A sore body – my tennis lesson.

I’m sustaining an aching body today. Every time I get up, my legs feel as if they’ll give in. I imagine trying to straighten two spaghettis. They need the support of my two hands. Pressing a desk, or a windowsill, I’ve been getting up. But my hands aren’t free of pain either. They feel fifty pounds heavier.

There is no escape for my ribcage and my chest also. Pain shots from them with every movement. My mind feels hazy, as if clouds have settle in and won’t blow away.

When I was playing tennis yesterday, I never imagined anything like this. I knew I would experience aches, but not to such an extent. But off course, when I think of yesterday, and how I ran, like a monkey that had just escaped from the zoo, the pain was bound to happen. A month long hiatus from the game had relaxed my muscle. Instead of taking it easy, drunk with passion for the game, I held nothing back. I thought I was Rafael Nadal out there, chasing every ball down, running either directions, and even diving, when I couldn’t reach the ball. Crazy, when I think of it now.

When Bhupal send me a text message yesterday at two in the afternoon, I was watching a movie, sipping coffee. Tennis wasn’t even on the agenda. He wrote saying he was bored and wanted to do something. I told him to buy a tennis racket and meet me at Queen’s Park. Four hours later, on an overcast but a cool afternoon, we met to play tennis.

From then on, it was all bang, bang stuff. I wanted to hit the ball as hard as possible and Bhupal wanted to chase everything down, return whatever I’d thrown at him. We even played a set, competitive tennis, instead of just taking it easy and just practising. I must say, I was very sanguine of the result of such exertion, or maybe simply too naïve. I’m paying the price for it now.

It’s almost 4 p.m. now. Another three hours and my day at work will be over. I’ll gladly go home and call it an early night.

Summing up Summer

It’s good to see so many brown faces in London. By that, I don’t mean the Asians. What I have in mind, are the faces of London’s white community, tanned by the summer sun.

In winters, it’s awful. You're assaulted everywhere by the combination of milky white faces and black clothes. You do get used to this incongruous fusion, but it’s not something you’ll enjoy. But now, with summer and the prevailing heat wave, things have changed.

At the beginning of the summer, I stared at the tanned face of white ladies. Maybe they’ve been to Spain or Portugal, I thought. They were rear breeds, in the herd of extra-white milky skins. Though proudly they exhibited their mahogany-colour face, somehow, it all seemed fake, like those silicon breasts. Proper Londoners never had tan.

Now, it’s the other way round. If you’ve still retained the pale skin, then you haven’t enjoyed the summer. Get a life, I’m sure they’ve been taunted many times like that.

For the sunbathers, parks like Hampstead Heath are a Mecca now. No need to head for the Mediterranean coasts. Instead, all the green fields of the parks are much sought after. I’ve yet to sight a topless maiden, but I’m sure people have reported the sighting. For hours, they expose and rejoice in the sun.

But you don’t really need to do that also. If you just walk outside, chances are, your skin will turn swarthy. The white skin doesn’t need much sunlight to become darker, and London at the moment, is parching with so much sun.

So there you go then, babes with tanned skin and colourful short skirts galore in London. Because of it, the city’s whole lotta fun. Finally, we’re experiencing proper summer.

Harrowing Horoscopes

I don’t know whether to believe in Horoscopes or not. When I read them in the daily newspapers, most of the time they were predicting love. Romance is around the corner, many of them wrote. Kept me going though. I tried flirting with my colleagues, hoping for the prediction to come true. I looked around when travelling. Maybe a girl was noticing me. I just needed to smile. But nothing ever worked out. At the end of the day, I slumped, lonely and dejected, just like I was when I started the day.

That’s why I gave up on Horoscopes. It let me down numerous times. I don’t think the prediction works. I couldn’t be sanguine about it anymore.

After a long time away from it, I returned today. When I read the message in a local newspaper, it gave me shivers. For the first time, there were no rosy messages about love, health and wealth. Instead, the horoscope forecasted doom. Stop spending, it said. You’ve flashed your credit card out too many times. Cull the habit. Or, dept will gnaw you till your grave.

I remember my face heating up, reading the message. Never had that happened. Sweat instantly appeared on my palms. The message hit me where it mattered. I had indeed been shelving out my card wantonly. Shoes worth £ 50 yesterday. A Liverpool football T-shirt day before. Organised a barbecue party on Sunday. The Farnborough Air Show on Saturday. I’d become a prodigal spender, without even realising it. Good god, I had to stop.

