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Renowned cricket journalist Amer Malik recounts his experiences watching Pakistan vs. India cricket matches, reflects on the evolution of the rivalry over the years, and urges fans and media to treat the fixture as just a game, emphasizing the shared cultural ties between the two countries.
Recently, I was commissioned to write about my first experience watching County cricket. It was serene and docile—a stark contrast to my first experience watching Pakistan vs India, albeit on TV. The chaos on and off the field during these matches is a completely different kettle of fish. Since my first iconic cricket clash between the two bitter-sweet rivals in 1987, the experience has been nothing short of electrifying, though not always rewarding from a British Pakistani perspective. Each match is more than just a game; it’s a vivid tapestry woven with history, passion, and intense emotions that transcend the boundaries of sport, though unfortunately not politics.
Rivalries in sports aren’t uncommon. There’s the "Old Firm" clash between Rangers and Celtic, which transcends the game with political and religious connotations. In Spain, there’s "El Clásico" between Barcelona and Real Madrid, a constant battle for supremacy. In cricket, there’s "The Ashes," the oldest rivalry in the game, though arguably not the fiercest. That title belongs to the rivalry between Pakistan and India—a rivalry so fierce it has triggered skirmishes on their shared border.
Growing up in London’s East End, my football loyalties naturally leaned towards West Ham, a club with its own fierce rivalry (Millwall, anyone?). However, my Pakistani heritage ensured that cricket was embedded in my DNA. I wouldn’t be surprised if my DNA helix resembled a bat with a Gray Nicolls label. My father, who came to England in 1962, didn’t have much time for sports but often regaled us with tales of playing cricket for his college in Sambrial, a small town near Sialkot in northeastern Punjab. This town has a recent, yet rich history in cricketing talent, producing no less than six international cricketers—three for Pakistan and 2 for Oman and one for Qatar.
My love for cricket was an acquired taste that evolved over time. During most summers, cricket would be on TV in our house, with the dulcet tones of Jim Laker and Richie Benaud echoing through the lounge. At first, it was just a game—one so long that it required a rest day. White ball cricket was still a twinkle in Kerry Packer’s eye.
In 1987, I travelled to Pakistan for a family wedding. With not much to do and no internet, it was either a book or an English newspaper, both unavailable in my mother’s ancestral village. Luckily, my maternal uncle was a cricket fanatic and took me to his friend Mukhtiar’s house to watch Pakistan play India in the beautiful sandy dunes of Sharjah, UAE. I fell asleep multiple times, only to be awakened by delicious pakoras. As the guest from England, I was treated like royalty. Pakistani hospitality is second to none.
This fixture was an event in every Pakistani household, and I couldn’t imagine it being any different in India. The intensity of this rivalry was unparalleled. Each time an Indian wicket fell, or Javed Miandad smashed a boundary, the roar from Sharjah echoed through my uncle’s friend’s house. I had never heard so many profanities aimed at Indian players. This was way beyond a gentleman’s game. Unbeknownst to most is that despite the fierce rivalry, the players from both sides have always gotten along very well.
This fixture became a staple of my cricket viewing diet. I tried to acquire videos of their matches from the 70s onwards to marvel at legends like Imran Khan, Javed Miandad, Kapil Dev, and Sunil Gavaskar. During the 90s, the rivalry was almost one-sided, with India having the upper hand in ICC fixtures, whereas Pakistan dominated in bilateral or annual tournaments in Sharjah, both teams not short of stars; Wasim Akram, Waqar Younis, Saeed Anwar, and Inzamam-Ul-Haq to name just a few for Pakistan. India not short of match-winners either, had the great Kapil Dev, Navjot Sidhu, and a young lad by the name of Sachin Tendulkar (You might have heard of him!) among their ranks.
During the 1996 World Cup held in Pakistan and India, I once again visited Pakistan. The fixture between the two rivals was played in Bengaluru (Bangalore), and Pakistan was the defending champion and pre-tournament favourite. The hype was unbelievable. As we piled into my aunt’s living room to watch the game, news broke that Pakistan’s captain and main bowler, Wasim Akram, had pulled out with a suspected injury. Conspiracy theories ranged from a fake injury to alien abduction, I had money on the latter.
