What Women Want – from Pakistani Cricket

My mother in law, “Amujani” to all and sundry, was the quintessential cricket fan. The game’s importance in her life could be gauged by the size of her television set which grew with every replacement in equal proportion to a faster, more colorful, and generally ubiquitous game, indeed an event, in the life of every Pakistani. Amujani’s day consisted of talking on the phone with her coterie of friends, sisters and cousins (whether there was anything pressing to speak about or not), cooking (whether there was someone readily available to consume her delectable concoctions or not), walking on her terrace reciting duas to the count of tasbeeh beads, and watching cricket on her too large TV while knitting yet another sweater, scarf or pair of mittens for a grandchild (this she did without once looking down at her nimble, pattern-magic-weaving fingers). Once ensconced before the TV, nothing - not her favorite grandchild seeking conversation nor a potentially juicy gossip session over phone – could turn her attention from a cricket match, rerun or live.  The only way to divert her would be to recall a statistic related to the sprinting bowler or the batsman at the crease. Then, she would animatedly respond “Haan, itna graceful batsman hai, lekin run out ho jata hai…3 run outs mil chuke hain series mein” or “Bas speed meter ki taraf dekhta rehta hai…last over mein 2 wide kiye the”.  Spot on she was as she shared these observations to Inzi and Shoaib when she met them at a wedding reception.  Being good desi boys, both stood hands clasped, heads bowed and absorbed the reprimand; “Beta, thora wazan kam karo” and “Rawalpindi Express ki tarah patri se utar jaate ho”.  She then launched into expert analysis of their performance sourced from statistics recalled with startling accuracy. Poor boys had to be rescued away.  

When grandmas deem cricket a religion, what pressure the team must bear!

During the time when the gods of Pakistani cricket – Majid Khan, Zaheer Abbas, Asif Iqbal and more – ruled from the Oval to Qaddafi Stadium, I was studying in the US and the era passed me by.  I wasn’t  a fan and found days long test matches boring. Once settled back in Pakistan, married with two young children, I began following cricket in an attempt to demystify Amujani’s preoccupation with it. Like the rest of Pakistan, we watched the 1992 World Cup as a family. One minute Amujani was exclaiming at a dropped catch, the next she was advising the TV to change fielding positions.  I remember rushing to the kitchen to expedite tea and snacks only to return and find Amujani prostrated on her janamaaz, hands raised in dua, tasbeeh entwined in fingers, tears streaming down her cheeks; “Ya Allah, izzat rakh le, bachon ki mehnat mein barkat daal, kafiron ko jahannum raseed kar merey Maalik”… and yet again she promised 1000 nafal. Her heartfelt supplication, along with the nation’s, bore fruit and Imran’s cornered tigers roared. Amujani’s words as she delivered a sajda have remained with me; “Allah ka khaas karam hai un maaon par jinke ye betey hain”. “Hmm, emo much” I thought, but I understood. 

Every Pakistani of that generation remembers where they were the day the world came down and the flags went up, the day Pakistan was no. 1 and we took up the cup, when Khan was king, when our team ruled the world.   

So, as I await Pakistan’s upcoming dangal with India, I wonder how today is different from yesterday, and what transcendental quality captured our imagination, especially women’s, during those heady days of Pakistan’s cricket glory, and why that prideful high eludes us today. 

Throwing cherished feminism to the wind, I shall reach into the deepest recesses of my wishful heart and endeavor to articulate what a desi fangirl’s heart desires from Pakistani cricket. In this matter, Amujani and I – saas and bahu, otherwise occasionally contentious – channeled each other completely. 

I want my team to be fearless. What went wrong earlier, how imposing the rival is, that we are David against Goliath – none of this matters. What matters is the immense-ness of your courage against the adversity of our circumstance. We are in this together, we must will each other to stay strong.  

I want you not to be rattled or preoccupied. This is not about twitter trolls and meme-makers.  It’s not about Sethi’s inability and Shehryar’s irrelevance, nor is it about armchair anchors and blame-spewing experts. Shed all burdens of political, personal affront. This is about a game, a team, and fans - that’s cricket, you and us.  The three are sacred, the rest is noise. 

Most of all, I want my team to be upright.  Failure is not humiliating, failing without trying is so make an honest effort.  Equally, winning is nothing when founded upon deceit because undeserved glory destroys the soul so reject the offer to cheat and win. Just say No…try it…it’s not so difficult, many before you have done it.   

Remember that talent is only as good as practice to enhance skill. Talent sparkles when tempered with strategic planning and precise execution.  There’s a method to the madness. You know it, but sometimes you throw discipline to the wind. Avoid the tantrums, lose the agendas.  When you are a team we notice. When you are merely a collection of individuals, it shows. Unite and have each other’s back. 

I like that my team has a sense of humor. To see you laugh at stressful times lifts my spirits. I want you to never stop laughing. After all, it’s only a game (?).

Perhaps you believe that a cricket team can only be as good as the nation.  It’s true, but I wonder if you distinguish the good amongst us from the evil and incompetence that we are cursed with at some levels.  We are a combination of all, sadly, so please differentiate. When you look for inspiration, choose the best amongst us and dismiss those that shame us. You know them well and they are of no consequence.  Carry the spirit of survival that our nation embodies as you prepare to represent us. 

Don’t stress over language. Speak in Punjabi and Pushto if you must. Speaking fluent English is not your job, playing awesome cricket is. Let Ramiz prove his Pakistani mettle at English, you focus on your game. One of these days, who knows, Urdu may become the spoken language of cricket. Then we shall see how the goras do!

Finally, never forget that when you walk out on to the ground, you carry with you our hearts and our pride.  Each one of us, praying at home or rooting in the stadium, has pinned hope on you.  This beleaguered nation looks to you to erase a bit of the humiliation and sorrow we undeservedly suffer every day. It’s a colossal burden, somewhat unfair, but there it is. Honor our pride in you, fight for your lives – and ours. 

There, I’ve laid it out, and I just realized… 

I’m a grandma now and I seem to have stepped unconsciously into Amujani’s cricket space. I have ignored piled up work and am oblivious to sehr-iftar chores.  Here I sit, glued to the TV Amujani-like, nimble fingers working twitter and FB instead of knitting needles, preparing myself for the final as I watch what went down earlier.   

I re-live the humiliation of our recent defeat against India and, like Amujani, mutter uncontrollably “Ya Allah inko….”… but ‘enuf said, I mustn’t pray for the destruction of rivals, it’s not sporty. I watch, enthralled, the poetic decimation of England at our hands and declare “(Achi pitch pe) Sarfaraz dhoka nahin de ga”. Then, I enter a mystical zone. I seek Javed at two down, I conjure up Waqar-Wasim the Sultans, I hallucinate the morphing of Bari and Moin behind the wicket, I follow Shoaib, arms outstretched, gliding joyously down the pitch, I pray for an avatar of grace – Zaheer, Asif, Inzi, Younus – to saunter into the ground, I squeal uncontrollably as Boom Boom lifts his arms up in victory. Finally, I wish upon Sarfaraz the leadership and tenacity of Imran and Misbah.  May the experience of all the great Captains descend upon and strengthen him. 

After all, I’m just a desi fangirl who awaits her oh-so handsome knight in shining armor, the collective called the Pakistani Cricket Team, to transport her to a magnificent world where a nation stands tall and proud of a logic-defying win by a mercurial, unpredictable, boisterous team. I don’t care if my knight falls and falters, as long as he gets up again…and again…and again. Winning lies as much in the struggle as in the achievement.

Eyes locked on to my hero, my trembling heart whispers “dhoka to nahin do ge?”