Yes, India lost to Pakistan—quite spectacularly too—which is a real bummer. But hey, we still have past memories. Remember that time Venkatesh Prasad, the most docile human being to have ever lived, went slightly bonkers after he bowled Aamer Sohail out in a World Cup match in 1996? It was the single-most exhilarating moment for a generation of cricket fans, a collective release for a whole country. The joys of that moment, and India’s subsequent victory, were only amplified by the fact that the team had beaten Pakistan—those lovable neighbours of ours who we just can’t seem to get along with. God, how I hated Pakistan back then.
I treated each victory over them with passionate grandstanding, with an added show of rubbing their nose. That six by Sehwag, Kumble’s 10 wickets, the T20 final. Every time Pakistan lost, I’d point and laugh, loudly (at no one in particular).
It’s just bravado
Just to be clear though, this hatred doesn’t actually mean anything. Like false bravado, it’s hollow; you knock on it and get an echo. It’s no more than playful exaggeration, all for show. If I ever meet Pakistan socially, I’d greet it warmly and talk to it about how some of my now-defunct relatives used to live there many decades ago. What we’re talking about is sports, which is empty and meaningless and profound and life-shattering and absurd and ridiculous and joyous and tragic all at the same time.
Literally, none of life’s standard rules apply when it comes to sports. Like no other, it’s an experience that exists in a kind of vacuum. It demands emotional, even financial, investment in something you have no control over, from which there’s zero possibility of any material gain. There’s going to be crushing disappointment from time to time. It’s a farcical relationship built on a house of cards—a collage of imaginary beliefs—requiring total commitment and blind loyalty. As Bill Shankly, the late great football coach, said: “Some people think football is a matter of life and death. I don’t like that attitude. I can assure them it is much more serious than that.”
One of the greatest joys of supporting a team is revelling in the misery of others, especially those who deserve it, especially when they’re old rivals, “arch enemies” from just across the border. There is supposed to be irrational hatred for anyone who’s not the team or player you support, and extra contempt for someone you share a history with. There is supposed to be a clever back-and-forth of horrible insults and taunts. This serves, abstractly, to refine your own loyalty, to bring you closer to fellow fans and the team itself. You’re automatically required, by unwritten laws, to hate Pakistan if you’re an India supporter; Liverpool if you’re Manchester United; Messi if you’re Ronaldo; Pele if you’re Maradona; Frazier if you’re Ali. You can admire the other, reluctantly respect them if you must, but you can never ever like them. This is the inherent tribalism of sport—you dish it out gleefully, and you respond in kind at all times. It’s as much a part of the experience as admiring a technically perfect square drive or a googly. Sportsmanship and gamesmanship go hand in hand.
In India, lynching might be the unofficial national sport, but cricket comes a close second. Add to it the adrenaline rush and the tension that matches inevitably evoke, and there’s bound to be a spillover of emotion.
So, yes, sometimes lines do get crossed. In football, particularly, hooliganism, racism, and homophobia have been persistent problems stemming from this. In cricket too, they’ve been extreme, and sometimes just cruel and mean, reactions. Like how we chuckle when Inzamam-ul-Haq is fat-shamed, or how we display our colonial hangover by pointing out that Pakistani players don’t speak Tharoor-like English.
But, fundamentally, it’s supposed to be in good spirits, which is where the fun lies—it’s petty, juvenile humour drawn from exaggerated outrage. Imagine how empty the game would feel if we all simply got along and respected each other. If there were no heated rivalries, no witty songs sung in the stands, no insulting chants. “ Pehle aap. ” “ Nahi, pehle aap.” It would be a dull, limp, bland world where no one would watch anything. It would suck.
From faux hate to real
Sadly, that might still be better than what’s happening now. This implicit code, where we thought we were allowed to make malice-free fun of the other team only for cheap thrills, has been broken. Permanently. All I see now are extreme insults directed at Pakistan. Sport has become a convenient prop for these daily outbreaks of jingoism. Instead of wit, we’re using bigotry, Islamophobia, and senseless aggression as our default reactions. The faux-hatred of sports has been replaced by a vicious and very real hatred.
Indian players are being accused of shaming the nation simply because the other team happened to be better one day. What’s more, 15 Indians have apparently been arrested on sedition charges for celebrating Pakistan’s win! Hate Pakistan if you must, but why use false love for a sport to further an agenda?
This heightened notion of ‘nationalism’ has sucked the joy out of what used to be such an integral part of watching cricket. There’s no space left for sporting schadenfreude anymore, because it inevitably descends into mean-spirited name-calling and assertion of national supremacy.
And just to avoid being clubbed with these zealots, I have to stop making fun of enemy teams, which is the real shame here. Can’t we just enjoy something for what it is—silly as it may be—without blowing it up into a grand show of dominance? Why must the world’s biggest chip be on our shoulder at all times? Please can we take a break?
Akhil Sood is a freelance culture writer from New Delhi who wishes he’d studied engineering instead.
