Sehwag: The Madurai Mani Iyer of Test Match batting

Ramachandra Guha wrote recently on being reminded of Sehwag's batting while listening to Bismillah Khan. Khan-saab, he wrote, was "both joyful and guileless". This assertion struck a chord, for I've always associated Sehwag's batting with another Indian classical musician, Madurai Mani Iyer, a Carnatic vocalist from the first half of the last century, who could be described in those very terms -- joyful and guileless. 

Mani Iyer's music makes you sway from side-to-side, it makes you tap your feet, it puts a ear-to-ear smile on your face. His music is audacious, it is irresistible, and when he gets going on those long swarakalpana flights, it seems almost unstoppable. He can be funny, he can be cheeky. He can make your heart skip a beat with the most pure phrase, and he can make you raise your eyebrows with something unexpectedly unorthodox. His music was for the laymen, his music was for the experts. 

Sounds like Sehwag?

But the more I listened to Mani Iyer, the more I discovered how much was hidden below the surface. It was joyful, yes, but it possessed depth that isn't usually associated with joy. It was weighty, and again, that word doesn't always go with joy. It was more scholarly than I had initially imagined, and somehow, the scholarliness rested lightly on its shoulders. It was pristine classical music, steeped in tradition, soaked in history. That sort of music is supposed to be obscure, inward, pondering. Not joyful, right? 

The cliche about Test Match batting is similar. It takes years of training, years of experience. It is supposed to be a slow grind. Tantric concentration is key. Physical and mental stamina must work together with technique and judgment to erect monuments. It is supposed to bring joy to those who know what goes into it and be inscrutable to the others. 

Sehwag inverts that idea of Test Match batting, like Mani Iyer did with classical music. His batting is carefree; he often sings while batting. His batting is intuitive, it is impulsive. His batting isn't about control, it is about letting go. His batting is visceral, it is overpowering. Still, Sehwag is first a Test Match batsman, because, like Mani Iyer's music, his batting has pathos, his batting has weight, his batting is scholarly. 

Sehwag's technique is underrated. While his feet don't move as much as the purists would like, his balance is faultless. In economy of movement, Sehwag has almost no parallel in his generation. Even so, he gets into great positions, he gets his weight behind the ball, he generates power, his timing is almost otherworldly. When he is batting at his best, there is not one extra flourish, not one unnecessary movement. If that isn't great technique, I don't know what technique is. 

Madurai Mani Iyer's swara-improvisation was marked for its "sarvalaghu" -- a way in which he spontaneously built patterns and structures of notes, almost unendingly, one after another, like torrential downpour. Nothing was planned, nothing was pre-set. And following that intuitive path of "sarvalaghu", Mani Iyer created edifices of notes and patterns, on the spot, that people struggled to create with meticulous planning. It sounds easy when you hear it -- he just sings what comes to him at that point in time -- but it is more execute to do than just reproduce plans. It needs an innate grasp of a dimension of the art that is most elusive -- its philosophy. Mani Iyer grasped that, just like Sehwag understands the philosophy of Test Match batting. That insight is what makes their art joyful.

Serious health issues deprived Mani Iyer of his voice at the peak of his powers. He came back, singing at a lower pitch, now more a senior statesman than a young maverick. He brought joy every kind of listener performing, literally, until the day he died. 

I hope Sehwag comes back to Test cricket, perhaps settling for a lower, more comfortable pitch, to delight us with his most unbridled brand of batting for some more years. 

Sammy and Friends

This is now on cricinfo.
***

There is a theory doing the rounds that with Sammy in the eleven, the Windies will always be either one batsman short, or one bowler short. It is an easy argument to make. Sammy, the batsman, struggles to make an impact because he does not have the defensive technique to play a long innings. Sammy, the bowler, is a holder, and he cannot be more than that at his pace. The only successful attacking Test Match bowler at Sammy's pace in recent memory is Shaun Pollock, and Sammy doesn't have the skill or the control to be Shaun Pollock.

On the afternoon of the first day of the Third Test match, I prayed that West Indies would have the courage to play one batsman less, and pick Kemar Roach to bowl with Edwards, Rampaul, Sammy and Bishoo. In this series, every time the West Indies had the Indian batting on the mat, the batsmen found a passage of uninspiring bowling to capitalise on - Harbhajan and Raina did it in the First Test, Laxman and Raina in the Second. A fifth bowler might have helped, I thought; a fresh pair of legs, some variety. Moreover, the extra batsman hasn't done much at all. Yesterday, with Rampaul missing - an unfortunate, unforeseeable tragedy - the Windies still had India in trouble, at 18 for 2 and at 172 for 5, and both times, the bowlers who were doing the damage were too tired to continue. A fifth bowler might really have helped.

But with Sammy in the fold, a fifth bowler means a batsman less. It means that Baugh bats at six, and Sammy at seven - not confidence-inspiring at all. Which brings us to that easy argument again - that Sammy is the fielder, not good enough as a bowler or batsman.

Let's look at the tougher argument for a moment.

That the West Indies have been struggling to compete in Test matches is trite, it is obvious for all to see. They won a Test match after two years against Pakistan earlier this year. They ignominiously lost to Bangladesh at home some time ago when their top players walked out on the series. The Board and the Players Association are locked in a battle that resembles a socialist trade union struggle for better pay and better working conditions. There are player strikes, suspensions, mysterious selection decisions, rabid interviews, talks of corruption, mishandling, unnecessary interference. For ten years now, since Walsh retired, the West Indies have been a collection of talent fissured and fractured by politics.

Sammy's appointment as captain - he's known as a Board man, rather than the Player Association man his predecessor Gayle was - happened in this context. He was never a regular in the Test side, and in the shorter versions, his report card read, "Can do better". His appointment came as a bolt in the blue. And it was well understood that he is role as a captain is similar to his role as a bowler - hold until the next guy is fit and ready.

Sammy has done a lot more.

Before Sammy, there were flashes of team-play, in that unexpected Champions Trophy win, for instance. Fans of the team, like myself, have consoled ourselves in individual brilliance - Lara's exploits against Murali, Chanderpaul's invincible runs of attrition, Chris Gayle's random, merciless attacks, and Jerome Taylor's freak spell.

For the first time in ten years, under Sammy, the West Indies are playing like a team, pooling in collective resources to punch above their weight - in a manner that reminds one of the way New Zealand play their cricket. In this home season, they drew with Pakistan, and have troubled India more than India would've imagined possible. Yesterday, with Rampaul out of the eleven, it would have been easy for the West Indies to bend over and submit. But two bowlers and Sammy - who, by the way, always bowls better than he looks like he's bowling - all carrying niggles, made India fight for their runs. Except in that last hour, when the bowlers were too tired to make an impact, they traded on equal terms with the Indian batting line up.

Sammy has brought this will to toil to the team, he has brought heart and commitment. When he's badgered in the press conferences, his responses are never tired, they are honest. When he is asked about his own merit, he responds with belief. When asked about selection, Gayle's for instance, he responds with a shrug, it's not his job to comment. And that is exactly how he plays his cricket, and how he captains the side - with enthusiasm and devotion that belies his natural talents. Maintaining his morale, his conviction amidst this pressure from the media and the players is admirable enough; that he infects his teammates with this courage is the sign of a truly great leader.

This generation of West Indian cricketers are still only discovering how to win, and Sammy is pushing them to discover it together, as a team.

Sammy is still doing a holding job, he knows that. When Bravo, Bishoo or Barath are ready, he will, most probably, make way. But he is doing a lot more than he was expected to do - it is just a question of time, and a little luck, before results follow.

The Bestest

A cricket post after quite long.
***

Some days ago, I undertook the arduous task of picking a team of the greatest eleven from a century-and-a-quarter of Test Cricket. The task was made trickier by a shortlist of eighty-eight players who made their country elevens. Sanath Jayasuriya was available for selection, but not Herbert Sutcliffe or WG Grace, Chaminda Vaas was there, but no Courtney Walsh or Joel Garner, Prasanna wasn't allowed, while Underwood was. You could argue, of course, that if a player didn't make his country eleven without question, he can't be on the all-time eleven. But logic and all-time lists aren't happy bedfellows. You compare and choose players you haven't even seen. I know Sachin's genius like I will never know Hammond's or Ponsford's. Yet, I have to select one. Similarly, I am forced to give some weight to Sobers' pronouncement on Subash "Fergie" Gupte's genius even though I've never seen him bowl. Statistics guide me, yes, but ultimately, it is a gut-feeling. No, a guess.

