of missing critical information. In the end, a book is never finished, rather, it is taken away from its author by an editor who knows the depths of the research rabbit hole.
And so I return to where the journey began: Bengaluru. Here, I witnessed what neighbourhood teams truly mean to football buffs, and where a single family with its roots in Shivajinagar has produced 11 footballers across three generations, including the incomparable ‘snake charmer’ of Indian football, Ahmed Khan.
(The author’s book on football ‘Sacred Grounds: A Journey Through
People’s Football in India’ (Penguin Play), is just out.)
Like this story? Email: dhonsat@deccanherald.co.in