Blink. Pause. Explode.

History makes a strange sound when it is being written. It is the sound of hundreds of throats screaming in unison. It is the sound of thousands of hands clapping and waving. It is the sound of billions of feet running madly, till they pump battery acid. It is the adrenaline rush, the collective gasp of a nation. It can be the stench of defeat, or the smell of victory.

Never before have I seen an entire skyline break out into fireworks, perfectly synchronised. An event organised by the striking of the last ball, the running of the last pace. A show orchestrated by the gods of a sport, the gods of a religion, the gods of billions of TV sets in a country of innumerable unrealised dreams.

Never before I have seen people pouring out into the streets, embracing strangers, singing their hearts out, dancing till their feet drummed a staccato beat echoing from every corner of the city.

People were happy. Just so happy. They were playing anything that was vaguely musical. Anything to dance to, sing along to.

Everybody was somebody. Everybody had an identity. The mob had a face. The mob had faces.
The mob was in love.

Have you ever seen an entire country fall madly in love all at once?

Maybe this is what war feels like.
Or revolution.

I, I will be king
And you, you will be queen
Though nothing, nothing will drive them away
We can be Heroes, just for one day
We can be us, just for one day

I, I remember standing, by the wall
And the guns, shot above our heads
And we kissed, as though nothing could fall
And the shame, was on the other side
Oh we can beat them, for ever and ever

Then we could be Heroes, just for one day.