We are supposed to meet Iqbal Qasim at 11am at the National Bank of Pakistan Stadium, a quaint little ground in the defence area of Karachi, where the teams are having their training sessions. After a long night's work, because of the timings of the Asia Cup matches, we oversleep, wake up at 11.30am, and try calling him on the phone. There is no response. On our way to the ground at around noon, we get through to him and pat comes the response, "Where are you? We were supposed to meet at 11?"

"But I tried calling you, and you didn't answer," my colleague says.

"But were we supposed to talk on the phone or meet in person?"

That was perhaps one of the most misleading first interactions you could have. When we reached the NBP Stadium we met this friendly talkative man, neither cranky nor idiosyncratic. The first thing you would notice about Qasim are his hands and fingers, which are big and broad, thick and long. The fingers on the left hand have signs of wear; he used them extensively to take 171 Test wickets, the most by a Pakistan left-arm spinner.

I want to talk to him about the famous Bangalore Test, when Bishan Bedi's tips helped turn the match Pakistan's way, and also about the time when "blood and bouncers kept the crowds happy". He has also been a national selector, and is just the man to talk to in the wake of the current selection controversy in Pakistan.

Qasim has a roundish face with different indentations on it. His eyes seem to act independent of the rest of the face; they can talk on their own. And he has a reassuring voice, which suggests you are talking to someone wise. Quite aptly he is called "kaka".

Mention him and Maninder Singh being the best left-arm spinners in the 1980s, the eyes transform from dispassionate (when taking about selection) to gleaming. "Our coach was the same: Bedi Sahab. He followed Bedi, and I have looked for tips from him from 1978 till now," Qasim says.

The talk inevitably moves to the Bangalore Test. And almost as if he is responsible for making Bedi sound like a traitor, Qasim says, "He didn't deliberately give us tips. It was the rest day of the Bangalore Test after the third day, and the Indian board had arranged a reception for us, a tradition that has been discontinued now.

"Tauseef and I were tired of the pressure and were the first ones to reach the venue. Bedi Sahab was there, and we started talking. I sat on the left, Tauseef on the right, and he in the middle. I told him, 'Kaptaan ji your student [Maninder] is bowling really well.'

"Now Bedi was a possessive coach, he expected a lot from his students and if they didn't live up to his expectations, he got furious. 'Ki khak kar reha hai? [He is bowling rubbish],' he said.

"And Maninder had taken seven wickets in the first innings! I was naturally surprised and when I told him that, he said, 'Agreed he has taken seven wickets but you don't know Kaka, the wicket is breaking by itself, and he is imparting even more break. As a result he is beating the batsmen, he is beating the stumps, and he is beating the wicketkeeper.'

"Still we had managed only 116 and 249. I looked at Tauseef, Tauseef looked at me, and we knew we didn't need to try and spin it much. We kept it in mind, and we applied it."

There is also the time he was felled by a Bob Willis bouncer at Edgbaston in 1978. A night watchman on the third day, Qasim had done his job for the evening but on the next morning Willis had had enough of him. He bowled two bouncers, which Qasim avoided, before going round the stumps to deliver a nasty one, which Qasim tried to defend but missed. It hit him on the lip and there was blood on the pitch. Willis just went back to his mark, showing no concern for the batsman's well-being whatsoever.

"There was an unwritten ethic those days, when unlimited bouncers were allowed and there was no protective gear available that fast bowlers shouldn't bowl bouncers to tail enders. But Willis said that I had settled in enough, and I had started to hurt them. We were a Kerry Packer-depleted side then and didn't have the bad fast bowlers; otherwise it would have been fun when Willis batted. Mike Brearley, their captain, sent a note of apology though.

"Sadiq Mohammad, the batsman at the other end when I was hit, wore a helmet for the first time in that match. It was given to him by Dennis Amiss, who is among the first ones to have ever worn a helmet on a cricket field. But Sadiq was booed by the crowd when he walked out wearing a helmet."

Those were the days when, as Tony Greig had mentioned in an interview 10 days ago, blood and bouncers kept the crowd happy.

