Disbelieving party rocks the south London streets
The colour and fervour of India v Pakistan had Tooting at a standstill, writes Jonathan Liew
“A friend of mine has two Oval VIP tickets for the ICC India v Pakistan final. He paid £250 each but he did not realise when he bought them it was on the same day as his wedding. If you’re interested he is looking for someone to take his place.
“It’s at the Sikh Temple in Gravesend at 11am. The bride’s name is Gurmit Kaur. She’s 5ft 4in, about 115lb and she’s a good cook too. She will be the one in the Red Lengha.”
– Text message on the eve of yesterday’s final, author unknown
Trying to explain India v Pakistan to the uninitiated is like trying to describe Mozart to the deaf. You have to taste the passion up close, hear the songs, see the colours. You have to feel it for yourself.
And yesterday, the best place to feel it was in south London – but you did not even have to be at The Oval to experience the fervour. Six stops down the Northern Line in Tooting, most of the local businesses are open, but it is fair to say very little business is getting done. This is home to one of London’s largest Pakistan communities, and in virtually every bakery, convenience store and mobile phone shop on Tooting Broadway, pakoras are going cold and stock untended as six or eight men huddle around a television or mobile phone.
It is a similar story in the Lahore Karahi restaurant, where my request for a Sindhi biryani and mango lassi is greeted with a sigh from the chef, who is forced to tear himself away from the TV and return to the kitchen.
Meanwhile, manager Malik and the entire staff are feeling bullish. Azhar Ali and Fakhar Zaman have started well and Malik scoffs at my suggestion that Pakistan will need a score of at least 350 to protect themselves against India’s gun batsmen. “Who have they got?” he demands. “If Pakistan score 280, inshallah, it’s all over.”
Yet what became clear over the course of the day is that this a purely sporting rivalry. After all, this is not simply a Pakistani area, but one of London’s true melting pots: Lahore Karahi shares the same stretch of road as Chennai Dosa, a Portuguese piri-piri chicken shop and a clutch of hipster pubs. “Here, we all live side by side,” one of the waiters tells me. “We go to the same shops, eat the same food. We are the same. Maybe in India and Pakistan, there is more hate. But it’s just the politicians.”
We are interrupted by a collective groan. Fakhar has just been caught at third man. But then Mohammad Hafeez comes alive. He smacks his first ball straight back over Ravindra Jadeja’s head for four. Over the course of an hour, he strikes 57 off 37 balls to haul Pakistan to a total of 338.
Then with the ball, Mohammad Amir tears through the feared Indian top order. He gets Rohit Sharma third ball, Shikhar Dhawan caught behind, sees Virat Kohli dropped at slip and is so furious he gets him out for real next ball. With every wicket, a terrific, disbelieving roar goes up. At some point in late afternoon, it becomes