I’d probably have bought a T-shirt on my lunch break today. In Green Park where I work, the shops are designed to lure people in. The exhibits in the windows seriously entice you. I wanted to go in but I didn't. I did venture inside one of the biggest bookstore in London, and looked at lots of different books. I wanted to buy one. But I didn’t. The doom day horoscope was too strongly engraved in my head.

It probably was a good thing and a lucky thing to read the horoscope then. Maybe they do work when they’re not predicting things, and are only reminding you of what you should be doing, like of my spending spree. I’ll probably read again tomorrow. If it’s about love, I’ll stop immediately. If it’s something else, I think I should heed.

Sleepy Thoughts

I was amazed how early my granny got up every morning. When most of us were still two/three hours away from reviving, she’d be up and teeming with activities - taking a shower, with cold water, then performing all sorts of rituals on her shrines.

I tried to emulate her. I went running. Athletic championship was coming up in my school, so I had to build up stamina. Early mornings was the best time. Also, I was expected to win, so I had a reputation to live up to. The motivation got me out of the bed, and I ran, for about two months. But during those mornings, I still hated getting up so early. Even going to bed became a dread, as my mind was preoccupied with the thoughts of getting up early. When the championship ended, and I won, I abandoned emulating my granny.

She’d been performing these early morning chores for as long as I could remember. She’d had a hard life, and she was a very pious person who prayed every morning, very auspicious time for the Hindus. So getting up early, I thought, came naturally to her. But she said she needed to sleep less and less, as she grew older and older.

“These days, I hardly need five hours sleep,” she’d said.

If there was one thing I fancied about growing old, it was this fact. Requiring just five hours of sleep sounded amazing. You’d have time to do many things.

Despite abhorring early morning starts, I did enjoy what I’d seen in the wee hours. The freshness. The road devoid of smoke-belching lorries. The sight of milkmen, riding a cycle. Birds chirpping and hopping on the asphalt. And most only runners greeting you. During the day, the world is choatic, not as romantic as in the morning.

Then, while returning home from the run, the crowing cock, the early morning bajaans (religious Hindu songs) filtering out from people’s houses, these joyous moments I could enjoy if I slept just five hours.

I needed eight hours sleep, those days. During holidays, I slept even more. And still, despite that amount of sleep, getting up always felt lousy. I couldn’t wait to change that.

Eighteen years have elapsed since my granny’s revelation about her early morning starts. She’s turned eighty, and I’ve crossed thirty. But even until now, while my granny continuous to rise early, I remain a zombie well into the day if I get up early. My body still demands eight hours of sleep.

But I’m in London now, experiencing fast life, and not in the laid back Kathmandu. Eight hours of sleep is a luxury here. You’ve got be up and moving. You’re lucky if you enjoy seven hours of slumber. So, I’ve had to adapt, which I’ve found it hard. Initially, when I reported to work at seven, getting up at five thirty in the morning, I did nothing but yawn and drag myself all day. At 9 p.m., I’d be fast asleep, to recover from my early start. But again, despite putting in the hours, I’d get the same result next day, if I got up early.

It’s been two years since the radically alternation of my lifestyle. It still doesn’t feel right. I can’t read a novel or I’ll fall asleep, even in a moving train. I can’t be creative in my writing. I feel too tired to think. Also, my mind works slowly, when people crack jokes. But I’ve had to stick and sweat it out.

It’s got better though. You do get used to it, I guess. I mind may still hark back to the glorious days of sleep-filled life, but my body's moved on. These days, I get up without an alarm. When I hit the bed, I don’t waste any time. I’m snoring immediately. My six hours of sleep is deep, without any dreams, and very satisfying. So I’ve improved, I guess, even though I've not got used to it.

But every morning, when I stagger out of the bed, my granny’s words always reverberate in my ears. I’d love to be like her. She’s always been my inspiration. Now, I need her sleeping pattern also. Just five hours sleep!

Surely, I should be getting close. Maybe in next ten years, it’ll happen.

Long Due Barbecue

You don’t organise barbecues in Nepal. It’s the thing for the rich, extremely expensive. Even buying a grill and charcoals cost a fortune. Never mind the meat and all the sauce you need to marinate. Also, sausages are unheard of in Nepal. We stare if we see anybody enjoy sausages. Such rarity.

Then, the beverages. We don’t have a habit of telling (or requesting) invited guests to bring their own alcohol. It’s rude. An anathema. Guests should be treated like gods. You’d be sullying your reputation, if you asked guests to contribute anything.

