Notes From the World Cup: Chennai, Pakistan, and Open Doors

Sometimes, a game of cricket can go beyond the scorecard

It was a turbulent flight to Chennai. The sky outside was clear, the plane moved in straight lines, but I couldn’t sit still. Water, books, and music didn’t help either. For the first time in my life, I was landing blind into a new city. After twenty years in the opposite end of India’s cultural and geographical spectrum, Delhi, my mind was filled with questions for my new station.

It was my first time in Chennai. I neither knew the local language nor anyone in the city I could text for help. The new workplace seemed vibrant and young, but, like post-25 friendships, it takes a while to fully turn ice into water. I didn’t know if this place could ever become home. Turns out, most of my doubts were needless. I had not anticipated the extent of warmth my new colleagues would embrace me with. Neither had I accounted for getting offered home food and a place to stay within my first couple of days in the city. It has been seven years since, and I still can’t quite understand why someone would do that for a stranger they share nothing with.

What is the first place I would like to visit, someone asked soon. Marina Beach? Pondicherry? No, Chepauk.

It sounds silly, I understand, but hear me out. For cricket fans of my generation, and maybe even beyond, Chepauk — formally known as MA Chidambaram Stadium — has never been just another dot on a large canvas. It is a colosseum, a wonder of the Indian cricket world.

Stories of Viswanath’s 97 and the tied Test were passed on by our parents like heirlooms. They always spoke of Chepauk with a deep voice and a straight back, as if they were narrating stories of a legend. Even the aesthetics fit the myth. With its cauldronesque architecture, Chepauk looked like a creation from graphic novels. The grey roofs and lumbars gave it an ominous, almost muscular, complexion.

Chepauk, circa 1985. Source: Getty

In young minds, grand venues become stages for great events. We got our share. One nice afternoon, as we were marinating in some summer vacation-induced laze, Saeed Anwar came dressed in bright green and scored 194 runs. A few months later, our new hero, soon becoming the only poster available in the market, hit Australia for the most magnificent century, depositing his adversary into those grey stands many times over.

One more year later, the triptych was complete. We got our first Chepauk Classic™. Forget our primary school minds, even those with doctorates in filmmaking couldn’t have scripted the dramatics from that game against Pakistan. Srinath, Kumble, Saqlain, Afridi, Akram, Tendulkar, Saqlain again. All these years later, it almost reads like a fantasy team draft.

The afternoon should have ended with Sachin Tendulkar raising his arms aloft to a loud, adoring cheer – he would get that moment nine years later – but instead crash-landed into a scene so immortal, so utterly unbelievable, it will forever be a branch in India-Pakistan conversations. As the Pakistan team leapt and the hosts watched shell shocked, the Chepauk crowd, still processing the heartbreak from watching a certain victory turn into defeat, rose as one and applauded the Pakistan team. Wasim Akram’s men then took a victory lap along the boundary. A mural of that image is painted on one of Chepauk’s walls.

Renovation has given it the look of a 21st century arena, but its place as an epicentre for significant moments in Indian cricket has never been in doubt. Tendulkar won India’s most emotionally charged Test match in a long time. Mahendra Singh Dhoni wore yellow and turned this ground into a fortress. India, once again, made mince-meat of Australia.

It was always going to be my first pilgrimage after landing in Chennai. Everything else, even house-hunting, could wait. One evening, after work, I took the Chennai local train and made my way to the Victoria Hostel Road, a narrow lane that runs under the gigantic stands and white canopies that one immediately recognises Chepauk by. Security regulations meant I could only go inside on matchdays, but that chance came soon enough too.

In the last seven years, I have been fortunate to experience a Chepauk matchday many times over. The sound of the yellow sea on an IPL night is something I wish I could bottle up and carry. A small piece was still missing from the jigsaw: watching an India vs Pakistan game here. Owing to a complete suspension of bilateral engagements, it was somewhat of a pipe dream. When the ICC released the schedule for this year’s World Cup, my first glance went to all the Chepauk games. Pakistan were playing two games here, one each against Afghanistan and South Africa. Wonderful. Not quite the Tendulkar-Akram Derby, but good enough.

Dil Dil Pakistan

Over the last two weeks, these three words have migrated from the refrain of a popular Pakistani song to a subject of great discourse. After Pakistan's loss against India at Ahmedabad, where the world's largest stadium only had space for one colour, coach Mickey Arthur remarked that this song, now an anthem for his team, was not played on the speakers even once. Not when Pakistani batters hit boundaries, not when their bowlers took wickets.

In a neat mirroring of how international cricket works these days, this World Cup too has been a mostly India-centric tournament with a corner's worth of space for fans from other countries. The bright green of Pakistan, however, has been completely missing. Even on a good day at a kind place, all you get is a handful scattered across vast stadiums, like drops of olive-green ink in a sea. The press box at Ahmedabad had one journalist from Pakistan. Arthur's words, coming minutes after a mauling in the hands of their rivals, felt ill-timed and have been caricatured since, but he wasn't entirely wrong. It was, by all sensory measures, a bilateral encounter placed within a World Cup.

With and without the DJ's support, Pakistan have had a forgettable World Cup. Stuttering and stumbling, they reached Chennai to play two games. Both big, or one big and one small depending on how one wants to view Afghanistan. We know how the first episode turned out. The points table looked ominous as the Pakistan team bus rolled into Chepauk on Friday morning. Five games in, two wins, three losses. Staring at elimination.

