March 5, 2000 National Stadium, Karachi 22:30 Hours (10:30 PM)
The road to Karachi had been paved with gold. In Dhaka, Pakistan had crushed Bangladesh. In the next match, India had done the same.
Now, it was the Final. The Decider.
The National Stadium in Karachi was known for two things: its fortress-like cage fences and the most volatile crowd in the world. But tonight, the cage was open.
The Match
It had been a nail-biter. Pakistan had posted 165. India had chased it down in the 19th over, courtesy of a masterclass by Sachin Tendulkar.
When the winning run was hit, there was a moment of silence. The Karachi crowd wasn't used to losing at home to India. The tension was thick, brittle, and dangerous. One stone thrown, one bottle launched, and the peace initiative would turn into a riot.
I watched from the President's Box, my knuckles white.
"Sir," the IG Police whispered. "Should we deploy the riot shields?"
"Wait," I ordered. "The script isn't finished."
The Presentation
The podium was set up on the pitch. Rameez Raja stood with the microphone. Standing next to him, looking small and frail in his grey tunic, was Abdul Sattar Edhi.
I had insisted Edhi present the trophy. The Generals had hated the idea ("Why a beggar, Sir? Why not the Governor?"). I had overruled them.
"Ladies and Gentlemen!" Rameez announced. "The Man of the Match... The Little Master... Sachin Tendulkar!"
Sachin walked up. He looked tired but relieved. He took the trophy. He took the oversized cardboard check for $25,000.
The crowd clapped politely. It was a respectful but cold applause. They respected the player, but they hated the defeat.
Then, Rameez asked the standard question. "Sachin, fantastic knock. What are you going to do with the prize money?"
Sachin looked at the check. Then he looked at the frail old man standing next to him.
He didn't look at the script I knew he had memorized. He looked at Edhi with genuine awe.
"Rameez," Sachin said, his soft voice echoing through the stadium speakers. "I have heard about Edhi Saheb since I was a child. They say he is the richest man in Pakistan because he owns the hearts of the poor."
Sachin turned to Edhi. He handed him the check.
"I cannot take money from a country where this man stands on the street to feed the hungry," Sachin said. "I am donating my match fee and this award to the Edhi Foundation."
The Eruption
For three seconds, Karachi was silent.
Then, the dam broke.
It started as a murmur, then a roar, then a thunderclap. 35,000 people stood up. They weren't cheering for a boundary. They were cheering for an Indian who had just honored their saint.
"Sachin! Sachin!" The chant started. In Karachi.
Up in the VIP box, I allowed myself a smile.
Thank you, Pepsi, I thought. The secret $500,000 endorsement deal I arranged for him with the multinational backchannel was worth every penny.
Sachin was a good man, yes. But Aditya Kaul knew that even gods needed a little commercial incentive to perform miracles.
The Voice of the Captain
But the masterstroke wasn't on the field. It was in the commentary box.
The broadcast cut to Imran Khan. The Kaptaan was sitting with Sunil Gavaskar.
Imran looked at the scenes on the monitor—Sachin hugging Edhi.
"You know, Sunny," Imran said, his voice heavy with nostalgia, speaking to 300 million people. "This reminds me of 1989. When this young boy, Sachin, made his debut against us."
"I remember," Sunny nodded. "Waqar broke his nose."
"He did," Imran continued. "But what people don't know is what happened off the field."
Imran leaned into the mic.
"When I was building the Shaukat Khanum Cancer Hospital... when I had no money and my own government was laughing at me... do you know who stood by me?"
Imran listed the names like a roll call of honor.
"Amitabh Bachchan. He flew to London for my fundraiser at his own expense. Sunil Gavaskar. Kapil Dev. They came to my dinners. They signed bats. They asked Indians to donate to a Pakistani hospital."
Imran's voice wavered slightly.
"The machines that treat cancer patients in Lahore today... many of them were bought with money given by Indians. What Sachin did today? It is not a surprise to me. It is purely Indian. They are our rivals, yes. But in humanity, they have always been our brothers."
The Shift
In the living rooms of Lahore, Rawalpindi, and Peshawar, the narrative shifted.
The "Enemy" wasn't a faceless monster anymore. The Enemy was the guy who respected Edhi. The Enemy was the guy who helped Imran Khan build the hospital that treated their mothers.
General Aziz, sitting next to me, looked confused. He was watching the crowd chanting Sachin's name.
"Sir," Aziz whispered. "They are chanting for him. In Karachi. I thought... I thought they hated Hindus?"
"They hate what we tell them to hate, Aziz," I said, standing up to leave. "And they love what we show them to love."
I looked at the screen one last time. Sachin was waving. Edhi was smiling. Imran was storytelling.
"The software update is complete, gentlemen," I murmured to myself.
"Now," I turned to the stunned Generals. "The public is high on dopamine. They love us for bringing cricket home. They love India for the respect. The iron is hot."