For years he has answered to the question: who is the first man to have taken a hat-trick in ODIs? More than 25 years on Jalal-ud-Din's identity remains the same. "People ask me about that hat-trick only," he says. "But it's okay, I will tell you about that." Jalal-ud-din is 49 now, sports a grey beard, is balding, and with his glasses on cuts a studious picture. It is difficult for someone who was not born then, has not been able to get a tape of that hat-trick, to imagine this genial man bowling fast. And for most of his career he bowled with his glasses on.

After one sentence of resistance to talk about "pre-historic" things, he realises he is holding back a story that is a kid's favourite. And then he narrates it in detail. "I wouldn't even have played that match against Australia in Hyderabad. Imran Khan had just come back from England, and hadn't acclimatised enough to be playing this match. So I was called up at the last moment. And I flew from Karachi to Hyderabad. I had never done that before.

"After Australia had got a good start chasing 230, we had pulled things back with three quick wickets. Then I got Allan Border's wicket, which wasn't a part of the hat-trick. In the evening, Hyderabad starts getting a similar breeze as Karachi, and that helped my swing. In my seventh over, Rodney Marsh went for a big drive and missed my natural out-swinger that came into him and bowled him.

"Then Bruce Yardley, too, went to drive an out-swinger and edged it through. Now we realised I could take a hat-trick and that would be a big achievement. We brought the field in, and I had a plan. Since I had got two wickets with out-swingers and since I also knew that the new man was good at blocking and would thrust his front foot out, I wanted to bowl an in-swinger. I might be making it sound easy, but hat-tricks are not easy to get. It's not that you can announce and take a hat-trick.

"In the Karachi Test later that year, Imran was on a hat-trick, and the batsman coming out to face the hat-trick ball was Dilip Doshi. Now Imran had taken him out first ball for the last two-three times, and as recently as in the first innings of the same match. He was very confident and was ready to bet he would take the hat-trick. We were so scared he would do it that none of us took the bet. But Doshi managed to survive three balls.

"Coming back to my hat-trick, I bowled a big in-swinger to Geoff Lawson, who is also Pakistan's coach now, and it somehow found the slightest gap between his pad and bat. We realised only the next morning that it was the first hat-trick in ODI cricket."

A coincidence it is that Lawson was the last victim in his hat-trick, and Jalal-ud-Din till not long ago was the only Level 3 qualified coach in Pakistan. He runs his own cricket academy now, which runs in co-operation with the PCB, and works at developing both home-grown coaches and young talent for Pakistan. Shahid Afirdi has associated with them to popularize one of the coaching programmes. Mohammad Sami, Hasan Raza and Fawad Alam are some of the famous players to have come out of his academy. "But it is not just the immediate results that we are looking at," he says. "We have been working scientifically, have taken help from outside Pakistan whenever we need, and have looked to develop cricketers from grass-root level."

As he explains what all he looks for in a young pace bowler – natural pace, fitness and build, action and alignment, and attitude in that order – it starts becoming easier for someone who has not seen him bowl to believe he was a pace bowler and took the first hat-trick in ODI cricket.

	Following cricket on the radio © AFP

Suresh Saraiya's voice, for a long time, had been the link between the Indian fans and their cricket. With Saraiya here in Karachi for a commentary stint, one finally got to add a face to the voice. He is what your typical commentator would be: not short of an analogy, or a story to go with it. He has a storyteller's voice, and a storyteller's eyes, which gleam anew every time he starts a new story.

On the silver jubilee of India's World Cup success, he has an interesting tale to tell of the days India, in one-day cricket, were respected as much as Bangladesh or Hong Kong are today. "As you can see Hong Kong here hanging in [they had at a point reduced Pakistan to 161 for 7], trying to justify their place here, but nobody takes them really seriously. India were much the same before the 1983 success.

"And we ourselves never took the one-day game seriously. Nineteen eighty-three just happened. Even AIR didn't consider it worth sending a commentary team to England. We were supposed to go, but just before the tournament we were told we were not going."

