“More Than a Match, It’s Our Bloodline”-The Kolkata Derby through Generations

On a damp evening in Kolkata, amidst the odour of burning flames and the rhythm of drums carry a familiar electricity. For seventy-two-year-old Pulak Bandyopadhyay, a security guard from north Kolkata who has lived most of his life in East Bengal’s red and gold, the Kolkata Derby is not just a game, it is memory, pride, and legacy. For him, East Bengal is not just a club, but the anchor of his youth. Though he often forgets his anniversary date, he fondly remembers the dates of his club’s biggest wins over his arch-rivals.

“That night in 1975… the whole city was ours. I was a young man then, and that night we lit up the streets with lal holud moshal (red & gold burning torches) like it was Kali Pujo,” he says with a nostalgic smile. “Even today, when I guard office gates, the memory keeps me warm. That was our moment of immortality.”

But football is not just about victories, it is about wounds too. Fast forward to 2009, when history nearly turned. Soumya Bhattacharjee, 37, a graphic designer, can’t forget October 25 that year, when Mohun Bagan partly erased that humiliation. “I cried like a baby,” he says. “It felt like someone had robbed us of our soul. Yet that’s the Derby—it makes you feel alive, even in heartbreak.”

And far from Bengal, in football-mad Kerala, the clash still resonates. Saurang, a student in the University of Hyderabad, remembers, “In Mahe, people discuss red-and-gold and maroon-and-green. For football lovers like us, the Kolkata Derby is proof that passion has no borders.”

Generational Flames: Echoes from the Past

The rivalry between Mohun Bagan (MB) and East Bengal (EB) ignites souls across generations, a fire kindled in 1921 and fueled by socio-cultural divides. For the Bangals—many roots in what is now Bangladesh—the red-and-gold of East Bengal symbolizes resilience. “You are born into the club,” says 55-year-old cab driver Shiladitya Banerjee, a second-generation EB fan from a working-class family in Dum Dum. “My grandfather fled the 1971 war, carrying nothing but stories of East Bengal’s glory. For us, beating Mohun Bagan is reclaiming our identity—it’s blood, not just a game.”

On the other side, Mohun Bagan’s green-and-maroon represents the Ghotis, native Bengalis proud of their heritage. Debayan Ghosh, a 53-year-old banker from Moulali and a third-generation MB supporter, recalls family rituals spanning decades. “We’ve watched derbies together for 30 years—my brother and I. It’s not about the score; it’s the thrill, the chants that drown out life’s worries. My father taught me, Mohun Bagan is pride, the original fighters against colonial rule in 1911.”

Younger voices echo this passion across societal strata. For 12-year-old Arjun, a fourth-generation MB fan from a rural village near Hasnabad, its pure emotion. “My grandpa says derbies are festivals of passion. When we win, the whole village celebrates like Pujo.”

Take 28-year-old student Sharmishtha Sarkar, an EB fan from a middle-class home in South Kolkata. “As a woman in a male-dominated maidan, the derby empowers me,” she says. “It’s where I scream loudest, forgetting exams or societal pressures. For my generation, it’s rebellion wrapped in tradition.”

In a quiet village near Murshidabad, Arnab Chakraborty, 28, grew up listening to his father’s stories of Mohun Bagan’s glory. Now a master’s student at Visva-Bharati, he recalls how Derby fever seeped into his childhood. “Baba would put the radio on loud, and the entire para gathered. We had no TV then, but every cheer, every goal felt like it shook the mud walls of our house. That’s when I learned: Bagan is not just a club, its family inheritance.”

Not every fan’s story is about historic nights. The pull of the Derby has even shaped young lives. Rohit Majumdar, a content writer from Sreerampore, admits he lost track of schoolbooks during Derby weeks.

“I used to sneak out of tuition just to catch East Bengal games,” he chuckles. “My parents scolded me, but how do you explain that football is not just ninety minutes—it’s 100 years of emotion and passion?”

A Shared Heartbeat

From torchlit nights in the ’60s to radio crackle in villages, from Pulak’s 1975 ecstasy to Soumya’s 2009 heartbreak, from Arnab’s village radio nights to Rohit’s skipped studies, and even in Kerala’s football-mad alleys—the Derby lives on. It is inheritance, rebellion, and belonging all at once.

In the end, the Calcutta Derby is more than 90 minutes—it’s an emotional anchor, binding generations in joy, heartbreak, and unbreakable loyalty. As Soumya might say, “It’s what keeps us alive.”