IN an intense rivalry that could easily put the Old Firm in the shade, two giants of the cricketing world, India and Pakistan, squared up to each other on Sunday in the Men’s T20 Cricket World Cup in the UAE. Pakistan in their trademark emerald green, and India in a Rangersy royal blue.

Pakistan had never won a World Cup match against India, so the stakes were high. Interestingly, something I had never seen before, both teams had decided on their own tribute to the Black Lives Matter movement beforehand, with the Indians taking the knee and the Pakistanis choosing to put their hands on their hearts.

I watched at my parent’s house (in between painting their kitchen – an unpartisan sunshine yellow) and reflected that these young men's grandparents were born together in a united India, but colonialism, communal strife, discrimination and a line hurriedly drawn by a British bureaucrat’s pen decreed that they be separate nations forever. One country in which Muslims were the majority and one in which Hindus were the majority, albeit with a large Muslim minority. A million perished as they moved to be on the ‘right’ side of the line. And so, the rivalry had begun.

The countries have fought two wars, still preside over almost constant tensions over the disputed region of Kashmir, have nuclear capabilities, and are generally seen as one another’s bogeymen.

Pakistan has been accused of helping the terrorists who shot 164 dead in Mumbai in 2008, and the current Indian government is accused of failing to condemn mob violence against its Muslim minority (of around 200 million people).

Every day at the Wagah border there is a well-attended show of patriotism as male soldiers from both sides of the border show off their machismo in a well-orchestrated march-off where a soldier from each side attempts to intimidate the other with his saluting and high kicks prowess. Social media has stirred up the intensity and hatred with thousands of insults thrown around cyberspace every day, and the rivalry is felt across the diaspora.

Growing up in Glasgow, I often heard my dad, who emigrated here in 1960 from Pakistan, rail about the bad stuff India had done. That there had been a war the year before I was born which Pakistan had lost, and his bitterness around that was palpable. But my mum’s best friend was an Indian doctor who had the warmest heart and widest smile I had ever seen. And her daughter and I became best friends too, playing together, chitter chattering about which Secret Seven character we liked the best.

Whilst our dads, it’s fair to say, kept themselves at a distance, our mums recognised the humanity in each other and how that could only enrich all of us for the future. I didn’t think about it at the time, but it really did. When I lived in Pakistan for two years when I was 16, I remember arguing with and admonishing two girls at my college who were celebrating the assassination of Indian Prime Minister Indira Gandhi in 1984.

At Glasgow University, my best friend Meena was the daughter of Indian immigrants. We were inseparable and went on anti-apartheid marches together and shared a love of Punjabi bhangra music. While both of us knew of the tensions of our parent’s original home countries, we knew there were bigger battles that needed fighting – ones that brought us closer.

On Sunday (fully expecting Pakistan to have their customary wobble, and lose) I listened from the kitchen as the game unfolded and India were batting first. I could tell the Pakistani bowlers must be doing well because there came a fairly quick succession of cries from next door of ‘Bowelled (sic) him!’ (said in the accent of the pukka-sounding, old-school commentators that dad used to listen to on the radio).

I had no idea a man in his mid-80s with a few health issues on his plate could sound so reinvigorated, so alive, so energised. He sounded like he did when he used to take me to watch Pakistan play in Test matches.

So thrilling did Sunday’s game become, that I abandoned my painting task to watch as the Pakistani opening batsmen thwacked sixes and fours into the black desert sky over Dubai. Soon, it was over and the Pakistanis had won without losing a single wicket.

This was huge. For dad, for the team and for the whole nation. As one of the Pakistani batsmen dropped to his knees to pray, the other held the Indian captain in a genuinely, warm and affectionate embrace. Mutual respect and admiration radiated between the two men.

These rarely seen images were flashed all over the world, causing many on social media in India and Pakistan to extend the hand of friendship and solidarity to their neighbours.

For me it was a beautiful moment, and I wondered if by taking a moment to reflect on a bigger fight – that of discrimination and hatred – at the start of the game, these young men had thought about where hatred and discrimination has taken us and how it’s legacy lives on, exacerbated by political leaders.

When I mooted my thoughts to dad he rather cynically said. “Nah, they are doing it for the money. Cricket rewards good players with millions these days, and if you can appear to be playing the game then you’d happily take the knee.”

Oh. But I’d like to think, money or not, it still forces players to reflect, even if momentarily. But, more importantly their gestures can make the millions of fans out there, think too.

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