Delhi - Patriot Games

  The roof garden of the Everest Kitchen lies six stories up above Parhanj, a grubby suburb next to New Dehli railway station. Within the open air restaurant I sat with a rag tag bunch of backpackers, Indian tourists and locals. The air was as thick with static tension as you could find in any tropical storm - India had around a dozen balls to beat Pakistan, their most crucial rival in any sphere of national consciousness sporting or otherwise. All the anxiety and expectation seemed to breathing, seeping and expanding up into the already hot and heavy city atmosphere.
  The thudding of Bangra beats drowned out the commentary so I went to look for the source over the railing down into the square below. Way beneath us a marquee tent had been erected, the sort of semi gazeebo sort you get at village fetes. TVs were scattered liberally around the place, keenly watched by the vast Indian crowd under the night sky. On a small stage troupes of dancers were performing to the music - rotating from traditional, bollywood and hip hop styles. The mood became ever more jubilant as each delivery was dispatched. The exceptional Pakistan bowling attack had not managed to blunt the razor of India's aggressive batting line up, Tendulkar in particular surviving dropped catch after dropped catch and two appeals.
  And now with the roles reversed Pakistan's batters were losing wickets too easily and accruing runs too slowly. The middle order was sliced away well below 200 runs. India is so attached to notions of destiny that it is common practice for new borns to have their futures mapped by astrologists, and the cricket team seemed to be marching towards their's.
  And then down to their last wicket Pakistan stood with Misbah-ul-Huq at the crease and Zaheer Khan steaming in. Huq skied the shot and was caught. India's victory was assured.
  From the balcony way above the scene around the marquee descended to total pandemonium. Almost instantanously from the moment of victory there was an explosion of people as they broke away from the pressing spectator crowd, the demented frenzied running with flags bending, thousands jumping and dancing and beating the air with their fist. And as these people expanded, so others from front rooms and restaurants poured into the square. Motorcycles and scooters with people piled up and honking their horns, running mobs screaming at the top of their lungs, a group of bearded men held a small child in an India cricket shirt above their heads, drummers thrashing out an almost military rhythm. The police arrived swiftly, perhaps anticipating a crush, holding their long cruel looking bamboo canes in their hands.  Yet there were broad smiles on their faces, illuminated as we all were by the sky crackling green and gold and white as it was lit asunder by fireworks.
  Passion is the only word for such scenes. Passion borne of triumph, community and perhaps other deeper things.