The Burden Of Defeat

The Wall has fallen. Laxman was lax and is packing for home. Sachin walks back towards the crowd, thousands wave back — such a fine adieu— someone must have seen the door flap from behind, must have waited ruefully as he did not return. Where is Sehwag? He is long gone. Gambhir? You may not ask.

Indian cricket has fallen to its lowest ebb, from where resurfacing seems distant. There is nothing to write, not much to say. If I write, I should be profane. Or else I should just refrain from writing on cricket. There is so much to write: one can write in defence of Salman Rushdie, in offence of the remake of Agneepath, or even, better write notes on Facebook spreading information about genealogy of Sonia Gandhi, Rahul Gandhi, et al. So even if you need to write, why write about cricket at all?

But as I contemplate they are harrying Ishant. They have grouped up against him, all nine of them. Poor lad, little did he know that the Australians had taken his gestures to heart. Now visibly scared, he prepares to drive. Mishits, and the ball courteously runs back to the bowler. Nathan Lyon, the bowler, must be thinking that that shot was seeking mercy. Ishant’s feeble feet, his helmet which somehow manages to hold on to his head might be giving out such impression. But we know him. So do they.

There goes Kohli. He falls short of the crease and goes shouting towards the pavilion. He wails for all of us. He is a metaphor. Throughout the series he has been that. In comes Wriddhiman Saha, playing in his second Test match. His was a chance inclusion. Back in West Bengal they call him promising, but will his promise come to our rescue? More importantly can we he put up a 344 runs with the remaining four? But who all remain for company? Zaheer, Ashwin and Yadav.

Time halts. Jurors hang up. Verdict is to come, but next morrow. As I walk out of my house life seems pleasant, at least peaceful on the skin of it. No one in and around the Delhi metro talks about cricket (or maybe they just avoid talking about it?) In the street corners people avert each other. They will talk about Sachin’s hundredth hundred, but some other day. The familiar guy delivers tea at my office desk. There’s an air of indifference. Or is it me? Why didn’t he look at me? Maybe he never does. Day’s tepidity seeps into the night. The clock ticks. I hear water leak out of the kitchen tap. But nothing is consequential.

At 10.15 in the morning Ian Chappell welcomes us. Near him sits a desolate Ganguly, his aloofness only deferred by his bouts of anxiety. We do understand. Chappell tells us it’s a hot day and adds that it is ‘a good batting pitch.’ The second part wasn’t needed. But they won’t stop rubbing it in. And there are hoards of them. The entry fee has been lifted. All of Australia can witness our funeral, and it’s free!

Saha and Ishant step in with their ungainly gait. A regular optimist wouldn’t give them a chance, but we the worshippers believe in miracles — we live to see them happen. Ishant fends off the first delivery from Harris, gets beaten and survives the next few from the over. I reminisce the time when watching Venkatesh Prasad bat would lighten up my day. Ishant carries forward that legacy of struggle, that battle for survival where you compete against your own heartbeats. And I have just skipped one. Ishant pokes and surrenders with no movement of feet. Ashwin comes in, Saha goes out. Siddle the woodcutter has gotten better of him. Haddin grins; in his gloves he has captured us.

Zaheer Khan runs in. Only the Australians are happy. Only they could be. But Zaheer smashes one boundary, ducks on the next delivery and lofts the third one for a boundary again. Another four later he too is gone. Yadav is a mere formality. And he proves us right as the former curator Lyon gets his fourth. The stadium roars, kangaroos run and stomp over us.

Post the celebration, Clarke tries to be polite. “It has not been easy, it may look like that on the scoreboard with 4-0,” he says, “To score runs against such a good bowling line-up has been good.” But every word seems like more salt on our wound. Dhoni has nothing much to say. He could have better not said anything. But he has to. He praises the Aussies, what more could he do?

Stand-in captain Sehwag says, “We also won 2-0 in India.” In his voice we hear an echo, but it rebounds from a decade past, when such alibis were de rigueur. Where has he picked it from?

The camera purposely focusses on the grim faces and justly relaxes on the wrinkling three. The trio, who had taught us to deny odds and conceive miracles as possibility. The trio, who for us in our childhood were no less than the Supermans and Batmans. The trio, who had, not more than eight years ago, on their tour to the same land pulverised the same opponents with 1,496 runs from 16 completed innings at an average of 93.5. Now, people say they have paled. They look palely at each other; and at those at the stage with a look of non-existence.

Far outside the television box, life toddles normally. No grief, no sorrow. Do they not watch cricket? A woman hangs her head down — I assume it to be the bow of shame. A moment later, she picks up her face, giggling through her mobile phone. She smiles. She laughs. She doesn’t watch cricket.

Debojit Dutta can be found doodling waywardly and pening absurdly on his blog Musings and Lyrics