April 2, 2011
Every seat in the house is occupied. The man who’s been my neighbor to my left for the last 7 hours yawns and stretches. He seems to make a deal with himself, or perhaps with god, as he shakes himself awake. He settles on the edge of his seat with his hands folded in a silent prayer. My friend on my right is not so silent with her prayer. I can feel her tapping her foot, muttering something that makes no sense to me but sounds like a distant prayer from a land now distant for all of us. The mass of green being projected on the big screen is reflected in her eyes. I look around and see it reflected on the hundreds of faces around us.
I know that same green grass must be enveloping the other eight auditoriums at Naz 8. Do they too each have a little band, assembled from volunteers amongst strangers in the last 7 hours? I look up at the guy with a dhol standing in the aisle. Arm raised, drumstick at the ready. Ready to strike when the time is right. I see his wife next to him, half standing-half leaning. Head resting on his shoulder, ready to accompany his drumbeats with her tambourine. Completing their band is a guy with a whistle dangling around his neck, much like a gym coach. But this isn’t a gym, this is a movie theater in Artesia, a usual 75 minute drive from the Los Angeles city center, but one that took us only 25 minutes today driving in past midnight.
I try to block it all off. This isn’t the time to think about traffic, or bands, or even the fact that my tummy is growling because the last time I ate was about 13 hours ago. No, I focus on the screen. I focus on the man on the screen. I focus on Mahendra Singh Dhoni, captain of the Indian cricket team and the current batsman on strike. Standing at the crease ready to face the next ball. His feet approximately a foot length apart, placed on either side of the popping crease. His weight on the balls of his feet, with the knees slightly bent. Positioning himself so he can transfer his weight quickly to either the front or back foot depending on the length of the most significant delivery he will face in his life. He sweeps his eyes across the stadium from left to right, sizing up the men of the Sri Lankan team positioned around the field. And then almost as if to burn that map into his lizard brain, he blinks his eyes shut.
With his blink, I close my eyes as well.
I smell 7 hours worth of sweat, chai, popcorn, and samosas. The odors trapped in this theater with us till all of this is over.
I feel my neighbor’s thigh rub against mine as she continues to tap..tap..tap her foot.
I hear the dhol guy shuffling from one foot to the other, his wife adjusting to his new stance. The tambourine moves ever so slightly in the process. A premature celebration, perhaps foreshadowing how this is going to end.
I do know how this will end. India will win. That much is clear. Then why, still, do I not hear myself breathe. Am I breathing? Is anyone here breathing?
My eyes are still closed shut, Dhoni has presumably opened his because I hear the urgency in the commentator’s voice, signalling we are ready. Many things happen on screen, but the only thing I remember is the sound of the ball making contact with Dhoni’s bat, smack!
Silence.
Is this the moment? The moment when after a 28 year long wait—a lifetime for many of my generation—India wins the World Cup?
Roar.
The roar of more than a billion people, all here with me in this theater. I open my eyes to tears streaming down my face just as I hear the promised and much awaited first beat of the dhol.
