Ahmedabad, second Test, day 1
Tuesday, December 11, 2001

Even the little fawn dog who gambolled across the outfield, chased forlornly by a morose man in brown, was given a rousing reception. The Gujarat public might not be famous for their cricketing brawn, but their enthusiasm bubbles over.

Yesterday they climbed trees to see England practise. Today Javagal Srinath ran in for his first over in three weeks to drumbeats and roars. Every appeal was echoed, every boundary applauded. The sight of a fielder retreating towards the high perimeter fence topped with barbed wire brought a cascade of bodies, pleading, squealing for a hello, or even a tilt of the head in acknowledgement.

The Gujaratis could sniff a business opportunity from a thimble of rice, so cricket provides easy pickings. The desire to sell and barter and bargain is infectious. Outside, on the dusty ring-road surrounding the stadium, a man sells Indian flags for 70 rupees (about £1). Chai stalls clutter up the dusty streets, porcelain cups and saucers straight from Lewis Carroll sit next to coughing iron steam kettles. A ticket tout, brazen as his English counterpart but without the spivs' mackintosh, seeks business in a shouted whisper.

There is an auction for the vendors' stalls which line every stand. The man, and it is always a man, who offers the most money, gets the gig. The successful ones stand behind wooden trestle tables and chop. Chop vast bowls of purple onions, green chillis and red tomatoes which sit shaded from the boiling sun in coloured plastic containers. Vegetable Puffs and samosas fizzle in the vats of fat, and poppadoms inflate like golden balloons eager to be crunched. Home-made crips - cornflakes with a masala kick - seduce the English punters. It is a complete mystery why Gujaratis aren't horribly fat.

The multi-coloured turbans of the Mohali police have gone, instead the policemen have short hair, flat caps and grey shirts. A bit drabber and a bit grumpier, until provided with cigarette, tea and their fix of Tendulkar.

Sachin fever is as rampant here as Mohali. Sachin, Sachin was the cry, before the team had even walked onto the field. And the rabid roar that greeted him as he ran in for his one and only over suggested a pretty spectacular collective throat-clearing when he bats.

The Sabar Mati power station stands behind the stadium, coughing smoke into the smog. It may light the city, but cricket provides the undercurrent.

Tanya Aldred, our assistant editor, is covering the whole tour for Wisden.com.

More Tanya Aldred
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