21st
The Jesus of Suburbia
Woken at 8am by Z—at whose suburban apartment we spent the night—we were soggy eyed and grouchy. We hadn’t brushed our teeth the night before, and we weren’t about to do so this morning.
We got to S’s at 9.15am, roused now by coffee and our tardiness. But even at S’s suburban dwelling, things were curiously mellow—we wondered why David Lloyd’s voice hadn’t filled the place with glaringly obvious player statics that, combined with his Yorkshire accent, seem oddly compelling. We wondered why there was a distinct lack of hustle and bustle, of couch dibs and nacho chips. We wondered why the game wasn’t on. S, never pleasant pre-noon, reminded us that the game began at 10, idiots.
While we waited, there was little anticipation in our small band of surburban Pakis. We’d been there before—coordinating logistics, locating s-video cables, purchasing live streams—only to hang our heads in disappointment, soil our face with french fries, and mouth the F word. Memories of ‘99 and ‘07 lingered deep in the subconscious; thoughts of joyous other-teams pecked at our brain. We weren’t excited, we weren’t anxious; we just wanted to get it over with.
As the hour drew near, S’s little brother joined, K came over, and B emerged from his room. H was coming with cigarettes, S’s mother fried some eggs.
“Sutta day bhainchod.”
Fast forward. 1pm.
“SUTTAY NIKAAL BHAINCHOD!!”
We were all nursing our collective boner as Afridi stood there, legs apart—a succulent ass protruding—his flags of hair waving in the London breeze. Breakfast had been devoured and the pack of Marlboro lights was passed around. We high-fived each other. A trip to Chipotole was hastily planned, and we ambled out into the mid-summer suburban air—the gel from the night before flaking as our hands tore through our hair. With a flick of the wrist, our shades were on. Windows down and collars popped, we set off to have ourselves a burrito.
We finally returned home around 5pm after an aborted tape ball game (the grass at Arlington Park was still wet) and some frivolous balcony gup shup with a boisterous Nepali. Casually, as per routine, we scoured the net.
Facebook’s newsfeed was flooded with various uninteresting but CAPS-ed celebration banners, while BBC’s South Asia section gave us a top three story. Cricinfo had a plethora of articles written by goras and Indians talking about how special the victory was for Pakistanis. Our brother had sent us a Hindustan Times article, while the NYT was disappointingly but predictably silent on the matter. Sunday afternoons otherwise being kinda slow, we watched the highlights of the game—already youtubed and ready to rock.
But we at SouLBW were unsatisfied. In our suburban experience of the 20/20 final, something seemed missing, empty. Somehow, despite having donned our Proud to be Pakistani t-shirt, despite having exchanged congratulatory text messages with friends and family, despite a fat fuck of a seven dollar burrito, we were unsatisfied.
Then, we turned on Geo.
“Apnay karobar ko chor kar, logon nay sar’kon par bhangray daalay (Leaving their work, people danced in the streets).” Pakistan, the nation half of SouLBW holds oh-so-dear, was partying like it was 1969.
Wondrous scenes of jubilation from Lahore to Faisalabad, from Karachi to Bahawalpur, Islamabad to IDP camps in Swat, flickered across our computer monitors. The citizens of Pakistan were bubbling with celebration as its heroes brought victory to their country during a time of civil war, economic deprivation, and sweaty afternoon load shedding. Geo’s graphics danced and dazzled while people from all walks of life, of all ages, and this one cute Lahori chick who Geo’s videographer was unashamedly camera-fucking for a good 3 minutes, danced and reveled in the street and parks of Pakistan.
Rewind. 1pm.
There we stood, our band of suburban Pakis. And there he stood. Shahid Afridi—arms spread, head heaven-ward, beard glistening in the sun—carried on those broad Pathan shoulders the hopes, prayers, dreams, and happiness of an entire nation. And as we stood there reveling in the glory he had just bestowed upon us, we now understand, nine hours later, that he was not just the savior of Pakistan, but also our Jesus of Suburbia.
