I love the game of cricket. I was all of four years old when Kapil Dev lifted the World Cup on the Lord’s balcony in 1983. I don’t remember having watched the match on TV, but I have seen the highlights so often that it feels like I have memories of it. My first real memory is of the 1985 tournament in Australia, where Ravi Shastri won the Audi.
The only cricket fan in my family was my grandfather. I remember him berating one day cricket, and constantly making the argument that cricket meant only Test cricket. At the time, it was easy to put that down to old age, generation gap, and senility. But over time, as I watched a lot of cricket, I realised that he was right.
Test cricket is unique. The cricket fan does not watch a Test match, he lives it. You catch critical parts of a Test match on TV; discuss how the match is poised with friends and fellow fans, read the morning papers on the previous day’s play, and work your way towards a fourth or fifth day climax. Often, the Test match bypasses that climax – but in most cases, given the two innings format, every outcome (win, match, or draw) is a possibility in the first three days. In matches where all three results are plausible even on the fourth or fifth day, the climax can be riveting.
Arguably, watching the actual play on TV is only a small part of a fan’s enjoyment of Test cricket. My most enduring cricketing memory is of an innings, which I did not watch at all. India–Australia, Eden Gardens, 2001. I was a law student returning to college after an internship break. We used to travel by the Karnataka Express, which would take a rather leisurely 43 hours to get from Delhi to Bangalore. I do hope the Prime Minister and Railways Minister make progress on their plan to introduce bullet trains, but for a college student, 43 hours was just fine. I didn’t have a phone, let alone a smartphone – so the only way of keeping track of the score was to literally pop out of the train at every station and ask a vendor or passerby. Day 3: India collapsed in the first innings, but Laxman’s 59 – batting at six, gave some hope. India were put in to bat again. The general consensus amongst the National Law School contingent on the train (some of which are extremely sound cricketing minds) was that Laxman had to bat at three. My friend Nikhil Mehra, if I remember correctly, was convinced that Laxman had to bat at three in the second innings. India started batting. The openers got a start. Das and Ramesh were a good combination – one watchful and technically sound, and the other ever so elegant. The only problem was that they felt reaching their batting average was like hitting a century – and would inevitably get out after having given India a good start. Sure enough, as our train wound its way down through central India, we got news that Ramesh had fallen. The openers had done their job. We needed to find out who had come in to bat at three. The chaiwala on the train insisted it was Laxman, but his credibility was in doubt, so we waited for corroboration. When the train reached the next station, we confirmed that Laxman was now batting with Das. Nikhil Mehra hailed this as a stroke of genius, and complimented Ganguly. He was always sparing in his praise for Ganguly.
India steadily lost wickets, but Laxman stayed. Before the day’s play ended, he had his hundred. It was as much Mehra’s achievement as his. At night, we contemplated the next day’s play – and there was a sense that this could be a big one. Laxman had been last man out in the first innings, and by all accounts, his scoring pace was fluent. We all knew that when Laxman gets going, he is able to strip away the match situation, match pressure, change in bowler, change in field – and just distil batting into its purest form. Connecting bat on ball with low risk. Until Laxman and Dravid were there, there was hope.
Day 4: The train came to a crawl as we neared Bangalore. All we wanted was to reach in time so that we could rush back to college and watch the last session. Unfortunately, Indian Railways did not oblige. Sitting in our crummy non-AC second-class seats, we knew we were missing the greatest day for Indian batting in our lifetimes. The train reached late. We had missed the day’s play, but were content in the belief that Laxman and Dravid were still at the crease – and that we would get to see the first triple hundred by an Indian the next morning.
