We are the world

Bilal Akhtar and his wife Samina alighted from their hired Qualis about three kilometres away from the PCA Stadium. It was the last point that cars were permitted to go to with the maniacal security in place for a high voltage World Cup Semi Final. They picked up their Pakistan flag, a small bag and a tiffin box and prepared for the long trek to gate 11 through a sea of saffron white and green and reverberating chants of Jeetega Bhai Jeetega India Jeetega. I was on a mission of my own, to locate Pakistan’s iconic cricket fan Chaudhury Abdul Jalil, aka “Chacha Cricket”. I asked this couple from Lahore if they had spotted him and they said yes they knew a common acquaintance who said they had seen him in Mohali a few hours earlier. But more than passing me the info, they were rather anxious about how badly they would be outnumbered or even heckled. Their query would be answered very shortly. A huge bunch of local Indian fans from Chandigarh took them under their wing and soon flags were swapped. Numbers exchanged. Invitations for dinner post the game extended. Though it all came with a rider. There would be no compromise in the result of the game!

A few hundred yards later at a check post, their tiffin boxes were thoroughly searched and they were told by a strapping sardar inspector that food was not allowed. Strapping sardar then promptly opened the tiffin box and took a large bite of what appeared to be delicious keema parantha and went to tell them that he too had a grand aunt in Pakistan who made similar food. The tiffin box was allowed in, minus two Paranthas! 

Moments later, I managed to locate Chacha Cricket and I took him over to where Sudhir Kumar from Muzzaffarpur (the crazy Indian fan who cycles everywhere to follow the team and sports the full monty as far as body art goes) was waiting for me. He had not met Chacha for several years and they had an emotional reunion. My pre-match story was done. Chacha waxed eloquent about cricket for love. Sudhir prayed for Sachin’s hundredth and the cup coming home. This was where true cricketing diplomacy was taking place. What was to follow an hour later between Messrs Singh and Gilani was merely the Power Play.

Once the Mohali summit was over, everything shifted to Mumbai. India’s commercial capital had geared up for the nation’s single most viable commercial proposition to enact one final chapter in what been a fairy tale so far. The build up was mad but not maniacal in proportion. Nothing could match an Indo-Pak clash except for the scale of the game. A World Cup Final. This time it was billed as Rama vs Ravana as the smses being circulated screamed. Another one said Dhoni and his boys did what Indian intelligence could not do (on Nov 26, 2008), and that is keep Pakistanis out of Mumbai! But the final was to be revenge for the 1996 semi in Kolkata and the 2007 league game in Trinidad when the Lankans had put India prematurely out of the World Cup.

Landing in Mumbai from Chandigarh was already hectic. We were in the first of three packed aircraft that left tiny Chandy Airport within 15 minutes of each other. We were in the first. The Indian team in the third. As we touched down, paparazzi went crazy at the door of the aircraft and in the baggage area. All work came to a standstill. Only trouble, there were no players on board. We made a hasty retreat and could only imagine the chaos when the actual players emerged. 

On the day of the grand final, security was even tighter than in Mohali. This time, not even a coin or a pen found its way past the turnstiles, even for the media. We had to fight for thumb drives that had several gigabytes of pre-match clips to be played out! All along the perimeter of the stadium for a radius of several kilometers, there were no vehicles to be seen. Marine Drive, the city’s iconic sea face, was lined with cops and eerily deserted. It resembled a war zone curfew. 

But somehow from everywhere, fans swarmed in hordes and droves. Of every age and affluence bracket. In no time at all, nothing could be heard out in the middle. Not even the call of the toss by the match referee Jeff Crowe (resulting in the kind of drama that Jeff’s cousin Russell would have been proud of!). The stage was set for cricket’s biggest contest on an excessively humid spring afternoon. The players walked out tense, the umpires for a change, relaxed. Simon Taufel umpiring his first ever World Cup final thanks to the fact that his boys were not in the final for the first time since 1992! I had a long chat with him the previous evening and he had made no effort to conceal his delight at getting the opportunity, albeit at the cost of Australia making another final. 

But nothing could have prepared us for what was to follow almost eight hours later. Despite India starting the final and even the tournament as favourites, it was tough to fathom that such a perfect script could be written. Tough to imagine what could actually happen if India won the World Cup after 28 long years. Tough to envisage the scale of the celebration the erupted the moment inspirational skipper MS Dhoni smashed a ball into oblivion. 

Time stood still as a billion people soaked in the reality. As I stood on the hallowed turf, three feet from the trophy that the Emirates stewardesses had just placed on the podium, and as everyone at the stadium awaited the moment the cup that counts would be handed over to the team that counts, I found two curious onlookers hesitantly slide up beside me. With the confetti and champagne shower moments away, nobody noticed that it was Arjun and Sara Tendulkar who were slowly trying to find their way to their father and join a billion other Indians in saluting the master, or in this case their loving Daddy. I prodded them, "go on, it's your home turf. It's your day." Arjun shyly turned to me and said, "No uncle. It's Ok. I'll wait." The highlight of my evening's work was getting Arjun to come back an hour later for a rare interview as he shared precious private moments of finally reaching dad and joining him on a victory lap and how unreal all this was for him. After all his dad was about his age when India had last won the World Cup! Tears and champagne flowed across the Wankhede and spilled on to Marine Drive. A jam packed Marine Drive. Our hotel was a mere five minutes drive away bit we decided to walk. The walk took over an hour as strangers congratulated each other almost as if every single individual had actively participated in the historic triumph. 

In 1983 the win had changed the economic dynamics of world cricket. Impact 2011 is awaited.