The World Cup is here, and so is the madness that takes over Bangladesh every four years. Rickshaws are repainted in blue and white or green and yellow. Apartment blocks in Mirpur and Mohammadpur sprout flags the size of bedsheets. Grown men cry for nations they have never visited. Children are named after footballers whose jerseys they wear to school, and sometimes even to weddings.
And now, apparently, flags and jerseys are no longer enough. Bangladeshis have decided to wear football itself. Fully. Without irony.
Sarees in Argentina blue, draped with the devotion usually reserved for religious occasions, which, in fairness, this almost has become. A panjabi split down the middle, half Messi, half Ronaldo, which is theologically incoherent but visually, for lack of a better word, compelling.
Lungis printed with the Brazilian flag, which cannot be comfortable in August, and yet here we are, because passion does not negotiate with humidity. Crop tops in celestial blue and white, worn to watch matches that kick off at two in the morning by people who have work at eight and have already accepted the consequences.
Bangladesh has not qualified for a World Cup. It has never come close. The national football team currently sits around 188th in the FIFA rankings. This is not criticism. It is context.
Following Argentina’s triumph in Qatar in 2022, an unofficial fraternity formed between Buenos Aires and Dhaka, one that nobody in Buenos Aires fully understands but which Dhaka has fully embraced. Streets flooded. Firecrackers exploded. A country of 170 million people, who contributed nothing to the result and were not asked to, erupted in joy so pure it was almost disarming.
The question now is not whether Bangladesh supports Argentina or Brazil but how far this can go. If the garment industry can produce an Argentina-themed saree, surely someone can commission dining furniture in Albiceleste stripes.
A rickshaw was painted in Argentina colours last time. This time, perhaps it is Brazil yellow. Wedding lights now glow in the colours of nations whose languages the guests do not speak yet somehow feel. Children are already named Messi and Neymar, and no one is especially surprised anymore.
The next frontier, now that clothing is sorted, is cuisine. Asado in Banani. Feijoada near Gulshan 2, adapted with chicken because that is cheaper, and nobody will complain. After that comes architecture. Murals. Naming rights. At some point, a local authority will paint an entire road blue and white and hold a ceremony. If there is already a Japan–Bangladesh Friendship Hospital, why not a Brazil–Bangladesh Friendship Street?
Someone, reportedly, has already sold his wife’s property to create a 7.5-kilometre German flag, according to claims circulating in Rupak Aich’s report for TIMES of Bangladesh. Comments from the wife remain pending. Divorce is likely. But undying loyalty to Germany? Guaranteed.
And if you choose the wrong team, do not worry. Allegiances can always be switched from Brazil to Argentina or the other way around. All it takes is a few gallons of milk and a suitable open space. Social media will take care of the rest. Even Hercules would struggle to compete.
There is something genuinely touching about all of it. Nobody in Rayer Bazar supporting Brazil should be carrying the weight of 1950 or the trauma of Maracanazo. And yet they do. They suffer in disbelief when Brazil loses. They celebrate as if Argentina’s victories are their own. They do not just wear a jersey. They borrow a feeling, every four years of belonging to something larger than the daily facts of their lives.
The flags will come down. The jerseys will be folded away. But the devotion lingers. So does the love for countries they will likely never visit. And somehow, that is the point.
