India, India

I don't think or say India, India. I hear it as it was shouted by the Indian fans at the test cricket match we went to watch in Manali in December last year. It was a hastily rearranged match after the English cricket team had fled the country, understandably, after the horror of the Mumbai attacks. They came back. This was so appreciated by people in India it rubbed off on the English fans. We were welcomed by all which actually did us a disservice. Waived through inumerable security checks only to be turned back at the last hurdle for not having tickets.
I had tried to purchase them earlier. The reponse to an e mail to The ECB confessed they didn't know and never really knew where to buy tickets as far as matches in India were concerned. As we reached the final hurdle the hand written sign on the door directed us back to a bank in Chandigarh. Walk back a mile or so then find transport. So off we went in an autorickshaw to Sector 41. A few wrong turnings, a few words in Hindi and we got there.
Easily sorted with the sellers apologising that they didn't have tickets left for the posh seats on the first day.
This meant we had to sit with the die hards of the Barmy Army.
Great fun!
My youngest son, at age 13, loved it totally, utterly and completly. He was welcomed as despite his youth I think the kindred spirit was recognised.
It took me back to a time, when I was young and witty banter with a big crowd of your mates was so good. It is an eclectic crowd not restrained by the snobberies and caste, whoops, I meant class systems, of England.
The hotel where the teams were staying was a secret because of security.
There is only one decent hotel within 100 miles so it wasn't too difficult to guess where it was.
We went!!
My teenage boys got all the autographs, thanks to the introduction of my son wearing a Northern football team T shirt.
A good weekend. forgetting the hassle, poverty and stress of living in Delhi.
For once I felt part of it as opposed to being different.
Loved it