This was the day the city of churches became the city of chachas and achha. The stately streets suddenly were full of the amiable chatter and chaos of any subcontinental thoroughfare, lacking only rickshaws and ragamuffins. The cricket ground was throbbing. The exception that proved the temporary rule was the scoreboard bar. Normally attracting a lobster-ish cluster even on the ungreat afternoons, this day it was conspicuously deserted. This was Adelaide Oval in an attitude and atmosphere it has not known before, and may never know again. This was the world in Cup.

The day's first run, Rohit Sharma's squidgy inside edge for one, prompted a screech like Chad Wingard on the burst for Port Adelaide, and other than in the break of innings scarely abated, not in volume, not in pitch. The crescendo peaked when Virat Kohli brought up another dreamily-struck century — now par for him at this ground — the centrepiece of India's innings of 7-300. There was a second peak in the Bangalore-ish night when a rush of three wickets in nine balls wrenched this match out of even Pakistan's mercurial reach, leaving only captain Misbah-ul-Haq to stand on the bridge until his ship finally was sunk. The margin was 76 runs.

A caveat before we go on. Brow-mopping organisers claimed in advance a global television audience of more than one billion, which was always nonsense on the Australian Grand Prix corporation scale, a stretch even of Salman Rushdie's imagination. When these teams last met, in a World Cup semi-final in Delhi in 2011, the Indian television audience was 67 million, audited. The biggest annual sports event is soccer's Champions League final, last year drawing 165 million, and the Super Bowl, this year attracting 115 million.

Even the four-yearly World Cup final does not verifiably have a billion watchers. Draw your own conclusions, and if you are a sports administrator, multiply them by 10. Perhaps they allowed for the fact that Indians and Pakistanis were beside themselves about this match, and counted them doubly.

The day and the occasion stood for itself anyway, and brilliantly. On an inbound morning flight, the singing already had begun. In Hindley Street, drums beat, flags flew, horns blasted and chants flew back and forth, fortunately in good humour. On North Terrace, a mob circled the Indian team bus; somehow, they always know where it is and when it is due to leave. In a hotel bar, an architect from New York and an actuary from New Zealand introduced themselves to a tailor from Dubai, all fly-ins, all wrung-out. Elsewhere, there were Canadian Indians and Zimbabwean Indians and a few Britons, whose alternative was to trail woebegone England to Wellington.

Yes, there were Pakistanis, not out-shone, but outnumbered maybe 10:1. It made India the de facto home team, and Pakistan the away, naturally. Pakistan is world cricket's Flying Dutchman, doomed forever to be away. The World Cup is their United Nations, a refuge where all make them welcome. In the fan zone, popular songs from both countries alternated, and so did wigglers and jigglers, now Indian, now Pakistani.

Here is what was truly different about this day. These assuredly were Indians and Pakistanis, but not in India or Pakistan. Here they were equally met, without the extremism and the political overlay. All were guests, with guests' obligations. There was partisanship, but no provocation, boisterousness, but not bad-mouthing. This was, first and foremost, a celebration.

Between players and teams, there is no friction anyway. They know each other intimately, mix and match in other competitions, share some logistical support here and would play each other more often if geopolitics let them. When a throw at the stumps caught Kohli flush in the back, causing him to wince, the crowd sent up a pantomime boo, but Shahid Afridi made as if to rub the sore spot for him. In truth, there wasn't even a figurative spot. An undertone of applause ensued; overtones were not possible this day.

All bums clenched when 216-cm paceman Mohammad Irfan let slip a head-high beamer at Suresh Raina. Preparing for Irfan, the Indians had faced throw-downs delivered from stools. Now it was Raina who needed a stool. But the tacit consensus was that this was accident, not incident, and the match sped on. At the fag end of Pakistan's innings, Kohli and Sohail Khan exchanged rasping pleasantries. That wasn't ancient grudges revisited; that was Virat Kohli. But it was also Kohli who gave Misbah a genuinely meant consoling pat at the end of his hopeless vigil.

Strictly, in cricket terms, this was morally flat India versus acutely short-handed Pakistan. India's innings reinforced the emerging thesis of this World Cup: despite lulls, and although tailing away badly at the end, still they made 300. Someone, soon enough, will make 400; bats, balls and rules guarantee it. Secondly, 300 is nigh impossible to chase. Ravi Ashwin's deft maiden, the first of the match — and hailed as heartily as Kohli's century — began India's middle overs squeeze on Pakistan. Duly, they split open, and there was whirling, dancing and twirling on the concourses.

Victory, making six from six for India over Pakistan at World Cups, will be a fillip for India, but defeat ought not to inconvenience Pakistan's progress unduly.

The last ball cued one final delirious paroxysm, before Indians and Pakistanis of all nationalities retreated into the Adelaide night, and many directly to the airport, which volunteered to stay open until flights resumed at dawn. For more than eight hours, the eardrums of neutrals had been vibrating almost without let or pause. Now they stopped, and Adelaide began to become Adelaide again, and as a sensory experience, the hush was as deafening as the noise.