There are several ways one can get to the Gaddafi Stadium from where I am staying – either walk for about ten minutes, reach the main road and take a rickshaw; or hope for a rickshaw to be around in the housing locality; or - and this is what is likely to work best - try and wangle a lift from one of the passing cars.

Three days out of five, the last option worked and the response soon became so pleasantly predictable. Once inside, the conversation went something on these lines:

Host: Where to?
Me: I need to go to the Gaddafi Stadium but I will take a rickshaw from the main road.

(That response, in pathetic broken Hindi, usually leaves me exposed and the fact that I’m not a local pretty obvious)

H:You’ve come from Karachi to watch the game?
M: No, from India. From Mumbai.

H: Oh. Now I can’t just drop you at the main road. I will drop you to the stadium, don’t worry.
M: It’s OK. Please don’t take the trouble.

H: No no. I can’t do that. What will you say when you go back home?

The last part has been the common refrain in many situations. What one says when he goes back home seems to be the clinching factor.

Once the ice was broken the conversation usually veered to cricket and on all three days the first question posed was exactly the same: "Why has Ganguly been treated this way?" When I was asked the question the third successive time, I couldn’t contain my curiosity and wondered why Ganguly, of all places in Pakistan, drew so much admiration. "Because, he’s so aggressive, so passionate, so ... so ... so Pakistani."

Obvious, innit?