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Several people I have met over the past week have argued that this question presupposes the survival of the state of Pakistan. But that reduces the recent tragedy in Lahore to a kind of frenzied rhetoric that is not the concern of this article. Cricket lovers, all said and done, are romantics, not even hard-boiled realists, leave aside cynics.

Mushy sentimentalism has surely no place in these troubled times, of course. What happened in Lahore was horrific. The fact that the Sri Lankan team was assaulted by armed gunmen gives lie to the belief that cricketers face no threat in the sub-continent. We now have to live with the new reality that nothing and nobody is exempt from the terror threat.

Debate over whether Slumdog Millionaire is an Indian or foreign film has raged inconclusively for several weeks now in this country. On the one hand, the question is purely academic and the answer clear: The producers are American, the director Danny Boyle an Englishman, so where is the doubt? But hey, almost everything else about the film – the theme, locales, lyrics, music, actors are all Indian.

So which way does the dice roll? Perhaps the solution to this dilemma lies in that delectable paradox postulated by sociologist Ashis Nandy in his book Tao of Cricket. ``Cricket in an Indian game invented by the British,’’ wrote Nandy in explanation of the Indian obsession for the game. Much in the same vein, Slumdog is an Indian film made by an Englishman.

I will run the risk of being called a hopelessly miscast peacenik in these volatile times and give my kudos to both the government and the opposition for tackling the post-terror scenario with sensitivity, tact and aggressive diplomacy. At this time, our best ally is favourable international opinion, because there is no conquest of terror in isolation.

There is considerable heat on Pakistan now to clean up its ‘factories of death’, which is a major step, and in the right direction. The key now is to sustain this pressure through a consortium of allies (and this time there are no dissenting countries), even while rapidly overhauling the intelligence and security systems within the country.

Joining the thronging crowds at the Gateway of India on Wednesday last set me humming `Movement of the People’ from Bob Marley’s immortal 1977 album, Exodus. This looked like an extraordinary protest march even given the horror that had precipitated it.

Dissent against politicians and other authority had built up over the previous few days as the pitched battle against the terrorists raged at the CST, Taj and Oberoi. So widespread and intense was the rage that the neither the size nor the raucousness of the crowd at the Gateway should have been surprising. I returned back to office largely happy, yet also somewhat bewildered.

In the days since, my apprehensions have grown. A spontaneous mass movement against obvious maladministration and diabolical lapses in intelligence which led to the terrorists assaulting our city so easily was something that suggested a new awakening. But in the several protest marches after that, the sensible few with solid, constructive ideas have been largely drowned in insensible clamour laced with shades of needless jingoism, some deeper hue of war-mongering, and a deeply coloured shift towards anarchy.

The worst is (hopefully) over, but accompanying the sense of great relief is also great grief. Nobody, surely nobody, has come out unscathed from last week's terror attack, only some worse than others.

The sheer fact of a human life being snuffed out just like that is lifelong trauma for those not even remotely involved in the attack. Imagine then the impact on those who have lost their near and dear ones?

Over the past few days, to my utter dismay, some friends have suddenly popped up in the list of dead put out by hospitals or the police. There are several others who were known to people I know: the chain of tragedy seems unending. Perhaps the most painful was confirmation on Saturday that Sabina Saikia-Sehgal had indeed died in the Taj hold-up.