That's Just Not Cricket

Guest blogger Sohail Bhojani shares his memories of cricket, jingoism and Lahore

“The last ball coming up, 4 runs required…..and that’s a 6, and Pakistan have won. Unbelievable victory by Pakistan….”

Words immortalised by the inimitable Iftikhar Ahmed. Words, all those like me who grew up in the 80s, grew up on. Words that made all us Pakistanis feel, for a long long time, that all was well, not just with our cricket but with our then-undemocratically-ruled country at large. For those who cottoned on to the Indian connection in the lines written so far in this piece - well done. For this is indeed a piece about Pakistan and India. For these were the words certainly playing in my mind when I collected my small family and set off on what was our maiden voyage to the Wahgah Border (this is really how they spell it at the Border).

Frustration - desperate (last) minutes spent locating my 1992 Cricket World Cup replica Team Pakistan shirt - nowhere to be found. A decisive compromise (an oxymoron, surely) had to be reached. It came in the form of my Pakistan – Aik Junoon top, a sleeve of which came emblazoned with a popular music show sponsored by a popular American soft drink brand. Sadly, the thought of putting on the national dress never crossed my mind.

The trip, heading east along Lahore’s Canal Bank most of the way, had no chance of being a boring one. What with my five year old (going on fifteen, I promise you) insisting on playing his favourite MP3, a collection of 150 songs including Pakistani (Urdu, Punjabi Sindhi and Sufi), English, Spanish and Arabic songs as well as some Mozart thrown in for good measure. And as no self-respecting kindergartener’s collection would dig without the latest foot-tapping Bollywood numbers, we had plenty of those too to complete our in-flight entertainment. 

A couple of frantic but well-directed phone calls to my military contacts the day before ensured that we drove past the droves of the honest Common Man and the honest Common Woman, past the car park for civilian vehicles, indeed past the imposing barricade with the imposing STOP sign manned by an imposing quartet of Pakistan Rangers soldiers. Though not a supporter of the VIP culture prevailing in the country, I must say that securing easy access and the best seats in the house did feel a sinful pleasure. I am, however, hereby forever foregoing my democratic right to criticise my President for proving that a rickshaw can double as a maternity ward the next time VIP vehicular movements inconvenience mine.

The fact that I am committing this confession to paper is proof of a conscience still stirring somewhere deep inside. And if there is yet hope for a cynical, existential-angst-ridden yuppie like me, there has to be optimism that this nation’s youth (there are 120 million Pakistanis under the age of 30, a substantial demographic dividend) will one day lift us out of the mire that we have created for ourselves. This confidence flows despite yours truly being patently culpable in making his five year old believe that phone calls and networks get him preferential treatment and exemption from queuing up like mere mortals. 

Time to take in the surroundings before the main event. First thing noticed was Segregation with a big S. Missionary school style. There were 2 enclosures, one for the honest Common Man and the other for the honest Common Woman (the VIPs, your columnist included, were exempt from this enforced moral code, possibly by virtue of being neither honest nor common). I guess a more logical way of going about this would have been to have one stand for families and one for others (mainly boisterous lads out to have harmless fun). But then logic has always been forced to beat a hasty retreat wherever officialdom has tried to manage Indo-Pak matters.

More heartening to see was a portrait of the founder of the nation on the bridge crowning the entrance to the stadium (again, that’s what it’s called at the Border) as opposed to a picture of our last slain ex-Prime Minister. I live in trepidation that my kids will grow up thinking that she was the most important personality in our history (although I have the deepest respect for her contribution to the country). We have even officially ranked her third on the list if we go by airport nomenclature – Founder of the Nation for Karachi, Poet of the East for Lahore and now Daughter of the East for the federal capital. 

The next thing to hit me was the sonic-boom-level din generated by hidden speakers blaring out national songs. It was only later that we figured out that, in yet another effort to control our environment, the noise was maintained at a gazillion decibels to drown out the patriotic songs being played equally loudly on the other side of the fence! Both sides creating hardships for themselves in an effort to win an un-winnable contest – so no change there. Would it not be better for both parties to agree on an equal but lower noise level and achieve the same objective? But this small step would only be a few giant leaps away from a mutually agreed disarmament programme, and we can’t have that dear Reader, now can we?

The hidden DJ responsible for song selection should be fired forthwith as the music being played was most forgettable and decidedly average. Only after suffering numerous unremarkable, obscure numbers was the crowd whipped into a frenzy by a rendition of Dil Dil Pakistan by Pakistan’s first boy-band. My thirst for golden oldies such as Sohni Dharti Allah Rakhay and Jeeway Jeeway Pakistan, however, remained unsatiated. I will not be hypocritical here and say that I did indeed catch and recognise a couple of catchy Shah Rukh Khan (SRK) movie songs emanating from India.

