The streets of Lahore are quiet. Most people are sleeping in. It is a Saturday after all. Thirty minutes east of Lahore, the city of Amritsar is also slowly waking up. In both cities, Punjabi breakfasts are being served to sleepy-eyed workers. Truck drivers sip their chai at the roadside dhabas along the Grand Trunk road as they continue their journey all the way to either Peshawar or Delhi.
But there is an electric buzz about the air. Something is different today. With every second, tensions are mounting higher and higher and restlessness is abundant. No matter how much chai the drivers drink, no matter how many parathas the workers eat, something much larger is at play.
But of course, these days come every once so often. And they are either fondly remembered by one country or discarded by the other. These are the days when two of the greatest cricketing rivals play each other. For most countries, it is just a sport after all. For Pakistan and India, it is diplomacy, it is unity, it is division, and it is possibly the one thing which transcends the military narrative.
But there is magic about the day. A few hours before the match, shops will close, the streets will empty, and hundreds of millions of people will be glued to their television screens. There will be screenings, there will be dancing, there will be fireworks, and there will be cursing.
For a magical few hours, the country pauses the problems. There are no sectarian groupings, no musalmaan and no kaafir, and no rich and no poor. For a magical few hours, the country comes together. When Afridi loses his wicket on zero, the country shouts in outrage, in unison. When Afridi decides to knock three consecutive shots out of the stadium to win the match, the country roars it’s united approval with raucous dancing on the roads.
I am no fan of cricket. I don’t know what the strike rates are. I don’t know what those numbers mean. But I love watching my countrymen put all their differences aside for just a few hours to be Pakistani and nothing more.