For the first opener, I can't look beyond Jack Hobbs. Amongst the early masters of batting, three names stand out the most influential - Grace, Ranji and Hobbs. Grace was the first to develop back-foot and front-foot play - a child learns these osmotically today by just watching people around him bat. Ranji showed the world the art of leg-side play and wrist work. But it was Hobbs who mastered all these principles of batting. He was the coaching manual. A question remains - which Hobbs am I picking - the early, Trumperesque Hobbs, or the post-war Jedi? I don't really know. I'm okay with either. Opening with Hobbs, I would have loved Sutcliffe - Hobbs' long-time collaborator at Surrey and England, and an expert on batting on unplayable wet wickets. His sixty-plus average is still the highest for an opener with over 4000 runs. But the England eleven went for the other stalwart, Len Hutton instead. So, I chose the greatest modern opener to partner Hobbs - Virender Sehwag. If Hobbs conquered the complex art of batting, Sehwag simplifies it. Which is why I think they would make such a great pair - at one end, you would have the calm, solid, immovable genius, and at the other end, an edgy, unpredictable, frightening one. For the record, Hutton and Gavaskar were probably better batsmen than Sehwag, simply because they played against much fiercer bowling in more difficult conditions. But I'm choosing a pair of openers, and not the two best. Which is why Sehwag makes it.

In the middle order, Don Bradman is a no brainer. Critics say that the bowling he faced wasn't as good, the fielding was poorer and he played all his cricket only against three teams, but ignore the fact that there were uncovered pitches, primitive protective gear, inferior bats. I think if you made adjustments for all this with a sophisticated statistics model, you would find that Bradman's record would remain untarnished. No batsman has ever scored even nearly as heavily, consistently and quickly as Bradman. He's in at No. 3. George Headley, the "Black Bradman" is the second middle order batsman. The first great black West Indian batsman, he played only twenty-odd Test Matches, but scored runs at an average of over 60 in a batting line-up where he accounted for nearly half the team's output. Until the Ws made their appearance, Headley was the West Indies' only world-class batsman. Batting in an order like that would have had an effect on his batting, as he found himself battling with the tail very quickly. Still, he managed that average, that record and had such an impact on the game that his loving fans described Bradman as the "White Headley", and Ramachandra Guha describes him as the greatest West Indian batsman ever - even above Lara and Richards.

Arguably, the most complete cricketer of all time, Sobers was born to play the game. He was one of the greatest batsmen of all time, he could bowl spin and medium pace and was a great fielder. He walks into the team as a batsman and an extra bowler. So far, the middle order has selected itself. Now comes the difficult part - picking one between Lara, the two Richards (Viv and Barry), Chappell, Hammond and Tendulkar - a list so diverse and distinguished that it would be criminal to leave anyone out. Ultimately, I went for the most complete batsmen I've seen - one of those guesses - and chose Sachin Tendulkar. For all the allegations on not finishing games, or scoring against weaker teams, Sachin Tendulkar remains the purest, most selfless, most beautiful, batsman of the last two decades. He has invented shots - the guide over the slip cordon, that perfect straight bat while playing the paddle sweep behind the keeper, that cover-drive on the up, or those million ways in which he manufactures singles of absolutely any ball.

This brings us to the wicketkeeper. When the batting line-up has Hobbs, Sehwag, Bradman, Headley, Sobers and Sachin, the wicketkeeper need not be a great batsman. Even as far as wicketkeeper batsmen go, Andy Flower, whose batting I rate higher than Gilchrist or Sangakkara is not available. When I chose the list on cricinfo, I picked Sangakkara. But after some research, I'd rather go with Alan Knott, who stands up there with the most skillful keepers of all time. Knott's art came to the forefront when he stood up to Underwood on wet wickets in the County circuit, when each ball had a mind of its own, and Knott still managed to collect them noiselessly. When you have Sydney Barnes swinging and spinning at the same time, and Muralitharan flummoxing batsmen with his doosra, there better be a keeper who can keep pace with what is thrown at him - the batsman isn't going to touch much.

This leaves us with the bowlers. The combination I prefer is two quicks and two spinners with Sobers bowling according to the pitch, and Tendulkar pitching in if another hand is required. Malcolm Marshall, with his extreme speed, skid, seam, swerve, swing and smartness picks himself. He was the greatest fast bowler of them all - at an unconventional five-feet-ten, and a bustling open-chested action, he could decimate batting orders. Ask England - he bowled once with his left hand fractured and still destroyed them. Just like Ranji invented leg-side play and changed the way the game was played, the Pakistani quartet of Nawaz, Imran, Akram and Younis rejuvenated old-ball bowling with reverse swing. The most skilled of that lot was Akram, bowling with the cleanest of actions and doing things with the ball that pacemen before and after him have only dreamt of. Plus, he adds left-arm variety to the attack.

Sydney Barnes was an unclassifiable bowler. He bowled a cocktail of swing, seam and spin - it was hard to tell one from another. He bowled at a Kumble-esque pace, and made turned the ball as much as O'Reilly or Warne. When someone remarked that O'Reilly was a better bowler because he bowled the googly, Barnes said, "I didn't need to." A temperamental character, he once bowled badly because his captain refused to give him the new ball. He skipped a Test Match because the English Board refused to pay for his wife's accommodation. The reason he makes it here, quite apart from his incredible numbers, is because for three generations (he played cricket for almost forty years), batsmen said he was the greatest of them all. The slot for the second spinner is a toss up between the game's two most successful - Warne and Muralitharan. Arguably, Warne was more skilful, while Murali was more successful. Warne bowled, very often, when teams had been softened by McGrath and Gillespie before him. Murali bowled when batsmen were well warmed up. Warne bowled in spinner-unfriendly, bouncy Australian tracks, but Murali bowled on pitches that were built for him. The litmus test, for me, is how they fared against the best players of spin of their generation. On this analysis, Warne, for all his wizardry, comes a distant second. Murali might not have murdered India like he did England, but he did trouble India more than any other spinner had done since Richie Benaud. Murali, in one sense, was like George Headley - he was the only world-class bowler amongst a string of also-rans. He had more opportunities, therefore, but he had more pressure as well. He rose to the challenge and ended up as the greatest matchwinner of all time. For that, he makes it as my No. 11. (This is also a change from the selection I made on cricinfo.)

The team, in batting order:
Jack Hobbs, Virender Sehwag, Don Bradman, George Headley, Sachin Tendulkar, Gary Sobers, Alan Knott, Wasim Akram, Malcolm Marshall, Muttiah Muralitharan, Sydney Barnes.
Twelfth Man - Sunil Gavaskar. (If the pitch is difficult, or the opposing team has West Indian fast bowlers of the 80s, Gavaskar sneaks in ahead of Sehwag.)

Return of the Odds and Ends Post

See previous such posts here, here, here, here. I'm sure there are more, but I can't find them now.
***

Hanuman

I'm a slightly religious guy, although temples don't really interest me. I prefer finding my Gods elsewhere. Like lots of people in my generation, I've gone through an atheist phase, and then I've come around to where I started - although, in the process, my conception of this Being might have become slightly more sophisticated. Coming back to the point, temples don't really interest me. So, I often evade and avoid visits to temples (unless there are concerts happening there). Even so, the Anjaneya temple in Nanganallur has always intrigued me. Every single person who has gone there has told me that it is a must-visit. I haven't heard a single bad report of the temple - even people who tell me it is really crowded always add that it was still worth it.

The other day, I had an opportunity to visit such temple - Guru was getting an award from the Rotary Club of Nanganallur for his services to Carnatic Music, and I was the driver to Nanganallur. Mami (his wife - a most sweet lady) came along. He was least interested in seeing the temple (actually, he was worried there'd be too much crowd - Sunday and all that, given his advancing age etc.), so Mami and I (ooh, that makes it Mami and Mami) went to the temple.


