Kya Din Tha, Kya Raat Thi.

Date: 2nd April 2011

Location: Bhai's Bedroom

Time: Didn't give a fuck

Event: India Vs. Sri Lanka, Cricket World Cup Final 2011

Special thanks to the company of six ecstatic fans, Beer, Green Wale Lays, Sprite, McDonald's, Curse words, Twitter, Tata Sky and the all essential Stress Ball.

If you remember Kajol screaming "Hummmm Jeet Gayee" in similar cricket-orial contexts, that was my shriek. If you add some deranged male voices and a lot of Woohoo-ing to that, you'll know exactly what echoed in that small space with the heavenly 32" Samsung Television.

I'm sure a lot of blogs are going to read alike and you, me and them have experienced the same mania, but that night was about the collective joy that made people strip, dance, scream, roar, bruuaaahh, balle balle, hoye hoye and be overcome by complete derangement.

30 runs of 30 balls. I was sitting in one corner of the room, saying the Gayatri Mantra continuously. My friend was sitting on a chair, shaking her legs, stamping her feet, prancing across the room and acting like she wanted to pee, but couldn't locate a toilet miles from where she was. There was another scared Indian in the room saying the Yaar-Bas-Jeet-Jaye-Ab chant. There was yet another who kept telling her to "Shutup, don't jinx it." And the three people in the room who had followed cricket more than the rest (and were what I'd call "ardent" fans), were sitting quiet, scrutinizing strategies and enjoying Dhoni's brilliance in silent gusto. We were all hoping for the same thing to happen, as were infinite number of Indian fans across the globe. I have never felt that kind of tension spearing through my body. Not even fifteen minutes before an exam, ten minutes before my bronchoscopy or a second before my Board Result got uploaded. Never felt before man, never felt before.

Aur jab Dhoni ne woh chhake maara, humne cheekhein maari. I remember climbing on the bed and screaming and looking at my brother and saying What The Fuck We Won. Now I'm not sure whether I made it sound like a question or was it the declaration of a legendary victory that everyone had already witnessed. Needless to say, I was both in disbelief and severely excited. I kept swaying my arms in the air, allowing them to enjoy the frenzy that we had magnificently managed to create. We all chugged a glass of beer each and yes, that was our toast to the Best Men In The World. The Men In Blue were bathing in oceanic glory and we were adding to the shower. Kya feel thi yaar.

Bas fir kya tha. Like the uncountable Dilliwalas who headed to India Gate and the adjoining areas that night, hum bhi nikal padhe. Every round-about in Lutyen's Delhi was the hub of overjoyed fanatics who were there for a common cause. Nobody was a Begaani Shaadi mein Abdullah Deewana. Delhi was one big party. And for the first time, people were not dressed up. They were shabby, they were savage, they were wrapped in the tri colour, they were appropriately brusque and they were all so cool. We, were all so cool.

The car first slowed down at the Chanakya Puri round-about where my drunk friend was Congratulating the occupants of all adjoining vehicles. "28 years and we've done it," said he repetitively till my other high-on-victory friend had to tell him to quit reminding people of the obvious. "Chilla yaar, tu bas chilla." And then flew in a couple of Ferrero Rochers. Kuch meetha ho jaye.

We travelled the distance till Vigyan Bhawan (or Maulana Azad Road if you're screaming for specificity) flashing the worthy Victory sign out of the windows with the incessant wooooooooooooooooooo. Oh, special thanks to the Fore and the Middle Finger. Then we parked on one side and danced to Saadi Galli tur ke vi, Aaya Karo ni Kaddi Saadi Galli tur ke vi... There were also some really killer Punjabi Mundas playing Panga.

As we walked into the happy riot, we were dying one moment and resurrecting the very next kyunki Dhoni Bhagwaan hai aur hum uske darshan kar rahe the. For every Delhi-ite who has lived in the fear of that Breath Analyser, that night saw Bacchus trip with the Janta on the streets. Everyone was fucking smiling. On Delhi's fucked up roads. Aisa kabhi nahi hua.

The cop who was enjoying all the insane jiggy wiggy-ing was also made to do jive. Noone would have ever said, "Thulle sahi hote hain yaar". But that night made them sahi. Such is cricket. Such is India. Such is Victory.

Everyone was willingly stuck in jams, they was absolutely no apprehension about being out past midnight in the acceptedly unsafe Delhi, noone showed any apparent qualms in hugging, shaking hands or dancing with the Ajnabees. Ajnabee bhi Apne the. As Bieber played on loop in the adjoining car, I sung along with the dudes. Uncle chose to play Aivayin Aivayin and I asked him to raise the volume and we did the signature step together.

I was drenched in the tri-colour that night and WE HAD WON. We had been an audience to a spectacular win, an epic night, an unfathomable gathering and the most grand party that the Capital City of India had ever organised.

If cricket were a person, I'd sing in honour. I would sing, Tera jaadooooo chal gaya!

Team India, Shukriya, Dhanyawaad and Vadhayian. Tum sab humare papa ho.

Reminder- In Class 7, I shook hands with Yuvraj.