07:10am. November 19. Anticipation.
HIGH Fashion has come down for breakfast, the most necessary meal in Jetlagland. The restaurant shop is host to excited NRIs, mainly from America, couples who have carefully planned their holiday to sync with the Diwali and cricket festivals.
There is more than the occasional flash of a scissored dress among wives; the humdrum men wear T-shirts clinging to undulating midriffs, signature sign of male success; or loose sweatshirts that are an assault on taste, an abject surrender to the 16th century combination of cowl and robe. At least in the old days the cowl was made from wool. Now it is churned out from synthetics. Call it pre-coffee cynicism, but one suspects that all this couture, high, low or indistinguishable, has come from discount malls. The deep secret of capitalism is the fundamental right to sell Gucci at Pucci prices.
Today is the apogee, summit of a perfect Indian climb through 10 stages of victory, each accomplished with the aplomb of sporting conquerors. India vs Australia is script-perfect; India vs Pakistan would have looked like a manufactured set-up with endless jokes about whether it had been fixed by ICC or bookie.com, undercurrents overwhelming surface tensions. A quick run-through the sports pages, the rest of the newspaper being irrelevant on this hallowed day.
The eye rests beadily on a remark by Pat Cummins, captain of Australia, answering a reporter’s query about the psychological impact of a home crowd: “…in sports there’s nothing more satisfying than hearing a big crowd go silent”. Ominous. I gulp some thick Americano to wash down a faint but perceptible uneasiness. By 10 tonight Cummins could become the conversation of Australia and the curse of India.
A silent prayer ascends from the heart. Prayer is the premium paid for the ultimate insurance policy, divine intervention.
Heeding good advice, we leave early for the stadium. There is jam on the road and bread on the pavement; or at least the hawkers are earning enough for a month’s bread selling the blue uniform of the Indian team.
12:05pm. The Stadium.
THE stands are still sparse. The sun is warm on the uncovered terraces. But space has begun to fill up with noise, sometimes masquerading as music, more often in the form of the wavy crescendo of human excitement in easy collaboration with drums booming from speakers. The national team of the national sport is poised on the precipice of glory at the country’s finest stadium.
This is the chorus of superb theatre on a great occasion. Is the music Hindi? Is it English? Time will tell, if time ever cares to do so. The growing gathering in the stands doesn’t care. They love the beat, and the throb is infectious.
12:50pm. The Field.
SO far the only highlight has been 74-year-old Sunil Gavaskar indulging his childhood fantasies by tucking his trousers into cowboy boots as he commentates, rather than merely comments, from the ground. Is there a secret message in those cowboy boots? A hidden signal that this is a day for cowboys; Indians should keep their guns blazing through the match?
For us in seats high above the ground such rumination is inevitable when the clock has gone into slow mode, and minutes can’t find their way forward. The field is full of men limbering up; the stars loosening their legs with football or their arms with a bowl or catch-up.
There is much ceremony before the toss, possibly to meet the demands of advertising merchants who have bought up the day in the broadcast market. It is not the multinationals who are the big spenders, but Indian companies. One is not talking about pan masala. I discover that the heavily advertised perfume is an Indian brand, created by a brilliant local entrepreneur.
The first true roar rises. India has lost the toss. But that’s okay. India will bat. Cummins prefers to field. The stands are happy. Everyone is an expert. There is agitated conversation about the descent of dew after sunset. No one is condescending about condensation. The dew will win it.
