And then I saw men full of spirit play their heart out for India on a football field. Rugged Manipuris played alongside a Kashmiri and a Sikkimese. Goans stood tall alongside Bengalis. And a hardened Englishman, face carved out of granite, was hoisted up for he had shown what can be done in an atmosphere where many thought nothing would ever move.

And have we given Bhaichung Bhutia his due? You could see that second goal a hundred times and ask for more. As you could see little, bubbly Sunil Chhetri and Gourmangi Singh and Surkumar Singh and Steven Dias and Climax Lawrence and Subroto Paul and Mehrajuddin Wadoo.

This was India finding its feet and only just becoming aware of what it could do. I must confess I see football as one of India’s strongest forces of integration and our pathway to the north-east, of which we know so pitifully little. These players were brave and they wore national colours, unlike other diabolical young men who are taught to throw bombs and tear India apart.

So is Indian sport giving glimpses of what is possible? Is this the India of the early nineties, full of possibility but submerged by governments who stifled growth and entrepreneurship? Or is this a maddeningly brief fling, a tempting little affair with hope? There is a ray of sunlight away in the east but it is having to fight its way through bureaucracy, like Indian industry had to. This is a voice that is crying for freedom and expression and we must suppress it no more. Ministries and associations cannot produce sportsmen. Other than through coercion they never have and never will. They can, at best, nurture. Bureaucratic bodies don’t just smother sport, they strangle it. What we have seen in the last three days is a voice dying to be heard.

... contd.