Imran Yusuf delivers a satirical look at Saturday's Champion's Trophy encounter between Pakistan and India.

Before even a single ball had been bowled, chucked, or tampered with at SuperSport Park, Centurion, the hotly awaited India-Pakistan clash had already pulled a surprise.

Indian captain MS Dhoni barged into the Pakistan dressing room an hour before the start of play, reminding his opposition of Shoaib Malik’s public thanking of ‘Muslims all over the world’ for their assumed support in the 2007 Twenty20 World Cup. Since this statement presumed that the Pakistan team represented every Muslim, Dhoni insisted that either Pakistan take some Muslim players of his choice and play them in the starting XI, or Malik make a public apology while eating twenty ludoos in a row.

Pakistan captain Younus Khan, thinking of the political consequences of a Pakistani feasting on sweets while millions of his countrymen go hungry at home, decided to accept the Indian Muslims. Thus Pakistan went into the game laboured with the shoulder-injured Zaheer Khan, the out-of-form Irfan Pathan, the 46-year-old-dodgy-geezer Mohammad Azharuddin, and the deceased Syed Mushtaq Ali.

By weakening the opposition team, it is also thought Dhoni was strengthening his own team, though not out of choice. Rumours were ablaze that RSS officials had threatened the Indian captain, ordering him to pick an all-Hindu team so as to have 'greater strength and cohesion.' The presence of Sikh off-spinner Harbhajan Singh in the XI was explained away easily: his brother’s former driver’s sister’s husband’s goat’s favourite herder’s chacha's son was owed a favour by some RSS bigwig.

The toss proved equally exciting after a confident Younus Khan, in one of his cheeky chappy moods, won the toss and proceeded to aunty-pinch Dhoni on the cheeks. He then suggested to the Indian captain that they also toss for Kashmir while they’re at it. Dhoni, ever the instinctive strategist, did a quick mental calculation, brilliantly concluding that the odds were 50 per cent and therefore not strong enough. A 60 per cent success probability would have been tempting - after all, Dhoni often employs the reverse sweep, which the Centre for Indian Cricket Calculations in Bangalore has worked out is a 60 per cent successful shot.

Younus put India in to bat, explaining in his customary speed-of-sound delivery that ‘Wewillbowl because wewanttobe sure our topbowlerAsif can definitely bowl. The resultsof hisdopetest won’t come throughtilltheinnings break, so better safe thansorry.’ Tendulkar, opening the innngs, ignited the match with some typically stunning strokeplay. As the Little Master pierced the covers and sliced through the on-side, Kamran Akmal behind the stumps wore a ponderous expression which made one guess he was contemplating the early days just after Partition. It was thought then that Pakistan and India could continue playing as one Test playing nation.

Kamran’s rabbit-in-the-headlights expression at Tendulkar seemed less to do with his unfortunate front teeth and more a longing to bat with the great man. He was imagining all he would learn and the century partnerships they’d rack up. He then looked across to cover point at his actual opening partner, the mindless Imran Nazir, and seemed to sigh in the saddest tones, ‘Eh ... what’s up ... doc?,’ as if lamenting to a higher power.

India streamed along steadily, checked back from making a huge score by the fall of regular wickets. A minor altercation occurred during the latter end of India’s innings after Suresh Raina hit Shahid Afridi for a six and burst out into a sponteanous bhangra. Afridi was not pleased and mouthed some abuse at the dancing Indian, only for Raina - our lip-readers inform us - to respond that Pakistan-India was not a sissy contest like the Ashes or Model Town Tigers vs. Cavalry Ground Stallions, that actual wars have broken out between the countries, and if Afridi said another word against his hip-movements he’d get New Delhi to nuke south Karachi into the sea. There followed a lengthy debate about nuclear arsenals which, our lip-readers tell us, is not worth quoting for it can be aptly summarised in just two words: ‘Mine’s bigger.’

