The war goes global

Picture the scene. It is the 1980s and British Asians are a suppressed people, struggling to find a voice under the rule of Margaret Thatcher. We are big fans of soulful crooners and - ahem - Michael Jackson. We watch Bollywood movies and Pakistani dramas on the VCR. We play cricket in our own Asian leagues, shunned by the mainstream cricket structure.

Second generation Asians are beginning to assert themselves though, a touch embarrassed by the timidity of their forebears. We listen to cricket from our homeland on short-wave radios - instruments that are used almost exclusively by a Russian army that will soon fade into oblivion. We rise in the early hours to hear broken commentary, not sure if the crescendoes of noise are roars of the crowd or a surge in the signal. We don't hear much but we are addicted. Perhaps we are desperate.

We fail the Tebbit Test with a passion. Cricket to us only means India or Pakistan, the lands of our beloved relatives, not England, the land of our former oppressors. In truth, Britain offers us little cheer other than when Kapil Dev lifts the World Cup or Imran Khan claims Pakistan's first Test win at Lord's. India and Pakistan matches are unheard of, especially "offshore". Sharjah is a twinkle in a sheikh's eye and Toronto is a psychotic delusion.

But then one day it happens: India will play Pakistan in England. It is an exhibition match. The venue is wonderfully inappropriate. Harrogate is a sleepy, very English town, true blue in its politics, and truly Yorkshire in its outlook. No matter. Every Datsun and Toyota in Britain heads for Harrogate's small ground, jamming country roads and side streets all the way back to Leeds. Cars are full, horns are blaring, and flags are flapping. This match is the outlet for years of frustration, like some giant ejaculation.

The locals, bemused, prepare for war - and, unfortunately, so do some of the supporters. The ground can hold a few thousand, but ten times too many turn up, overwhelming the ticket guards and the decorative fences that divide the arena from suburban gardens. Everyone gets in, mostly without paying. There are hundreds of fans going berserk on the rooftops of stands and terraces; thousands fill the outfield, reducing the playing area to the size of a football field.

But this is no happy mixing of rival fans celebrating the occasion. Instead, two tribes have gone to war. Flags are carried like standards, scarves worn like battle ornaments. This is 1947 or 1965 or 1971 played out in a proper little English town. This is embarrassing. The players are frightened. Each wicket, each boundary, excites a pitch invasion, our heroes running for cover. An Indian fan runs to the middle, tricolour carried with pride. A thousand Pakistanis set off in pursuit. This is madness.

Somehow the match is completed. Pakistan stutter to a meagre total thanks to Imran's monstrous sixes off Kapil, the two gladiators playing out another episode in their never-ending struggle to be the number one allrounder. And - in a run-chase that might have inspired a generation of match-fixers - India attempt to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory; until, that is, Rameez Raja drops a sitter at midwicket and India scamper through for a single to win by one wicket. Pakistan fans curse Rameez and Indian fans lampoon him. Blessed by failure, he goes on to become a World Cup winner, national captain, and chief executive of the cricket board. Who said life is fair?

Meanwhile, the legions flood out of Harrogate, leaving behind a wrecked cricket ground and shocked town. Who won seems irrelevant to me. We arrived like zealots, brayed like donkeys, and left without shame. How did we come to this - a wild passion breeding blind prejudice? But this is just a beginning and, of course, there will be much bigger stages and more vivid memories - Sharjah, Bangalore, Chennai, Old Trafford, and Centurion; Miandad's six, Gavaskar's last stand, Ajay Jadeja and Waqar Younis, Venkatesh Prasad and Aamir Sohail, even before we get to Anil Kumble's perfect ten, Shoaib Akhtar's yorker, and a bearded century followed by a peerless ninety. Cricket's order has been upturned in these 20 years. India and Pakistan stand on the threshold of world domination. But a big question remains: do we have the maturity to lead the world? Let us hope that this tour, if it goes ahead, will be a new beginning and not the end.