Sept 26, 2007. Mumbai airport. Security room. 8:14 am.
Jeet gaya bhai jeet gaya India jeet gaya,
Haar gaya bhai haar gaya Pakistan haar gaya…
“Louder, you jerks!”
The men in khaki clear their throats and go all out against the Neighbour once again: Jeet gaya bhai jeet gaya India jeet gaya; Haar gaya bhai haar gaya Pakistan haar gaya…
“Louder, louder, like a true Indian,” says their Leader, his eyes trained on someone at the back of the group.
(A couple of heads have turned too. The gaze is fixed on Salim. But I swear it's just a coincidence.)
Galli galli mei shor hai, Har Pakistani chor hai...
The chanting reaches a crescendo. Salim too sings, and loudly! Just then, the Men in Blue touch down on the tarmac, Twenty20 World Cup in hand. It’s an Air India flight but there are no bird hits, tyre bursts, technical snags or rodent alarms. The next second, all TV channels are on the cricket story, like always flashing BREAKING NEWS at one go…
Suddenly, everything seems to be falling in place.
Suddenly, the "one nation" dream seems to be taking shape.
Suddenly, India’s future seems picture perfect…
Mumbai, 9:30 am.
The 30-odd kilometres from the airport to Wankhede cricket stadium is still damp in parts with last night's beer. Thousands had been trooping in here for the past two evenings to celebrate India's victory in the first T20 World championships. The team had mastered the "chauka-chakka-clean bowled-chauka-chakka-clean bowled" version of the gentleman's game.
In the finals at Johannesburg, five runs from a certain defeat, Sreesanth hung onto a sitter from Misbah-ul-haq to walk into the hall of fame. "Those Pakistanis" went home defeated, and commentator Ravi Shastri and Bharat desh went hysterical.
We were world champions again, I was told…
In a sense, Sreesanth was expected to shine. The dude always has something special stored up for Johannesburg. In January, playing there against the South Africans, Sree was shown a million times on TV. He was frog-jumping down the pitch towards pacer Andre Nel, wielding his bat and mouthing some war cry. Like a character from Ram's vaanar sena…
Sree – a blast from our mythological past...
Sree – never short of that EXTRA energy (6-WB-4-WB-WB-6-WB-4-WB-WB-6-WB-WB-4)…
And now we were back in Johannesburg, and we were world champions again…
Soon after India won the cup, a few fans at Marine Drive got a bit drunk and smashed beer bottles on parked cars. Fingers immediately pointed towards the “foreign hand”… The ISI escaped blame only because the crime didn’t quite measure up to its demonic image.
Whodunit. Could it be "those North Indians", someone asked, and Mumbaikars willingly agreed. Enemy no. 2 if not 1…
In Bandra, a girl was groped during the all-night fan frenzy. (This largely went unreported in the newspapers as most crime reporters had been temporarily moved to the cricket beat. Every possible angle of the T20 win had to be covered, and news editors were taking no chances.)
Sept 26, Mumbai.
10 am. (C)rush hour…
Pregnant commuter trains. Bloated BEST buses at acute angle 60 degrees. Packed subways, breathless bodies inside. Mumbai is marching towards Wankhede stadium to welcome the T20 champions.
Nostrils pitched against armpits. Crotch against arse. Parachute oil against Keo-Karpin. Reebok sneakers against Relaxo hawai. It's a long and arduous journey. But Mumbai is marching towards Wankhede stadium…
The classrooms are empty, so are the railway ticket counters. No dhakka-mukki at the stock exchange! Padlocks at Sulabh shauchalayas. Everybody is marching towards Wankhede stadium...
From every galli and nukkad, men, women and children are spilling out, like red ants on a sugar trail. A million footfalls per square centimetre. Like that epic scene in 2004 outside Delhi's 24, Akbar Road where a "supreme sacrifice" was made with "such amazing grace".
Mumbai, 12.30 pm.
Feacal expressions on some fans’ feeble faces. Pungent air in the crowd, letting out dinner secrets (curd rice, paav bhaji, butter chicken, prawn koliwada, khichdi). Pungent air… like H2SO4 in school chemistry labs…
Feacal expressions on some fans’ feeble faces… Thankfully, they find a blind alley by the roadside and make a dash. The early birds grab positions behind neat mounds of garbage, where they can answer their true calling in private. The rest park their bums by the open drain or under streetlights.
