India's self-proclaimed status as 'the second-best team in the world' falls flat. An Almighty almost - the nation clutches proudly to its bosom, and the wheels of massive media hype go on and on. To be fair, this is the best Indian team in a long time, but the problem lies in it believing its own fiction. First of all, we are not the second best team in the world. There were no shocks in Sri Lanka trouncing us, we are still susceptible to Pakistan, and South Africa could possibly hammer us to high heaven. In any international ranking, we show up not at the second spot, but at five/six, which isn't half as glorious as the suddenly basking editorials make it sound.

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The team, as mentioned, is indeed a good one, but is stumbling into the same pitfall often experienced by Indian winners of the past - complacency. As they returned from Pakistan, deservingly victorious and hailed to high heavens by a country starved for these moments, they were stunned. India has always elevated cricket to the status of religion, and cricketers to messiahs, an inevitable eventuality brought about in a country given to instant deification, but ironically bereft of lasting icons. Team India - a bunch of youngbloods getting, well, everything - was thrown into disarray. As they were pampered, cajoled, and contracted to cola drinks, they began believing they were that darn good.

During Sunday's match against Pakistan, there was a moment during Ashish Nehra's final over when the strappy, frustrated bowler was absolutely furious. Hands on hips, Nehra looked as if he could actually slap Virender Sehwag. Not that it didn't seem a good idea. A well bowled delivery, milked for a single, and misfielded in such sloppy manner as would befit a schoolboy being dropped from a VIIIth standard b-team. It personified Sehwag's entire day in the field, listless body language, shoulders down, dropping catches, letting runs go by because of unforgivably basic errors. The worse part is that this was the story of the entire Indian team in the field. A Singh Does Not A Fielding Side Make.

India does not deserve to be in the Asia Cup final; it should not. Having come to the tournament obviously under-prepared, the team deserves humiliation and a liberal kick up their win-loss records. After an impressive toil over the last two seasons, India finally bucked up and focused massively, and became a potentially champion side. But as newspaper headlines and advertisers embraced our boys, the word 'potentially' was forgotten. In the seemingly insignificant tri-series with a bunch of minnows thrown in, India was so confident of a simple, all-encompassing victory that it decided to virtually not practice.

Or play.

We started by struggling. Then were beaten comprehensively by the home-side, and stripped of our 'favourites' tag. Everyone assumed that would be our wake-up call, and we would regroup and come back a stronger side. For the match against Pakistan, we were confident: this was a rival team who had been crushed into nothingness by the Lankans, and a side we had routed a couple of months ago; tails were up, hopes were high, India looked forward to a fabulous Sunday. Deciding that the outcome was that obvious, we didn't push ourselves hard enough, relying instead on just letting the guns blaze in the field.

Shoaib Malik played a deft hand, a fluent knock allowing Pakistan to stockpile a risk free Three hundred runs. Actually, a constant run of consistent scores by the top batsmen, and consolidation throughout the innings made sure they were never in deep waters beyond Over One, where the incredible Irfan snuffed up the first wicket. But regular intervals became almost eighty-run affairs, and the Pakistani batsmen thoroughly milked our forgettable bowling and disgraceful fielding effort. If not for The One bowling his usual three-wicket stunners at the death, 330 or even 350 was not entirely out of reach.

Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar, actually, must be a rather irked man. Having matured into the most professional of strokemakers, his batting these days is akin to a wonderfully tuned Lamborghini, shifting smoothly up and down the gears as per situational requirements. As the game began, he demolished Shoaib without risk, and then, as Sourav took on the mantle of the brutish, graceful scorer, he moved down a gear and just purred demurely along. He planned to stay there till the end of the innings, and adjust as the occasion demanded. Like the rest of India, Sachin Tendulkar obviously believes that if only he lasts the distance, stays till the final over, India can overhaul any score.

Of course, doing it alone is not quite an option. As Sourav scampered off after a glorious 39 that brought back memories of good old Ganguly days gone by, he steeled himself for the singles. After which he didn't get the strike. The law of averages [for batting form or dubious umpiring decisions] finally got to Rahul Dravid, which is more than forgivable. Indian batting on Sunday was an unwanted déjà vu, where we were reacquainted with old demons and all the pressure, every iota of it, lodged squarely on our thirty-one year old thoroughbred's shoulders.

He was ready, but then Yuvraj Singh ended his cameo. The straw that broke Tendulkar's mighty back with extreme frustration, though, was Kaif's ridiculous run-out, after which The Little Master, the man not given to clearly visible venting of anger, screamed to himself and flailed his arms in violent anguish. The storm was raging, but would it have to do so alone. Finally, as Irfan Pathan played a supreme saviour, he thwacked Shoaib a few more times, didn't get enough of the strike to even be able to judge his game [it is rather uncharacteristic, don't you think, for Sachin to stay till the 42nd over and face merely 103 balls?], and holed out.

Nothing more should be demanded from Irfan Pathan, who is surely a superstar in the making on the Wasim Akram level. Of course, the way this team is going, he might just read that, fall over his own grin and begin to bowl wide outside the leg slump and be swept by Murali for four. But then something about this alarmingly talented teenager makes me think he's better than that. We can only hope, and I keep my fingers crossed for Irfan The Irrepressible.

We will probably crawl through to the final, but it will not be a fitting end to an awful tournament. We have been beaten by both teams in the competition, and they should, in all fairness, square off against each other. Pakistan, for the way they picked themselves up after shattering into insignificance against Lanka, have shown extreme character it was not thought possible, and the boys deserve a shot at the Cup. The Lankans, of course, have authoritatively stamped ownership on the tournament thus far, and have been the finest team on display. If India interrupts this appropriate final, it will be a travesty.

In closing, all I can say is that a team which is proud of being [well, of calling itself] the second-best team in the world, can never really be good enough.

India, fight.

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