WORLD CUP DRAMA
This ain’t cricket!
After many hiccups, my friend Jagath and I joined the line to enter the cricket stadium in Mohali. It was an opportunity of a lifetime to watch the live action between India and Pakistan in the semifinal of the 2011 ICC Cricket
World Cup.
At the first security frisk, Jagath’s eyes widened when the policeman threw away his four inch plastic comb. Though my green T-shirt with the Australian cricket crest had a somewhat neutral appearance, I smelled trouble from the word go.
Upon checking my identity papers, the officer sounded suspicious: “Ah a British passport! From Sri
Lanka…?”
Two more checks and we finally made it inside.
The high-voltage match between the warring neighbours was a catalyst for cricket diplomacy. Indian Prime Minister Dr. Manmohan Singh, his Pakistan counterpart Yousaf Raza Gilani, Sonia and Rahul
Gandhi, and a host of other dignitaries were in attendance. The venue resembled a fortress with thousands of security personnel deployed both inside and outside the stadium.
Tickets were at a premium, of course – and reportedly, the asking rate on the black market was in excess of 100,000 Indian Rupees for a ticket. Weaving our way through a flood of passionate spectators, we reached our stand – the Pavilion Terrace.
Seeing that all the seats were occupied and many spectators were standing, I asked
Jagath how we would be able to locate our seats. Knowing how I hated to watch games while standing, he chose to be silent.
Other than sitting on the aisle steps, the only available space was on the platform adjoining the terrace. When we got there, many policemen (Sikhs in the main) were watching the game from the platform. Tiptoeing to extend my height, I managed to see flashes of the action through a sea of turbans.
And just as my knees were beginning to feel wobbly, the first innings came to a close.
During the break, more and more police had converged on the platform, making it impossible to get even a slight view of the game. I moved back to the terrace and found a little space to sit on the aisle steps.
Unaware of my plight, Jagath had managed to sneak into a seat at the far corner of the terrace. The cramped steps with no legroom created further discomfort. With my aching body, I soldiered on for the sake of being part of that momentous occasion.
Minutes later, somebody tried to remove my mini-shoulder bag from behind. I looked back and got the shock of my life to see a group of policemen, so I stood up. One of them took my bag and examined its contents, including the wallet inside. In a degrading manner, he removed the items one by one and held them high for public view. The bag search was followed by a frisk, the fourth in a matter of two hours. I was fuming inside.
To make matters worse, after checking my ticket, the officer said quite authoritatively, as if he was speaking to a child: “You can’t sit on the aisle steps.”
I retorted rather loudly: “Then show me my seat. Look, I have a ticket for this stand and even the aisle steps are overflowing.”
Even though his arrogant manner angered me, wiser inner counsel prevailed and I left the ground as quickly as possible.
Meanwhile, Jagath had settled down to watch the match without any incident. Back in my hotel room, while nursing a glass of Old Monk rum, I watched the dying moments of the game on TV. India won by 29 runs and booked their place in the final against
Sri Lanka.