A Pakistani in Sri Lanka

You arrive in Colombo and everything is clean: the streets, the bathrooms and the fingers of the official at passport control. You wonder if this affects the way teams play cricket: the Sri Lankans playing with straighter bats and smoother faces compared to us Pakistanis.

You remember you are on honeymoon and cricket is not everything.

But then every billboard has a Sri Lankan superstar on it, and cardboard cut-outs of Shahid Afridi and other internationals stand mid-shot around the city. Your wife says "Salaam" to Shahid bhai and with a sigh you accept that cricket is everything for the next six weeks.

You go to dive bars and beach bars and everyone asks if you are Indian. You get so paranoid about this that even in the quiet of your room, the minibar seems to suggest you are from across the border. "If you really are Pakistani, then why are you drinking?" you swear you hear it say. You stop yourself from pointing out its erroneous logic and travel south to a coastal holiday town. The caretaker of your place says he likes Pakistan cricket and he thinks they are good but not as good as India. You hit the minibar.

You stroll the streets and find a shack of a restaurant precariously but beautifully placed on wooden boards extending out over the sea. You order grilled tuna and the waiter insists you look like a Pakistani left-arm seamer but he can't remember which one. You say Mohammad Amir and he shakes his head. You go through everyone from Wahab to Wasim and he still shakes his head. You ask if shaking one's head means yes or no and with a shake of the head he says no.

With each munch of tuna you rack your brains through the 60s and 70s and can't think of anyone. By dessert the waiter exclaims, "Mohammad Sami!" You tell him Mohammad Sami is right-handed and he says you are wrong and you argue. You are so peeved, not by the argument but by the comparison to Sami, that you don't leave a tip.

You circle the charming and hollowed-out stadium in Galle and envision the tsunami towering over the stands and shut up in humility and sadness for the rest of the afternoon.

You play catch with a tennis ball on the beach, diving into the water and thinking you are a cross between Jonty Rhodes and a dolphin. You let a few dollies go down while the ten-year-old locals you are playing with take everything cleanly, and you wonder if proximity to the sea and its soft sand makes Sri Lankans better fielders.

You get taken on a boat ride by a smiling man called Chaminda and you say, "Oh, like Chaminda Vaas!" and for your attempt to be chummy with this dumb association, you don't mind so much that he rips you off.

You take a rickshaw in Colombo before flying home and the driver says he supports Pakistan with passion. You say you support Sri Lanka with a passion too, because you are warmed by his beautiful country and its people. He then says that Sri Lanka has problems, big problems, and we should expect similar scenes to Egpyt and Libya some day. You return home and watch Gaddafi make his address on TV and thank the heavens the World Cup is not in Pakistan so the world won't stand up and ask why our stadium in Lahore bears his name.

At home you watch Sri Lanka against Pakistan, and Shahid Afridi wins the match. You wonder if those carboard cutouts in Colombo are being burnt. You look at Misbah and Younis and think this pair is the new Yousuf and Inzy, except they know how to run. You think Shoaib Akhtar should replace the phoenix as a literal legend. You are happy and want to celebrate and really fancy a drink, but there is nothing in the fridge except three-day-old korma. You long for the minibars of Sri Lanka.