Yes, it is related to today's match, in fact it is about the first match I ever saw.
Yes, it was a India Pakistan match in a World Cup.
Yes, you guessed it right.
February 1996, New Delhi: I am in the 7th grade.The gods have recovered from their milk drinking spree of last year and the girls on my school bus insist on singing, in very nasal voices, "Mere khwabon mein jo aaye...", the whole way to school, and back, everyday. We live in a small two room sub-let apartment in Naroji Nagar, which we share with my uncle P, aunt M, and the balcony is the realm of a Pomeranian very imaginatively named Chapantikli.
I am not yet a cricket watcher, but P is. He has already introduced me to several other interesting aspects of life like cheating in 29 ("Remember, when I scratch my nose it means diamonds are trumps".) P is a big cricket fan. He is known to shut himself up in a dark room for hours if India loses a match. M, his wife, is all jitters before a match, since India losing does not auger well for ghar ki shanti. India matches usually proceed with P in front of the TV, and M with an agarbatti in front of the gods.
I am given a crash course in the rules of cricket and given a seat next to P. Mom takes a seat next to her sister in the puja ghar. The first match I ever see is India Vs. Pakistan, quarter-finals, Chinnaswamy Stadium. P and I shout and scream throughout the match, the post match speeches are drowned by our victory dance and Chapantikli runs between our legs barking with unadulterated joy. But as all of you know, this happy household was rocked by tragedy in a mere matter of 4 days. Kambli cried, P was inconsolable, my head reeled, having experienced euphoria and despair in such quick succession. Needless to say I was hooked.
Yes, it was a India Pakistan match in a World Cup.
Yes, you guessed it right.
February 1996, New Delhi: I am in the 7th grade.The gods have recovered from their milk drinking spree of last year and the girls on my school bus insist on singing, in very nasal voices, "Mere khwabon mein jo aaye...", the whole way to school, and back, everyday. We live in a small two room sub-let apartment in Naroji Nagar, which we share with my uncle P, aunt M, and the balcony is the realm of a Pomeranian very imaginatively named Chapantikli.
I am not yet a cricket watcher, but P is. He has already introduced me to several other interesting aspects of life like cheating in 29 ("Remember, when I scratch my nose it means diamonds are trumps".) P is a big cricket fan. He is known to shut himself up in a dark room for hours if India loses a match. M, his wife, is all jitters before a match, since India losing does not auger well for ghar ki shanti. India matches usually proceed with P in front of the TV, and M with an agarbatti in front of the gods.
I am given a crash course in the rules of cricket and given a seat next to P. Mom takes a seat next to her sister in the puja ghar. The first match I ever see is India Vs. Pakistan, quarter-finals, Chinnaswamy Stadium. P and I shout and scream throughout the match, the post match speeches are drowned by our victory dance and Chapantikli runs between our legs barking with unadulterated joy. But as all of you know, this happy household was rocked by tragedy in a mere matter of 4 days. Kambli cried, P was inconsolable, my head reeled, having experienced euphoria and despair in such quick succession. Needless to say I was hooked.
