I am reading a really entertaining book. It’s called Chinaman, is by Shehan Karunatilaka, and is a sort of cricket novel. I say sort of, because it’s also about Sri Lanka and is full of people and place. It’s also really funny, quite similar to one of my favourite Pakistani novels, A case of exploding mangoes, with a deft, light touch for something really heartfelt and profound. Excellent stuff. I somehow missed it when it came out a few years ago.
The passage about the Sri Lankans winning the world cup back in 1996 really seized me but for entirely personal reasons, because I was there at the final. Probably my greatest-ever sporting moment, in terms of getting caught up in an event. And so, so satisfying when the Australians lost.
That whole tournament has so many memories attached to it. It was in the run up to our O’level exams and our school, a very top-of-the-line girls’ private school (even more elevated now) was struggling to keep us concentrating on exam preparation instead of watching the cricket. For one match a few of bunked school and our parents were either unaware or rolling their eyes at the school taking all this exam business so seriously (truly a different era — my parents were definitely in the latter category). So off we went to watch one of the first round matches in Lahore, but because it was a first round match we were the only persons of the female species there, so the next day all the newspapers were splashed with our photos watching the match. Or the time everyone except one or two skipped school together to watch the semi-final on TV and furious, the teachers rang each house one by one asking where we were. A lot of girls were in a lot of trouble that day, but my mother, and mother of the person who hosted the match watching party, were, again, furious at the school instead. Besides, we lost that match.