6.30am Wake up to the sweet sound of birds chirping. The day outside looks beautiful. Why can't every day be as beautiful as this? Because India can't win the World Cup every day. That's right... eat that Australia! India have won the World Cup and I am going to rule the world.
Ouch. Partied too much last night. My head hurts. Whoa, gotta run to the toilet... (retch, cough, retch)... Guess what? We even barf blue.
8.30am What's this? Idlis for breakfast? Is this what world champions eat, I ask Ma. She's too busy preparing for the no-moon day puja, she says, to answer my stupid questions. But mum, that's not true, I say, turning her westwards. There is a beautiful golden orb sitting in Mumbai right now, and if you look really hard, you'll be able to see it. She hails some gods to come rain on my parade.
11.20am The cricket websites I visit every day are taking ages to load. And the comment moderators have gone to sleep, I think. Why is my comment not published yet? On any of the stories. How long does it take to approve "Chak de India" and "Cricket is my religion and Sachin is my god"?
1.30pm Lunch is epic fail. More healthy, vegetarian nonsense. And to make it worse, I've got a brat of a sister, who can't tell her tentative prod from a proper forward-defensive, cheeking me. If India won the World Cup, you should celebrate by eating Indian food, shouldn't you, she asks with a grin as stupid as Aamir Khan's moustache at the final.
2.30pm This is where I belong. The mall. They're playing the awesome "De Ghumake" World Cup song, the shops are decked in the Indian tricolour and offering discount at a percentage equivalent to the number of runs scored by Virender Sehwag in the final. Hmm, that can't be right. I'm sure they mean Gautam Gambhir.
There's a bunch of fans around a fountain doing those weird dance moves only middle-aged Indian men seem to be capable of busting out. I join them 'cos I reckon I'll be their age some day, might as well learn.
Bad idea. How have they not dislocated their hips yet?
3.30pm I order a burger and fries. The girl at the counter has hideous blotchy skin. I can't look away. She notices me staring. Says it's all the tricolour paint she was made to wear since the World Cup began. .
My "cuppa" burger arrives in a cappuccino cup. Hard to extricate, but I manage. We Indians can do anything we set our mind to. The patty has stripes of ketchup, mayo and mint chutney - why the colours of Hungary, I ask the waiter. Saffron's too expensive, deal with it, he says. Jeez, where's the spirit of brotherhood and camaraderie which this win was supposed to bring?
5.30pm My friends are throwing a theme party to celebrate the win. Everyone must come dressed as an Indian cricketer. One guy planned to be R Ashwin. He was told not to come.
I will go as Sourav Ganguly. But what do I wear?
9.30pm Party's a huge success. "Kapil" and "Yuvraj" get into a fight about who gets to slap a very inebriated "Agarkar", who burps the bowlers' stats aloud. "Nehra" singes his eyebrows doing flaming shots and blames his injured left hand for it. "Jacob Martin" leaves halfway after getting fed up of being asked if he's related to Ricky.
Midnight And so this day has come to an end. This feeling of being on top of the world is so new, so unknown. What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to behave? Should I be humble in victory? Cool about it, like it's just another step towards being truly great? Or use the royal pronoun for myself? Berate and heckle the losers? Tell them India is now their master and saviour on and off the field? Make them bow to me?
Whatever I choose to do, the power is in my hands.