If the reader will allow me to depart for a moment from my objective, distanced, and admittedly dryly factual reporting and allow a personal insight, I will say the following. I thought at this moment of Mansur Ali Khan Pataudi of India and Hanif Mohammad of Pakistan, playing together for a Rest of the World side against England, sending a message of peace and ‘deep regret’ at the break out of the 1965 war, a message which echoed in 1971 in the hotel room of Sunil Gavaskar and Zaheer Abbas when they were room-mates for the World XI in Australia while war raged back home. Men of great perspective, they were, to say nothing of their batsmanship. If only our politicians, our leaders, if only, if only ...

Pakistan started their innings on 10-2 after 3.2 overs, both captains agreeing that this situation was inevitable as night and day, so there was no point in actually bothering to go through with it. Chasing 275, their middle order went about the task competently.

At one point television cameras captured Pakistan and Indian fans together in the crowd, a whole row of podgy 40-something men in locked arms, laughing and swaying, seemingly rejoicing in sporting admiration and brotherly love. It brought to mind the Chennai fans cheering Saeed Anwar’s record ODI innings in 1997, and Karachi’s wild unanimous applause for Virender Sehwag’s blistering fours and sixes in 2004. However, the camera pulled back to reveal what the revellers were actually gazing at and celebrating: three half-naked cheerleaders strutting their stuff. It is unkown if the spectators realised a game of cricket was on.

Malik, who had done his usual party trick of mustering 20 from 30 while seemingly still asleep, started to take a dislike to one of the Indian bowlers. Ishant Sharma was speeding in, bowling with pace and aggression. This wasn’t like an Indian, Malik pondered. He protested to Dhoni that if they were going to get the Muslim players, Dhoni should also transfer those who 'play like Pakistanis’, i.e. as tough, mean, fast-bowling men. Dhoni responded that therefore Pakistan should transfer its silky skillful strokemakers. He said he’d prefer Umar Akmal to Mohammad Yousuf, if given the choice, though he wasn't fussy. There followed a heated exchange, which was ended by umpire Simon Taufel saying they’d both have no biryani for a week if they didn’t re-start play immediately.

An Afridi cameo and some brave hitting from the tail left Pakistan needing just 1 run off the last 6 balls to win. Mohammad Aamer, full of the idealism of youth, decided to block all six balls on political grounds. The match was over and had ended in a tie. Speaking after he’d walked to the boundary, Aamer declared that cricket was just bats, bails and boundaries. And balls. Mostly balls, he emphasised. His reasoning was that until Pakistan sorted out its poverty and illiteracy and India got to grips with inequality and starvation there was no justification for taking cricket seriously. The bigger picture should not be covered up by a cheap and crass game of cricket, he maintained, adding that sports blinded the common man to his real struggles and class enemies. (He went on to quote verbatim a dense passage of Marx’s ‘Das Kapital’ which appeared to make interviewer Ramiz Raja break out in a cold sweat and go cross-eyed.) The pace bowler concluded that ‘neither nation should use cricket success to cover up its failures in nationhood.’

‘What knowing you of the nationhood? You don’t even having the bloody manhood!’, came the incessant shouts of a heckling spectator, presumed to be a disgruntled Pakistani fan, thereby bringing young Aamer’s post-match interview to a premature end. It was ever thus. Pakistan vs India always seems to crack the shell: out come the nutters.

So the match was a draw, a tie, without a victor. The losers of the day were jingoism, cowardice and bad people everywhere. And also television sets which got smashed (a sad case of shooting the messenger) and betting men who’d banked, quite naturally, on one of the teams taking the game. The winners were world peace and the bookmakers of Mumbai.

A marvellous time was had by all, and, a few hours after the match had ended, as I sat in the deserted stadium at midnight, a distant whisper could be heard wafting over the silent sleeping ground: 'Crick-et Zindabad, Crick-et Zindabad, Crick-et Zindabad ...'