Getting the crowd going was not left solely at the mercy of the musical genius though. We had not one, not two, but three cheerleaders, aided and abetted by an accomplice on dhol. All green kurta and white shalwar clad. All toting national flags. All sporting flowing, silver beards, a la Chacha Cricket, our national cricket mascot (couldn’t our cheerleaders follow a music band other than ZZ Top in making their style statement?). At least their outfits were not sponsored by electrical goods brands or soft drinks and their acts, although monotonous after a while, were not crass like those mercenary cheerleaders from the Indian Premier League (IPL) across the border (the boys in green were almost as voluptuous though). They did display their names on their shirt-backs like footballers and it was amusing to find out that they shared the same surname (Ali Wahgah, Amir Wahgah, Asif Wahgah – the Wahgah Boys?). And you could not fault them for industry and effort, despite the fact that they were fighting on multiple fronts – doing better than their Indian counterparts on the other side of the divide and capturing the attentions of their local audience in a bid to be crowned the unofficial champion of the cheerleading troika. Ergo – lots of chants of Allah-o-Akbar and Pakistan zindabad and after a few practice swings, my five year old joined the happy mayhem.

Let the games begin. Bugles aplenty. And what a show the best of Pakistan Rangers and India Border Security Force put on. The pomp, the dash, the sheer panache (I steal with pride the slogan used by the annual British armed forces show) was simply mesmerizing. Even the Gawking Goras (there was many a brave tourist in attendance) were left gob-smacked. 

I can only describe the pageantry as part pantomime, part circus-act and part war minus the shooting. War because the fate of an entire nation’s pride that balmy afternoon depended on our soldiers’ ability to outshine their Indian counterparts on crucial criteria such lung capacity (essential to outlast the opponent in the military drill shouting contest), hamstring flexibility (needed to raise one’s leg high enough to touch the forehead with the foot) and the noisiest shiny boots (feet have to be slammed repeatedly and with violent force on unforgiving tarmac). 

Your columnist can confirm that the Indo-Pak border version of the can-can is every bit as good as the Moulin Rouge. No wonder only the tallest men with the broadest shoulders and the proudest facial hair make the cut to serve their country. I felt humbled by the soldier whose entire military career would culminate at the Wahgah Border without a shot being fired in anger and an arthritic heel as a long service award to boot, no pun intended. 

I am happy to report that we won the contest by a conclusive landslide. I have tried to remain as objective as possible in this assessment and not drawn the conclusion just because I happened to sit on the west side of the LoC. Our men in dark grey outshouted the enemy in every single drill call by a distinctly measurable number of seconds. They were taller, broader and altogether more impressive. So who cares if a comparison of few economic indicators remains unfavourable. They can have their GDP, FDI and literacy rates. We have the bigger lungs, the stretchier limbs and altogether more formidable heels. They have the IPL but we get to play our home test matches at Lords’. We even trump their tennis queen Sania with our very own ace Shoaib. 

In fact, it might be an idea to have the newly wed Mr. & Mrs. Malik help with the ceremonial flag lowering, not unlike ringing the closing bell at the New York Stock Exchange (that ubiquitous SRK even beat us to that). That would be some coup in terms of promoting cross-border harmony; probably the most memorable since President Musharraf, the epitome of sartorial elegance in an Amir Adnan sherwani, ambushed Prime Minister Vajpayee at the Khatmandu Summit with that handshake.

Still, dear Reader, I ask. Where did it all go wrong for the inhabitants of the Land of the Pure? How can two nations, sharing the same date of birth, genetic code and history could, in a relatively short span of sixty odd years, be travelling in opposite directions in terms of global importance, economic power and, most painfully, optimism about their future? 

And then the flags came down. They were respectfully folded and packed away till the next day when all this would be repeated. The satisfied audience made its way out of the arena, having tired itself out cheering every single soldier whose war chant lasted longer than his Indian counterpart and every single soldier whose gravity-defying standing kick went flying higher than his Indian adversary. How those turbans stay connected to the heads throughout the performance shall remain a mystery to me. There were even photo opportunities with horse-mounted guards for kids who had enterprising parents, again lending a circus-like feel to the parade. Alas, the worst violator of the sanctity of the drill turned out to be the fruit of my own loins, bringing an end to the proceedings with his innocent but well-timed demand – “Can we now go to Joyland please?”

Made me remind myself of yet more immortal words, this time from the great Doctor Mohammad Iqbal:

Tujhay aaba say apnay koi nisbat ho nahin sakti

Keh tu guftaar, woh qirdaar, tu sabit, woh sayyara

You bear no comparison to your ancestors…..And that perhaps, dear Reader, is where we have gone wrong. I think. Or where we can yet go right, if the next generation can manage to bear no comparison to the one that preceded it.