The next day, we skipped class to watch the match. There was a lot of excitement in the boy’s hostel. I can vividly recall the setting. All the regulars were there. The formidable Bhakta Patnaik, now a Partner at a leading law firm, was a regular in the front row. He believed that at critical moments in a Test match, the fortunes of the teams depended critically on the seating arrangements of the television viewers. Therefore, as a batsman neared a hundred, you had to stay in your seat till he reached the landmark. If you moved, he was certain to get out. No amount of rational persuasion from me (and others) ever led Bhakta to dispel such notions. What is more, he had the requisite heft to enforce this regime on unsuspecting juniors who were often made to bunk class while some Indian batsman inched towards his hundred.
I reached the TV room late. The TV room was just above the hostel mess, and you could generally follow key events in a match based on a roar that would emerge from the TV room, and was audible throughout the hostel. Those of us that were experienced knew how to distinguish the roar that marked an adverse event from that which marked a favourable one. It was a matter of nuance, but not impossible to discern – the intensity of an adverse roar dipped rather more rapidly. I ran to the TV room on hearing such a roar, but Laxman was gone. I had missed it. But it didn’t really matter. Even if he had reached three hundred, it would only have been a statistical milestone. His innings was really the previous two days – and I had missed that already.
The boy’s hostel TV room began emptying out. The connoisseurs turned their attention to the timing of the declaration. It finally came, but many thought it was too late. There just wasn’t enough time left to take ten Australian wickets. Slater and Hayden didn’t look like they were going to get out. I and a few others trooped back to class. The cynic that I am, I was convinced this would meander towards a tame draw. Then news started filtering in. The openers were gone; Mark Waugh had gone for a duck. We knew there was a chance if we got Steve Waugh out. Ponting and Gilchrist had been Bhajji’s bunnies on that tour. The murmurs began for a walk-out of class. The true believers, like Bhakta Patnaik, had probably been in hostel all along – in all likelihood, on the same chair. The more rational amongst us, bordering on cynical, had returned to class. We needed to strengthen the ranks in hostel. Nikhil Mehra would have been amongst the first to walk out, and the back-row then slowly followed – one by one. In retrospect, this must have been demoralising for our poor professor – but our minds (and hearts) were in Eden Gardens anyway. The wickets were falling steadily after tea. Tendulkar had got into the act with the ball. His enthusiasm can be infectious when he does that. Everybody knows what followed in that session. The atmosphere at Eden Gardens was magical. We could feel it through the television screen in the boys hostel – which had a stadium like atmosphere of its own. The sea of humanity at Eden Gardens had literally willed Bhajji and India across the line. Australia were denied at the final frontier. Laxman had become a legend – the great Indian middle-order was complete. Ganguly, the captain, the Prince of Calcutta, had just been crowned at the Eden Gardens. But more than anything, the cricket fan had rediscovered what Test cricket had to offer.
There were many moments to savour in the years that followed. The return series in Australia in 2004, the series win in Pakistan, Johannesburg in 2006, the wins at Headingley in 2002 and at Nottingham in 2007, the 1 wicket win against Australia in Mohali in 2010, and many more. India won and lost and drew, but it played good cricket. While Ganguly retired in 2008, the golden era ended with the consecutive 4-0 losses to England and Australia in 2011. Rahul Dravid had batted well in England, but the nature of his dismissals in Australia must have convinced him that now is as good a time to go as ever. He was always a class act – and he went in a classy way. Tendulkar continued for some time, but he was a shadow of himself. Laxman was treated shabbily and left before it could get worse. Suddenly, the famed Indian middle-order was gone.
The 8-0 drubbing in 2011 would have hurt any Indian fan. What hurt more was that one never knew if it hurt the team. I am a great fan of MS Dhoni the batsman. I remember the 140-odd that he scored to first burst on the scene, and who can forget his diwali dhamaka in Jaipur. Even as a captain, in the shorter format, he is tactically sound. But in Test cricket, he is uninspiring. His captaincy has been dull, risk averse, containing, and bordering on negative. He is probably not India’s best wicketkeeper – and his batting would justify his inclusion in the team only if he could bat at six consistently, both in India and abroad. He has not done that. Therefore, MS Dhoni survives in Test cricket because he is an outstanding one-day cricketer, and a very successful captain in the shorter format.
