Never ever have I waited for the dismissal of an Indian batsman, let alone that of Shikhar Dhawan. That Dhawan seldom allows me the luxury of waiting for it is a discussion left for some other day. Ambati Rayudu is playing this practice game only to practice for the next practice game that he is allowed to play in. So he must have his practice meted out to him.
Never mind that he averages in excess of 50 in ODIs, never mind that he is proving just why leaving him out is as incomprehensible as a certain father-son rift in Indian politics, for this day was reserved for privileged men.
The irony of this Rayudu hundred was that he scored it batting with a man who perhaps cost him his place in the side. A man privileged enough to be given a trump card for each of his performances, as opposed to a man who has only been given a placard reading "see you in Zimbabwe.” You see, the fleeting career of a professional cricketer can also last a lifetime. Just ask Yuvraj Singh and you would know. Just ask Ambati Rayudu, and you would know, perhaps better.
For one has risen from the grave, (quite literally) and although he has not been the same person who walked into it – nobody remains – it remains very difficult to keep out a man who has defied death. The other one of the two privileged people playing the game has also had his own trysts with death, although they have been limited to the field, but J.K. Rowling had, it seems, secretly gifted him with the ‘Cloak of Invisibility.’
So after nearly three years, one month and five days, Yuvraj walks out to represent India in 50-over cricket, as this writer, whose fate resembles none of the aforementioned men, sits with penance and patience. Penance, for still taking sides with a 35-year-old who had guaranteed him orgasms during the prime of life, but now leaves him wanting for anything remotely close to that.
Patience, for still being ready to wait for all the intimacy to rush up to his veins, should Yuvraj fail again, and should he, negating all odds, come back to caress his loins, again.
With Yuvraj, we have hopes
The start is jittery. Adil Rashid beats him with a googly. Adil Rashid, a leg-spinner, beats him. He beats him with a wrong one, though, and it was served first-up. Three years on from his last international appearance, Yuvraj continues to reside in the spinners’ minds. The outside edge flies to short third man, and like an old man with a bend, with his bat half horizontal half pointing towards the non-striker, he crutches out of his stance, looking at his lesser-privileged batting partner, who sends him back.
The hopes start dwindling, even more so when balls turn sharply and beat his dangling stick, the stick being as bare as his confidence seemed to be at the moment, and it seemed that patience would have to win over penance. Just then, perhaps in an attempt at rebellion or merely a hit-out endeavour, he cross-bats a fuller one, right back at his partner, who ducks for cover at the other end.
As the ball swirls into the fence, two things become abundantly clear. Firstly, that as long as Yuvraj is at the crease, Rayudu's sweat and blood would have to wait, and secondly, that the captain wasn't the only messiah playing the game. Perhaps that shot was a sly signal to Rayudu, asking him to step back, and although the gritty Hyderabad-man didn't, it didn't really matter.
The brute force and no timing on his first boundary in over three years released all the pent-up frustration, for what followed thereafter didn't look to be coming from a man who had just lost his bachelorhood. Rashid pitches full again, but this time, the crutches no longer hold the man back, the bend transforms into an erection, and Yuvraj reaches the pitch of the ball.
In the next frame, one notices and understands why the 'prince’ has a legion of faithful followers. You see, a country cherishes its wins, but remembers its dominations. Sports have not been untouched by the tryst between the oppressed and the oppressors. Hence, when a cavalier rises and promises domination over the enemy, the crowd escalates him to the throne.
The next frame saw Yuvraj's straight bat, in an extended flourish, pointing towards an Englishman at the other end, and at the same time, pointing towards the sky. Picturesque beauty captures the eye and negates whatever would have been spent to create that moment of magic. That is what Yuvraj does. He makes life look beautiful. He makes the opposition look ordinary. But most of all, he makes you feel vindicated and empowered.
The swagger helps, the reputation helps, but when Yuvraj Singh hits sixes over the bowler's head, India says 'wow!’
When Yuvraj hits sixes, India says ‘wow’
Three balls later he does the same, again, and as the ball almost kisses the sightscreen on the full, the man makes me believe that perhaps the journey isn't about a road that leads you to a destination, but about a love that makes you leave one home with the belief that you'd find another. For the first time in two years, Yuvraj looked at home.
He hits his second six and gestures towards the sight-screen, asking people to sit down, perhaps imploring them to wait, as the show had only begun. And so it had.
Chris Woakes was on-driven with a vertical bat, as Yuvraj jogged after making the connection, his body movements synchronizing with the harmony of his bat. There is a nonchalance to his demeanour, a casualness of sorts, that makes you believe that there's nothing to worry. Perhaps cancer has made that demeanour look all the more subtle.
That is what Yuvraj does. He takes you to your peak and then calms you down, only so that he can take you there again.The release is the most pleasurable when it's forced through the helplessness of will and the power of the stimulus.
Hence, when he plays that cover drive in the next over, I realize that the threshold has been reached. I realize that hope without conviction isn't completely forlorn. I realize that hope is a dangerous thing, but one must not let it take away the joy, however, momentary that might be.
Yuvraj makes you believe in the power of hope and the also in the destruction that it can bring along. You can listen to the un-nerving of your mind when Yuvraj is on song, you can feel your breath lighten while the ball is airborne, and you can release those palpitations once the ball disappears into humanity.
When Yuvraj Singh hits sixes, India makes love.
Woakes tries different lengths and angles, as do the other bowlers. Yuvraj pulls them all through midwicket. Rayudu reaches his hundred in the meantime, there is a roar from the crowd, but it is deafened by the one that follows it, as two poster-boys of Indian cricket, both at a ripe young age of 35, mingle to roll the years back.
Rayudu retires, voluntarily, perhaps knowing very well that sweat and blood almost always get overshadowed by style and charisma, and most importantly, luck. As he walks past MS Dhoni and shakes his hand, he submits to his aura and hopes that times change with the change at the helm.
Yuvraj stays, only for a short while, though. But for as long as he stays, he makes every Indian believe that obscurity is not such a bad thing. For when nothing is certain, anything is possible. So when Yuvraj is not there, Yuvraj is possible.
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