<p class="bodytext">My wife and I were on a holiday in London in early July. The Championships at Wimbledon had commenced. Wimbledon, which we had for so many years seen on TV the exploits of Borg and McEnroe, the graceful Edberg and Sampras, the ballet-dancer like Federer and the robotic Nadal and Djokovic. Wimbledon is one of the few major sporting events for which one can get tickets on the day of play. So, we thought, why not. We took the underground, the very efficient Tube, constructed as Shashi Tharoor has eloquently argued with contribution from British India to Southfields station. The weather was beautiful; the short walk from the station to the Wimbledon greens, accompanied by what appeared to be the whole of London, pleasant. And then we discovered the Queue (written with a capital Q, nothing less; we are Wimbledon, you see!).</p>.<p class="bodytext">Long serpentine Queues greeted us in a ground the size of two football fields. A very helpful Steward gave us a Queue card- The Queue card is dated and numbered to show your position in the Queue. Our numbers were 10286 and 10287. A very sophisticated version of the handkerchiefs we used to put in theatre seats in days of yore to mark our place. I have stood in a lot of queues in my youth in India-cinema theatres, cricket matches, football games and these days at airport entry and the subsequent security. But 10,286?! I asked the steward what this meant, “In a couple of hours, mate” was the helpful answer. I requested a further explanation, “Cannot tell, could be around 4 hours”, was the reply.</p>.<p class="bodytext">The crowds gathered there had come prepared. Sprawled on sheets spread on the ground, and in tents too in some cases, with food packets and the ubiquitous umbrella. It was one big mela. We had our backpack, water bottles, raincoats and little patience. And even after a couple of hours of waiting, there was no guarantee either of which court or even if we would get entry--that depended entirely on the capacity of the court.</p>.<p class="bodytext">We hung around for some more time soaking in the atmosphere and admiring the enormous patience of the crowds--all very relaxed. Old and middle aged and young. Very many attired in suits and semi-formal wear, one wondered why we would dress up for a tennis match, even if it is Wimbledon. The sun was so sharp, it stung. Accustomed as we are to sitting indoors, it was almost unbearable. We made our way out without watching any match but still pleased with our tryst with Wimbledon. We had been there, so what if it was only to stand in the Queue? After all it was not just any queue-but the Queue!</p>
<p class="bodytext">My wife and I were on a holiday in London in early July. The Championships at Wimbledon had commenced. Wimbledon, which we had for so many years seen on TV the exploits of Borg and McEnroe, the graceful Edberg and Sampras, the ballet-dancer like Federer and the robotic Nadal and Djokovic. Wimbledon is one of the few major sporting events for which one can get tickets on the day of play. So, we thought, why not. We took the underground, the very efficient Tube, constructed as Shashi Tharoor has eloquently argued with contribution from British India to Southfields station. The weather was beautiful; the short walk from the station to the Wimbledon greens, accompanied by what appeared to be the whole of London, pleasant. And then we discovered the Queue (written with a capital Q, nothing less; we are Wimbledon, you see!).</p>.<p class="bodytext">Long serpentine Queues greeted us in a ground the size of two football fields. A very helpful Steward gave us a Queue card- The Queue card is dated and numbered to show your position in the Queue. Our numbers were 10286 and 10287. A very sophisticated version of the handkerchiefs we used to put in theatre seats in days of yore to mark our place. I have stood in a lot of queues in my youth in India-cinema theatres, cricket matches, football games and these days at airport entry and the subsequent security. But 10,286?! I asked the steward what this meant, “In a couple of hours, mate” was the helpful answer. I requested a further explanation, “Cannot tell, could be around 4 hours”, was the reply.</p>.<p class="bodytext">The crowds gathered there had come prepared. Sprawled on sheets spread on the ground, and in tents too in some cases, with food packets and the ubiquitous umbrella. It was one big mela. We had our backpack, water bottles, raincoats and little patience. And even after a couple of hours of waiting, there was no guarantee either of which court or even if we would get entry--that depended entirely on the capacity of the court.</p>.<p class="bodytext">We hung around for some more time soaking in the atmosphere and admiring the enormous patience of the crowds--all very relaxed. Old and middle aged and young. Very many attired in suits and semi-formal wear, one wondered why we would dress up for a tennis match, even if it is Wimbledon. The sun was so sharp, it stung. Accustomed as we are to sitting indoors, it was almost unbearable. We made our way out without watching any match but still pleased with our tryst with Wimbledon. We had been there, so what if it was only to stand in the Queue? After all it was not just any queue-but the Queue!</p>