This didn’t concern me much as we still had Waqar Younis, known for his devastating 90 mph inswing Yorker’s. However not this time as Waqar was dispatched to all parts of Bengaluru as its now known, then stand-in captain Aamer Sohail in a moment of pure madness threw his wicket away after hitting a boundary. It was downhill from there. The fury among us viewers was palpable, not to the extent of breaking our TV - Sony TVs weren’t cheap. Pakistan were defeated and returned to Lahore and Karachi in the early hours to avoid being lynched by the angry crowds.
Losing to England or Australia was acceptable, but defeat to India was considered criminal. After the game, my cousins and I went for a breath of fresh air encountering a demonstration enroute. “What’s this?” I asked. “It’s our way of expressing our anger from the loss to India.” Right” I said. The atmosphere deteriorated as they started to burn effigies of Pakistani players. Funnily enough a few days later, these same people were celebrating India’s defeat (to eventual champions) Sri Lanka - after their fans unsuccessfully tried to set the stadium alight. Was this rivalry bordering on hatred? For me, it was a game, but for others, it was much more.
Due to commitments and my inability to decipher a tournament schedule, I finally watched and reported on my first Pakistan-India game at the 2013 Champions Trophy at Edgbaston, sadly not as warm or lush as Sharjah or as atmospheric as Karachi. It turned out to be a dull and wet affair, with India winning via the Duckworth-Lewis method. During the game I was invited to comment on a radio station broadcasting the game across the subcontinent, but was heard by a sole barber in Tooting, thankfully.
In 2017 I had the fortune to cover the final, with both Pakistan and India competing for the trophy. India with the upper hand as they had already defeated their rivals in the group stages. Staying objective while secretly delighting in each Indian wicket or Pakistan boundary was hard, however managed the odd discretionary fist pump when an Indian wicket fell. The final wicket was surreal, and even now, the tears swell up thinking of a rare jubilant moment for Pakistan cricket, one which I hadn’t experienced since the 1992 World Cup victory.
With the Champions Trophy encounter between Pakistan and India just a few days away and a Netflix documentary on the rivalry recently released, one can’t ignore or brush aside the political connotations which dictate where this fixture is played. Politicians use the fixture as a pawn in an eternal game of chess, although it’s the average fan who suffers, and who is often consumed by hatred and contempt encouraged by unscrupulous media elements in both countries.
This rivalry has evolved into a battle of supremacy fought with bat and ball, thankfully not always with guns. As fans and responsible media, we need to project this as just a game, because exactly what it is. The people of both countries share more culturally than anybody else. Cricket should bring people together, not alienate them further.
Recently, I was commissioned to write about my first experience watching County cricket. It was serene and docile—a stark contrast to my first experience watching Pakistan vs India, albeit on TV. The chaos on and off the field during these matches is a completely different kettle of fish. Since my first iconic cricket clash between the two bitter-sweet rivals in 1987, the experience has been nothing short of electrifying, though not always rewarding from a British Pakistani perspective. Each match is more than just a game; it’s a vivid tapestry woven with history, passion, and intense emotions that transcend the boundaries of sport, though unfortunately not politics.
Rivalries in sports aren’t uncommon. There’s the "Old Firm" clash between Rangers and Celtic, which transcends the game with political and religious connotations. In Spain, there’s "El Clásico" between Barcelona and Real Madrid, a constant battle for supremacy. In cricket, there’s "The Ashes," the oldest rivalry in the game, though arguably not the fiercest. That title belongs to the rivalry between Pakistan and India—a rivalry so fierce it has triggered skirmishes on their shared border.
Growing up in London’s East End, my football loyalties naturally leaned towards West Ham, a club with its own fierce rivalry (Millwall, anyone?). However, my Pakistani heritage ensured that cricket was embedded in my DNA. I wouldn’t be surprised if my DNA helix resembled a bat with a Gray Nicolls label. My father, who came to England in 1962, didn’t have much time for sports but often regaled us with tales of playing cricket for his college in Sambrial, a small town near Sialkot in northeastern Punjab. This town has a recent, yet rich history in cricketing talent, producing no less than six international cricketers—three for Pakistan and 2 for Oman and one for Qatar.
My love for cricket was an acquired taste that evolved over time. During most summers, cricket would be on TV in our house, with the dulcet tones of Jim Laker and Richie Benaud echoing through the lounge. At first, it was just a game—one so long that it required a rest day. White ball cricket was still a twinkle in Kerry Packer’s eye.
