Too much nice weekend

3 bottles of wine, pork ribs, dim sums, mousse cakes, pate and cheese with crackers, cackling women, plans, frustrations, silliness in abundance. A too much nice Friday night that segues into a gourmet three course lunch, Darjeeling tea, impeccable service (53 @ 53 Armenian St) which manages to last long enough to blend into frozen margaritas at Boat Quay as a set up for a lesson in cricket for the American. We wend our way down to Robertson Quay where the Indians have laid siege to Boomerang. War paint and cries of “India Jeetega!” rend the air and the mood is more than set as the alcohol keeps flowing. The mood drops to a shocked silence as we’re 31 for 2, and all the American’s efforts to cheer us and tell us the rest of the team are there to get more ‘points’ leave us unimpressed. Slowly steadily, our collective hope and will seem to get the Indian batting order to a semblance of a battle to be had, and the cosmic realignment is now back in balance. I have to choose between friends in apparent need and a country in need and stay rooted to my seat despite the hazing in the background (an entirely unfulfilling debate about how old orange shirt was – and if you saw him, you’d be wondering why anyone of any age would (a) wear that colour (b) pick a size that emphasises love handles and prosperous paunch (c) buy a t-shirt that’s so long (d) have the collar standing up). During the match, I’m informed that while I’m not attracting any male attention compared to resident slut with suBtlety, I’ve caught the eye of there women. A visit the ladies brings on male attention (I’m Mark, this is Mike and someone else and we own the place…. Yay?), and a lost wicket and I’m promise not to go ever again. The countdown begins and the tension is palpable. Die hards leave so as not to jinx the team, and I haven’t paced with this much stress since Federer lost the last Wimbledon to Nadal. 1983 was the last time I seriously followed the game and that was the last time we’d watched. Dhoni has his head down and keeps plugging away to our yelled at encouragement. “Hum hoongey kaaamiiiiyaaaab” fills the bar along with some rather risky, “Lanka ko jala!”. Even some ruder sentiments of “chut bhi liye aur maza bhi nahi aaya”. Nails get bitten, high fives and chest thumps shared as do fervent hugs, funky dance steps, and general shouts of Sachin and India fill the air. You can cut the atmosphere with a knife and no one’s moving from their spot – any spectator knows that would just bring bad karma. Goldilocks still has a two more overs, but then we mutter to keep it steady and calm, and then it’s so doable. Within our grasp, you can feel the thundering of collective hearts as Dhoni pulls back and yanks it, the cries of panic mingled jubilation as we watch it soar, and keep soaring as it crosses the boundary and the world explodes into craziness. Screaming bodies hurl into each other hugging, exulting, arms pumped up in victory, testosterone fills the air as everyone goes beserk. Apparently, it’s been 28 years since we last one. 28 fucking years. There are people watching with us who weren’t even born when that happened! We’ve won!! INDIA JEET GAYA! Frantic phone calls to share the joy, more group hugs, high fives and victory dances. It’s time to celebrate and we take the party to Clarke Quay and the only place any self respecting Indian can go – to the Rupee Room where Bollywood awaits. Of course it waits a little longer as we ceetee and cheer our way through the presentations, the cacophony making Aashish text me saying you’re phone called mine (D-uh!). The Rupee Room doesn’t care if you’re in shorts and chappals. India won, we can wear anything today, and we show the white boys how it’s done. A few drinks and much sweat later, the club is heaving, so we leave and join the street party instead, full on with a bunch of boys absent for our last win as they do a conga line around the fountain interspersed with respect to Sachin, Dhoni and the incessant refrain of India Jeet Gaya amidst ceetes, screams, vuvus and dhols. The party spills on to the bridge and I’m hauled up to dance along the barriers with the rest of the crazy desis. Eventually, the poor dhol player despite a virtual red bull intravenous drip eventually loses his voice and arm completely and it’s time to meander home victorious. The conquering army still unwilling to let go, but those whose second world cup this is, thinking 5 am is about time to leave especially when flying out the same day… Still, the smug smile stays while I’m still in bed, and splits into a full on grin as I can hear India Jeet Gaya waft up through my window. Damn Straight - we ARE the Champions!! Weeeee are the Champions….. weee ARE the CHAMPIONS!! Of the WORLD :D:D:D