October 1, 2000 Crystal Ballroom, Pearl Continental Hotel, Lahore The Grand Auction
The air in the ballroom was thinner than usual, sucked out by the sheer gravity of the wealth in the room.
The hammer came down with a sound that echoed across the subcontinent.
"SOLD! The Multan Sultans franchise goes to... Mr. Ajay Devgn and Mrs. Kajol Devgn, representing the Tata Group!"
The room erupted. The Tatas—the architects of modern India—had just bought a piece of Southern Punjab.
But the real silence fell when the Lahore Lions came up. This was the crown jewel. The heart of Pakistan.
A paddle raised from the front row. It wasn't a Pakistani tycoon. It was a woman with a dimpled smile that every man in Pakistan recognized from pirated VHS tapes. Preity Zinta.
Sitting next to her was a sharp-looking man in a bespoke suit. Ness Wadia.
"Sold!" the auctioneer shouted, his voice trembling. "To the Wadia Group!"
General Mahmood leaned over to me in the VIP box.
"Sir, do you realize who that is?" Mahmood whispered, pointing at Ness Wadia. "That is Nusli Wadia's son. That is Muhammad Ali Jinnah's great-grandson."
"I know," I smiled, watching the cameras swarm them. "The Quaid-e-Azam's blood has returned to buy the team of the city where Pakistan was born. The poetic justice is... expensive."
The Road Show: The Daughter and the Heir October 5, 2000 Liberty Market, Lahore
It wasn't a parade. It was a pilgrimage.
Preity Zinta stood on the open-deck bus, waving to a crowd that stretched for miles. They were throwing rose petals. But the cheers shifted when Ness Wadia took the mic.
He didn't speak like a foreigner. He spoke like a man returning to his ancestral estate.
"Lahore is my great-grandfather's city!" Ness shouted. "We are not here to buy a team. We are here to claim our heritage!"
The Lahoris lost their minds. Old men, who remembered 1947, wept. They saw the face of the Founder in the young Parsi businessman.
"Jinnah ka Khoon! Jinnah ka Khoon!" (Jinnah's Blood!) the chant went up.
For a moment, the border didn't exist. The grandson of the Father of the Nation was owning the city, funded by Indian capital, cheered by Pakistani patriots. It was a confusing, beautiful mess.
The Saints and The Stars October 6, 2000 Multan Airport
In Multan, the reception was different. It was regal.
Ajay Devgn and Kajol stepped off the plane. They weren't treated as actors. They were treated as State Guests.
The Corps Commander of Multan—usually a stern man who stared at Indian tanks—was waiting on the tarmac with a bouquet.
"Welcome to the City of Saints," the General said, shaking Ajay's hand.
They were driven to the Shrine of Shah Rukn-e-Alam in a cavalcade usually reserved for Heads of State.
Kajol, wearing a chador out of respect, walked barefoot into the shrine. The local Siraiki women surrounded her, not to tear at her clothes, but to bless her. They saw her as the "Simran" from DDLJ, the girl who fought for love.
"They are not enemies here," the Tata representative whispered to Ajay. "They are just fans who have been waiting 50 years for an autograph."
The Frontier Fire October 8, 2000 Peshawar
But the wildest scenes were in the North West.
Shah Rukh Khan arrived in Peshawar.
The moment his SUV crossed into the Khyber region, the sky lit up.
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat!
It wasn't an attack. It was Aerial Firing. The traditional Pashtun salute.
Thousands of AK-47s were fired into the air in a synchronized rhythm of joy. The tracer rounds turned the night sky into a ceiling of fire.
Waiting at the Bala Hissar Fort was a man who hadn't left his cave in Balochistan for years.
Nawab Akbar Bugti.
The Tiger of Balochistan sat on a charpoy, flanked by his fiercest guards. He had traveled all the way from Dera Bugti just for this.
SRK walked up to the old Warlord.
Bugti stood up—a rare mark of respect. He embraced Shah Rukh in the crushing Pashtun hug.
"You are a Pathan," Bugti rumbled, his voice shaking the walls. "You conquered India with your face. We conquered these hills with our guns. But today... you are the bigger Khan."
Bugti took off his own turban—a priceless symbol of tribal authority—and placed it on Shah Rukh's head.
"The Peshawar Zalmi is yours," Bugti declared. "And if anyone in this tournament troubles you... the Bugti tribe will consider it a personal insult."
The picture of Bugti and SRK hugging made the front pages of every newspaper. The Warlord and the Superstar. The Gun and the Rose.
The King of Bengal October 10, 2000 Dhaka, Bangladesh
While Pakistan was drunk on Bollywood, Dhaka was drunk on Lala.
Shahid Afridi was omnipresent.
Turn on BTV? Afridi is eating Hilsa fish with the Prime Minister. Turn on the radio? Afridi is promising to smash the Indian bowlers. Walk in the street? Billboards of Afridi holding a tiger cub.
He was the "Hot Favorite." The Bengali journalists followed him like a cult.
Interviewer: "Mr. Afridi, how do you feel leading Dhaka?" Afridi: "I feel like I am home. The fish is good. The sixes will be bigger."
The crowd went wild. He was giving them the swagger they lacked. He was the mercenary who had become the monarch.
The Shadow Guardians Islamabad
I watched the reports from my office. It was a PR masterpiece. But I knew the reality on the ground.
"Brigadier," I asked. "The security?"
"Tight, Sir," Brigadier Tariq replied. "Every Indian actor has a 4-man ISI detail. Undercover. Dressed as personal assistants or drivers."
"Good."
I looked at the photo of Kajol shopping in Multan, with a 'shop assistant' hovering behind her who I recognized as a Major from Military Intelligence.
"Let them enjoy the hospitality," I smiled. "But keep the eyes open. If a single hair on Preity Zinta's head is touched... the dream ends."
I leaned back.
"The Indians are here. The money is here. The Jinnah grandson is here. The Bugti Chief is dancing."
We have turned the Subcontinent into a reality TV show.
"Now," I checked the schedule. "Let's see if they can actually play cricket."