13/05/2026
Tutu Babu. The last of his kind.
There will never be another man who sat in a stranger's house from morning till night, let a child p*e on him, went home, changed his clothes, and told his wife with a straight face, "It was all for Mohun Bagan." And meant every word.
That was Swapan Sadhan Bose. Not a president. Not an administrator. A man possessed.
He walked into this club in 1989 and found a sleeping giant. He woke it up with his bare hands. He smashed a rule that said we cannot sign foreigners, a rule dressed up as tradition but was really just fear. He brought in Cheema. He brought in Monoranjan. He sat in people's living rooms, he made calls nobody else dared to make, he spent money nobody else was willing to spend. While we sat glued to Akashbani at 2:45 every afternoon watching our best players walk out the door to the other side, Tutu Babu was already three moves ahead, plotting the next heist.
He called this club his third child. We always knew he meant it. You do not let a man's child p*e on you for anything less than love.
Mohun Bagan will play on. Trophies will come and go. But the Maidan will not see another man like him. That particular madness, that particular fire, that particular brand of wanting it so badly that nothing else matters, that left with him today.
Tutu Babu, rest in power.
Joy Mohun Bagan. đâ¤ī¸
