For the longest time, the evening conversations in our WhatsApp group sounded something like this: Looking forward; ilish and RCB win or Chennai going well; give me a good recipe for alu-potol dalna or DreyRuss (sic) and Rana; what is radhuni. Yes, cricket chatter comes yoked with recipe-swapping here.

I usually tune out. Both topics are out of my syllabus. Besides, this is when I settle for my daily fix of South Indian films. Watch half and you'll never go near Bollywood again.

One such night, they kept pinging relentlessly. "Your team?" I typed - Punjab Royals. That did it. You would think Kim Jong-Un had lobbed a warhead on the White House.

Soon after, I was told that we have to go to Eden. No "could you" or "would you".

On the appointed day, I had a mind to slink away but one of them said: "You can leave after 10 minutes." I believed.

I was tap-tapping away at the app cab icon, when a kindred soul whispered from behind me: "They are saying they will walk." Walk? I was aghast. "Yes," she said wiping away some lipstick. "Let's try," she added, empathy incarnate. I went along.

And so we walked, several thousand kilometres from Chandni Chowk to Eden, that hot and incredibly humid evening. But not for long. After a while, wave upon wave of earnest cricket fans surged ahead and carried us along.

"You want colour or flag," the youngest member of the group chirru-ped. I like purple. I was going to say so, when she interrupted again. "You are supporting who?"

Team India, I said stoutly. As to why that should elicit hugs from all around I have no idea still. I settled for a purple sash. Tied it on the handle of my tote.

I was dying to settle into a dimpled sofa with some cold coffee and a purring AC. But what was this? Bucket seats with solidified bird poo and open air? The Shepherd pointed to nothing in particular and said: "Look, breeze from the Ganges."

The field stretched before us, an unnatural oval green. And crawling all over it were millipedes and centipedes. All purple jersey but not everyone looked Indian to me. I desperately wanted to ask someone who was playing KKR. I turned to my other neighbour, but she was playing a critical game of online Scrabble. So I got my phone out and typed my query. When the erratic connection kicked in, the elaborate response read: Dear Rip Van Winkle...

Someone said: "Look, Shane Warne. So fat!" My turn to feel smug. Shane Warne, of course. Liz Hurley. I was swiping olden scandalous headlines in my head.

My company was now in full form. One minute complimenting, the next minute abusing. "Easy catch. Shotti idiot." And then, "Soo economical." Then again, "Chhagol ekta." Meaning wretched goat. I didn't even ask anything, only looked and The Shepherd said: "Finger on your lips."

That was hurtful. It's not like I don't understand cricket. I had a poster of Was-im Akram in my room. Besides, there was more action off field than on it. The millipedes were listless. I'd rather watch Lagaan once again than this. I dangled my newly acquired spectacles like opera glasses. Where was Mahendra Singh Dhoni?

In front of me, a boy refused to hold hands with the girl, two middle-aged men in the next enclosure clutched at sperm-shaped balloons. Behind me three boys tried to video call their mother. Audiences took out their mobile phones and shone the torches all at once from time to time. And when the yellow-and-purple flags all around fluttered, it looked like a phulkari dupatta in raptures. Very Jab We Met.

On field, everything seemed monetised. Patches too. And when the giant screen read "Decision pending", it had a sponsor.

Two hours is time enough to pick up things. I was oohing at the right bits. I had ceased to look for the umpire in white coat. I even drawled - "Come on" like a pro.

Human beings are perverse. Seeing my obvious delight, they started to say: "It is getting late", "Must be getting along", "We know which way this is headed". I didn't dare ask which way.

On our way out they got it into their heads to buy those plastic pouches filled with drinking water - for the train feeling, apparently. As we started to walk, again, I thought, let me talk cricket. So when did Dhoni change name from Mahi to Mavi? Water was squirting out of their mouths like crazed fountains.

Really this group, no manners at all.