Babar Azam's young team, most of whom are probably on their first trip to India, would’ve heard the same stories of Chepauk that we did. Maybe even more embellished, because you hear the fondness in the voices of ex-Pakistan cricketers who have played here.

On Friday, unhinged from the umbilical cord of partisan support, Chepauk turned up at its happiest and most relaxed. Even on a hot afternoon, parts of the new KMK Stand and a couple of neighbouring ones started filling up an hour before the first ball. You could spot dark green jerseys everywhere, some with Bavuma 11 painted on them, some others with De Kock(with a different, naughtier, spelling). I spotted a couple with Babar 56 on the back. By the time the PA system had finished with Qaumi Taranah, Pakistan's national anthem, the applause was loud enough to be called an atmosphere.

The collective cheer after Imam ul-Haq's early four off Lungi Ngidi confirmed what everyone had known walking in. Within the confines of neutral support, Pakistan were the partial home team. Babar Azam was greeted less like a guest and more like a returning family member. When he hit Keshav Maharaj for a soaring six, the ground, almost at 50% capacity already, roared in delight.

As the day went on and South Africa grew into the game, they found generous love too. Their fielding, always a spectacle, was the subject of consistent applause. Gerald Coetzee, with his intensity and pace, drew oohs and aahs. There was a long, anticipatory “ooooo” accompanying his run-up to the crease. In the second innings, Heinrich Klaasen walked in to a reception reserved for home-team demigods. For a second, you thought an India cricketer had turned up. 

Throughout the day, whenever the DJ prompted, “We want…”, the crowd’s response can only be described as a garbled mix of “wicket” and “sixer”.

And yet, the loudest cheers were reserved for the neighbours. The pulsing cheers from Quinton de Kock’s early attack on Shaheen Shah Afridi crescendoed with a bellow of “YESSS” when he hit a pull straight into Mohammed Wasim’s hands.

And this was a game that fit the atmosphere. The World Cup had been crying out for a cliffhanger, and South Africa and Pakistan delivered the best kind. Every time a team looked like they were going too far ahead, there was someone from the other end pulling them back. With only 36 to win and five wickets in hand, including Aiden Markram in the final few stitches of a masterpiece, South Africa looked to have landed the decisive blows. Babar Azam, desperate, handed the reins to his main bowlers. Wickets were the only plausible route to victory.

First, Haris Rauf twinkled out Marco Jansen. Roar. Then Aiden Markram played a wild swipe off Usama Mir. Confusion, claps, then another roar. Markram walked off to a standing ovation. Three wickets to win; 21 runs to win. Keshav Maharaj saw off the four remaining balls from that over. Babar threw the ball to Shaheen Shah Afridi once again. Shaheen handed over his cap to the umpire and walked to the top of his run-up. If you heard the Chepauk crowd at this point, you would think you have been teleported to Lahore. “SHAHEEN, SHAHEEN”. The uppercase lettering is not for exaggerated effect. Not a single person was clapping silently anymore. First ball, Coetzee caught behind. The crowd, suffice to say, took off.

Certainly Pakistan’s game now. A few minutes later, when Haris Rauf gobbled up Lungi Ngidi with probably the catch of the tournament, Chepauk was party central. One wicket left. Even those with Bavuma and De Kock kits couldn’t help but join in. Tabraiz Shamsi was never going to last long. Or so we thought. First ball, rapped on the pads, loud appeal, louder roar, turned down by the umpire. Pakistan reviewed, but missed out by a whisker. No bother, they go again. Haris ran in even harder, but couldn’t find a way through. Eventually, sadly, neither did Pakistan’s other bowlers.

As Keshav Maharaj’s swipe off Nawaz hurtled towards the boundary, nearly confirming Pakistan’s exit from the tournament, the crowd rose once again. This time, less partisan, more neutral, and enchanted by the all-timer they had just witnessed.

Chepauk, circa 2023. Pakistan vs South Africa.

Actually, we should change that last bit to the all-timer they had just helped deliver. For all the twists and turns in the game, it doesn’t become as much of an epic without the background score composed by the Chepauk crowd. It would be a stretch to suggest that their reflected energy made the Pakistan quicks bowl better, but it wouldn’t be inconceivable.

Pakistan will have a lot to regret from this tournament. If only they executed their plans better; if only they had taken a chance on Mohammed Wasim’s exuberance before the table turned against them; if only Babar Azam, one of the world’s best batters, lived up to his tag on the biggest stage. But as, and if, they exit early, they will take memories from the night of 27th October, when nearly 30,000 people got behind them in a match that they had to win.

On Friday evening, Chepauk showed that there are significant parts of India where sporting contests are given the respect they deserve. Many of us watch international sports with deeply cynical eyes because it is far from the innocent persuasion of victory that we once painted it as. As rabid nationalism infects sports fandom in India deeper with every passing day, the reception for Pakistan at Chepauk has come as a source of great joy.

It was Chennai unfurling its best colours. It is here that I have met some of the most important people in my life, some of my closest friends. I hope Babar Azam, disconsolate as he must be after his team’s performances, goes away knowing that he has friends in Chennai.

The IPL team from this city is called the Super Kings. The team is great, as their trophy cupboard will exhibit, but maybe that label sits better on those who sit on the other side of the boundary.