But Saraiya has commentated on a successful day or two. None less than when India chased 403 successfully on the 1975-76 tour of the West Indies. Ravi Chaturvedi, his colleague and a famous Hindi commentator, and Saraiya apparently fought with each other; they both wanted to be on air when the winning runs were scored. The most embarrassing moment for Saraiya, and one of the funniest in a commentary box, came on the same tour when Bishan Bedi dropped Clive Lloyd off his own bowling in the Jamaica Test, and also hurt his little finger in the process.

"I said on air, 'Bedi has dropped Lloyd when he went for a return catch and hurt his…' and then I stopped. I said the same thing again and stopped. I was growing conscious of holding the listeners up, but I didn't know then what the little finger was called. In Gujarati schools, they
don't teach you the human anatomy beyond eyes, ears and nose. I asked Ravi for help, showing him my little finger.

"Ravi said, 'Okay you go, I will handle it.' How could I tell him that I wanted to know what you called it, and that I didn't want to relieve myself? In the end I said, 'Bedi has dropped Lloyd when he went for a return catch and hurt the smallest of the four fingers on his left hand.'"

Saraiya remembers vividly when he made his debut in 1965; he had Vijay Merchant and Dicky Rutnagur for company then. "It was like bowling your first over on debut to Sachin Tendulkar and Sourav Ganguly." Manjrekar and he went back a long way. "There was a Shetty restaurant, 'Alankar', near Merchant's office in Bombay. They had a blackboard for the daily menu, but when a Test match would be on I would go and listen to the commentary, maintain updated scores along with my own comments. Manjrekar liked what I wrote, and my remuneration would be one plain dosa and one filter coffee for the day's work."

Commentary, for him, is like playing cricket: you need to know the game inside out, and you need to have the right technique, which is a good voice, clear thoughts, and the play of phrase. Saraiya must have had all that, one can tell that – because when he tells a story he generally has your attention, and doesn't leave you disappointed by the end of it.

Travel agent. Visa agent. Passport photograph. Accreditation form. Indian media manager. Pakistan media manager. Ministry of Interior. Damn the visa process.

Tickets can't be booked from Bangalore. Find journalist contacts in India. Find journalist contacts in Pakistan. Unresponsive Ministry of Interior. Be told how difficult it was for Pakistan journalists to get Indian visa for the tour last year. Early-morning flight to Delhi. Pakistan Embassy. 9am. Visa agent on the way. Press Secretary. Reception outside Pakistan Embassy. Window No. 5. Queue. Question the visa concept.

9.30am. Visa agent still on the way. Overhear at reception of Embassy, "Janab we have been sitting outside since 4am, and there is not even water here." Damn the visa concept.

Call Pakistan International Airlines (PIA). There is enough time to either make the booking or reach the airport. Indira Gandhi International Airport. A locked PIA office. A flight can either be taken in 90 minutes or after 48 hours. At the airport gate without a ticket. Call PIA again. Helpful lady answers. But passport has been forgotten in the cab. Call the driver. Get the passport back. Good man. Ticket at last. Sleep on boarding. In-flight lunch. In-flight information. A Delhi-to-Karachi map. A "disputed territory" just under Himalayas. Jinnah International Airport. Posh. Call a colleague. Go over to the National Stadium. Realise, for the first time in three days, it's cricket I’m are here for. Drive around Karachi with a colleague. Forget the pains of the visa concept.

For the last week, my daily routine on a non-match day has been to get up, attend various practice sessions and press conferences scheduled through the day and then come back to the hotel room to file stories, after which it’s too late to do anything but watch the Euro 2008. On a match day, a late brunch left me just enough time to get ready and head to the ground to find a good seat in what is a spacious and comfortable press box. Therefore, the only bit of Dhaka I’d seen was the stretch of road between my hotel, the Shere Bangla Stadium and the team hotel.

Today, however, was different. The final didn’t require a reserve day so I had some time to loaf around the city and, after a late morning, head off in the opposite direction from the stadium. There are four modes of public transport – buses, cabs, auto-rickshaws (aka CNG) and cycle rickshaws, whose peddlers have no regard for which side of the road they are riding on, or where they are crossing. Their attitude seems to be, “you hit me and my family will come after you.” There is a fifth mode of transport too, an intermediate form or motorised cycle-rickshaw which is covered like an auto and it was one such contraption that we, another journalist and I, got into.

