What a win Means!

By – Rishi Poptani

At seven PM on 30th March 2011, as my mother and I were walking along the Gold Adlabs plaza, everything seemed to be normal. A high profile World Cup semifinal was on between the co-hosts India and their arch rivals Pakistan. I must admit, I had expected the streets to be a bit more animated than usual, but alas, there were no such omens. People were going about their business in a humdrum way, and the square was indistinguishable from any other day.

Just about four hours later, delirious from watching India win on television, my sister suggested we go out and check out the square again. I rubbished the idea; going out at this hour was not only unsafe, but downright stupid. She was excited by the sounds of revelry and celebration emanating from the square, which is just a stone’s throw away from our home. My mother and sister are formidable opponents when it comes to persuasion (just ask my father’s wallet), and soon enough, I found myself riding our two wheeler towards the square, my sister riding pillion.

The sight that met our eyes, as we neared the square, was unfathomable. There were huge groups of people in every corner, waving and cheering to no one in particular. There was a certain electricity in the air. Now, I am not a big fan of Ravi Shastri’s commentary, but there seems to be no other phrase to describe accurately what I saw.

About twelve to fifteen policemen were regulating traffic at the square, but instead of the usual scowl or grimace on their faces, I could see wide smiles. It was almost as if they felt embarrassed to be policing a crowd that they felt they should be part of. Every now and then, there would be a big camera flash, which would drown the square in a sunlit moment, and random screams of ‘India! India!’ would rent the air. My sister quickly got caught up in the mood, and started howling in unison with the mob, completely ignoring my remonstrations. I reasoned that if things turned ugly, the police would brand us as one of those hooligans. As if to answer me, she screamed at a policeman, “INDIAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!” To my immense shock, the rotund policeman grinned back.

There were people standing in their balconies, using their high end camera phones to record the revelry. This was amusing to see amongst some of the stiffest upper lipped neighborhoods in one of the stiffest upper lipped cities of the country.

Every now and then, a fellow would break out into an impromptu dance move. While the quality of the move was debatable, the feeling and emotion was definitely not, as a few others would join in. The highlight of the match was an S-class Mercedes, packed to the brim with rich brats, screaming their lungs out. Some of the brats were standing and shouting through the open sun roof of the car. The car moved slowly and wonders of wonders; the brats were shaking hands and doing high fives with absolute strangers. There seemed to be an uninhibited, undisguised show of emotion everywhere. A cavalcade of Karizmas passed by, the pillion riders having painted their cheeks with the tricolor, and some pillion riders waving the national flag as if there was no tomorrow.

The time could well have been 10 AM; there was no hint of sleepiness or the languidness that accompanies night time.

I have seen these atmospheres before, but only on TV, after football matches in foreign countries. There was a round of firecrackers as well, and the remaining hollow sanctity that remained was lost, as the square erupted into wild celebrations. There was a lot of hugging, dancing and merry making. We parked our scooter to get closer to the celebrations. A dancing, swerving mob beckoned us; though I was scared for my sister, she was the one who egged me on. Before we knew it, we were one with the mob, dancing and enjoying with people who we would have never bothered to exchange even pleasantries with, had we met them on the street.

An hour later, completely spent and perspiring, despite the cool night air, we headed home. We realized there was no escaping or shying away from what the cricket team had achieved. It had, even if for a short while, brought the many Indias that make up our country together.

On Saturday, let us get behind our team. On Saturday, let us forget our trials and worries and for one day only, dedicate ourselves to a cause. On Saturday, let the voices of one billion plus Indians drown out every other sound on this planet. On Saturday, let us forget the cynicism and analysis. On Saturday, let us watch the game as we first watched it as a five year old, not knowing the difference between a pull and a hook, but backing the Boys in Blue anyway. This team has won a lot of hearts. On Saturday, let us pray that 1983 returns. God knows we need it.