Now, when people hype up something majorly, often it disappoints. The temple didn't. The idol ("32 feet high," Mami whispered in my ear, as I stared at it in awe) was large and beautiful. There was this stateliness about it (not easy to achieve when the statue in question is a plain black, monolithic monkey with folded palms), and there was a dignity to the way the temple was kept. I liked that. Don't get me wrong - I love my chaotic temples, but this had a real dignity to it. Really enjoyed myself there. (Also saw a Hayagreevar Temple where said Mami did an archanai in my name for my early marriage. That was a bit trippy.)

I even liked the awards function that evening. Except for the Rotart District Governor (who spoke too much and knew little), no one else engaged in mindless superlativitis (none of the he-is-an-avatar-of-Lord-Krishna-himself-type stuff - only some very well-written words about ). At the end of it, there was a heavy saapaattu. Felt like a wedding - two payasams, sambar, vetthakozhambu, rasam, chips, chepankazhangu (chamagadda) roast, ghee, fruid salad, curds etc. Yum.

I will soon forget the contents of the meal, I'm sure. I might even forget why I went to Nanganallur. But that Hanuman will stay with me.
***

The Post Office

I went to the T. Nagar Post Office with aforementioned Thatha to collect his pension. Each year, in November, all pensioners must give this thing called an "Existence Certificate". Basically, you must certify that you exist. "Respected Sir, As evident from this letter, I still exist. Regards, TVKRS Subramanian" type thing. I once heard of a case in one of the High Courts where a man hadn't given this certificate for 3 years, but still got his pension. Suddenly, when he gave the certificate in the fourth year, the Government discovered that there was no certificate for the three previous years and demanded that he return his pension. He argued in the High Court, successfully, that if he exists now, he must have existed in those three years also. Unless he was Jesus Christ or Vishnu (who came back ten times).

Anyway, I went to the Post Office with Thatha. The pension section is on the second floor of a building with no lift - some basic planning, perhaps? (Thatha is surprisingly fit for his age, and I can think of people twenty years younger than him who'd find it hard to make the trek up the building.)

Nevertheless, he called the mobile number of a friendly lady who worked in the pension section, and she told him she was in Bombay. They had a conversation for about five minutes where they caught up on each other's lives (her Appa was not well, apparently, and Thatha informed her about his own recent sortie to the hospital), at the end of which she said she'd send someone downstairs to get the form and take his signature. He said he'd ask his grandson to go up and bring the form. Friendly substitute lady came downstairs with me, introduced herself to Thatha, asked about his health, he found out some basic info about her (Husband's job? How many children? Son? 11th Standard? Going to IIT class?) and took his signature.

The institution doesn't work, but the people still seem to make it friendly enough - just like how many nationalised banks and government departments work.
***

Twins

When I was (much) younger, I couldn’t tell the difference between Anandabhairavi and Reethigowla, Darbar and Nayaki, Bhairavi and Mukhari (sometimes Huseni also!), Kedaragowla and Yadukulakambhoji. Today, I find it hard to understand why I couldn’t tell these apart! (I sometimes still don’t understand how people who know no music tell really close ragas apart, rarely, if ever, making a mistake.) I think it is like telling the difference between Sehwag and Tendulkar. When Sehwag burst on to the scene, I’d often look at him bat and presume it was Sachin. And he’d take a single, and the guy at the other end would look the same. Soon, you begin to tell Sehwag from his backlift, his slightly wooden legs, his bat-speed, his savageness on the on-side and his slapping cover-drive. Sachin’s legs are always in position, he doesn’t look brutal even when he lifts it over mid-wicket and his cover-drives are lovely punches. They haven’t changed over the years, you’ve learn to identify them better. When you first see them, you only learn to look at the patterns you already know. You’ve seen a Sachin. So, when your mind is faced with Sehwag, it only sees the similar stance, the build, the irreverent shot-making. Only after some time, do you begin noticing those differences. When I was first faced with Reetigowla (after I had already learned to identify Anandabhairavi), my mind immediately slotted it in the ‘Anandabhairavi’ folder. Only with time, did it see those differences.

Now it knows that for all their likenesses, Anandabhairavi and Reetigowla are very different animals. Anandabhairavi seems to enjoy meandering in the madhya sthayi – that glide from panchamam to nishadam to panchamam that defines the raga, the twisty sgrgm phrases; and has heart-rending tara-sthayi sancharas (recall the anupallavi in Marivere). It has been interpreted, reinterpreted, encroached upon over the years, but it retains its classicist nature – like Sachin. Reetigowla, on the other hand, has trademark mandhra-sthayi sancharas (unlike most Anandabhairavi interpretations), has a lovely plain double nishaadam (oh, I love that sound!), an odd symmetry amidst its jumpiness (the nn-s/ gg-m combination, for instance), and a different kind of joy from what its predecessor offers. I’ve always thought of Reetigowla as slightly moody. When the artist has got it right, he’s on a roll, but on days that he hasn’t, you’re waiting for the next guy to come in – like Sehwag. Reetigowla might have looked to Anandabhairavi for inspiration, like Sehwag did to his guru, but it has carved an identity that gives it its own flavour.
***

('Twins' might appear in the next edition of Sruti - if you like Indian classical music/ dance, I'd strongly suggest subscribing to it. Check out maadi!)

Ganguly, the Bastman

This is something I wrote when Ganguly retired. I found that most articles only dealt with his attitude, his captaincy, his leadership; about Ganguly the Man or Dada or the Prince of Calcutta. This is about Ganguly the Bastman, Saurav Ganguly, offside guru.
***

It was early days of ESPN in Manipal, and the programming wasn't that India-centric. India were playing this tour game against one of the counties, and an unknown left-handed all-rounder walked in to bat. Hardly ten balls into his innings, he unleashed two cover drives that seemed too good to be from a newcomer. I was waiting for a third one when the match was stopped suddenly, and the action shifted to a Premier League game. Clearly, the English ESPN watchers were concerned with other off-sides. But back home, there was a fan in the making. India lost the first Test badly, I was disappointed. An injury to Manjrekar, and Sidhu's departure in anger meant that Ganguly and Dravid found themselves making their debut at Lord's. The off-side play he unleashed on that day, and in his 136 at Trent Bridge in the next test, remain as vivid images from my childhood (I watched the latter on TV just yesterday - such effortless class!).

Ganguly's batting wasn't all about the off-side - his huge sixes over long-on off any spinner, and his funny tucks for singles and twos on the on-side were as crucial to his survival and success. When he first burst on to the scene, he even played some awkward pull shots - they weren't great to watch, but they were effective. But his off-side play was so refined, so precise, that everything else he did was obscured in its shadow. It was a glorious sight - the area between cover and point would be as thickly populated as a railway station, and the ball would still find a way through. As recently as the Mohali Test Match, Ganguly toyed with Ponting as he laced three boundaries through seven men on the off-side. Ponting reacted by posting deep-point. Ganguly still found a boundary.

Another aspect of his batting that always stunned me was the fact that he never hit the ball harder than it needed to be hit. Unlike Gilchrist or Jayasuriya, Ganguly's drives and cuts weren't of the ferocious variety, he never seemed to hit the ball very hard, but it reached the fence as quickly as theirs. He never looked as strong as Afridi or Flintoff, but could hit the ball as far.

It was in the one-dayers that Ganguly's batting found full expression. He stands, and will continue to stand, as one of the greatest one-day batsmen of all time. The sheer volume of runs and centuries at that average and against all kinds of attacks in all sorts of venues is hard to ignore. He was a master of batting in the middle overs once he got a start. His push to thirdman for single wasn't the most beautiful or complicated shot he executed, but it was the backbone of his batting. He could push almost any ball there at will and get off strike. And heaven help the team that found itself at the receiving end of his late onslaughts.

