The “big one” was still a few days away, however, days and nights away that is, because they were all “day and night” games, inducing a degree of sleeplessness in the spectator. Before then there was Pakistan versus India, or India versus Pakistan (whichever way you decided to think of it), and Pakistan versus England. After that England would take the first flight out to Heathrow, leaving the battleground open to the warring cousins.

The next day Mita Reddy, former Miss India and runner-up Miss Universe, who had only last year surprised everyone by saying to a panel of judges that her favourite person was Mrs. Gandhi—“Indira Gandhi?” “No, Kasturbabai Gandhi,” embarrassing all by invoking the Mahatma’s small, self-effacing, long dead wife—was seen in the stands, sitting next to Marshneill Gavaskar, grinning because she could see herself on television. She smiled; and waved—at whom, no one, among the millions watching, knew.

During the thirty-fifth over, by which time seven wickets had fallen for 126 runs, and an Indian medium-pacer and an all-rounder were putting up an obdurate partnership, there was a spell of inactivity that sometimes occurs in the middle of an over, when members of both teams suddenly forget the thousands in the stadium and the TV cameras, and behave like a family inside a house, unaware they’re being watched. Tony Greig and a minor English ex-bowler were sitting in the commentator’s box and discussing plans and strategies, while the little microphone in one of the stumps, placed there to detect the sound of a nick, eavesdropped on two players conversing:

“Lagta hai woh Aziz kal ayegaa.”

Greig was too busy composing a litany about Aussie spin-bowling, even if he’d known any Hindi, to register anything; but Khatau, on his sofa, heard the comment, though at first he wasn’t quite sure he had. Yusuf confirmed with a nod that he’d heard it, too. They hadn’t realised that they had an informant in the middle-stump microphone on the pitch; but then the game started again. Someone had said Aziz would come tomorrow; they couldn’t be sure if it was one of the Indians, or a Pakistani, or one of the Indians passing on the information to a Pakistani, or vice versa. Any of these alternatives might be the right one.

“Fantastic shot,” said Yusuf, as Srinath belted an unexpected cover drive.

Then the camera moved to a tall and swarthy Ravi Shastri, his cricketing days long over, but finding himself in the midst of a commentary renaissance, a tie knotted round his neck, laughing and talking to Anju Mahindra, who had once almost married Rajesh Khanna and gone out with Sir Garfield Sobers. She was past her heyday; even the long-distance lens couldn’t conceal the tiredness beneath her eyes; she looked abstracted as she listened to Ravi Shastri.

“Is that what they get paid for, yaar?” asked Khatau, reaching for his beer.