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As the world was witnessing the conquests of Wasim Akram, wreaking havoc on the greens of England, Scotland, Wales; waging cricket on his enemies and collecting one dramatic victory after another: the new entrant Bangladesh were naturally perturbed.

The world had taken defeat for granted. Let it not be humiliating, they and their countrymen prayed. The press were condescending enough: majority of the comments were patronising, some showed amused tolerance, a few even bordered on the sneering disdain dismissing it as something to be tolerated. Bangladesh Captain creditably, maintained a dignified modesty, while his Pakistani counterpart did not consider it necessary to grant even an interview on such a trivial affair; he just waved the journalists away impatiently. He had other important matters at hand! No time to waste, his scheduled was full!

On the 31st of May Dhaka sky was clear. People from all walks of life had cancelled other programmes from their agenda; they converged in front of their TV sets.

They were not overly optimistic nor they did expect miracles. All they wanted to see was whether their home team could make it up to 150 or so; some brave and hopelessly optimistic souls even ventured prediction of 175. When I half jocularly told my family, ''mark my words, we will reach up to 200'' they sneered back. And who could blame them? - the team coach had himself washed his hands off: from the outset, his comments were not exactly conducive to encouraging our boys. But all of us sat glued to the set, any way.

Why the delay? It was already 3:30; it soon became 3:45! Was it the rains? Was it nerves? No wait, the players were visible. A relief of sorts. At least we could see our team on the grounds, the team which had become more interesting to all after our victory over the Scots. A well-deserved victory by a team whom even the coach had given up in somewhat misplaced frustration. But a team nevertheless very dear to all of us, our very own cricket team! Had we not been subjected to the glories of Pakistani cricketers' 'forced dazzle' on us from the past so many decades? Had we not been induced to believe that they were the 'super stars' moulded from another sort of clay altogether, those celestial beings' were incredibly superior, much above the Bengalee mortals. For decades our eyes were trained to watch those biceps, those 'wrists' which could create such magic with a ball, those tall 'godly creatures' were only to be admired! Thus we had witnessed the Hanifs, Sayeed Ahmeds, the Fazal Mahmoods; and lastly Imran Khan who bagged not only the World Cup, but also the Goldsmith heiress to boot! What had Nannu, Shujon and Opee bagged? But keeping 1971 experience in mind, we nursed our little glimer of hope well-hidden albeit in the back of our minds. We have had the advantage of seeing how the mighty can fall, once before. It was not impossible! We hoped on.

The first over was over! Thank God - no wicket. Then the second! Even some runs! They had not been routed in the first over, even in the second! Those of us who had held our breath, now began to loosen somewhat. Slowly, inch by inch, runs were accumulating! Was it possible? We were not allout and 10 overs were gone! Ten overs, and not a single wicket! At least we were better than Scotland! No, we had defeated Scotland - we were doing better than Australia, South Africa. Even better than the Pakistanis in some of the other games. But then all those 'glorious god - men' had played against superior stars! Wait and see disaster may still come! 15 overs - they still stood their ground! Wait a minute - we could play too, it was not impossible. Cricket was not a monopoly of the 'martial race'; even rice and fish eating 'weaklings' could play the game! Let's watch - fall we undoubtedly would but at what stage? How many runs could we make! please God, make it 150-or 175?

Surprises! Surprise upon surprise - boundary? Not possible. What! More boundaries. My God - we actually made 150! Please God - 175! But wickets are falling! Oh there goes another! Now - wait a minute, boundary! What a game! The 175 rubicon crossed! I whispered a silent 'thank you - God', 200 please God.

Some breathless overs crossed. More boundaries! More runs. What! Yes, we could play, we were able! Suddenly, magically our players too began to look 'golden' in front of our eyes, I did not know anything more. The rest of the play became a haze. 50 overs gone, and the score was 223, with one wicket still to go! The impossible had been achieved. Of course, the 'superstar' would undoubtedly equal and surpass it in 10-no-20 overs! Who had not seen them play Australia? With the Inzamams and that strength and stamina, and those, 'special wrists', reserved only for the 'chosen' people, they could make it in 20 to 25 overs. And against our bowling! But didn't they say Bangladeshi bowlers were good? May be perhaps ... but against Pakistan Ho, ho!

I nudged my wife. We were having a dinner at the American ambassador's residence. Look, we made 223, we have nothing to regret. It is more than respectable. Hurry up or we will be late.

Oh the 31st night, in the Habib Villa there was an air of stifled excitement. Over polite conversations, a certain excitement was rippling over the atmosphere, it was almost tangible. At last somebody ventured to ask - what is the score? State minister Faizul Huq almost immediately dialed his mobile. Pakistan lost 5 wickets for 50 runs, he shouted in disbelief. Incredible, Pakistanis, only fifty runs? And 5 wickets down. 'Come on, surely you are joking!' 'It is true,' announced the minister for local government, Zillur Rahman. The unusual glint in his eyes, on the habitually calm demeanour, betrayed him hopelessly! 'I saw the score before leaving my house it was 45 for 5', he added.

After that all polite conversation was thrown to the winds! Americans talked of base ball and its similarity with cricket; we talked of our possible chance of victory - may be.... perhaps why not? Not possible.

The atmosphere in Habib Villa was exciting that night, and memorable for us all.

Forty-five minutes later. What is the score? What is the score? The refrain echoed; the waiter was sent to the guardroom to find out. He came back and announced, cool, but visibly shaken ''169 all out!'' He informed us in a stunned sort of voice. There was a pin-drop silence. Almost immaculately, Barrister Najmul Huda flipped out his mobile and dialed with impatient fingers. 'Yes'. '169-All-out!', he announced in triumph. Barrister Amirul Islam and his wife Lila joined the table. And after that it was hysteria. Americans, Bangladeshis, all equally ecstatic.

Pinch me, am I sleeping?' - was it Sigma Huda's voice?

'Somebody is surely playing a practical joke!' That was my wife!

Without waiting for ceremonies, the host and his gracious wife Kim decided it was a fitting occasion for celebration; all of us present, some drinking juice, others the fizzy bubble, stood in standing ovation to our boys.

Our return journey home that night was another occasion, never to be forgotten! It was past mid-night but Dhaka was wide-awake, the roads wore an air of festivity. On several stops, our car was drenched in coloured water by strangers frenzied with delight. Our own euphoria, matched theirs as we opened our own car windows, and stretched out our hands to our fellow citizens. We felt once again, a nation proud to be Bangalees. And we celebrated our victory in our own special fashion; what a day, and what a night!

Yesterday, I read somewhere that a madrassah teacher and his two colleagues mercilessly beat up 12 of their hapless students for celebrating their national team's victory over Pakistan! 'Poor blokes' - I thought to myself, highly amused, ''You are suffering from those days of nostalgia! Wake up, and look at the future! It reminded me of our old Barua cook who had never forgiven Gandhi for driving the British out!. Nobody appreciates good mulligatawny soup nowadays! He used to bemoan 'the sahibs know how to eat!'

Yes, the Aussies got the Cup. Bravo to them, sure! But no joy, no euphoria, can quite match ours that night! No way!