Observing traffic is something you get used to doing because in India, you get stuck in it quite a bit, and Dhaka’s cars seem to primarily be Toyotas or Nissans. The cabs are all Indian cars pock marked with infinite dents – one roof leaked during the rain as I was heading to the team hotel. My destination was Dhaka’s DVD market and unlike Delhi, where pirated DVDs are available in the bowels of the underground market – Palika Bazaar - in Dhaka they are everywhere: in malls, roadside shops, supermarkets and even in hotels.

From languages as diverse as Bosnian and Arabic, countless Bollywood titles, old English classics, the latest Hollywood releases and music concerts, you were spoilt for choice. One of the shopkeepers said that when the Australians were here in 2006, the market had to be closed to the public for security reasons while some players spent a couple of hours and left with 600 DVDs. Determined to think of titles that they might not have, I was surprised to find that the “How I met Your Mother” television series was nowhere to be found. When I asked for “Green Street Hooligans”, he said with a smile that he had only the original and it wasn’t with him at the moment.

Our next destination was a cricket academy where a team was practicing on a centre wicket. The field was so small that even a child could hit the ball over the walls onto the square boundary. The cost for such an offence, however, is your wicket and the offender has to run twenty laps around the field.

I’ve always wondered why kids in Pakistan and Bangladesh play galli cricket with a tape ball while in India, we only use a normal tennis ball or a rubber ball. The taped ball zips through the air faster, swings more than anything else I’ve played with in India, and if you’re good enough to connect, the ball travels faster off the bat than a normal tennis ball. The art of taping the ball with electric tape looks easy but to get an even covering needs deft hands and experience. Mithun, a batsman at the academy, did it in seconds.

While we were sitting around discussing the final between India and Pakistan, Nadir Shah, one of the umpires in the match, strolled into the ground. In the middle of an extremely entertaining conversation, I tried to sneak in a few umpiring-related questions. What was the logic of a leg bye? Why should the batting team be rewarded when the batsman fails to make contact with the ball? I haven’t received a satisfactory explanation before and I didn’t get one here either.

	Manpreet Gony: snapping catches off his own bowling © Cricinfo Ltd.

A day after a comprehensive victory over Pakistan on Tuesday, the majority of the Indian team chose to relax at the team hotel. Only six squad members – Yusuf Pathan, Robin Uthappa, RP Singh, Ishant Sharma, Pragyan Ohja and Manpreet Gony – turned up at the Shere Bangla Stadium along with the support staff.

Uthappa, who was benched against Pakistan, and Yusuf, who made just 3 on debut, batted for a considerable time in the nets. Towards the end of Yusuf’s stint, Prasad set an imaginary field and laid down the equation: ten runs off eight balls. Yusuf pushed the first towards the off side, missed the second from Ishant and played the third back towards Gony. He failed to connect with a few more and it came down to eight off two balls.

Yusuf then drove Robin Singh hard towards cover. Prasad, the stand-in umpire, shouted four but reduced it to two after Robin protested. With six needed off one ball, Yusuf struck Ishant flat and hard towards cover but with no elevation to clear the boundary.

Over at another net, Gony practiced catching off his own bowling. He would run in and deliver a ball towards Prasad, who had a bat and another ball in his hand. He would let Gony’s deliveries go through to mental conditioner Paddy Upton, who was keeping wicket with a baseball mitt.

The moment the ball passed Prasad, he would hit the one in his hand towards Gony, who’d attempt to take the catch. He took several sharp ones during the session but then again he was expecting every ball to come back at him. The key will be to carry that expectation into every delivery he bowls in a match.

After the bowlers had also had their batting practice, Upton put on pads, gloves and grabbed a bat. However, instead of heading into the net he jogged out of the gate and returned dressed as a riot policeman. He was wearing a thick protective jacket - I’m not sure whether it was bulletproof - and a motorcycle crash helmet. Now unafraid of bodily injury, and to the amusement of several watchers, Upton played three deliveries off the middle of his bat.

