How the Punjabis and Their Green Revolution Destroyed Bong Male Sexuality: A Tragicomedy in Five Acts

Once upon a time in the hazy, intellectual bylanes of North Calcutta, amidst the aroma of cha and the hum of Rabindra Sangeet, there thrived a special species: **the Bong male**. Clad in a crushed kurta, jholaswinging from one shoulder, and debating Trotsky in a coffee house, he was the undisputed hero of his own black-and-white Satyajit Ray film.

But then came the **Green Revolution** and with it, the Punjabis, their tractors, their turbans, and their testosterone. And thus began the slow, cruel erosion of the Bong male’s sexual confidence.

Act I: The Rise of the Wheat Warrior

In Punjab, they were growing wheat; in Bengal, we were still chewing on rice with mustard oil and talking about the “soul of the nation.” The Punjabi khet-majoor was lifting sacks and pumping water, while the Bong babu was lifting spirits with Tagore recitations.

The Bong male, whose idea of a workout was adjusting the ceiling fan string, suddenly found himself compared to a muscle-bound Sunny Deol shouting “dhai kilo ka haath". Meanwhile, he still identified with Soumitra Chatterjee dramatically dying of tuberculosis in the last reel of a Ray film.

Act II: Bollywood Betrayal

Hindi cinema, once the domain of lyrical, poetic romance, began to trade in poetry for protein. Gone were the days of Kishore Kumar’s romantic crooning and Uttam Kumar’s smooth-talking charm. Now it was all about how loudly you could scream, how fast you could punch, and how many men you could throw off a moving train.

The Bong male looked on in horror. Could you imagine Apu from “Pather Panchali” doing bicep curls? He had no abs, but he had feelings. Unfortunately, in post-Green Revolution India, feelings weren’t sexy—fieldwork was.

 Act III: Lassi vs Lebu Cha

With Punjabi masculinity came lassi, sarson da saag, and a level of dairy-based virility that Bengali digestion simply couldn’t handle. Bong men were lactose-intolerant not just biologically but existentially. Give them hilsa and lebu cha, and they could write an essay. Give them butter chicken, and they’d write their will.

While Punjabi men were cultivating six-packs and deep voices, the Bong man was still cultivating mold in his bookshelf and back pain from his third poetry magazine rejection.

Act IV: Gym vs Gyan

As gyms popped up like mushrooms in other parts of the country, the Bengali male stuck to his roots: adda, antakshari, and occasional existential dread. When he heard "bench press," he assumed it was some new Communist slogan.

The Bengali hero remained loyal to his brain. He could discuss Freud, fascism, and Fellini in the same breath—but couldn’t do ten pushups without calling his mother. Meanwhile, Punjabi heroes were lifting tractors while the Bong hero was lifting his inhaler.

Act V: The Great Bong Adaptation

But all is not lost.

In recent times, the Bong male has begun to rise like a phoenix—albeit a slightly wheezy one. Today’s Bong is a hybrid: he reads Milan Kundera and hits the treadmill (albeit slowly). He knows his Ray films but has also accepted the existence of AP Dhillon. He’s dating a therapist, drinks matcha, and secretly tried whey protein once (didn’t go well).

Maybe **Bong sexuality wasn’t destroyed—it was just pushed into hibernation**, waiting for a new cultural season to bloom.

The Punjabis may have turned India into a food-secure nation and Bollywood into a testosterone temple, but the Bong male has survived—with sarcasm as his six-pack and nostalgia as his cologne. Sure, he may not have conquered fields, but he still conquers hearts—usually through long text messages and unsolicited film recommendations.

And who knows? Maybe the next Green Revolution will be in philosophy, in cinema, in poetry—then the Bong male shall rise again. But till then, he shall sip his cha, adjust his shawl, and whisper:

*“Ami kichu bolbo na… kintu mone rakhben…”