I read this beautiful article by Siddharth Varadarajan, the founding editor of The Wire, and it brought back some memories from the past.It was Dubai, the 24th of September 2007, just over 9 years ago to the date.
I was invited by my Pakistani neighbour, Ahmad, and his elegant wife to come and watch the Indo-Pak finals for the T20 World Cup.
As a patriotic Indian, I decided to wear my blue Indian cricket shirt and sauntered across the corridor to ring his bell, only to realise on entry that it was FULL of Pakistani fans wearing the green Pakistani cricket shirt. There were couples, singles, basically young people sitting around the huge television set, many painted in the Pakistani colours (on their faces and arms) and several dozen Pakistani flags all over the place.
There was, of course, the well-known Pakistani hospitality, with very large plates of very aromatic and very tasty food being delivered from the kitchen in a regular stream for the entire duration of the match. And there were songs (most of which I did not understand) sung lustily with “Pakistaaaaan. Pakistaaaan.” cheering.
I was made comfortable, plied with food and drink (yes, beer was procured for me especially), and generally made comfortable with chit-chat and talk about who the world’s greatest cricketer is (Afridi or Tendulkar!) and who’d be in the World XI, and (the most interesting conversation) who would be in the team if India and Pakistan were to play as one. There were a lot of jokes (a lot of them the Pakistanis cracking on their own selves, and me on Indians) and some sher-o-shayari.
Well, I don’t want to bore you with the details of the entire match, but by the time we are in the last over, with Misbah-ul-Haq batting, Joginder Sharma bowling, and the spectators on the edge of their seats, the praying started. Now, I am an atheist, but seeing all the praying in that room, I must say I was tempted to join in. Just to give my side a little boost!
The atmosphere was getting tenser and tenser and I could feel the electricity in the air. By now, the men were screaming “Pakistaaaan. Pakistaaaan,” while the women prayed silently. No one was eating or drinking, no one was interested in chit-chat or even moving from their seat.
And then, with 6 runs required from 4 balls and one wicket in hand, after refusing to take a single from the first two balls, Misbah scooped an almost-six straight into Sreesanth’s waiting palms, and I erupted, bursting from my seat, shouting “YESSSSSS!!!!”, only to realise the sound of stunned silence all around me. If I had a knife, I could have cut the tension in the air with no difficulty.
I found that Ahmad and his friends were all staring at me. And I think I saw blood in their eyes. There I was, alone in my blue India shirt, standing in his house, surrounded by a crowd of young (and seemingly angry) green, unable to celebrate with happenings on live tv right in front of me, looking like a deer caught in the headlights of a freight train.
Suddenly, out of the blue, Ahmad shouted, “Congratulations, bhai!” and hugged me, as if I had any contribution to make in that win. And then stepped back, stripped off his t-shirt, and handed it over. I was stunned. I ought to have taken mine off, but it didn’t strike me. Another chap came and shook my hand, “What a game, yaar. What a game! We almost had you.” Someone said, “Koi nahi yaar. Some other day. Today is yours.” Another agrees, “It’s just a game, yaar. Chalo khaanaa khate hain.”
Someone handed me a bottle of beer, and out of the blue (or should I say, ‘green’), I was lifted with a loud cheer. Ahmad asked, half shouting over the din, “What do you shout when you win?”. I was not thinking straight. I blurted, “Jai Hind.” They all went, “JAI HIND!” It was a surreal scene: A dozen Pakistanis in green shirts holding me aloft, in a house in Dubai, far from either of our countries, dancing, and shouting “Jai Hind!”
I confess I felt closer to them that day than to many others who have shouted (and forced others to shout) “Jai Hind” in my own country.
I confess I had that green shirt that Ahmad gave me so generously till it was lost somewhere in transit back to India. I confess I felt bad at having misplaced it.
I confess I kept up with Ahmad and his friends until life kind of overtook him. And me.
I confess I do not feel anger or enmity towards Ahmad and his friends.
I confess that had it been the other way around, my friends and I would have done exactly the same thing. Or at least I wish we had the honesty and good humour to do so.
I confess if India had lost, I’d hope to be as graceful in defeat as they were.
I confess I did not see a problem then nor now with who wins a game of cricket.
I confess I see little difference in the common people of India and Pakistan.
I confess that I felt a bond with them knowing fully well that this doesn’t mean we’ll be one nation tomorrow, or terrorism will stop flowing, or the people in charge of things on either side would suddenly become the best of friends.
I confess my personal experience was perhaps not indicative of the entire population.
But I also confess that I wish it were and that we could really be friends, if not brothers.
I confess to having good thoughts, to having hope of peace and friendship, and to wishing my future generations (as well as Ahmad’s) that someday this wish comes true.