So the costs for organising a simply BBQ is staggering. My estimation would be, if you’ve got a decent job, you’d be wasting (it is wasting, not spending, people's mentality) half the month’s salary. Unbelievable. That’s why we never had those parties. Something that resembles closely to one was when my dad organised a big bonfire one New Year’s eve. We did marinate mutton, but on the fire, without proper grill and charcoals, the meat blackened, became burnt, or didn’t cook at all. The fire wasn’t even.

Last Sunday, determined to put that right, together with my housemates, I organised my first barbecue in London.

I was surprised with how little effort it took, and more importantly, how little it cost. For five guests, I ended up spending £60. Half a day’s pay. And it took us just two hours to prepare. That included shopping, marinating the meat, and even preparing a salad, to enjoy side-by-side with the barbecue.

We bought use-and-throw barbecue box, containing grill on top with charcoals and fire-starters underneath. In no time, after we lit the fire, the charcoals started giving heat. All the meat, sausages, and fish we bought, cooked with ease.

I couldn’t help but compare with our efforts of that bonfire night. From the heat of the fire, my dad sweated like a pig in the chilly night, while twisting and turning the meant, to prevent them from over cooking. The fire almost cost his jacket. Half the mutton got lost, became ash, as it slid down from the log we’d placed for them to cook. All-in-all, it was a disastrous effort.

This time, we sipped beer, joked, laughed, and used the tongs to flip the meat and the sausages around. In thirty minutes, the lamp chops we’d placed first, were ready to eat.

Delicious! came the verdict, from Michael, my housemate who tasted the first lamp chop. After that, everybody jumped in. I waited for my vegetarian sausages to grill properly.

Which reminds me of another thing. If I’d been vegetarian that bonfire night, some fifteen years back, I’d have to either endure hunger, or enjoy just potatoes. Here, I had vegetable sausages, vegetable khababs, and even baby potatoes, specifically meant for barbecue.

This place really is geared for barbecue. We in Nepal, we’d rather make go picnics, and enjoy our Dal, Bhat. Or maybe MOMOS?

Aftermath of Death

Something about death that makes us think, and think hard. Makes us look at the person who passed away in a positive way.

I felt sorry for this person, genuinely, when I received a call last night with the news of his death. After I disconnected the phone, I thought of few good things he did or stood for. I also thought I’d pray for his departing spirit. I even reached to the point of shedding some tears. It felt like a loss. For most of time I’ve known him though, I’ve done nothing except loathe him.

And he deserved the loathing, not only from me, but from all the people who knew him. He wasn’t well liked. Even his children hated him. A weird man, he spend his retired life sequestered from his neighbours and family. His second-wife enforced this barrier, so much so that they drew away his four children also. Three of them (two sons and a daughter) were in Germany, and one daughter in Australia.

In Hindu tradition, perilous is the departing soul’s journey, if your children aren’t around to see you pass away. Yesterday, his eldest son was preparing a seven hours long voyage to reach Kathmandu from Germany. Also, the gods won’t see too kindly, if the body is not cremated within twenty-four hours. This person’s body will be kept, for his son to return and light the funeral peir. Despite god’s warth, it’s even more ominious if the body is set alight by someone else. Such is the importance of an offspring in Hindu traditon. Yet, during his lifetime, he spent most of his energy driving them away.

This person was my neighbour, for bit more than twenty-five years. Living next to his house, hating him all the time, it didn’t do any favours for the love I wanted to nurture for all sentient beings. He’s gone now. I guess there will be a void he’ll leave. When I return home, it’ll be strange to look up at his room on the first floor of his house and not see him cough and stare at you. Believe me when I say he stared at people he hated. With eyes gaping, he was a fright, especially in my childhood. And he reserved most of his stares to my family members. It was useless staring back at this senile figure.

In one way, it’ll be a welcome change also. His own children had given up on him. It’d been ages since any of my family members spoken to him. I guess the cold war will be over now. No, but wait a moment…there is still his second-wife to content with. If he was hated, she’s a hate figure.

She comes with even bigger eyes, ability to stare even more, without blinking, and is endowed in the art of mouthing out loud. A lippy menace she is, albiet a feeble one.

The Sky above Farnborough littered with debris – The Air Show.

They literarily were debris. The Mig-29, the best of the aircraft to perform the stunt, appeared high above like a floating leaf, pushed hither and thither by the wind. Such was the brilliance of its maneuvers. The public announcement system heralded it before Mig flew, even an American pilot grudging acknowledged to me. The Russian Mig is amazing when it takes to the sky. It was.

