2nd April 2011: First tears of joy

“Joy’s smile is much closer to tears than laughter.”

French poet and novelist Victor Hugo has glorified the most beautiful means of catharsis. Tears are at the pinnacle of the human outburst of emotions. You don’t require a degree or higher understanding of human psychology to understand that, as didn’t I, to write the above.

So, when Hugo places tears of joy above a good joyous laugh, you can play the footage of your life inside your head and substantiate his quote with evidence. If you have none, you haven’t lived your life by the side of emotions. Or you’re too young.

As I was, on 2nd April 2011.

“Ha beta, kya hua,” asked my father.

My sister hadn’t called at the best of times. She never would in those days. This one was courtesy of a power cut. Can you believe it? At that time!

We were on the verge in Mumbai, in India, and everywhere in the world where an Indian lived. My sister and some 300 students inside her hostel campus didn’t want to miss out on that glorious moment. They had planned to witness it on a giant projector screen. Their only option left now was to hear it from those watching it unfold somewhere else. Don’t know why she or her friends didn’t think of a radio.

I was in my house, some 400 km away from my sister, who now was losing her cool. So were those around her (we could hear them as my father had kept the phone on speaker).

But unlike them, the man who stood in the middle of the Wankhede Stadium had absorbed all the pressure around him. I always ask myself, what must have gone through his head at that moment? What must have gone through all of their heads?

There is not a single emotion on the human chart that I hadn’t ticked off since that quarter-final match against Australia. One has to understand that Australia hadn’t been knocked out of a World Cup since 1996. India should’ve been given the World Cup in Motera. If not then in Mohali, after winning arguably the most nerve-wracking match in cricket history. These were just the thoughts of a 13-year old. It was all supposed to happen in Mumbai.

MS had taken off his helmet to wipe the sweat off his face. He was in no hurry, it seemed.

On the mic were Ravi Shastri, Tom Moody, and David Lloyd. My father had kept the speaker on for my sister to hear the commentary, mostly ours. Moody praised the Sri Lankan team, who he had coached during their last World Cup campaign. No Indian at that moment wanted to recall the 2007 World Cup.

Meanwhile, the helmet was back on. My mother and I were standing, just like my father in front of the magic box.  

And then, the clean sound of the willow touching the leather, followed by synchronous screams echoing all around.

“Jeet Gayi India! Dhoni ne chakka maarke jeeta dia!“

This was my version of the Ravi Shastri special for my sister.

The emotional fool in me didn’t want to see what followed. He just ran outside the house and to light up the Rocket left from the last Diwali. The damn wind wanted to resist my celebration. I burnt matches till I lost count but finally helped the rocket reach the sky that had too little space for another one. 

The curious me then ran inside. My father was now on a different phone call, with Pareek Uncle, his close friend. More congratulations calls would follow on that night and on the many days and nights to come. 

I had never seen my mother take interest in cricket or any sport for that matter. But for the last 10 days, she had made me proud. I mean leaving a Sundarkand Katha in the middle to watch Yuvraj and Raina finish the game against Australia! This was some serious fan stuff.

Until that night, never had I watched Television past midnight with my parents. And it wasn’t me who insisted upon it then. We just wanted to take in all of what followed. Had the broadcasters run a show till five in the morning, we would’ve taken that bait as well. This was a once-in-a-lifetime-sell-as-much-as-you-can opportunity for the sports and news channels. Special coverage of the mad outpour of emotions on every street in India wouldn’t be missed as well.

From the field to my family, these were never before experienced occurrences for me. How could I have digested all of this? 

Inevitably came the time when the idiot box had nothing more to offer for the night. My mother had convinced me to go to bed. But before I did, I said ‘good night’ to my father, who was watching the highlights package. 

I remember when he told me about his experience of watching the 1983 World Cup final. There was no television in the house. He had heard the entire game on the radio. 2011 was his second experience of India winning the World Cup, but only his first time ‘watching’ it live. And he wanted to watch as much of it as he could. All of his generation did. 

I didn’t sleep that night, till he finally switched off the television. I was hearing all the cricket that he was watching. This was my 1983. 

Up until that moment in my life, I had only heard about tears of joy. That night I experienced them.