Age slowed him down, and his precise off-side play lost their sheen. Teams were able to plug his point-to-extra-cover stronghold, bowl into his ribs and get him caught at short fine or square leg. When they did give him something outside the offstump, he would eagerly poke and find the ball safely in second slip's hands. His Dada personality and his ebullient leadership kept him going until Chappell struck.
***

I admired Ganguly's comeback batting, but I didn't enjoy watching it as much. He returned steelier and tighter. His pull, awkward as it was, was back. Not as afraid of the bouncer anymore, he wasn't over-enthusiastic about balls outside his off. Yes, he never timed the ball as well as he used to, his sixes off the spinners weren't as long or consistent as they used to be. Hell, he was even troubled by Brad Hogg on that tour of Australia. Yet, there was a princeliness to his batting. It didn't come from an air of authority in his shot-making, but from assuredness. He could score quickly and damagingly when he wanted to, like in that game against South Africa in Kanpur on a minefield, or those two innings in the controversial Sydney Test (remember that contentious catch by Clarke in the second innings?); but he played stodgy stockpiling innings when the match demanded - a couple of innings on that tour of England and that Test century against Australia in Mohali in his final series.

When I watch him grapple in the IPL with T20 runrates and batting amidst the weakest batting line-up in the tournament, I wonder what he would've been if T20 had been around 10 years ago. Amongst current cricketers, Gambhir gives us a clue - Gambhir is also strong square on the offside (although not as strong), he steps down the wicket against spinners (he is more assured than Ganguly against them), he dabs to thirdman for a single with alarming ease and regularity (just like Ganguly used to) and he can launch into calculated, inimical attacks in the later overs. Ganguly would have been as effective, if not more effective than Gambhir. And Sachin would've been the world's best. Now there's a T20 opening pair that would give India'scurrent pair a run for their money.

Ganguly, in his comeback years was a master of making best use of his fading natural abilities. He recognised that he wasn't as quick, and that his timing wasn't as good. He worked around it. He recognised that after a decade on the scene, bowlers knew exactly where and how to bowl to him. He worked on those lines of attack. He recognised his role in the batting line-up better. He had a point to prove, and he proved it. His retirement announcement was like his cover drive - it comes off a lazy flourish of the bat innocuously, but before you can react, its disappeared into the fence.

Joke for the Day

Q: What did Greg Chappell tell his brother in that match against New Zealand?

A: Yeh under ki baat hai.

(Har har.)

This is Not Cricket

I don't know how to react to what happened this morning.

I could be shocked. Cricketers have never been attacked before. India's previous tours passed without any incident. Yes, there was an incident involving the New Zealand team some years ago, and another one near the English team hotel in 2005. England were also in Mumbai when the Taj attack happened. But in none of those cases were cricketers attacked so directly, rashly and boldly. None of them injured any cricketers.

All our years of cricket-fanaticism has, to use a cliche, lulled us into a false sense of security. Because cricketers in the subcontinent are honoured, respected and worshipped, because they have always been, to use another cliche, demi-gods, there's this sense that no one, not even terrorists would do anything to them. When India cancelled their Pakistan tour (which was replaced by this tour), I joked that the Indian team shouldn't be worried about their security because even terrorists want to watch India-Pakistan cricket. That was the first thing I thought of when I heard this news.

Yet, I'm not shocked. It has never happened before, but it was always on the cards. Someone would think its a good idea and order some other people to do it. Terrorist strikes happen so often that I've become numb to them. I glance at the first two paragraphs of the report, and move on to the inside pages of the newspaper.
*

I could be afraid. As Barkha Dutt has been telling us for the last hour on NDTV, Lahore is very close to the border. The terrorists could just cross over and open fire in Amritsar. The bigger fear is for the sport in India. Every cricket match, more than ever, is a likely terrorist target (this includes the IPL). For the big cricketers, like Sachin and (perhaps) Dhoni, every public appearance is a security threat.

But these risks have always been there. This incident has only given images to attach to this fear.
*

I could be angry. But there are too many people to be angry against. There's the ideologues and the terrorists for conceiving and carrying out this act. There are the Pakistan security agencies who haven't been able to arrange for something as simple as a safe journey from the team hotel to the stadium. There is the chaotic Pakistan Cricket Board run until recently by incompetent army officers which somehow believed that a successful and safe cricket tour could happen in these times.

However, the diffusedness of the anger dims it and renders it tame. Anger is replaced by sheer helplessness and frustration.
*

I think I'm only sad. Sad for the policemen who died because some people thought it was important now to play a game of cricket. Sad for the cricketers who were injured - they travelled from their own troubled land to another one hoping to alleviate the panic that seems to have spread amongst the cricket playing countries about touring the subcontinent. Sad for Pakistan Cricket - some of the most colourful and individualistic cricketers over the years have come from there. Sad for Cricket itself, because what seemed like a sacred line has now been irremediably crossed.

Bowl, Jumbo!

Kumble's retirement, though in the pipeline for a while, came a little suddenly - in the middle of a crucial series, when he was captain. It was like one of his iconic jumbos - tossed up slightly, coming straight towards your bat, and you expect to hear a tonk as you defend it silly point, but hear a thud instead, as it takes off from nowhere and hits the 'keeper's glove shoulder-high. Kumble hardly did anything sudden or unexpected off the field - he was never involved in any disputes or controversies, he didn't shoot his mouth off against his opponents, he never had anything bad to say about the selectors and the administration (even when he was unceremoniously dropped from the one-day team, or was made to sit out while Harbhajan played). And this, to me, made his retirement, even more surprising - in the middle of a Test Match, announced on commentary!

Expectedly, articles have been written on blogs (like this one), on cricket websites, in newspapers, and they all give us the same catchphrases - 'grinding the opposition', 'large heart', 'tireless', 'brave' - and they speak of the same things - that match in Antigua, that match in Sydney, that match in Delhi, the fact that he wasn't 'pretty to watch', his superior record at home, all kinds of other statistics to show that he was just as good as the best of his time, his comeback after shoulder injury, and that the loss of his retirement will be felt now. Amidst all this, they forget the most important aspect of his persona - his bowling.

Kumble's bowling has never been just about wearing the opposition down into submission. It isn't about bowling ball after ball, over after over of the same stuff until the batsman plays a loose shot. Kumble's genius, and I use that word knowing fully well that it isn't to be used lightly, lies in little things he isn't often credited for. Kumble was always more misunderstood than underrated. True, he was a hard worker, but he was also a master craftsman. 'Grind' is a cruel, cruel word to describe his bowling. Granted, his bowling was never about the ball that pitches in the adjacent town and hits your off-stump, but it hinged on far subtler variations. He had a traditional legspinner, a googly, a topspinner, a flipper, a shooter, a yorker and the straighter one. To a casual eye, they all seemed like glorified titles for the same thing - the ball that just goes on straight. But batsmen, for years, have tried playing him as a one-trick pony, and they've failed, because they weren't good enough to perceive those small variations. They defend one ball confidently, and the next one looks fairly similar. But by the time their bat comes down on it, its shattered their stumps.

These small variations in flight, turn, bounce made Kumble so much fun to watch. When Kumble is at his best, not a single ball is played comfortably - there is this sense that a wicket might fall at any time. The close-in fielders chirp along, the keeper oohs too often, and before you know it, the batsman has misread one. The ball has turned maybe an inch or two - just enough to take the edge and land in one of the fielders hands or miss the bat completely. That was Kumble's magic. That made for many afternoons of exciting Test Cricket.

I was at a quiz when I overheard two people talking of Anil Kumble's sudden retirement. The news spread almost suddenly as one quiz ended and the other was about to start. Then, I heard from someone that India had declared and Kumble would come out to bowl for the last time. I really wished I'd stayed home to watch that last spell. I know it wouldn't have been his best spell, and I highly doubted whether he'd even pick up a wicket, but that rhythmic three-jump run-up, those flapping arms, that googly you can recognise from a mile, and that shout of "Bowl, Jumbo!" deserved one last look.

In this decade, I've begun to lose some of my favourite sights in cricket - Ambrose retired, and I never saw frightening West Indian pace bowling again, Lara retired and took the Nataraja pull shot with him, Mark Waugh's silkiness disappeared as quietly as his cover drive, Azhar's turned-up collar could only hide his face in shame. This series will see the passing of two more - surgical cover drives that defined off-side play for a generation, and a variety of bowling that I like to call Right Arm Guile. While the latter has found an able practitioner in a young Sri Lankan upstart, its granddaddy will be missed dearly.

