There was a time when an India Pakistan cricket series did not merely announce a sporting contest. It announced a season of waiting. Days were counted with quiet excitement. Evenings felt longer. Hearts beat faster long before the first ball was bowled. For us as children in Kashmir cricket was not watched. It was lived. It slipped into classrooms mosques lanes and living rooms with the gentleness of habit and the force of emotion. The thrill began much before the match day. Newspapers were read with unusual seriousness. Names of players were memorised like poetry. Discussions started in school corridors and continued till dusk. Teachers pretended to be strict yet their eyes betrayed the same excitement that lived in ours. Cricket had dissolved the invisible wall between authority and innocence. We were students and they were teachers yet during an India Pakistan match we were simply listeners waiting for a miracle from the radio waves.
I remember our mathematics teacher a man known for discipline and silence. On ordinary days his class felt like a courtroom. But on match days something softened. A Zeenat Branded radio with black leather Cover would appear on his table placed carefully as if it were part of the syllabus. While teaching algebra his fingers would adjust the volume slightly. Commentary flowed through numbers. We solved equations while listening to run rates. Fear and joy walked together. At any moment a senior teacher could enter. At any moment a wicket could fall. That trembling uncertainty made everything beautiful. Some of us carried pocket sized radios hidden inside school bags. During the short interval between classes we rushed to corners. Radios were switched on with trembling hands. We leaned close listening to the crackling voice of the commentator describing every ball as if narrating destiny itself. There was elegance in that moment. Pure sound painting vivid pictures in our minds. No screens. No graphics. Just imagination running faster than the ball. And always the silent fear that a teacher might appear and punish us. Yet deep inside we knew they too were listening somewhere. Many times teachers themselves dismissed us early. Half day was announced not as permission but as understanding. Go home and watch the match. That sentence carried warmth. Cricket had earned mercy. Once during a legendary match when Shahid Afridi scored a century in just forty balls it was a Friday. I was in Fifth or sixth class. Radios accompanied us even to the courtyard outside Jamia Masjid. Young boys gathered quietly. Commentary floated in the air while the Molvi Sahab delivered his sermon. Respect remained yet excitement refused to be silent. Cricket and faith shared the same space that day. We bunked classes without guilt. Not out of rebellion but devotion. These matches demanded loyalty. They shaped our childhood in ways textbooks never could. I remember another match when Abdur Razzaq played one of those fearless innings. Eighty eight runs in quick time. Later he felt weak. That moment was discussed with concern as if he were a family member. Around the same time I was memorising Surah Rahman. Standing before my teacher I recited verses. He listened carefully yet his radio was pressed near his ear. One ear towards my recitation and the other towards the commentary. It was a scene that defined our times. Balance between duty and desire.
The next day school transformed into a newsroom. We discussed every over. Every catch. Every dropped chance. Commentary lines were repeated word by word. Disagreements emerged. Debates grew intense. Yet nothing turned bitter. It was collective memory in the making. Our neighbourhood had its own rituals. One neighbour in particular was deeply passionate about India Pakistan matches. Electricity was scarce. Two or three hours of power in an entire day was considered fortune. Voltage was weak. Our black and white televisions often refused to work. There were no inverters. No dish antennas. No smartphones. But there was will. Truck batteries were brought. Heavy and noisy yet full of promise. Wires were connected carefully. When the screen finally flickered alive cheers erupted. The entire mohalla gathered there. Children elders and even women joined. It became a communal event. Cricket erased barriers. People shared tea khewa and laughter. Wins were celebrated collectively. Losses were absorbed together. In those moments the match felt less like India versus Pakistan and more like us versus time. We were fighting forgetfulness. We were creating memories that would outlive the scorecards. Listening to commentary in Kashmiri homes had its own rhythm. Silence during tense overs. Sudden gasps. Quiet prayers whispered for sixes. The radio commentator became a storyteller. His voice carried hope despair suspense and joy. We trusted him blindly. His words painted stadiums we had never seen. His pauses made our hearts stop.
Today cricket is everywhere. High definition screens instant replays and endless debates. Everything is visible yet something feels distant. The trembling radios are gone. The fear of being caught is gone. The collective waiting is gone. What remains are memories soaked in innocence. Those India Pakistan matches gave us more than entertainment. They gave us shared childhood. They taught us anticipation patience and unity. They stitched cricket into the cultural fabric of Kashmir. Even now when a commentator raises his voice for a boundary somewhere deep inside a child listens again holding a small radio praying quietly for sixes.

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