It was my first time at the scene of Sri Lanka’s finest national moments, not just one of Sri Lanka’s great cricketing moments. This one cuts across genre, race, class, caste, recency of arrival on the island, and even proximity to established political elites (one of the out groups right now). Sri Lankans fight about plenty, but we are pretty uniformly agreed on this: the 1996 World Cup final was one of the most incredible nights in the history of our nation.

It has cast it shadow on politics, diplomacy, economy, livelihoods… If Sri Lanka had not won the 1996 World Cup, would I ever have had a career in cricket journalism?

The thought occurs to me that although in 1996, Murali was the skinny bowler wrapping his arms around cricket’s Pudgemaster General, nowadays Arjuna has slimmed down to Murali 1996 levels following a gastric bypass, while Murali’s middle-aged body has colonised its surrounds almost as emphatically as Arjuna’s once did. The physics of the hug would be the same; the roles are switched.

I was seven when that embrace happened, and I’m 36 now, and Sri Lanka has been through plenty since then – wars, economic crises, political ructions. There are few parts of Sri Lankan life that have been untouched by that night in Lahore, and no moment at the venue during which I am not deeply aware that I am not watching Sri Lanka at this Champions Trophy. As with much of Sri Lankan cricket, I am conflicted as to how I should feel.

But in the Lahore press box, it is impossible to feel sad for long. I have one visualisation that will never fail to buoy my drooping Sri Lankan-ness. At this venue, I have Aravinda looking out from under the visor of that grill-less helmet, and those glimmering mongoose eyes.