On the main road towards Wankhede, Team India rolls in… Dhoni's boys, in official blue jerseys, are perched atop an open-top double-decker. It's a BEST bus, the trademark red skin peeled off overnight.
From its shining body now emanates the fresh smell of sparkling blue paint (and Lead, bit by bit).
Lead – atomic number 82, Latin name Plumbum, symbol Pb…
Lead – that Chinese toys, lipsticks and sparkling blue paints are made of…
Lead – the velvet-footed killer, oozing off the blue BEST bus into the air and dust, tiptoeing into wildly dancing, gesticulating bodies where it might one day shut down the brain or the kidneys, or both…
The skies open up. It begins to rain…
Rain + Lead + Pungent Air = H20 + Pb + H2SO4 = The new chemistry of cricket.
2 pm. The action shifts to Wankhede stadium.
Wankhede – a goldmine of cricketing history, the home of Sachin Tendulkar…
Wankhede – often the playground of Shiv Sena one night before India-Pakistan matches…
Dhoni and his boys get down from the bus, do a victory lap and go up to the dais. The netas are occupying the front seats, so the players quietly settle in the back rows. (It's a BCCI felicitation ceremony.)
Officialdom takes over… Long speeches (with even longer pauses), garlands (marigold only), Bharat Mata ki Jai (and some Jai Maharashtra too), a darshan of the players (handshakes, bear hugs like brothers long separated), photo-ops…
Big cash awards are announced. A crore and a car for one player. A couple of lakhs each for the others…
Each cricketer is then interviewed by each and every TV channel. The journalists have an important question – what was the team’s gameplan against world champ Aussies.
"Ummm… Well, the boys decided to just go out there and enjoy their game…"
"Oh, we just thought we should forget everything (about the Aussies) and give our best…"
"It was time to play aggressive cricket (and pay back the Aussies)…”
The Aussies, who are in India for an ODI series, respond a few days later on the field.
Sept 29, Bangalore. First ODI.
Commentator: "Here comes (Mitchell) Johnson charging in at Tendulkar… Strikes him on the pads!... A loud appeal! He’s been given out! Sachin’s gone for a duck!!!..."
The rain gods save India.
Oct 2, Kochi. Second ODI.
Sreesanth plays the jumping Jack… Australia win by 84 runs.
Oct 5, Vishakapatnam. Third ODI
Sreesanth puts in some EXTRA energy. Australia win by 47 runs.
Rewind to Wankhede, whispers on the dais… A BCCI babu informs that some “jealous” Indian hockey players are upset with the felicitation of the cricketers.
Word spreads fast. We are told some hockey stars from the Asia Cup-winning team are going on fast. Their coach is on national television, ranting against the neglect of hockey and demanding some dough for his boys.
National sport! Factional sport!... The media is sensing an opportunity.
"Get me Shah Rukh, get me Shah Rukh,” screams the news editor at a TV channel far away in Delhi. "Shah Rukh’s film revived hockey in India. He may have something to say."
Shah Rukh's phone rings… The secretary answers: "Oh sorry, Shah Rukh saab can't talk hockey. At the moment, he intends to promote world peace. Om Shanti Om.” The line disconnects.
Time's running out. The desperate news editor decides to try the "Chak De girls"… That firebrand rainbow hockey team in that Shah Rukh-blockbuster.
Phones ring. The line gets through to two Chak De girls. Their newly appointed secretaries inform that both the stars are busy with inaugurations. One is cutting the ribbon for a new bathroom at a sports club in Nerul, the other is launching a vada paav stall in Chowpatty.
The rest of the Chak De gang isn't taking calls… The news editor can’t figure out why. He picks his cellphone and tries again…
Behind him, on the wall, the muted TV screen of a rival channel starts flashing BREAKING NEWS: "Chak De girls sign up for a billion-dollar Hollywood film on women's cricket."
The newsroom falls silent. My morning alarm goes off.
I realise it was just a dream. Disappointed, I pull myself out of bed and pick up the newspaper.
Bhajji slaps Sreesanth at IPL match, the headline reads.
