The reality of cricket buzz in the Indian metro

It was D-Day across the cricketing world. The clocks that had been counting down for the past 100 days hit multiple zeros and kickoff (maybe in cricket we have to call it bowl off?) was imminent. On television, Mirpur looked electric. The colours, the sounds, the buzz were all contagious and I wanted to experience a small piece of it for myself.

I had a very basic, sketchy idea of what I wanted to see: locals gathered around a stall of some description, studying the match as though their lives depended on it. It sounds as generalised as someone saying they want to come to South Africa and see someone taking care of their pet lion as though it were a house cat. Those are things that will only be seen out on a game reserve, and even then pet is a strong word to use for the king of the jungle, no matter how cuddly he might be.

Similarly, the stall idea may have been applicable to a more working class part of the city, but in big, bustling central Bangalore there was not a chance of seeing one. In the space of a few hours in the veins of the city - MG Road and surrounds - my ideal of how cricket is watched in India was shattered and replaced by something more normal and realistic, something that made me realise that Bangalore, at one level, is just like any other major city in the world.

My colleague and I, after an afternoon spent working, were only able to get out to explore after Virender Sehwag’s swashbuckling 175 and India's bruising innings. Bangladesh were about to start climbing Kilimanjaro, and although it wasn’t likely to be the most gripping of contests, we expected the fanatics to be glued to a screen somewhere, cheering uncontrollably and living out the portrait of cricket loving India we’d read so much about. Our assumption led to us being disappointed and we quickly learned that India is not a place where sweeping ideas of any sort can be applied.

We settled on a pub called Plan B, a generic sports pub catering to the yuppies of the area, most of whom may have gone home for the weekend. Apart from us, there were only two other tables occupied. The projector screen loomed large, the menu featured the usual pub grub, with the base ingredient of most dishes being beer and the music was late 80s and 90s rock. Between 7 and 9pm it filled up with a mixture of couples on a casual date and groups of friends having a catch up session.

We could have been almost anywhere in the world, having the same Saturday night most young people enjoy having. The difference was that we were in India, on day one of the World Cup, and we wanted to feel as though we were somewhere extraordinarily special. Instead, we were somewhere real and that's what matters most.