The others weren’t outdone. The tornado was a noise pollution, but when the plane pirouetted twice, continuously, while it flew at mach one speed, people below flabbergasted. Many planes nosedived. A lot of them soared high, muzzle up, even more impressively than an ascending eagle.

Then, there were the bees, the humming choppers. Majestically, the American Apache Longhorn scaled. The sight, with its outstretched wings and overhanging missiles, would make any person run for their lives. The Royal Air Force had lot of aircrafts flying. The new Eurofighter, Typhoon, looked good. Its helicopter, five of them at one go, also took to the sky. I was waiting for them to collide, that was the only thing that hadn’t happened. Then, it would truly be debris, but thank god, that didn’t happened. Instead, they showed maneuvers very few choppers could even contemplate.

Below, more than thirty thousand people had gathered. Some camped, some with umbrellas perched above their heads, not to miss a single action even when the rain pelted, and many, just soaking it all in. But the rain was intermittent. The gods must have heard the rallying cries of the thundering aircrafts.

This show, called the Farnborough Air Show, claims to be the biggest in the world. It might well be. The planes not only took to the sky, they were parked on the ground for us to witness also. The new super-jumbo, Airbus A380 was there, greeting the arrivals. Placed strategically at the entrance so that everyone would gape in amazement as they entered. The plane was like a giant whale, plucked from the sea and place there, in the tarmac. Its huge, bloated body, making the design look incongruous. But it was the size, which held people in amazement.

The Boeing was hopelessly upstaged by the Airbus. Its 747 is no longer the monster of the sky, and it only had one passenger jet. A 777 was parked, hidden amidst American Air force’s Boeing fighter aircrafts.

The company though is building small, lighter, but faster and wide-body aircrafts, to challenge Airbus. They no longer believe bigger is better. Being an American company, it’s hard to believe that.

The show was in fact on its fifth day today. For past five days, only the traders were allowed. Today, the gates opened for the public, and we turned out in full force.

There were three large exhibition halls inside the Air Show. Many companies were present. From big engine manufactures like Rolls Royce, to tiny screw makers from Mexico, most of them, who had something to do with flying, had flown in here and camped, exhibiting their products.

For more than six hours, I toured the place, saw the parked aircrafts, took pictures, and witnessed the show. That was a lot in a day, and for ₤20, wasn’t bad. Despite being alone, never for a single moment, I was bored. The exhibition held my interest, but when the Red Arrows started the air show, at half 12, I didn’t notice time, like the aircrafts, fly by.

After the show, the planes above the skies of London will now no longer hold the same interest to me. I saw couple of them fly when I was coming back. They appeared to me like a burnt food, after enjoying a sumptuous meal. The twinkle is gone, they no longer are the little stars, thanks to awesome aircrafts that took to the Farnborough skies.

Snogging a stranger

You meet people of all nationality in O’Neil’s at Leicester Square. The Irish, obviously, since it’s an Irish pub. Clutching Magners, the Irish girls are often seen gyrating on tabletops, as the nights start to get old.

It’s popular with the locals also. On the top floor of this three storey pub, a DJ pumps dance music to revelers on a dance floor. It's a club up there, and the English love to come here to party.

When I frist ventured inside O’Neil’s, the place was overflowing with the French and the Korean football fans. TV screens had mushroomed in the every corner of the pub, and people were cheering their sides. During the match, I met and chatted with an English girl from Blackburn. An Irish girl also came by my way. She was an Arsenal fan, and said she lived in North London. Unable to detect her accent, and as she hadn't yet revealed her nationality, I introduced her to my friend as an English lady. A fatal mistake to our potentially burgeoning relationship. It drove her away from me.

Anyway, she was with an Italian and a Spanish girl. Later, I met two French girls. There were people from other nations also. I could see Eastern Europeans, South Americans. Citizens of the world had descended in this place.

I went back to O’Neil’s again last Saturday. This time, there was no football game. The place when I walked in was comparatively quiet. One of my friends had called his office colleagues to the place. He said there were four young, pretty girls, and they wanted to meet us and have fun. Sounded exciting.

Two of them were ethnic Indians from Kenya, other two, Polish. The Polish girls came with their men. The Indians, as we started talking, turned out to be hopeless bores. We got out of the group and explored.

