By Mira Sethi
I try not to write or debate or pitch in about my father on public forums because he’s a public figure and what I feel for and about him â€” affection, love, pride, amusement/bemusement â€” may not be what others feel (certainly in that order).
Today I am emotional. I am sitting in Qaddafi stadium with goosebumps on my arms.
I’m not a huge cricket watcher. I watch T20s because they’re short and fun. I also really like Misbah. He’s a graceful man.
I am emotional today because the energy in the stadium is electric. Everyone is smiling. A girl of 6 waved at me from her stand above: “Mira baji!” A huge grin on her face. Her mother beside her, waving, smiling, laughing, actually.
25,000 Pakistanis â€” young and old and men and women and excitement-addled children â€” are here. Some of the kids are too young to know or be obsessed with cricket. But they’re smiling because their parents are smiling: Something Good Is Happening. They want to be a part of it.
A week ago I went up to Abu’s study at 1 am. He was stressed out. Some foreign players had refused to play in Lahore. The franchise owners had concerns. Pakistanis were worried. Abu was pacing in his nightsuit, a creme-coloured khaddar shalwar kameez he has worn since I was a child.
I hugged him and told him that, actually, I was worried too. And I was. It was a perfectly legitimate concern. There was a lot to take care of.
And today, here I am, sitting in Qaddafi stadium, the crowds roaring, doing “waves,” countdowns, chants, engaged in selfie-itus that would give our actresses a run for their money.
I went up to Abu and squeezed his hand. “You’re wearing a woolen suit,” I said. “It’s too hot for this type of suit.”
“I don’t feel hot at all,” he laughed.
I knew exactly what he meant: his mind and heart had expanded with joy. Heat? What heat? His mind was somewhere else.
The stadium is lit up. Pakistan is lit up. May this flicker grow into a steady ray that arcs over this land.
I love you, Pakistan. Pakistan Zindabad. #PSL #Pakistan