A time when childhood playtime belonged to the outdoors, it was simple and unadulterated. Games were not mere entertainment; they were spontaneous lessons in resourcefulness, economics and creativity,as we stretched limited means to an endless joy. Childhood was about dust on the feet, sweat on the brow, and laughter echoing across open fields.
Football, deeply rooted in Bengal, came to us through our colonial rulers. Yet history proudly records that it was these barefooted Bengalis who defeated the British at their game. Today India rules the cricket circuit, crowned champions of the sport, which is also an English game. We gifted to the world Polo — a game much like hockey, played on horseback. Though originating from Manipur, Polo was not merely a pastime; it was a symbol of ingenuity, implementing equestrian skill into a competitive spectacle.
If the elites and Babus had their cricket, Bengal had its own treasure: Daanguuli, or Gilli Danda. This ancient sport, dating back over 2,500 years, was a precursor to cricket and baseball, echoing the spirit of bat-and-ball games and connecting generations through its simplicity.
For many families, racing cars were unimaginable luxuries, and even bicycles were beyond reach. Yet young boys of Bengal found their thrill in racing discarded cycle tyres. With a short staff in hand, they rolled the tyre at speed, balancing and steering it over bumps and potholes. Watching those who mastered the art was pure awe — a race born of scarcity, demanding dexterity, stamina, and creativity.
The Then Games & Our Happiness Index :
Games often followed age groups. Juniors delighted in Kanamachi, Ekka Dokka, Kumir-danga, rumal chor, and chor-poolis. These playful contests required nothing more than a few friends and a patch of ground. Even a simple power cut — “load-shedding” as it was called then - became a festival of joy. Entire neighbourhoods gathered for Luko-Chuuri, or hide-and-seek, with no restrictions on hiding in any of the houses. The doors were ever welcoming. The “para”or locality was an extended family; I can scarcely recall a time when stepping into a neighbor’s home at midday did not mean sharing their lunch. A simple call over the boundary walls was enough to inform our parents, and the entire community stood as our guardians.
Seniors gravitated toward more demanding contests like Kho-kho and Seven Pittu (Saat Chara), which embodied strength, accuracy, and speed. These games tested endurance and teamwork, leaving players exhausted yet exhilarated. Others demanded precision and practice. The spinning of the Lattu — a wooden top with a nail at its tip — required real mastery. One swift jerk of the string sent the top into a furious spin, the game hinging on whose would dance the longest.
Then came the battle of Kites, a celebration that decorated the skies. Though kites originated in China, they are said to have reached Bengal through Buddhist monks and traders along the Silk Route. Once the crops were harvested, festive moods soared with the colorful kites, heralding the approaching “aashwin” sky — clear blue, dotted with cotton-candy clouds.
Bengal was no less in martial sports. It had its own traditions: Mollo Juddho, or wrestling, and Lathi Khela, stick fighting. The calibre of an artist was measured by how many opponents he could face at once. Tales’ spoke of men fending off two to three hundred adversaries, their sticks moving so swiftly they seemed invisible, even deflecting arrows. The rich and powerful employed such fighters as “lethels,” mercenaries whose skill was both feared and revered.
There was also Chora-Khela, knife-fighting, alongside traditional weapons like arrows, swords, and spears. Each had its own technique: the Bollom, short and hurled from a distance, and the Sorki, a long staff tipped with a triangular metal head, demanding precision and strength. These contests were not mere games but spectacles of courage, discipline, and artistry, deeply woven into Bengal’s cultural fabric.
These sports were more than pastimes; they were cultural imprints, shaping childhoods with team spirit, creativity, and resilience. They taught cooperation and ingenuity — values that extended far beyond the playground. Yet, with colonial rulers dominating Bengal for over two centuries, imitation became inevitable. Slowly, traditional games faded into oblivion, overshadowed by cricket, football, and hockey. What was once a vibrant mosaic of local play eclipsed by the prestige of imported pastimes.
Still, the Games Echoes :
They live in grandparents’ stories, in the occasional sight of children improvising with sticks and stones, and in the nostalgia of those who once raced tyres down dusty lanes. They remind us that play is not bound by wealth or technology, but by imagination and community. India lives in layers and we still find some of these sports exist in pockets where urban civilization is late to reach.
To revisit these traditions is to rediscover a Bengal that thrived on creativity and courage. It is to honour a heritage where games were not just diversions, but reflections of life itself — simple, resourceful, and profoundly human.
I define myself first and foremost as a sports enthusiast. Cricket has been my constant companion since 1994, and even today I stride onto the pitch with the same fire. Yet as I approach my fifties, I hear the quiet whisper that the time to hang up the boots is nearing. That realization compels me to pause, to reminisce about the past, and to reflect on what this journey has truly meant.
Down Memory Lanes :
Sports have never been just a pastime for me; they have been a teacher, instilling discipline and resilience. They have been a friend, offering joy and camaraderie. And they have been a mirror, reflecting my growth through victories and defeats alike. As I look back, I realize that while the boots may one day rest, the love for the game will never retire. It will remain etched in my spirit, a lifelong anthem of passion and play.