One person wasn’t amused though. The security guard, presumably whose jacket Upton had borrowed, was urging the cameramen not to shoot - he feared he would get into trouble for lending his jacket for such a purpose.

	After featuring in the Indian Premier League, Mahendra Singh Dhoni and his boys get back to the 50-over format © AFP

The Indian team landed in Dhaka early this morning and were greeted by dark skies and the omnipresent chance of rain. Not that it made a difference, as their practice session was at the indoor facility at the Shere Bangla National Stadium (SBNS).

They were scheduled to leave the hotel at 2.00 pm and with the start of the tournament opener between Pakistan and Bangladesh being delayed due to intermittent showers, some of the journalists trekked along the outer circumference of the stadium to watch them practice.

The indoor facility had three practice pitches, with a surface that resembled a hard court used for tennis. The area was as wide as a tennis court, but longer, and into this space trooped 14 squad members plus the support staff while we watched from a viewing area on the first floor – too many journalists and cameramen in too little space.

The players warmed up with short runs along the length of the pitches before disbanding into three groups. One bunch did reflex catching along with Gary Kirsten in one net. Robin Singh conducted pick and throw sessions in another, while Venkatesh Prasad and Paddy Upton tested both catching and direct-hit skills in the third. After the players had done a bit of each, Kirsten indicated it was time to pad up. “Let’s get into 50-over batting mode boys,” he called.

While the Indians practised inside, fans streamed into the SBNS with the weather beginning to clear and we could gauge what was going on as frequent roars accompanied the removal of a cover. The loudest cheer came at around 4.30 pm, an indication that Bangladesh had won the toss.

It was time to head back and we walked to the media centre unhindered through the inside of the ground, keeping just outside the boundary rope, something inconceivable in Indian stadiums with an international match about to get underway in less than 20 minutes.

	The drainage at the Shere Bangla National Stadium will be vital in ensuring the tournament can progress smoothly despite the high chances of rain © Getty Images

The pilot’s announcement that we would be landing in Dhaka shortly woke me up. Peering out of the window to catch an aerial view of the city, the element that dominated the landscape was water. The skies were grey and heavy and the numerous water-logged areas were impossible to miss.

It was raining when we stepped out of the plane. There had been regular showers over the last week and a weather website says “chance of precipitation is 100%” for three of the next five days, while it’s above 50% for the other two. Unlike New Delhi, where unseasonal rains have eased a scorching summer, the weather in Dhaka should surprise no one: it’s the beginning of the monsoon and one wonders why a cricket tournament was scheduled at such a time.

“Do you think we’ll have even one game?” asked a journalist after alighting. “No, we’re on holiday,” replied another.

There is a brighter side, though, and it is the drainage facility at the Shere Bangla National Stadium in Mirpur. There was plenty of rain ahead of a practice game on June 3 but the Bangladesh squad was able to get a full game in, and today, Pakistan were able to practice despite heavy showers.

The stadium, which also houses a furniture market, was buzzing with activity. If the drainage can hold, who knows, some of the Bangladesh players might make the IPL franchises wonder why those across the eastern border were overlooked.

	IPL fever was on from start to finish © Times of India

I was probably flying somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean when Sohail Tanvir singled in the winning run thus missing a sublime conclusion to the wonderment that was the Rajasthan Royals IPL domination. Now, I sit on a couch in Los Angeles a few hours after returning from Mumbai watching a match from that other bat and ball affair. Sure, it’s nice to be back in the States after a whirlwind, two-week Indian voyage where I lost five pounds and spent countless hours inhaling vaporous fumes of Vicks. But the scent of the IPL continues to linger.

During the two weeks I was in India, from Mumbai to Calcutta to Gandhinagar, it was the Superbowl every night, even when the Deccan Chargers played. At my grandmother’s bungalow in Gujarat, my in-law’s flat in Borivli, to my hotel room in Kolkata, the television blared Sony Max telecasts every evening. Even when other obligations prevented me from watching first hand there was always a mobile phone update or a FM transistor radio to keep me up to fresh about every score and wicket taken. Never had I seen a sporting sensation pervade the social fabric of a society the way the IPL has spread its tentacles around the Indian household. Of course, I’m no sociologist, but it’s utterly obvious that when your wife’s nearly deaf grandmother asks for Mumbai’s run-rate then something surreal this way comes. I finally had to throw up my hands up and use that perennial Mumbai phrase, Aila!

