In the shadow of the Himalayas

Much must have changed in Chandigarh since I arrived by train from dusty Jaipur to watch England play a Test in November 2001. But it was instantly welcoming. It wasn't just the cool, which to a pasty-skinned, not-very-heat-resistant English woman was delicious. The air felt light and the place had a friendly feel. I just liked it.

The city is no beauty. It was designed by the Swiss-French architect Le Corbusier in the 1950s to replace Lahore as the Punjabi capital, but to a non-connoisseur, the modernist architecture is on the brutal side. The grid layout makes it like an American city - but at least without the cars. Le Corbusier divided the city into zones and some of them, like the shopping malls, untouched by the usual frantic Indian street life, are fairly sterile. But the lake and rose garden are pretty, the trees add space for contemplation, and its location on a plain near the foothills of the Himalayas is as lovely as it comes.

Our hotel was good, and served a fine and very large masala dosa. I remember an evening out at a basement nightclub, where we watched some very vigorous dancing by a few agile men, which involved lots of Russian-type crouching on the floor. We met a lovely man called Vikrant, who, out of the blue, invited us to his engagement party at a smart hotel, where lots of beautiful women in party salwar kameez danced away and Sunil Gavaskar in a silvery jacket and smart trousers went through some smooth moves.

My boyfriend was forced to spend a precious hour of his life in a sari shop, in which were tightly folded and piled fabrics of every hue. The proprietor brought them out one after the other; it was heavenly. Eventually I carried out in a brown-paper parcel a pea-green one embroidered with red and yellow flowers. It sits sadly unworn in my wardrobe.

But for all that, the highlight of the town was the stadium. Set in the outskirts, in Mohali, it has a huge, lush outfield in a perfect circle, and is clean and neat with cascades of turquoise and yellow seats. Everywhere there were policemen on horseback with bristling moustaches and wearing turbans. It was only two months after 9/11 and bags were being checked very vigorously. The pavilion is gorgeous, built like a oblong pagoda and the whole ground is very people-friendly. The floodlights are low to accommodate the aircraft that pass frequently overhead, but even they don't spoil the look of the ground. Then there were the nets, surrounded by bushes of sweet-smelling white flowers and crimson plants with surrounding white walls, overhung by trees. What an inspiring place to practise.

To be at a Test in India was exciting enough, but the cricket enthralled. India won just after tea on the fourth day, but not without incident. For England, Nasser Hussain, Marcus Trescothick and Graham Thorpe made runs, and a young Matthew Hoggard bowled his socks and shoes off. Harbhajan Singh and Anil Kumble took 15 wickets between them, but entirely predictably, what I remember most is seeing Sachin Tendulkar bat for the first time in his own country. He seemed both tiny in stature and impossibly gifted in person. The ball sang arias off the bat on its swift journey to the boundary. And the sound from the fans was like nothing I had heard before: "Sa-chin, Sa-chin, Sa-chin" from the moment he walked out at 212 for 3 to the time he walked back again with 88 runs to his name. The stands, which had been pitifully empty on the first morning, filled up, only to empty again when he was out.

At the end a very kind man, whose name I have shamefully forgotten, offered me a ride back to the hotel in Chandigarh on the back of his scooter and I just remember sitting in the warm sun, put-putting along a long, straight road, watching the passing cricket fans come and go, somehow holding onto my laptop, thinking "I must remember this moment".

Because of the proximity to the Himalayas, four of us hired a taxi on the now-redundant fifth day to take us to the hill station of Simla. The hairpin bends were quite interesting on the tummy, and the stop for a cup of chai while the driver argued over having to pay some road tax was a happy one. But it was worth all the stomach churning, for Simla is beautiful; you could see why the entire Raj decamped here during the stifling summer months. It was a memorable end to a memorable week.