It is silent in Bengaluru as Hardik Pandya runs in to bowl the last ball. This is not a unified silence, but a culmination of many disturbed silences. For some, it is a hushed silence as if luck has bolted through the back door. For others, it is a matter of faith, peaceful and reconciliatory, as they prepare for the worst.
Pandya does not want to bowl. Pandya wants to bowl whatever length it pleases him and be done with it. Everything happens in slow motion like in an old fashioned English film with bad edits. Both the nations gasp in prayer. Even the ball freezes mid-air before it hits Dhoni's gloves unsure of which Gods to answer. The fate of two huge nations rests on an absurdly small piece of round leather.
Dhoni knows how to win matches with a six. Dhoni knows how to bring his bat down like a sledge-hammer to punch it through point. But today, Dhoni needs to run to save a match. And he runs like there's no tomorrow until the stumps lie shattered in the most profound of collisions that shakes heaven and earth.
Mustafizur also runs but falls short. After 40 overs and almost four hours, it is a matter of inches that decides the winner. The Bengaluru air is wrecked by a sense of jubilation and exhilaration of the highest order. If there is poetic injustice, this had to be it. But what is sports without chance and disaster?
A flash from the past
It's 1999 and Klusener is on fire. Dispatching McGrath and Fleming to the stands, he has almost powered his team to the World Cup final. Almost. While he is leaving the crowd speechless, Donald is at the non-striker's end quietly practising how to be run out. One run required off four balls and Donald is second-time lucky. Donald does not run.
It's 2007 and Misbah-ul-Haq has brought his team to the doorstep of victory. Joginder Sharma is all over the place, quietly planning a post-match escape through a beehive of journalists and a frenzied mob. There is no place in the ground where Misbah cannot hit him.
Misbah chooses to scoop him and almost starts to celebrate. Almost. A couple of inches higher and it could have sailed over Sreesanth. Sometimes, death comes in the disguise of a lover.
The history of sports is a story of missed opportunities. It is a nostalgia for the futures you had planned but did not arrive. If the time machine were real, Donald would now run for his life. If fantasies would come true, Misbah would not play a scoop again. If common sense would not be clouded out by emotion, Mahmudullah would quietly flick that full-toss for a single.
Let’s come back
Mushfiqur's assault begins from the second ball. Pandya tries a wide yorker but the politest of euphemisms would call it a long-hop. The ball has a boundary written all over it. Mushfiqur is happy to oblige. Mushfiqur scoops the next ball. Dhoni glides through the air revoking his memories of the parachute jumps with the army. Dhoni misses and broods briefly on the quirky nature of human vulnerabilities. Mushfiqur starts celebrating thinking spring has arrived earlier than usual.
Two runs needed of three balls. For India, the end is near. Resigned faces in the crowd are brooding over the long journey back home through the infamous Bengaluru traffic. TV sets across the nation are being turned off. Quietl, indulgent mothers suddenly becoming sensitive to their children's TV habits are mildly rebuking them for watching the foolish game.
If this is football, this is Fergie Time. The hair-dryers are out and poor Pandya has nowhere to hide. Nehraji who gifted away a full toss in his last over is now in Pandya's ear. Everyone gives him an earful. Dhoni meticulously plans out the line and length to the last decimal point. A hushed decibel reigns over the stadium.
Pandya bowls a half-tracker. The ball is too bad to be not dispatched to the stands. Mushfiqur swings hard towards mid-wicket but is holed out in the deep. Bangladesh have begun digging themselves into unfounded trouble.
Mahmudullah is in red hot form on the back of a 29-ball 49. Mahmudullah is not thinking singles; he wants his moment of glory. Pandya seems to be bowling what you are taught not to bowl at the death. Mahmudullah sees a full-toss.
His eyes light up and he swings away for glory. Disgruntled Indian cameraman prepare to pan towards the stands in resignation. Jadeja completes the catch and tumbles away resorting to jubilation and theatrics. Mahmudullah has done a Misbah. A billion Indians breath again.
The mid-pitch conferences are getting longer. Only the bowler does not seem to be listening. Shuvagata Hom is prepared to swing away, baseball style. Dhoni has taken off his glove preparing for an emergency. Pandya bowls a good ball and the batsman misses. Dhoni starts running to stop the bye. When you die, you die -- there's no better way.
Everything else seems to have been a blur, a wild cocktail of dangerous staccato poetry. To tempt death and emerge victorious is not poetry, it is the great politics of fortuitous escape. The zing bails are flashing and Bengaluru is delirious.
Even Dhoni is cock-a-hoop hugging Nehraji with childlike happiness. Three wickets off three balls. If this were football, these would be three championship-saving goals in injury time. Ferguson could have spoken about any other sport. Cricket, bloody hell!
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