THE green field has become dynamic. It sparkles. At 13:45PM the Surya Kiran Aerobatic team of the Indian Air Force roars into view, taking drama and precision into the ether. Fifteen minutes later, Rohit Sharma is off, hitting with the abandon of a winner.
Then fate abandons us. When the batting calms down, we get becalmed. When word is passed on to step up, nerves cannot take the strain. The best batsmen get lost in the 40s and 50s; others get glum in single digits. Prospects shift from positive to iffy.
CIRCA 8PM THE GURGLE
WHEN we score in ones or twos, we are placid. When opponents do the same, they are boring. Eyes switch quickly to statistics on the scoreboard when in the ennui of the evening, approaching defeat suddenly pauses. It is the 27th over.
Two no-nonsense Australians have shrugged off early misadventures to seize the match by the scruff of its sagging neck. The Travis HeadMarnus Labuschagne partnership has taken Australia to 157 for 3 but victory is still nearly a century away. A wicket now and Glenn Maxwell will come in with his sixes-and-mixes; in another half-hour rejuvenated Indian bowlers, fuelled by an uproar in Ahmedabad audible in Sydney, might just wreck the opposition.
NOW OR NEVER
JASPRIT Bumrah pins Labuschagne before the stumps. A billion Indians who chase cricket are certain he is out, but not the chap who matters. The cussed umpire. Instant appeal. The drill begins. There is no bat involved, so first stage successful. The ball hits stumps on computer trajectory. On the far edge. The batsman survives. Umpire’s call.
Bumrah wins a moral victory; India has a heart failure. At the end of the over Bumrah kicks the stumps in frustration. The match turns in Australia’s direction. Within another 10 overs, energy saps from cries of “India jeetega”. Excitement seeps out like reluctant air from a hyper balloon in the last gurgle of hope. Realists start to dribble towards the gates. A steady Head, scoring 96 runs in boundaries, takes the glory overseas.
In the 16th century, winking meant closing both your eyes. You were hoodwinked when a highwayman covered your eyes and face with a hood. I feel hoodwinked by Head.
EVENTIDE: ENDGAME
Acascading murmur indicates something is happening. Since nothing fortunate is happening on the field, it must be in the audience.
Necks crane. A chant rises. Prime Minister Narendra Modi has come for a second time to the stadium named after him. He saw India batting in the afternoon; he will now present the trophy to the winner. Well, to Australia, unless there is some miracle.
Alongside sits Amit Shah. The Home Minister is a fan. The Prime Minister is cool. The two are in the stands, not in VIP boxes. The crowd’s admiration for their leader is apparent; children go up to the Prime Minister while mobiles seek a fleeting glimpse.
When God refuses to interrupt the inevitable despite my morning prayers, the Prime Minister and his guest, the Deputy Prime Minister of Australia, go to the podium to hand the World Cup to an elated Cummins.
Spectators reserve their loudest cheers for Virat Kohli and Mohammed Shami. We learn later of the emotional visit to the Indian dressing room. No picture is more poignant than the one tweeted by Shami. He is in tears as Prime Minister Modi consoles the biggest wicket-taker of the tournament.
A little before 10 PM, a perfect wave of pinpoint lights suddenly begins to advance across the night-sky from our right. Without any fanfare, the drone show has begun. Technology has brought imagination to life. The light-points change into shapes of the nation, and motifs of the game, against a deep purple sky. It is a spectacular finale to a great, fat, festive Indian wedding. With the wrong bridegroom.