Snippets from Yesterday: 2 Nos.

First, A Phone Conversation with a Good Friend

"Macha, I really like that song from Jaane Tu Ya Jaane na..."
"The Aditi song?"
"Yeah - I mean, there's something about songs with people's name in them..."
"Hey Mickey, You're so fine..."
"No da."
"The Obama Song by the Obama Girl?"
"Hey..."
"Monicaaaaaaaaa, O My Darling!"
"Wait..."
"O Raveena raveena raveena oooooo."
"Dai..."
"Oye Raju, pyaar na kariyo, dariyoooo, dil toot jaata hai."
"Um, I was thinking more along the lines of 'Dil Kya Kare', or 'Tu hai Meeeeeri Kiran!' or 'Meri Bheegi Bheegi Si...'
"My name is Manjeetttu."
"Hey da, something like 'Onnavidaaaaa'!"
"En peru Padaiyappa..."
Click.
Jokes apart, there is something about songs with names in their titles. Like right now, after listening to the Aditi song six times in a row, I want to find an Aditi and sing it to her. (No, I didn't feel similar reactions with the Mickey song.)
***

Second, The Day of the Freaks

(Yes, yes, that title is inspired by this. Yes, yes, I haven't read it yet.'Yet' being the crucial term. Just acquired a copy. Also, this is a long and rambling post. You are warned.)

I spent a fruitful last evening eating cheese sandwiches, with homemade ice lemon tea and watching two sporting freaks weave their magic around much-fancied opposition - the first was a 22-year-old upstart with a forehand that caused many tornadoes, none bigger than the one yesterday; and the second was a, um, a spinner (in the most liberal sense of the term), who reminds me of a Mak Lubricant advertisement with the tag line, "Legspin, Offspin, aur yeh bowled!" I watched a lot more of the Spaniard than the Lankan.

I was nervous even before the evening started. I felt underprepared for the final, and that was largely because I had watched only one Federer game this year, and that was his first round match against Hrbaty. A the first set got under way, and there was this torrent of whirling topspinners, scurrying, indefatigability and improbable angles, the nervousness grew. Federer wasn't playing all that badly, but Nadal still got his nose in front. Federer gave it his all, to be fair, but Nadal made him play one extra ball each time, and the errors came. The second set was more of the same angles, the body-serves, the gruelling down-the-line backhands. I could feel it two continents away - the champion's will weakened, as breakpoint after breakpoint slipped through his fingers.

At two sets down, depressed as hell, I switched to the cricket. Sehwag - 59 off 33, the TV read. I was stunned! Along came Mendis bowling his Right Arm Guile - for that's what he bowls. And its not just variations in direction of turn, but in length, flight and pace. One over, and Sehwag and Yuvraj were out. Before I could digest that news, Raina and Sharma fell. Now, both channels were depressing.

I switched back to the tennis and watched Federer grind out service games, and spill chances on Nadal's serve. It was going well till the ninth game. After looking comfortable for most of the set, Federer got himself into 15-30. He barely wriggled out of that when the rain came. I gathered that Nadal had chased down each ball, and used the wind to his advantage to disturb Federer. And Federer refused to play the slice return. I was aghast, and needed some consoling. I called a friend, great Federer fan, but he sounded gloomier than me. Vijay Amritraj spoke of mental blocks. I logged on to orkut, and checked out the Federer community. That was most distressing - most people were already speaking of revenge next year (often in Portuguese). What gave me confidence was the Goran-Henman game in the 2001 semifinal. Goran came back a different player after the rain break.

Federer, too, came back with a vengeance. He played a few brilliant points, as he had done in the game until then, but ensured that he didn't allow his serve to be broken. After playing a solid tie-break, he unravelled more drama in the fourth. On each Championship Point, I felt more nervous than I had ever done in my life. And when he saved one with the shot of the match - a bachkand down-the-line, I was convinced that he would win.

The fifth set, all was even, when rain came again. The Borg-McEnroe tiebreak aptly played in the break. The second break hadn't changed the tense atmosphere - it was gloomier than ever before, and the players produced tennis that only they could produce. This rivalry beats all that I've seen in my life. Sampras-Agassi was a stop-start, and there were times when one was better than the other. On Sampras' home turf, Agassi couldn't make a dent. In this rivalry, Federer doesn't have a home turf anymore. And Nadal sits proudly on two thrones. Just last year, people spoke of invincibility, ultimate greatness and everyone on the men's tour fighting for second spot. Only a fool or an optimist would do so today.

What makes Nadal so special? He's got this style that's entirely his own - I don't think there is a single player with that forehand, with that superhuman athletic ability and the sheer tenacity to gnaw away at a player's will. He's also got this uncanny court sense - he sees passes and winners that others cant see, he is excellent at guessing where the next ball will come, and when the rallies get longer, he uses this same court sense to small dents on the opponent's hits until he creates a chance for a winner. Above all, he hits the ball so bloody hard. So, if his unorthodoxy doesn't trouble you, the weight of his hitting sure will.

All unorthodox players need a second, more consistent, weapon to make up for players getting used to their unorthodoxy. Nadal has two - his backhand that hardly ever fails him, and his ability to retrieve. Anil Kumble, another bowler who would fall under the category of Right Arm Guile had many such weapons - his accuracy, his lionheartedness, his love for the longest spells, and his supremely sharp brain. Mendis needs to develop these weapons to sustain himself over a period of time. In the one-day game, when players are trying to take him on, he might get away easier. But in the Test matches, when a Rahul Dravid decides that he will wait endlessly for the bad ball and just block everything else, or a Laxman begins to read his mysterious fingers like he read Warne's, he might not be this effective.

The true test of an unorthodox player comes then - when he has to adapt to newer parameters and better opponents. Nadal came out with flying colours yesterday, when he showed why he was better than an unorthodox Fabrice Santoro, and put his name amongst the greatest in tennis history. Kumble did it when he picked up all those wickets on a comeback in Australia. Chanderpaul has been doing it for nearly two seasons now scoring runs everywhere and against everyone. Mendis, therefore, has a fair distance to go.

The Pilgrimage

A little more than two years ago, I was chilling in Delhi, having just finished my internship six days before my departure from the city. A friend, who was still doing his internship told me he'd meet me at the South-Ex market at six-thirty. By eleven-fifteen, I was feeling too restless, and I thought that I might as well check out the market (read cute Delhi chicks), get something to eat (read cheap shit at McD's), and might be buy something (read some T-shirt with a WWF guy on it - it was my life ambition then to own a WWF T-shirt - not because I liked wrestling, but because I never owned one while every respectable member of my generation owned one at some point!).

When I reached South-Ex, and had walked around for nearly an hour, this bus caught my attention. The bus was going to Najafgarh. Najafgarh! That's where the Bomber was from! Without thinking, I got in and travelled all the way to the obscure suburb. When I got off, I shocked the conductor by asking him where The Bomber's house was. He didn't know. A helpful auto driver offered to take me there and back for forty bucks. I knew he could be cheating me, but tihs was a pilgrimage that had to be made, and it was worth forty bucks. When I saw the house, I thought to myelf, "Thank you for all the entertainment!"

I returned to South-Ex on time for my meeting.

***

Its a story I hid from people when Sehwag lost his form and his place in the side. Society puts a high premium on conformism and agreeing with the national cricket selection policy, after all. But the Bomber wasn't to lie low for too long. He'd been developing newer bombs. Bombs, like many of his earlier ones, that were too big for the limited overs scene. Like Lara before him, Sehwag's finds full freedom only in the longest version of the game. While Lara was a one-day great, in the league of Ganguly and Richards, a notch below Sachin, we will always remember him more for what he did against England, Sri Lanka and Australia in the Test matches, because it was here that he was unparalleled in his generation.

I know that some day, Sehwag will get there. When people talk of the greatest batsmen of the early part of this century, Sehwag's name will be spoken of, along with Ponting, Kallis and Dravid. People will argue that while his numbers done show it, he was better than them. People will talk nostalgically of the day when the bowlers didn't know where to bowl at him. People will talk of captains falsely claiming to have "figured-him-out". People will ponder over why he was never able to replicate his success in the shorter versions.

