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But the English batsmen were getting hits. Vicky translated the Hindi chants: "India will win!" and "Blue is shit!"—the English uniforms were blue—and "Bhaji-Bhaji-Bhaji!" The whole stadium was roaring, though some scattered claps accompanied a good hit from Flintoff. Even the most raucous soccer fans had nothing on this screaming mob, and the cricketers themselves, in celebration of a catch or a score, hugged and rolled on the grass of the pitch.

"It's a big day," I said.

"Cricket is God in India," Vicky said. "More than God."

And he went on narrating the match for me: "See, careless half-controlled hoick off full toss ... Ah, good catch in deep mid-viket ... Flintoff tried an ill-advised sweep off a straight throw ... He is out. Leg before vicket ... Harbhajan will be Man of Match ... See, player in crease."

"Is it a sticky wicket?"

"A dicey pitch, you can say."

To the cries of "India will win!" I began to think that this was a manifestation of the new India. The vast stadium, the unanimous denunciation of England, the huge crowd, and the confidence. It was also the commercial crassness of the new century, the uniforms with advertising patches stitched to them.

"India can win," Vicky said as the afternoon wore on. "We have to take five more vickets."

Pietersen lofted a strong hit into the upper tier of the stands.

"That's a six-plus," Vicky said.

But another of his big hits was caught at the boundary by an athletic fielder.

"Fare-thee-well!" Vicky shrieked.

The new batsmen faded fast: caught, blundered, leg before wicket, and soon it seemed certain the victory was India's. Assured that the match was in the bag, Vicky addressed other matters: Did I have children? What was my job? Did we have cricket in America? Did I like India?

Satisfied with my answers, he turned back to the match. And now I could see that India would win and that in a matter of minutes fifty thousand triumphant cricket fans would be stampeding out of Ferozeshah Kotla cricket ground, looking for pale ferringhis like me to taunt with their victory. So I ducked out, hurried past security people, steel fences, metal detectors, and ranks of cops holding lathis—long sticks for beating back a mob in what is known as a lathi charge. All these tough-looking men had gathered at the exits.

I was not the only person in a hurry. A stout, well-dressed Indian man in a white suit was steering his wife through a metal detector. He could have been a magnate, she a maharani. She set the detector buzzing, but she was waved on, towards a waiting limousine with a liveried driver—she was slow, heavy, trying to keep up with her tubby husband. She wore bangles, a thickness of necklaces, and dangly earrings. The diamond in her nostril was as big as an acorn.

Outside the stadium, I could still hear the crowd. In a class-conscious country riddled by divisions, the whole cricket mob chanted as one, as though it was more than solidarity—an expression of self-esteem, joyous and assertive, pleased with itself, like a hoarse gloating echo of Amar Singh, who had said to me in Amritsar, "We're a big power now."

That evening, as if on cue, an American woman entered the lobby of my hotel with her husband, and I stepped aside to let them pass. They had just returned from a sightseeing tour of Delhi, which would have included Humayun's tomb and the Red Fort and the Qutub Minar and the sight of many Indians who had not shared in the country's economic miracle. Another reminder that traveling in India is not for the faint of heart, the woman's eyes were red from weeping, and she was sniffling, dabbing at her puffy eyes. She glanced tearfully at me, then looked away, muttering, "I don't care. I'm not going out tomorrow." Then, half actressy, half sincere, but certainly upset: "Walter, it breaks my heart to see those people living like that."

NIGHT TRAIN TO JODHPUR

THE MANDORE EXPRESS

I KNEW WITHOUT BEING TOLD that the train to Jodhpur would be leaving from platform 16; it was obvious from the look of the waiting travelers. Most of the world dresses alike, in blue jeans, T-shirts, and sneakers. Rural India is one of the exceptions to this worldwide sartorial monotony, and Rajasthan remains outstandingly itself, self-possessed and multihued. At Old Delhi Station it was possible to see from the clothes of the women on the platform that they awaited the Mandore Express to Jodhpur.