The match was played, but hearts were won

When we start winning the match, one of them says to me, ‘‘Match jeet lo, par dil dey doh’’. A Pakistani jumps to his feet while Rahul Dravid is batting and applauds wildly. My husband does not get up and his view is blocked by all the standing applauders. The Pakistani then turns to my husband and asks him why he is not cheering. My heat exhausted husband answers, ‘‘I thought since you are cheering, he must be out.’’ The Pakistani answers, ‘‘No, he has hit a boundary and I am cheering for you.’’

I have been christened ‘‘Matchiss Aunty’’ since I happen to be the only smoker who was able to smuggle a matchbox through security. Shouts of, ‘‘Matchiss Aunty, matchiss doh,’’ become as regular as ‘‘Pakistan Hoo Haa Hoo Haa Hoo Haa!’’ A Sikh gentleman with his beard painted and dressed in all the colours of our flag and a Pakistani gent flamboyantly dressed in Pakistani colours, dance continuously in front of the spectators with their arms around each other.

The Delhi High Court Bar Association had a Friendship banner with both the flags and lawyers leading the chants for India. When it became clear that India was winning the match and the Pakistanis started to leave to avoid the rush, a terribly young lawyer, Shyam Sharma, led the Indian contingent in singing, Abhi na jahoh chodh kar, dil abhi bhara nahin. The departing Pakistanis laughed and waved. When businessman Hari Bhartia cajoled a sulky Pakistani boy to smile, even he broke down, smiled and shook hands.

By some coincidence, the rows in the stands we were in, alternated with India and Pakistani spectators. It had been a rather polite, sober beginning, which meant applauding quietly and passing remarks in low voices so as not to offend. As the match progressed, so did the camaraderie. A commonality developed with the feeling that we are all stuck in the same boat. Both Indian and Pakistani armchair cricketers started sharing opinions, which then developed to sharing feelings. It was agreed that Peace was what the people wanted. Both Indian and Pakistani politicians were roundly cursed with the same gaalis. Milan Kundera has written that ‘‘Obscenity as the root that attaches us most deeply to our homeland.’’ If our gaalis are the same, how distant can our roots be?

Sometimes even more interesting than the match was people-watching. You couldn’t take your eyes off the upper-class women, with their heavy make-up, heavier jewellery and even heavier adda. The middle-class and lower middle-class girls were the true surprise. Despite a noticeable financial gap, you could see that these girls had spent time in putting themselves together. Since showing any skin is taboo, the sexiness is played out in the most subtle way. Narrow shalwars, cut in the spiciest manner, ride up to show not only an enticing ankle but halfway up the calf when they sit. Slits of long kurtas run high to expose the outside of the thigh all the way to the waist. And, with the clingy fabric they choose, it is obvious under all that cover up, they are wearing thongs. No Grannie panties here. One young woman had tiny, laced pompoms on the sides of her slim pajamas that popped out when she sat down and lay hidden when she stood up. The intricacies of enticement were laid out like a strategic battle plan.

Despite all the honour killings, lack of equal rights in courts and the ability of men to implement instant divorce with just three words, one noticed that the men were gently protective of their women constantly. They took care of their needs as if the women were wrapped in cotton wool. One was struck by the contrast, watching brothers taking care of their sisters. There were separate counters for women everywhere, from the airport to ticket counters. But, what does it shout, that the horrendous toilets in the stadium were common for men and women?

Weren’t these the same people who came out in hordes in marches against India and burned our flag? Hadn’t Indians done the same thing? How could everybody change so fast? Politicians decided to open the door a chink and the people of both countries have pushed the door wide open and barged through.

In the one hour we had to shop before boarding the flight back, we were treated by shopkeepers with absolute charm. Knocking down prices because we were told, ‘‘You are our guests,’’ they phoned up friends to come and see the visiting Indians. Why wouldn’t they want peace between the two countries if both can enjoy the fruits of commerce and trade?

The nervous question then rankles: Is this change of heart long term? Could this hope to be like Russia’s perestroika and glasnost, once let out of the bottle, impossible to go back again in time? If the politicians change their minds and get hostile again, will the people regress to mistrust and suspicion? People to people contact is all about emotion and personal relationships. Can we turn it on and off like a tap? But if the people’s feelings and demand for peace are strong enough, can it prove as powerful a platform for popularity for the leaders of both countries as jingoistic wars prove to be? Can Musharraf then get off the Kashmir pot and believe that friendlier relations will benefit both countries?

The door that has been opened has a strong wind blowing hard through it and it is going to be difficult to close it again. That is, hopefully, it will be difficult. Should one be cautious and not get carried away with cricket euphoria? Hope in some way is always naive, but that should not negate it. Watching this cricket match, you were not just watching a cricket match. You were participating in a change of policy between two nations. You were not in the mahawl, you made and became the mahawl. It was like being one of those who participated in breaking down the Berlin Wall. Well, they can’t build up the Berlin Wall again, can they?