On that day, I will tell my grandchildren of how I watched him play on a non-3D-TV, of how he hit that six from 193 to 199 off Ntini, of his upper cut, his feet that never moved, and of how I made that pilgrimage to Najafgarh, and they will listen to my wide-eyed, and wonder if they'd ever do something like that for a batsman of their generation!

Subtle Subramanian - Part I

Vinod Subramanian, sat alone on the beach watching old mamas and mamis in sweaters, monkey caps and mufflers. It must have been twenty-three degrees at least, but in Madras, given its usual weather, this was peak winter. He allowed himself a little smile. The waves hit the shore listlessly, almost as if they were bored of doing the same thing for centuries. Or maybe there was a hint of sadness in their behaviour.

He stared at them until a little drop of salty water was waiting to break free from his eyes and run down his cheek. He held it back, got up, and drove away into the city as dawn eased into a bright morning.
***

"That's the singer who was close to Fidel Castro," she said pointing to a poster that had 'Revolucion' emblazoned across it, and laughed almost endlessly.

"Okay, fine. I'm ignorant. You've said that a million times in a million different ways." Vinod declared indignantly.
"I can understand ignorance, but thinking that Che Guevara was a singer close to Castro..."
"Tell me, why would rock music loving, weed smoking, youth in India who haven't lifted a finger for any cause have posters and T-shirts of a revolutionary in South America? I think I'm entitled to assume that he was a rock star."
She laughed even more.
He continued, "I mean, Bollywood music lovers don't walk around with T-shirts of Chandrashekhar Pandit."
"Who?"
"Chandrashekhar P-p-pandit..."
Now she could hardly sit straight laughing. Her laugh was about the most unique laughs he'd ever heard - some people snorted, others sounded like Bollywood's professional rapists, but this one was in its own league - there was a high-pitched squeak that came in every two seconds or so! In his experience, many of the world's prettiest women lost their aura when they laughed out loud. She didn't.
"Chandrashekhar Pandit?"
His eyebrows knotted. "Wait, I know this guy's actual name - the guy with a mush and a gun..."
"Don't forget the dhoti."
And after two whole minutes of agony, he declared, "Azad!" Pause, "Why do I know Chandrashekhar Pandit?"
"Azad was called Panditji by people..."
"Oh yeah, that's what Ajay Devgan keeps calling him."
"Ajay Devgan?"
"That Bhagat Singh movie..."

More laughter filled a room that was a collage of newspapers, books, wires, clothes and cigarette butts. There was a sofa somewhere, but was well camouflaged amongst the previous days' Economic Times, while a mass of wires that belonged to her sixteen-piece sound system made their home on the mattresses that doubled-up as dewans. He looked nervously around the walls to see more people who looked like singers, but probably weren't, and an odd photograph or two of her family. There was a battered old TV in one corner of the room, and even at 8 pm, CNBC was on - in mute - with the stock prices and headlines flashing at the bottom of the screen. The rest of the furniture in the room was a table that had more newspapers and books, a shoe shelf that was nearly empty, and a little teapoy with yesterday's coffee mugs and a coconut shell doubling up as an ash tray. He cleared a few newspapers off the sofa and settled down on it.

She pointed upwards, towards the ceiling.

"Holy fuck." he exclaimed.
"We need to work on your vocabulary!"
"You painted that?!"
"Yeah. Nice?"
"A nude chick?"
"Yes. A nude chick. We really need to work on your vocabulary."
"An unclothed member of the female race?"
"We're a different race now?"
"A lower one, yeah." She gave him a look. "Kidding..."
"Thin ice."
"Anway, what does it signify? Some female liberation shit, with her clothes thrown away?"
"Thinner ice. But I'll let that pass. Benefit of the doubt and what not. You see that little equation in the corner?"
"Yeah..."
"I read this article once that had this long set of equations to prove that an erectile disfunction is equivalent to the square root of minus one. Those are the last two steps of the derivation. If you look closely, the that the woman is made of..."
"Little numbers and equations! Fuck!! But what does the erectile disfunction have to do with her?" and after a couple of seconds of reflection, "Or the square root of minus one?"
"Oh, that is for you to interpret and understand. One doesn't 'explain' art to other people."
"Yeah, when art is that hot, it is a crime to 'explain' it!"
"You think she's hot?"
"Very!"
"My brother told me that her eyes are a little off-centre - specifically the right eye."
"What?! Come on, look at those eyes, they're perfect! And Bipasha Basu has one eye smaller than the other. So, that really doesn't make a difference."
"I never realised that!"
"You have to observe her closely..."
"Her face? Do guys do that?"
"I do," he said, with a superior look.

She said nothing for some time - just stared at the woman who somehow signified the erectile disfunction and the square root of minus one, and dreamily walked into the kitchen. "What do you want?" she hollered.
"You," he said joining her in the kitchen.
"Sen wont be too pleased," she said.
"Sen'll never suspect a thing," he said moving towards her naughtily.
She thrust a drink in his hand. "For now you'll have to do with this."
"You know," he said, "I used to actually have a huge crush on you when I met you initially."
"I know."
"How do you know?"
"You weren't really Subtle Subramanian."
"Damn. I was really hoping you'd break up with Sharma."
"Sherman... I cant believe I was with him for that long."
"Yeah, and by the time I'd heard you broke up, someone pointed out that you were seeing your co-newsreader!
"He asked me. If you had asked me, even when I was with Sherman, I'd've said yes."
"Is that offer open even with Sen?"
She looked at him with that raised left eyebrow. "Are you asking me seriously?"
"Yeah."
"Okay. Yes. The offer is open."
He laughed into his drink.
She said, "Vin, I'm serious."
His eyebrow was raised now. And then his eyes grew as wide as two tennis balls. He took stock of the situation, and leant closer to her and asked, "Will you go out with me?"

She didn't say anything. She just leant towards him.

"I must warn you. The features on my face are to the left."
"Eh?"
"My face is not proportional."
She looked at it closely. "No!"
"Yes."
"I've done an experiment. I clicked a picture of myself, and took the left half of my face and laterally inverted it and pasted it instead of the right half. I looked different."
"Bergman-esque!" she said suddenly. He laughed. That's what he loved her for. He didn't understand what she meant by that - who was Bergman? Did he have a disfigured face? He didn't understand most things she said - about discourses and ontologies, about nihilism, countercultures and anarchy, about imagined communities and shared histories, about feminism and maelstroms, about Yugoslavia and Rwanda. But he listened to her, often with fascination, because she had this way of talking that made her look much prettier than she already was.

"Bergman is this famous Swedish filmmaker..." she explained.
"The joke sounded funnier without the explanation," he said.
"Jokes always do."
"But, coming back to the point, I have a disfigured face."
"You actually did that?"
"What?"
"Your experiment?"
"Yeah. I wouldn't have told you, if it weren't true."
"Nice use of the subjunctive mood. Not bad," she commented suddenly.
"The what?"
"Oh, don't bother."
"Yeah. I have other things to bother myself with."
"Like your disfigured face."
"I think I should get surgery done."
"Nah."
"Yeah. Plastic surgery."
"I'll compensate for the disfiguration," she said, moving her lips slightly to the right before towards his face. And the kiss was just the right mix of the spiciness of romance and the tangy tinge of mischief.
***
As much as he enjoyed getting up early in the morning to watch cricketers monkeying around in Australia in yet another Test Match, he hated Ravi Shastri's cliche-ridden drone. The cricket was often 'ordinary', the 'keeper almost always played a 'gritty' innings (unless he was Adam Gilchrist, god bless his soul), bowlers either hit or did not hit the 'right areas', and every now and then, the visiting batsman was "Edged and taken!" On this particular day, when an 'attractive shot-maker' was 'in his element', the ball had 'four written all over it' nearly every two minutes. Some poor soul was doing a lot of writing.

He increased the volume until the drone filled his little apartment and walked to the basin in the interests of personal hygiene. His reflection in the mirror confirmed his recent beliefs - that his face wasn't proportional. Slightly to the left. He told himself that he shouldn't worry about it so much. When he bared his teeth to his reflection, he noticed that his teeth were to one side also. The middle teeth at the top didn't fall on the middle teeth at the bottom. After a whole minute of trying to remember, it came to him - his incisors! That's what they were. They were off-centre.

