How open are we really to change? The entire human endeavour seems accented to carefully curating each day so that it mirrors yesterday and tomorrow. Sleep at the same time, wake up at the same time, go to more or less the same places, eat more or less the same food, listen to more or less the same music, be more or less with the same people. Routine is the real opium of the masses, that which keeps humans from destroying each other and the planet (and one day, we must continue to believe, this great theorem will be proven true).
On Thursday, Pakistan will walk into the Sheikh Zayed stadium and it will feel much as it has the last nine times they have walked into this venue for a Test. It is now home, now fortress. The stands will be empty and the immediate surrounds barren, and that sense of solitude, of diligently beavering towards a goal away from the eyes of the world - a sense that has helped them no end, by the way - will remain. Even the last few days of practice have progressed, more or less, as they always did, as if it's no big deal that they are elite athletes preparing for elite battle - no team's humanness, that they are not all that different to you and I, is as visible as Pakistan's.
Except, way out there somewhere, there's this low rumble gathering, maybe ominous, maybe not. It's the sound of change. The two men, in whose opposing personalities a pure essence of Pakistan was accidentally distilled - the unmoved ice of Misbah-ul-Haq meeting the moving lava of Younis Khan - are no longer here. Expect that rumble to grow louder. Eventually for sure, not right now necessarily.
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