After few pints, inebriated, embolden, I attempted conversations with several girls. All of them fruitless. Then, my luck changed. In the top floor, at a quite corner, a girl was seating on a stool, doing nothing and with no one around her. I approached her and said, ‘Hi!’

She responded and we got talking. Her name was Alex, and I offered to buy her a drink. We settled down in an even quieter corner with drinks and conversed more. When she discovered I was from Nepal, she stared at me, saying she’d never met any one from my country. I guess that aroused her curiosity in me even more, as she offered her lips and we kissed.

Our snog lasted quite a while. I never saw the time but it was long. In between, I bought her a bottle of water. We talked more. I asked her where she lived, where she was from. She wasn’t forthcoming with her answers. But I didn’t care, as long as I was kissing her.

I offered her to take her to my place. I even promised her ‘the best night of her life’. She declined, but continued the kissing game. We stopped at one point, exhausted, and she said she wanted to use the loo. I knew she wouldn’t be coming back. She didn’t.

Later, while returning home, I thought about Alex. I was disappointed she’d vanished, but I was glad I’d met her and had a good time. My thoughts then turned towards what she'd said. She said she was a local girl. She’d said she’d gone to Warwick University, had lived in Coventry, but somehow, I didn’t find her English at all. Her accent sounded bit weird. But she spoke fluently. And her clothes, and her shoes, it wasn’t typically local. Something in there, didn't even had a Chavs looks. Very different.

During my analysis, a realization suddenly dawned on me. She had to be an Australian. She had to be. Her accent, the more I thought about, the more Australian she sounded to me now. The loud music and her sex appeal had lulled my perception, but I was sure now.

I smiled thinking that. I became extremely glad, and even proud that I’d kissed an Australian girl. Yay!

Tonsiled Summer

We've got the hottest weather of the year prevailing in London. And I guess what, I’ve just caught the worst thing that I could possibly catch. A bug (or call it flu). Got up this morning with tonsillitis. Can you imagine the horror facing me now?

All the shopping I did yesterday, to eat nothing but salad for coming week, will now go to waste. I can’t eat them. For past two days, I have been eating just salads. Maybe that was the reason for my tonsillitis. But I’ve enjoyed the food in this hot weather. I don’t have to sweat like a pig while I eat salad. And all the mixture, different type of items I add in my salad, has made it a sumptuous meal. However, I seriously think I may have over indulged.

Now, tonsillitis also means no more icy cold coke. No cold milk in my corn flakes. Nothing. Really is shit.

I told my colleague at work about my disease. What a coincident! He said he'd just shaken the same flu off. 'Tonsi bug’ is going around, what he had to say. Took him three weeks to get rid of it. He had to lie low, and during the whole time, he felt like a ton of bricks pressing down on his head. My mouth was gaping in shock listening to him. I thought I’d rid of it in a day or two. A gurgle or two a day, and the pain will go away. Simple. No it wasn’t. Not according to my colleague.

No cold beer then. My first thought when listening to him. Someone’s invited me to a Bavarian beer house on Saturday. I guess I’ll have to cancel that. But let’s see. I’m hopeful. Maybe my colleague was bit over the top. The tonsillitis from the morning, while it hasn’t gone away, hasn’t increased in the intensity also. I'm not feeling weak or anything. So hopefully, with hot water, few gurgles and a hot tomato soup, I’ll purge the bastard by Saturday.

Don’t want to miss the opportunity to drink German beer.

Jinxing Gentlemanly German Footie

Do we carry a curse with us? Seems like it. Last Saturday, Bhupal and I, we went to watch England play in an English pub, they lost. In a Brazilian bar, we watch them lose. Yesterday, we went to Goethe Institute. And Germany, many people’s favourite, lost.

Where next? I want Portuguese to win the world cup. Visiting a Portuguese bar in London is out of question then. The funny this is, a Portuguese friend has already invited me. I should kindly decline. Or should we visit the bar and see if this jinx is really working?

In Goethe Institute, about two hundred Germans had gathered to watch football and cheer their beloved Deutschland. The Germans though, seem to lack the elan of the English. They hardly shouted, or sang, and when Germany lost, they seem to smile and take defeat calmly. No agony. No abuses. Nothing.

An English lady who I was chatting with during the football match smiled and looked at me when the Italians scored. I told her to stop smiling, saying the Germans might head butt her. But she seems to know better.

"Believe me," she said, "this isn’t as serious as in the England game."

I have to agree with her.