"You know what I hate about this place," she said suddenly entering the bathroom. "You don't get newspapers."
"I get the Mid-day..."
"Newspaper?"
"Mid-day." he declared, emphasising on the first syllable for no reason, when the dreaded voice came, "Edged and taken!"
"Fuck. Laxman."
"Dravid falls for that teasing line outside the off..."
"Thank god!"
"You know, I think the Hyderabadis' love for Laxman is much like Laxman's batting..."
"Don't theorise about cricket. Please. I mean, how would you feel if I said things like, 'The subjunctive mood is in its death throes, and the best thing to do is to put it out of its misery as soon as possible'?"
"That's Maugham, isn't it?"
"Yeah."
"I'm impressed."
"Wikipedia."
"Better than Competition Success."
"For quite a while, that was my primary source of knowledge."
"But you actually read up on the subjunctive mood?"
"Yeah, I didn't realise that it was a grammatical thing - I was hoping it'd tell me more about women."
"The sub..."
"Edged and Taken!"
"Fuck. Laxman."
He ran to the TV wearing a worried expression and a T-shirt that now had more toothpaste than fabric. She had other worries.
***

To be continued

Eh?

Roebuck's article on January 8, 2008 in the Sydney Morning Herald:

"The only surprising part of it is that the Indians have not packed their bags and gone home. There is no justice for them in this country, nor any manners."

Roebuck's article on January 30, 2008 in the Sydney Morning Herald:

"INDIA'S performance in chartering a plane to take the players back home in the event of an independent judge finding against them in the Harbhajan Singh case counted amongst the most nakedly aggressive actions taken in the history of a notoriously fractious game. If this is the way the Indian board intends to conduct its affairs hereafter, then God help cricket."

Opinions change. Really fast.

The Aussie Way

I write this post in anger over what transpired in the Sydney Test.

I am willing to ignore the umpiring errors for the purpose of this post, as those need to be handled by the ICC and the national Boards. What shocked me (and has shocked me for years now about the Australian team is their "honour and spirit of the game" talk.

This is what their Code of Conduct says, "When you're out, and you know it, don't walk till the umpire rules you out. The edge might be audible in India, you could be caught at first slip, or your stumps might be shattered. DON'T WALK. Wait for the umpire to give you out. BUT, (and this is a crucial 'but', almost as large as Jennifer Lopez's), expect the opposing team, the umpire, and the rest of the world to trust you when you tell everyone that you've taken a catch cleanly. After all, you never cheat."

Michael Clarke showed us how ridiculous this philosophy is. He was caught at first slip off Kumble to an edge that was visible to someone sitting in the far stands at square leg, and he stood his ground - behaved like everything was normal. Next day, he takes a dubious catch of Sourav Ganguly, a catch that even Ian Chappell and Sunil Gavaskar cannot agree upon, and all of us are expected to believe him.

If I am supposed to trust Clarke when he's sure he's taken the catch, I should suppose that he will walk when he's sure he's out. The Aussie Way clearly has some loopholes.

I have this Grand Spirit Theory that can explain The Aussie Way. The Spirit of the Game is in the air in Australia, and the players inhale it when they are on the field. Sadly, this Spirit is extremely weak and cannot penetrate helmets. Therefore, when players are batting, the Spirit is forced to stay in the air and not within them. So, when an Aussie is batting, he isn't playing in the Spirit of the Game, but when he is fielding without a helmet at slip, he is playing in the Spirit.

And then there are those who support Clarke. Michael Slater. Not surprising at all. Wasn't he the low-life who claimed a clearly grounded 'catch' off Rahul Dravid in Mumbai six years ago and then wagged his finger at Dravid and Venkataragavan? We Indians are raised on Bollywood movies. It takes us lifetimes to forget these things.

Oh, let us not forget Ricky Ponting, and his outburst, "Are you questioning my integrity?" Of course we are, Mr. Ponting. When was it ever not in question?

As an aside, why do the Australians look to outlaw anything that affects their game - bodyline, off-spin bowling and sledging?

Settling Scores

Yesterday morning, I read about the "bowl-out" that bizarrely ended the stalemate between India and Pakistan. I must admit, I wasn't really aware of the exact nature of the ritual until yesterday morning, but that is still better than the Pakistan team, who weren't aware of even its existence till they were thrown into the deep end!

Around 1994, if my failing memory serves me right in these twilight years of my youth, an exhibition match between West Indies and the Rest of the World was decided by a bowl out. For a ten-year-old me, this was the ultimate in excitement and innovation. Excitement and innovation are the cornerstones of this T20 format, with "reaching out to a larger audience" being a third foundation. With the bowl-out, cricket hopes to reach out to a larger share of ten-year-olds - a market segment where it has been continuously losing out to Spongebob Squarepants, Pokemon and DragonballZ.

Here are my suggestions for other exciting and innovative ways to break a tie:

1. A Penalty Shootout - You have the wicketkeeper standing before a goal, and a batsman from a fair distance tries to hit the ball into that goal. This could bring in football and hockey audiences from around the world.

2. An Obstacle Course with Capture-the-Flag contest - There are two bases - one for each team. Each base has a flag. The team that captures the flag from its opponent and reaches its own baes wins. Have stumps, bails, pads, rollers, and umpires as obstacles and players with bats and balls run around trying to hit each other and stop them from Capturing the Flag. The Unreal addicts would then start watching cricket - that is 7% of the world's TV-owning population!

3. Arbitration - Each team nominates one arbitrator to the Bench from the Elite Panel of Umpires, and the two arbitrators appoint a neutral Chief. The captains of the teams present their arguments for why their team should win or lose the game. Arguments need not be restricted to cricket and could extend to attacks of personal nature, including comparing cricketers from opposition to potatoes. The ever-burgeoning legal fraternity would queue up to watch Dhoni wax eloquently on the intricacies of the game.

4. The Age-old Game of Lagori - This game tests some core cricket skills - throwing, running, avoiding uncomfortable balls and most importantly, your mental strength. Indian rural audiences might start watching cricket if their favourite sport is shown to them once a year (the probability of a tie).

5. Mortal Kombat - Because history has proved to us this is most effective way of resolving any disputes! Because equals are equal and unequals are unequal in this go-for-throat battle. Because this town aint’ big enough for a tie. Round 1, fight!

Crime and Punishment

All day, I have been watching various people expressing their opinions on why Sanjay Dutt should have been pardoned and let off under probation. Now, the Information and Broadcasting Minister has joined the bandwagon.

"As a minister, I do not want to question the judiciary, but in a civil society time has come to gauge the parameters for an unintentional fault, for which Shri Sanjay Dutt had already suffered long enough, in first instance."

What I don't understand is how the world seems to assume that he would have gotten off. What shocks me more is the mass of opinion that believes that he deserves to be let off. Let us remind ourselves of what Sanjay Dutt has done - he was in illegal possession of AK-56 rifles and a 9mm gun. He even confessed to having kept grenades for some time in his house. His defence was that he believed that these were for his personal security. Who was he under a threat from to keep an AK-56 for protection? While he might have not known what his actions would have led to, it is ridiculous to presume, as Mr. Dasmunsi has done, that it was an "unintentional fault". What did he think these weapons would be used for? Noble causes like waging war on Himesh Reshammiya in the years to come?

This sympathy for Sanjay Dutt seems to suggest two things - one, that we aren't able to accept that our heroes could be punished for their wrongs; and two, that we think the judiciary should share this public sentiment. Without going to deep into the debate of whether the judiciary should reflect public opinion, I believe that in criminal cases of this nature, a judge must look at the facts and evidence put before him, and pass whatever sentence he deems fit, because irrespective of what the standing or popularity of the accused is, criminal justice requires to fulfil the objectives of retribution and reformation. The judiciary, and not the people, or the film fraternity, or Mr. Dasmunsi are in a position to make sure that these ends are achieved.

