July 13th, 2002
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It was happening. Again. This aggressive new Indian team was about to be tripped once more at the final hurdle, for the unbelievable 10th time in a row. The smokin' opening partnership of a 107 runs between Ganguly and Sehwag was to no avail. At 146 for 5, chasing 325, here was India in its all too familiar "Quick! Collapse so that we don't actually win the match" mode.
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At the crease were two players by the names of Yuvraj Singh and Mohammad Kaif who were only 3-4 years older than I was at the time. As an Indian cricket fan strangely fond of the pain that came with wholeheartedly supporting such a magnificently wayward team, I stopped wandering around the drawing room and sat down to watch the end, praying that it would come quickly and quietly.
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It was a very turbulent and confusing phase of my life. The horrifying madness of the 2002 Gujarat riots was more than just newspaper headlines for me. That year I had given my 12th board exams, delayed by a month and a half in Gujarat, due to the violence and curfews, to determine which college I would join. Grappling with Gauss's law in physics while neighbourhood family heads met to discuss what to do if a rioting mob broke into our housing society was, should I say, a little complicated?
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I had lived in Gujarat since I was 3 and I greatly admired the efficient, peaceful and practical nature of the Gujarati people. My world was shaken up by the sudden violence and hatred in the air. Women and children murdered, burnt to death inside a train compartment and mass rape, robbery & murder on the streets - these were images I just could not associate with my adopted home state. But there they were, grim and true.
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And in this big picture dominated by conflicting thoughts about religion and unity and India's future was my own little picture. Which college was I headed to? Into which town and into the company of which new friends was my future taking me? I was happy to have something else to think about, in this case, the NatWest Trophy final between India and England. The thrill of the great unknown was on hold for the moment, as I waited for the remaining 5 Indian wickets to fall and then the customary 24-48 hours of depressed moping around to follow.
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I was kept waiting... for a very long time. Kaif and Yuvraj staked themselves in, stealing numerous singles, smashing the odd boundary or six, moving closer and closer to what was then a very very very tough target to even come close to, let alone overhaul. Most Indian fans can be forgiven for having foggy memories of this partnership. They were probably too drunk on their disbelief that these young lads were actually pulling this off, really doing this... for real.
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And then, Yuvraj was dismissed. Tears streaming down his face as he walked back to the pavilion, the target still just far enough for all their hard work to fall short. Given what he had put into the partnership, his heart and his soul, surely this was the cruelest twist of fate. I remember commentator Harsha Bhogle's exact words "That's the problem with fairy tales. They rarely have happy endings."
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I thought to myself. Wait a minute, that's doesn't sound right, Mr. Bhogle. Fairytales almost always have happy endings. So it turned out. With the Turbanator's gutsy support, Mohammad Kaif stepped up to the challenge and in the final nerve wracking over, Zaheer Khan and Kaif scampered through for a couple putting India at 326/8 bringing them home.
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"India have won! India have won! India have won!" yelled Ravi Shastri on air as if he needed to absorb the fact himself first. The iconic scene of Ganguly whirling his shirt above his head and shouting unprintables from the Lords balcony forever stamped itself into Indian public memory. Rugby style take-downs ensued on the field between the members of the delirious Indian team and the joy, the sheer blinding disorienting rush of joy ran through a nation.
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I may have standing on my head, or screaming from the verandah or high-fiving the drying papads on my building's rooftop, I frankly can't remember. What I do remember is that it was a significant day in my life as it was for millions of other Indian cricket fans, this one day 11 years ago. It will remain so for the rest of my life. Since then, the Indian cricket team has gone from strength to strength and the beginnings of its rise may soon be forgotten but it does not lessen the significance of those golden moments.
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That it can be done, because it has been done. Passion and grit driving imperfect dreams to epic conclusions. The secret to be able to is to be willing. All this re-inforced through the course of one life-changing, history changing match. For those who feel that cricket is just another game, I offer my sincere sympathies. To those that understand I say, happy July the 13th, happy July the 13th!
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