Johannesburg was the neutral venue for the volatile India-Pakistan cricket match, but nothing beat seeing the match live through the night at a small venue that labels itself as ‘India-Pakistan-Bangladesh’ in Manhattan, with a sizeable crowd from all the three countries wildly cheering the teams.

On Lexington Avenue, where South Asian restaurants abound, the owners found a simple way to make a pile.

They put up a big TV, invested $299 in the telecast package for the World Cup and charged an entry fee. As an Indian victory became a certainty, the crowd got bigger and the admission price higher. Prices ranged from $2 to $25 per person. To begin with, a Pakistani-owned restaurant welcomed everybody in for free. But midway through the match, he had to close the doors to prevent more people from barging in and violating fire safety regulations. The profits from the kebabs was ample compensation.

By midnight, three hours before the India-Pakistan match was to start, Lexington Avenue was like a street in Jackson Heights. College and university students lounged everywhere, sitting on the steps outside restaurants and filling up spaces inside. People with children in tow hurried out of cabs and into restaurants of their choice, eager to get a seat. Men stood in small groups outside a 24-hour deli. Some grabbed a beer, others a snack and confirmed with the deli-owner the match timings and walked out with an ‘Insha Allah.’ Some had come as early as four in the evening to ensure that they got a ringside view.

Restaurants that had big TV screens drew big crowds. Those denied entry rushed from restaurant to restaurant to find themselves a place to catch the action. Some even took a cab to Jackson Heights to Native Theater where the ticket price was $26.50 per person. It was sold out too.

At the Lexington restaurants, where people frequent restaurants owned by their countrymen, the boundaries disappeared. Indians squeezed between burly Pakistanis. Buffalo fish curry was consumed, biryani was devoured, rounds of tea became the norm, followed by kebabs. Inside the chefs worked hard.

“Today, we are going to watch the World Cup match between India and Pakistan,” said the Bangladeshi owner of a restaurant. “We are all brothers and sisters here. From the same community. The FBI and the NYPD are watching us. If there is any trouble, I will call the NYPD and they will be here in five minutes. We don’t want trouble.”

The atmosphere was electric. There was plenty of laughter. Groups of Bangladeshis talked loudly in Bangla, debating among themselves. Most seemed to favor Pakistan. But most had come to watch Tendulkar. One Bangladeshi had a demand: he wanted to also watch the Bangladesh-Kenya match which was being played at the same time. Derisive laughter from the Indian supporters put an end to that hope.

The few who had seats were bunched against the walls. Others sat on the ground, and the less fortunate stood at the back and at the sides.

The TV was switched on. The air was fraught with expectation. And hope. Everybody in that crowded space at three in the morning knew that this was a once in a lifetime experience. For every four that Saeed Anwar stroked to the boundary, Pakistanis clapped and cheered wildly. Indians waited patently for their turn, to applaud a dot ball or pump fist when the batsman was beaten.

When the first wicket, of Taufeeq Umar fell, there was pandemonium in the room. A lady and her granddaughter were among those who clapped the hardest. She stood up to applaud. The granddaughter, 10, and sleepy, watched her, the TV, the crowd and back against at her grandmother’s face which was radiant with joy.

In between wickets, the owner, who was using the remote like a pro, flicked channels back and forth to the Bangladesh-Kenya match. That relieved the tension.

The owner with his unflappable manner, did the rounds collecting the $10 from each person. Some students looked sheepishly at each other and walked out: they had thought it was a freebie. Some had quick discussions and cajoled friends to pay up with promises of “next time my turn.”

One retorted, “What if there is no next time?” But then, realizing the possible situation, dug deep into his wallet and came up with money.

As the match fluctuated, the mood became reflective. Some smoked, some sighed heavily and ordered more tea. At daybreak. The older guys had stubble on their cheeks, the younger crowd looked bleary-eyed. At the break, the crowd broke up, to get breakfast and to stretch their legs and soothe their overwrought nerves. The owner changed the “stands” in the meantime. To facilitate movement in the room, he placed the chairs in rows and pushed the tables to the sides. More sheets were spread out in the middle so more people could sit or sprawl.

Outside it was normal life. Cars started zooming with more frequency, people walked by, some looked in curiously. Bold pedestrians tried to get in to sneak a look at what had brought this huge congregation here.

Once the India innings started, it was like being in a circus where one crazy and mind boggling act follows the other. There was no time to recuperate from cheering for one shot and clapping. The mood in the Indian camp became a bit belligerent. Some started by repeating “Wasim Bhai, Wasim Bhai” after the bowler got smashed for a six by Sehwag off his first ball. The ever sensitive owner, at the end of that over, switched off the TV and in his somber voice declared once again, “We don’t want any trouble. We are all brothers and sisters here.”

Somebody replied, “Turn the TV back on.”

The Bangladeshis in the meantime were playing according to form. The Indians jeered whenever for a few seconds channels were flicked to see how they were faring. “Kenyans are our brothers,” said one Indian student. Some Bangladeshis complained loudly to the owner, saying all those who were jeering should be thrown out. The owner looked at the screen.

When Tendulkar’s wicket fell, a Bangladeshi man, who seemed to be an avid supporter of Pakistan, got up and jumped about in the small space he had. “Go, go,” was all he could say in his excitement. The Pakistani crowd were in raptures. Some danced at the sides. They looked at the room triumphantly. The Indians quietly clapped as Tendulkar walked back to the pavilion.

Superstition caught up on those who were cheering too loudly. Hits to the fence were applauded but for the most part it became a game that began to play out in the mind. The pensive faces said it all.

But there was no jeering, only appreciation. The rooting for one’s team was one’s own business. There was no sledging like what was happening on the field itself. Tendulkar’s innings were happening on the field itself. Tendulkar’s innings were applauded by the Pakistanis and the Indians clapped when Akram finished his ten overs. It was a sublime moment in Manhattan shared by thousands across the city who watched the game unfold and reveled in the magic.

After the game, some Indians hugged some of the Pakistanis and the Bangladeshis.

“Maybe next time, but India will win again,” said one Indian cheekily to the pony-tailed Pakistani teenager, as they shook hands. He smiled and said, “No way, next time Pakistan will win.” The old lady laughed with everybody and the little girl laughed with her. The Bangladeshi owner and his wife at the back of the restaurant exchanged wide smiles. Looking ahead to the next India game.

Editor’s note: Pakistani establishments report business is down because of registrations. See ADD IN LINK