February 20, 2000 Feroz Shah Kotla Stadium, Delhi 19:00 Hours (7:00 PM)
If Lahore was a concert, Delhi was a carnival.
The lights at the Feroz Shah Kotla were blindingly bright. The smog of Delhi hung low, trapping the noise of 40,000 screaming fans, creating a cauldron of sound.
I sat in the VVIP box, flanked by the Indian Prime Minister, Atal Bihari Vajpayee, and my reluctant entourage of Generals.
But the real revolution wasn't happening in the VIP box. It was happening in the commentary booth.
The Joint Transmission
For the first time in history, the screens of Pakistan and India showed the exact same logo: "DD-PTV Unity Feed."
Inside the glass-walled box, Sunil Gavaskar (Sunny) sat next to Rameez Raja. There were no separate feeds. No biased commentary. Just two legends sharing a mic.
"Welcome to Delhi!" Sunny's voice crackled across millions of televisions from Karachi to Kolkata. "Rameez, look at this crowd. I think half of Lahore is here today!"
"Well, Sunny," Rameez laughed, adjusting his tie. "They came to see if your Sehwag can actually bat, or if he was just lucky in Lahore."
"Lucky?" Sunny chuckled. "In Delhi, we don't call it luck. We call it 'Najafgarh Logic'. See ball, hit ball."
The banter was light, teasing, and utterly disarming. It was diplomacy without diplomats.
The Cultural Shock
On the field, the spectacle began. And it was... different.
In Lahore, we had kept it respectful. Folk singers. Qawwali.
In Delhi, they unleashed Bollywood.
The speakers blasted Chaiyya Chaiyya. And then, on the podiums erected along the boundary line, the Cheerleaders appeared.
They weren't wearing the skimpy outfits of the NBA. They were wearing sarees—shimmering, backless, sequined sarees in the Indian tricolor. They danced with a sensuality that was uniquely Indian—a mix of tradition and MTV.
Beside me, General Aziz stiffened. He stared at the cheerleaders, then at the giant screen, then back at the cheerleaders.
"Sir," Aziz whispered, scandalized but unable to look away. "Is this... cricket?"
"This is the 21st Century, Aziz," I whispered back, hiding a smirk. "This is Soft Power. They are not showing skin; they are showing culture wrapped in glamour."
"It's... effective," Aziz muttered, watching a cheerleader spin to the beat of Dhol Jageero Da.
I looked at the Pakistani Generals. They were stern, bearded men who ran a puritanical state. But right now? Their eyes were glued to the field. India wasn't scaring them with tanks; it was seducing them with color.
The Match: The Sehwag Storm
India batted first.
Virender Sehwag walked out. He looked angry. He had been given out LBW in Lahore, and he felt he had missed out.
Shoaib Akhtar steamed in. 150 kmph.
Sehwag didn't move his feet. He just leaned back and slashed. The ball flew over point for six.
The crowd went berserk. Dhol players in the stands started pounding a rhythm.
"That," Vajpayee leaned over to me, his eyes twinkling behind his glasses, "is the Delhi welcome, General."
"He has good hands," I admitted, playing the neutral observer. Inside, Aditya Kaul was screaming: 'Yes! Smash him, Viru!'
Sehwag didn't stop. He dismantled the Pakistani attack. He hit Saqlain Mushtaq against the spin. He hit Wasim Akram over mid-off.
It wasn't elegant like Tendulkar. It was brutal. It was the arrogance of a new India that didn't care about reputations.
India posted 180/4. A mammoth score.
The Chase & The Fall
Pakistan came out to chase. But the pressure of Delhi was different. The noise was suffocating.
Every time a Pakistani batsman missed a ball, the DJ blasted a sound effect of breaking glass. Every time a wicket fell, the cheerleaders danced.
Shahid Afridi tried to hit out. Caught at Long On. Inzamam-ul-Haq tried to stabilize. Run out (as usual).
The Indian fielders were electric. Yuvraj Singh, a young kid making his debut in this format, was flying around point like a panther.
Pakistan crumbled to 140 All Out.
India won by 40 runs.
The Aftermath
The presentation ceremony was a riot of color. Sehwag collected the Man of the Match award—a massive check in Rupees.
Rameez Raja asked him, "Viru, what was the plan against Shoaib?"
"Plan?" Sehwag shrugged, grinning into the camera. "Shoaib bhai bowls fast. The ball comes on to the bat fast. It goes to the boundary fast. Simple."
The crowd laughed. Even Shoaib Akhtar, standing nearby, cracked a smile.
The Departure
As we walked back to the motorcade, the atmosphere in the Pakistani camp was somber. Losing to India is never easy.
But I noticed something.
General Mahmood (ISI) wasn't talking about the defeat. He was talking about the production.
"Sir," Mahmood said thoughtfully as we got into the limo. "Did you see the advertisements on the boundary boards? Pepsi. Coke. Hero Honda. They were changing every over."
"Yes," I nodded.
"And the joint transmission," Mahmood continued. "Our PTV ad revenue share... it must be massive."
"It is," I confirmed. "We made more money losing this match than we make winning a Test series against Zimbabwe."
Mahmood looked out the window at the lights of Delhi.
"Maybe," the Spy Chief whispered, "we should have a third match. The 'Decider' in Dhaka? The hype would be incredible."
I smiled in the dark.
They were hooked. The opium of revenue had entered their veins. They had come to Delhi expecting a war of egos, and they were leaving with a business plan.
"Arrange it, Mahmood," I said. "Let's go to Dhaka."
I leaned back, closing my eyes.
One match won by Pakistan. One match won by India.
Balance restored.
Now, let's see if Bangladesh can host a party.