MS Dhoni’s priorities reflect those of the Indian Board, and frankly, those of most Indians. We, in India, like our T20, IPL, ODIs and World Cups, and grumble about Test cricket being boring. India has not succeeded in making Test cricket a sport with mass appeal. Gate revenue is limited because people cannot take five days off from work to watch a match, and television revenue is limited because people are not glued to their TV screen for five days. The sad reality is that the truest form of cricket is not commercially lucrative. It requires a conscious effort by the Board to prioritise it, and nurture the game and its following. Sadly, Test cricket has often got step-motherly treatment with two-Test series being scheduled and sandwiched between ODIs and T-20s. MS Dhoni, as India captain, gives you the impression that he is doing a chore by playing Test cricket. The losses must surely hurt him, but you get the sense that he can forget about them the next morning and move on with the game. Ordinarily that is fine – but when you keep losing and keep acting as if nothing is wrong, it makes one feel that you simply don’t care. India’s recent victories in Test cricket have been nothing to cheer about. I was there at the Kotla for the fourth Test against Australia (2013), a series, which India won 4-0. On Day 3, I saw India bat, Australia bat and get all out, and India bat again. Ravindra Jadeja was bowling well targeted deliveries, which were pitching on a dusty Kotla track. It fetched him five wickets, but it hardly made for compelling Test cricket.
Yes, there is immense talent in the team today. Growing up we often wondered if it was possible to replace Dravid, Tendulkar, Ganguly and Laxman. Today we have Pujara, Kohli, Sharma and Rahane. And yes, there have been recent moments when a turnaround has seemed possible. Rahane’s hundred to set up the win at Lord’s this year was fantastic. But after that win, India lost the next three Tests to lose the series. The team, led by Dhoni, appeared characteristically blasé. However, much one loves cricket, it becomes impossible to support a team that isn’t giving it everything it has. When the people on the field feel the pain of defeat, you feel it too. And when victory washes away those pains, it is that much more special. That is true of any sport – just think back to Jana Novotna’s win at Wimbledon in 1998. It was extra special because she had cried on the shoulders of the Duchess of Kent just five years ago after losing to Graf. We had all cried with her. When she won, we felt her joy. At its core, sport is about the strength of character to conquer adversity. But when those on the field appear completely agnostic to victory and defeat, it snaps that emotional link between a sports team and its fan. Over the last few years, it has become very hard to feel anything for the Indian cricket team. I had fallen out of love – if not with cricket, at least with the Indian cricket team.
That changed at Adelaide. Virat Kohli had a stunning debut as captain. He was bold with his selection, led from the front with the bat, and chased a difficult win. Under him, India played Test cricket like it is meant to be played. This Test was always special – a tribute of sorts to the departed Phil Hughes – and I am sure Australia and the rest of the cricketing world wanted it to be a memorable one. Virat Kohli, and India, gave them that. As a captain, Virat Kohli stands tall in defeat. There is hope yet for the Indian cricket fan. I didn’t expect the Indian think-tank to switch captaincy mid-tour. They were probably of the view that Dhoni deserves to captain the side in the World Cup, and to unseat him from the Test captaincy now will undermine his leadership. They will always take the safe pragmatic route. Change will come, but it will not come now. Meanwhile, the Indian team heads to Brisbane where it faces a much tougher test. A decade ago, amidst all the talk of ‘chin music’, it was at the Gabba that Sourav Ganguly defied the odds to hit that wonderful century. We all knew he was vulnerable to the short ball, but he conquered adversity that day – and set up that wonderful series for India. That innings was about character. It was all heart. Indian cricket has been missing that lately.
But, for now, Adelaide has made me love cricket again. My grandfather would have approved.
(Aman Ahluwalia is a cricket fan based in New Delhi)
