Last semester of college. Last days in fact. We were hurrying to get the project reports bound, meet all friends one more time, throw parties to juniors, department farewell, hostel farewell, club farewell. Any opportunity to get together was more than welcome. Between all that, there was this one evening. A Saturday I remember. No classes. We were ready early. I borrowed paints from the painting club folks, and soon every face in the hostel was in tricolours. On that evening of 2nd April, a few hundred of us stood in the dilapidated college auditorium, all tensed up as India chased the mighty total of 270 something. There was hardly any room to breathe. And there were vuvuzelas, one right blaring into my ears. And with that one final six, the whole auditorium erupted in an euphoria of disbelief. Many jumped on to the stage, jumping, screaming, hugging. No one minded the unruly crowd. I hugged random batchmates I didnt know by name. Lot of smelly sweat. It was like we had toiled at Wankhade that evening to bring home the cup. The triumph of eleven mens was all of ours to share. 500 of us in that auditorium, and the remaining one billion and almost a quarter. That was 2011. As I read the report of five of 2011s heroes not playing in 2015 WC, I feel a drowning sense of gloom. I know it will not be the same this time around. Even if we win. For millions of Indians who were not born in 1983, those who saw the achingly close loss of 2003 and the humiliation of 2007, 2011 was a different high. Like that last ball sent flying over by Dhoni. To India, with love. No match will match that again. Ever.
Posted on: Sat, 06 Dec 2014 02:30:00 +0000
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