So we walked out after the match, leaving behind happy German fans, it seems. If we’d gone to an Italian bar, I know how loudly they’d curse everyone, including their own players if they had lost. Oh, we all know about the Italian verve, don’t we? Even the English are no match to that. I guess, in the end, we missed that. We missed the crestfallen faces and everything that came with it.

But the Germans are a good host. No doubt. The world cup has shown that, and yesterday, Goethe Institute showed that to us. Two Germans who I’d befriended during the match thanked me for supporting Germany. I like that. Decent folks.

And oh, I learned two German words. Tora means goal, which unfortunately for the Germans never arrived. And weiss…some kind of German beer. We tried Sneider Weiss. I think I’ll stick to Newcastle Brown Ale.

A black scar?

The temperature was scorching, probably one of the hottest day in England. People out and about in Kilburn High Street were wearing minimal clothes, to beat the heat. World cup was happening. England game was two hours away, and people were wearing t-shirts of different nations playing in the world cup. Amidst all this, I was happily striding towards the train station, when a sight made me stop on my tracks. I just had to look at her and, frankly, marvel.

The woman was clad in full Muslim attire. She was covered from head to toe in a black dress. Only her eyes were visible. From her two children, who were walking along with her, you could see she was a black woman. It was such a contrast, the dress, from what others were wearing that I just couldn't ignore her. She felt like a patch of crimson desert inside a green forest.

Alright, people might think she's got every rights to wear the dress. Who are we to comment? She's a Muslim woman and her tradition dictates her to wear such a dress. Ignore her, leave her alone. But I couldn't. What I saw wasn't right.

She looked like a prisoner behind bars, inside those clothes. I pitied her. Why can't she wear what we're wearing? Maybe not so flauntinly, but people can dress up conservatively for summer weather. Not a black dress, and definitely not something that covers your whole body.

She didn't mind my stare. In fact, I doubt she even noticed it. She's used to it. Confidently, she strode along. I kept turning back, as I too walked away from her. Later, from the distance, her figure felt an eyesore.

As I got on a trian and headed towards central London, the memory of what I'd seen refused to leave my mind. This wasn't the first time I'd seen a fully clad Muslim woman, and won't be the last, but there, in Kilburn High Street, on a hot day like that, I just couldn't believe people would wear that. And completely ignore others, their stares, and walk on. Beats me.

Footie

There was singing, that's what drew me in. Then there were all these swearing, cursing, and chanting. And finally, there were crestfallen faces. All inside two hours. Watching a world cup match in a crowded pub, overflowing with England fans, was pretty exciting. The whole nation was on the edge for this quarterfinal match. You could see it on the faces of the people gathered inside the pub. The atmosphere was eletricfying.

I guzzled up three pints of beer during the match. Started with a lager, then had two different ales. All in effort to get inebriated. A drunken mind enjoys the surrounding more. You can take all the swearing and laugh it off. You can do it yourself. And, you can support a nation that isn't yours. Alcohol alway helps.

In the cramped pub, I watched the first half stranded between two tall English fans. They sang, and told everybody to sing. They cursed, and shook hands with me, when I got an elbow from one of them, while he was trying to clap. It was all good-natured though.

I escaped from them in the second half, and watched in agony has England went one player down. Rooney’s sending off made the place erupt. Abuses were hurled at the Portuguese players, England's opponent, the umpire got his fair share. After that, it never quieted down.

Someone called one of the Portuguese player poof, for going down so easily. That's football fans for you. Another pleaded with his own players not to concede any goals. The English players seem to respond and played heroically. That prompted the whole crowd to sing their national anthem. It was war happening out there, and these fans were supporting their heroes well.

Then came the dreaded penalty, with no goals scored in the entire play. When the English players stepped up to shot, the crowd sang their names. When the Portuguese came forward, abuses naturally followed. But after three misses, when England lost, the place resonated stunned silence. Only the sound of match commentary, unheard throughout the match, filtered through.

Soon, the crowd filed out of the pub in droves.

I wanted England to win, but I wasn't as disconsolate as the others. I moved on. Brazil was playing next, and I went to a Brazilian bar to watch the match.

The atmosphere was more relaxing there. The bar was playing Salsa music in the background. People were dancing as well as watching the match. And gorgeous girls flooded the place. I enjoyed this place more, I have to admit. And even though Brazil too lost, and I saw more crestfallen faces, the Brazilians I thought took it more lightly. They partied until the wee hours of morning to shake off their disappointment. I partied with them.

Overall, though the results went against the teams I supported, I enjoyed the day.