For all practical purposes, the heat was on. Almost everyone I know in Dhaka wanted a Pakistan-India (in that order; Pakistan and India!) semifinal. And just after Mahendra Singh Dhoni won the toss, a downpour began here. As if to cool the atmosphere.
I cried out even before the assembled guests at Harsha Bhogle‘s studio had the time to: what was Ashish Nehra doing in the team in place of R Ashwin? The guy can’t bat, can’t field, and can’t bowl in most conditions outside seaming ones. One of those stupid decisions that come to a mind in stupor before the big fall, I said; nay shouted.
Shut up and watch the match, said wife.
I refused to — I wasn’t going to be a part of this hara-kiri, I said and went to the bedroom to spend the half hour before going to office.
So I missed out on Sehwag’s initial onslaught, then his fall. I got ready and sat on the sofa to put my shoes on when Sachin Tendulkar missed one and was given leg before. Looked sort of plumb to me but for the fact that Sachin had taken a biggish stride outside. I don’t bite nails, and neither could Sachin (who does with such regularity that I often wonder where he gets all those nails from) since he was wearing gloves and all.
Nope, said the replay, only to promptly misjudge the next delivery.
Nope, not stumped, said the TV replay again, and I went to office.
Man, did I know what sort of reception was awaiting me there! Almost everyone was for Pakistan, and every other person was asking me to lay a bet. But I wasn’t to be baited. I was representing the tricolour, mind you, and so I did not use the expletives that almost ejected themselves voluntarily, as colleague after colleague said it’s all right; just a game after all, and losing doesn’t really matter in a game!
Many were serious, some said in jest, and most said it of course to rile me. All taken in good humour, though I kept losing it as the innings wore on and India kept losing wickets.
Was I tense? I was asked by just about everyone as I kept unusually quiet (I was told) and went out for a smoke too many (I was told again). Don’t know; I am a professional, I am paid to work in office. And I felt I was doing just that, as Sachin and his mates were doing theirs — they were paid to play, and they were playing. Nothing wrong in the approach. You get dropped once, twice, four times, get a grip and focus on the next delivery. Things happen. Bad things happen just as regularly. The best bet is to keep your chin up and take fresh guard. Both in life and at work.
I knew it, as did Sachin. We took fresh guard each time there was a calamity, and calamities there were aplenty, dear reader, as Pakistan tightened the noose around Indian batsmen.
As many readers of this column would know by now, I really don’t fancy a dinner with Sachin, to put it mildly. But on Wednesday, as the evening turned night, I looked up at the man. Yes, he was struggling. But he would still nudge the ball here and there without a grudge.
Flashes of another Tendulkar innings came to mind. I don’t remember the year (statistics bore me) but it was Sharjah against the Aussies. A sudden dust storm had kicked up in the desert and everyone — the Aussies, the umpires, most people in the crowd, Sachin’s partner – were burying their face to keep the dust out of their eyes. And there stood Tendulkar, head slightly slanted up, looking skyward, eyeing the storm; almost daring it.
It soon got over, the match got on, and Sachin scored a century. I don’t remember who won (I guess India if I put a little stress on my mind, which I usually tend not to do because I often don’t trust my memory). But that’s mere statistic. They don’t matter. It was image of Sachin that stayed on in my mind, as it was the image of him on Wednesday night that will stay on for a long time to come.
By the time my work got over, four Pakistanis were back in the hut, and there requests to lay a bet. “It’s four down, after all.” No way. I knew I was going to win. I had seen it in my heart. And I knew Dhoni’s men were going to win. I saw it in Dhoni’s steely, determined eyes.
I sat in front of the telly in office, even as it thinned out. I sat there till Afridi was caught out. Then I left. ”Team aise hi nehin jeet-ti hai; jitana padta hai,” I said. And left for home to see the last bit of it with my wife. I don’t usually associate the plural sense when the Indian team plays. But as Misbah-ul-Haq kept missing the big shot one after the other and Zaheer gave him the glare in the final over, before he holed out on the penultimate ball, for once I felt WE had won.
And I am not dramatising, check the weather map. It started pouring again in Dhaka.
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