As a journalist, it is my job to know a little about everything. So yes, Sachin was that cute, curly-haired moppet, who was married to that absolutely gorgeous woman, who was a doctor and five years his senior. Azhar had just been through a messy divorce, in which he had heartlessly abandoned two little sons to marry Salman Khan's ex-girlfriend. And I knew I didn't like Sourav Ganguly's style of facial hair. But Rahul Dravid, Srinath, Anil Kumble? Who were they?

So, this year, when my son announced that come May, the family would turn cricket-wards, I panicked. This was for real, I mean, for six weeks of my life. The other TV in the house was not working. My mother, my only other ally, was away, and had very sensibly declared she'd get back only after June 20. What was Igoing to do? In a fit of desperation, I went out and overextended my credit card to invest in five jigsaw puzzles. But my stars (and the prayers of the cricket fans) had decreed otherwise.

Googly number two came my way when the powers that be announced that I should start a special cricket page for the World Cup. This was insult to injury. And I was yet to recover from the injury itself. The first India-South Africa match passed in a daze. I was too concussed by the fates to even ask the score. When India lost, I felt vindicated. A ray of hope glimmered. Maybe India wouldn't make it to the Super Six. Maybe then I could abandon this very futile page!

I began watching the matches, keeping my fingers crossed that India would lose. (This should not be confused as unpatriotic sentiment, it was merely a manifestation of my strong instinct for survival.) When Sachin had to fly back for his father's funeral, I hoped-oh, this is terrible, I know-he wouldn't make it back in time. Then India lost to Zimbabwe, andIexulted. It was happening!

Then came the third googly. India won its next match against Sri Lanka. My hero, Aravinda da Silva, was no hero any more.

By now I was biting my nails. If they kept winning like this, I'd have to bring this page out for the next month. And worse, keep watching the matches. The house was soon full of lists, as I feverishly scribbled numbers and equations to see what extra-celestial paradigms could keep India from the Super Six. Oh yes, I knew all about the combinations and permutations of the Super Six by now, and the formulas that would get each team in there.

I had started switching on the TV even before the match started to watch Harsha Bhogle and Sunny Gavaskar and Geoff Boycott make their predictions. My puzzles were gathering dust as I watched run after run, boundary after boundary, all to know if my equations were working out.

Googly number four was not long in the coming. India made it to the Super Six. I was livid. But then the Aussies made mincemeat of Tendulkarand Ganguly in the very first Super Six match, and I was incensed. How dare they do that to our team? After all, we had such gallant players, playing against all odds. Look at Dravid and his wonderful consistent batting. Look at the fantastic all-round performance Ganguly had put in.

That magnificent century Sachin had made against Kenya, despite being heart-broken over his father's death. And okay, Azhar had made a few mistakes, but then who didn't? With the media crucifying him like they were, anyone would crack up. We Aquarians had to stick together.

On Tuesday, I found myself in office at 10 am, unearthly by any journalist's standards. I raced through my work, and around 2.30 pm, began to feel the cramps in my stomach. I had to get back home. The India-Pakistan match was starting, and India had to win! Win? Cricket had got its last wicket!