After the duties of a family wedding finished I was inevitably hit by the mysterious virus that strikes all visitors to India, you know that hazing period where everything you eat and drinks spins like a Murali doosra in your stomach. So, bed-ridden, I spent a few days trying to regain the remnants of my stomach and watching even more cricket. Analysis from former players, music videos, highlights and even standup comics in cheerleader outfits cracking jokes in Hindi, which was quite scary even without knowing the language.

Thinking I’d be alright to handle the topsy-turvy thrills of another IPL match I convinced my wife and her brother to go with me to the first semi-final in Mumbai between the Delhi Daredevlis and Rajasthan Royals. The newspapers reported the day before the match that tickets had increased, some seats nearly quadrupling in price. I had to get my tickets fast. We went to my brother-in-law’s accounting office and tried to book tickets from there, only to find out the website wouldn’t process my credit card. We had another source. Apparently, tickets were being sold at some gas stations. So, we drove to another section of the Mumbai suburbs and bought our tickets. But it turned out that my earlier apprehension was totally misguided. The next morning ticket prices were slashed. I had paid 2000 rupees each for my tickets. Now, I could grab them for just 500 rupees. I made sure to hide the paper from my wife that morning.
The cashier at the gas station told us to be at the ticket window by four p.m. so we decided to rent a car and drive the one and a half hour drive to proper Mumbai. My brother-in-law was the first to spot Wankhede Stadium as we drove along Nariman Point. Even at the early hour hoards of police and scalpers were scattered about. We dropped my brother-in-law off to pick up the tickets. He came back to the car a little while later with a huge grin on his face. I asked him what he was smiling about. In his hand he held a wad of cash. Apparently, we were refunded for the tickets.

We took our places and waited in the queue. Lines seem to work backward in Mumbai because we continued to get pushed back instead of going forward. Of course, the source of this problem was a small gap that was open just enough so any streetwalker could easily sneak in. The police didn’t seem to mind. But soon we were through and into the stadium. We found a section that gave us a decent place to observe, but it still made us see through the prism of a barbed chained linked fence. My brother-in-law enjoyed the experience and it was amazing to find out this was his first time to a professional cricket match though he lived the sport his entire life. When the match began we stood up and joined in the ruckus. Rajasthan had quite a solid fan base I thought, but under careful inspection it was obvious that the rowdy applause was for the cheerleaders. Men would quickly whisk out there mobile phone cameras and film the girls every time a sixer or boundary occurred. Even as I began to see families sprinkle throughout the audience I couldn’t help but feel like those poor cheerleaders were like those dancing bears that perform on the side of roads.

The crowd increased to the point where we couldn’t move. I reached the threshold of my tolerance when a guy out of nowhere nearly pushed me from behind. This time I shoved back and told him to move. He tried to stare me down. And that belligerent American side in me looked back at him furiously. My brother-in-law calmed me down and the man went about his way. Then that dreaded Delhi belly I tried to wash away with mass medical prescriptions returned. My brother-in-law told me to just wait till the top of the hour to leave. I couldn’t. Go to the bathroom in the stadium? I wouldn’t even go at work. We left early once again. When we got home Delhi was performing miserably at bat. I was feeling bad physically, but even worse mentally. Though my brother-in-law said watching cricket was better on television I couldn’t help but feel he wanted to stay for the duration of the match. And I, the spoilt, sick American brat had prevented him from doing so.

We watched the second semi-final at my in-laws flat and when Shaun Marsh unexpectedly exited after having played fantastically so far, we all cried in disappointment. My brother-in-law didn’t hold a grudge against me. We shall repeat this again he said. It will be even more fun. I agreed whole heartedly as I sprinted to the bathroom. Aila!