Happy Holi

So goodbye India. I flew away from Delhi today with memories of a fascinating country where cricket has become as big as football in the UK – with all the associated plusses and pitfalls. Where enthusiasm for the game is such that Greg Chappell receiving an email is news. Where the money involved is massive – and likely to get bigger under the current regime. Where there is a gap between the old school of players – the Tendulkars, the Dravids and the Kumbles – and a brasher new generation, some of whom, such as Zaheer Khan, seem to have let success go to their head – just like young Premiership stars.

I’ll also remember the view over the huge bay at Mumbai; Nagpur and its heat and kites and grim English determination; Mohali and the surreal day it all slipped away from Flintoff’s team in an otherworldy din; and Delhi, where friendly locals daubed my face with colours as I made my way to the airport during the festival of colours, Holi.

As it turned out, memories were not all I took away. While making my way home on the No. 35 bus to Clapham Junction, I noticed that I was getting a few queer looks. Which was hardly surprising given that the other passengers were looking at a bedraggled journalist with a head still smeared in yellow and purple paint. Suddenly I remembered. The Holi festival. Best wash my face.