Van Heusen

The Pakistani and the Indian met at college in the US 20 years ago. They formed an instant bromance. They huddled together to stave off the cold winds of the East Coast. They mated their mothers' recipes and cooked over-liquidy dal. They swapped notes on how to pull women. These notes were spare, so more commonly they swapped dirty magazines. They drank beer like amateurs and took turns holding each other over the pot when they puked. They were brothers beyond borders - and remained that way through the following two decades.

Except when it came to the cricket.

When other men talk there is always a dark, primal subtext: Who does better with the ladies? Who's got more money? Who would win in a fight? Who's read Proust? When the Pakistani and the Indian talked, the unspoken subtext was always the next match. The last match. All the matches from the past and into the eternal future.

To their compatriots