In 1987, I travelled to Pakistan for a family wedding. With not much to do and no internet, it was either a book or an English newspaper, both unavailable in my mother’s ancestral village. Luckily, my maternal uncle was a cricket fanatic and took me to his friend Mukhtiar’s house to watch Pakistan play India in the beautiful sandy dunes of Sharjah, UAE. I fell asleep multiple times, only to be awakened by delicious pakoras. As the guest from England, I was treated like royalty. Pakistani hospitality is second to none.
This fixture was an event in every Pakistani household, and I couldn’t imagine it being any different in India. The intensity of this rivalry was unparalleled. Each time an Indian wicket fell, or Javed Miandad smashed a boundary, the roar from Sharjah echoed through my uncle’s friend’s house. I had never heard so many profanities aimed at Indian players. This was way beyond a gentleman’s game. Unbeknownst to most is that despite the fierce rivalry, the players from both sides have always gotten along very well.
This fixture became a staple of my cricket viewing diet. I tried to acquire videos of their matches from the 70s onwards to marvel at legends like Imran Khan, Javed Miandad, Kapil Dev, and Sunil Gavaskar. During the 90s, the rivalry was almost one-sided, with India having the upper hand in ICC fixtures, whereas Pakistan dominated in bilateral or annual tournaments in Sharjah, both teams not short of stars; Wasim Akram, Waqar Younis, Saeed Anwar, and Inzamam-Ul-Haq to name just a few for Pakistan. India not short of match-winners either, had the great Kapil Dev, Navjot Sidhu, and a young lad by the name of Sachin Tendulkar (You might have heard of him!) among their ranks.
During the 1996 World Cup held in Pakistan and India, I once again visited Pakistan. The fixture between the two rivals was played in Bengaluru (Bangalore), and Pakistan was the defending champion and pre-tournament favourite. The hype was unbelievable. As we piled into my aunt’s living room to watch the game, news broke that Pakistan’s captain and main bowler, Wasim Akram, had pulled out with a suspected injury. Conspiracy theories ranged from a fake injury to alien abduction, I had money on the latter.
This didn’t concern me much as we still had Waqar Younis, known for his devastating 90 mph inswing Yorker’s. However not this time as Waqar was dispatched to all parts of Bengaluru as its now known, then stand-in captain Aamer Sohail in a moment of pure madness threw his wicket away after hitting a boundary. It was downhill from there. The fury among us viewers was palpable, not to the extent of breaking our TV - Sony TVs weren’t cheap. Pakistan were defeated and returned to Lahore and Karachi in the early hours to avoid being lynched by the angry crowds.
Losing to England or Australia was acceptable, but defeat to India was considered criminal. After the game, my cousins and I went for a breath of fresh air encountering a demonstration enroute. “What’s this?” I asked. “It’s our way of expressing our anger from the loss to India.” Right” I said. The atmosphere deteriorated as they started to burn effigies of Pakistani players. Funnily enough a few days later, these same people were celebrating India’s defeat (to eventual champions) Sri Lanka - after their fans unsuccessfully tried to set the stadium alight. Was this rivalry bordering on hatred? For me, it was a game, but for others, it was much more.
Due to commitments and my inability to decipher a tournament schedule, I finally watched and reported on my first Pakistan-India game at the 2013 Champions Trophy at Edgbaston, sadly not as warm or lush as Sharjah or as atmospheric as Karachi. It turned out to be a dull and wet affair, with India winning via the Duckworth-Lewis method. During the game I was invited to comment on a radio station broadcasting the game across the subcontinent, but was heard by a sole barber in Tooting, thankfully.
In 2017 I had the fortune to cover the final, with both Pakistan and India competing for the trophy. India with the upper hand as they had already defeated their rivals in the group stages. Staying objective while secretly delighting in each Indian wicket or Pakistan boundary was hard, however managed the odd discretionary fist pump when an Indian wicket fell. The final wicket was surreal, and even now, the tears swell up thinking of a rare jubilant moment for Pakistan cricket, one which I hadn’t experienced since the 1992 World Cup victory.
With the Champions Trophy encounter between Pakistan and India just a few days away and a Netflix documentary on the rivalry recently released, one can’t ignore or brush aside the political connotations which dictate where this fixture is played. Politicians use the fixture as a pawn in an eternal game of chess, although it’s the average fan who suffers, and who is often consumed by hatred and contempt encouraged by unscrupulous media elements in both countries.
This rivalry has evolved into a battle of supremacy fought with bat and ball, thankfully not always with guns. As fans and responsible media, we need to project this as just a game, because exactly what it is. The people of both countries share more culturally than anybody else. Cricket should bring people together, not alienate them further.
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