Film stars in India have always had more than their share of reverence, sometimes bordering on worship. We also sometimes tend to confuse film stars with their screen personalities. If this judgment had come in the Khalnayak era, we might not have had this much trouble accepting it. Just that this judgment comes when the image of Sanjay Dutt is that of Munnabhai - a gangster with a heart of gold. I guess Sanjay has to face the truth now, just like Munna did in both movies. The world will hope, that the end, like the movies, is a happy one.

***

Of Fielders and Openers

Couple of weeks ago, I spoke too soon when I wrote Dinesh Karthik off as an opener in Test Cricket. I referred to him as 'the fielder', because he didn't show much promise with the bat, and not could he do any bowling. I compared him to Jimmy Kamande - the infamous Kenyan cricketer of whom Harsha Bhogle asked after five matches, "What does Jimmy Kamande do?". I was aghast when he was picked over Yuvraj for this Test series.

He's answered his critics with fine half-centuries in the two Tests. He's shown that he can attack and defend confidently. He's always been a fine fielder, and a player with what Greg Chappell called "good attitude".

But there's still a doubt - is he better than Sehwag? Humble submission - no. Sehwag has 12 hundreds in Test Cricket. Too early for Karthik to score hundreds, perhaps. Let's give him a little more time. My point is, he doesn't look like he can score big hundreds. The best openers - Gavaskar, Hayden and the like had the ability to score big hundreds. Sehwag has 8 scores of over 150 - an extremely high percentage of his hundreds. When he gets set, he dominates. He's scored a triple-century and two double hundreds. All in the subcontinent. But then we're forgetting his 195 in Australia and his 180 in West Indies. In the last home series against Australia, he was the only Indian batsman to score a hundred. His form in the longer version has dipped only slightly in the series against South Africa. In the matches since that famous series in Australia, his average is 50.35, higher than Sachin Tendulkar, Saurav Ganguly, Wasim Jaffer, Dinesh Karthik and VVS Laxman. The honour of the Indian batting order in the last three years has been saved by two batsmen - Virender Sehwag and Rahul Dravid, and to drop one of them for having one bad Test Series against South Africa is stupid. Sehwag has been India's most consistent opener since Gavaskar. It is high time we recognised that fact, and stopped tinkering with the combination at the top. Instead, perhaps, some changes in that famed middle-order may be more sensible.

Given all that, I'm impressed with Karthik. If he can score hundreds, I might even be willing to concede that he could play as a batsman in the side.

***

Love and Death

Ingmar Bergman met Death yesterday. He was 89. I wonder if he asked Death for a game of chess. Thank you, sir, for giving us those powerful images. Thank you for making me think.

Tribute to him here through two stills from “Persona”.

Cricket at 112

"Running in from Garage End at full speed and bowling with an Akram-copy action, left arm over-the-wicket to the batsman standing with his trademark, easy, elegant stance, is the opening bowler. The batsman is yet to get off the mark in nine balls.

"Ooh! That was a jaffa. That ball just took off from a good length and crashed into the garage. A demon in the pitch. The batsman walks down to examine, and with a little benign smile and a casual comment walks back to his crease. Bowler running in again for the fourth ball of this over. Bowling wide of the crease, angling it across the right-hander hoping to induce an edge. Oh, bowled him! How did that happen? It was almost the exact same spot where the last one bounced, and this time, it just died down on the batsman. This has to be the toughest pitch to bat on in the world!"

It sure was the toughest pitch to bat on. Any ball on a good length would climb up to your shoulder, irrespective of what pace the ball was bowled at. If it was a little shorter, it either sat up to be hit, or just flew miles above your head. The bounce sometimes was so much that yorkers bounced over the stumps! When I was younger, I thought it was the sloping nature of the pitch that gave it this bounce. I even bowled a few down the slope to see if it skidded off the pitch then. A little later, I wondered if it was the fact that there it was, in fact, an unevenly laid road. Maybe, it was just my high-arm action, and Sharan's ability to extract 'jump' from any track with his legspinners. Whatever it was, it made batting really tough. When I heard Sunny Gavaskar and the likes talk of 'chin music' and the 'perfume ball', I thought, "The team should practice here, in front of our house for a while!"

Strangely, neither of us became very good players square of the wicket. The explanation is simple - there were houses on either side, and you could only score runs straight. So, when the ball bounced to around chest height, if you attempted a shot, it was never the pull or the hook. It was a tennis forehand. And just like the tennis forehand, you watch which way the bowler is likely to go on his follow through and hit it on the other side.

It wasn't this simple though. The pitch had its hot spots - these strange patches from which the ball would refuse to bounce. For years we practiced the art of hitting those patches, and failed miserably. And then there was the magic wicketkeeper. Any ball that touched the bat and hit the back garage on the full was out. And because we batted right in front of this garage, there was no respite when you edged the ball. Caught behind became the most common dismissal - usually it was the forehand that wasn't properly controlled, because the bounce was too much to handle. Oh, this keeper could never effect any stumpings. So, when I decided I'd had enough of Sharan's loopy legspinners that turned violently, and bounced over my head, I'd try walking down and taking them on the full.

Batting there required extraordinary concentration. One mistake, and the pitch wouldn't forgive you. One Sachin-like drive-on-the-up and you were out. Consequently, we never played limited overs matches. It was always two innings. An average match still lasted only about an hour, with the two innings' scores totalling to an average of around 20. I remember a day when I batted 40-odd balls without scoring! I was still highly impressed by my skill - I had lasted 40 balls on that pitch!

The rules were even stranger. There was a boundary that wasn't very long. A four was a four. But if you hit a six, it counted for one run. So, if there was a non-striker, then you change ends. There were four house roofs also to deal with. We could easily scale three of them, but the rule was still that if the ball ends up on the roof, then you're out. And, your score is reduced to 0. Not the team score, but your personal score. But on most occasions, it was just two of the three regulars - Sharan, Adhi and I - and personal score and team score was the same.

Then there are the more eccentric rules. The ball has to cross a water pipe about seven feet in front of the batsman for the batsman to run. This was the most irrelevant rule because nobody ever bothered running. We scored in fours and ones (the sixes that counted as ones!). Now, there was this huge mango tree that formed a canopy for about half the pitch. If the ball hit the tree, as it often did, and the fielder caught it, the batsman could still be out. Many times, the ball took ages to escape from the various branches of the tree and finally fall down, and fielders would place themselves in strategic positions to try and catch the ball when it actually fell down. On the other hand, if the ball hit an electric wire and fielder caught it, it wasn't out! The evolution of these rules was simple - Sharan made them up as we played along - and it was usually to his advantage, because he was the youngest, and allowed to cry himself to victory.

And then there were the variant we played - eleven players - a concept we borrowed from the hallowed verandas of the first floor at 80, West Marredpally. We'd have a notebook where we wrote down two teams, and take batsman and bat for them. The rule was, however, that if the batsman in real life was a left-hander, then you batted left-handed and vice versa. Sometimes, Sharan would get out one too many times and would be forced to bat left-handed, and other times, I'd end up batting right-handed. If you were bowling for a paceman, you had to bowl quick, and even copy his action if you could. Same for spinners.

Despite the complicated rules, the game had a simplistic feel to it when we played it there. No elaborate field settings, no strategising, no pacing your innings, and no getting settled (you were as likely to get out on 100 as you were on 0, because the pitch was too unsettling to allow and settling down). The game went on at a lazy pace - sometimes through the day with breaks for lunch and tea. Nobody dived around while fielding, no batsman ever bothered pinching a quick single and no bowler ever exerted himself. And yet there was a passion attached to the game. We hated losing. We fought over every caught behind, every boundary and every ball loss. We cherished big wins, and recalled them for years. I still remember scoring a hundred on the morning of my seventh standard Kannada public exam against Adhi, and the match getting abandoned because Amma came home to check if I was studying.

Cricket died a natural death in our street when I moved to Bangalore, and Sharan started playing basketball in the evenings. Last year, when I heard that we were moving out of 112, and I came back to Manipal to help with shifting, I hoped that Adhi and I would play one last Test Match. Unfortunately, we were all too busy packing and moving to our new house.

While it seems highly unlikely that we'll ever play there again, with each of us in a different city, I still carry a little hope in my heart - to run in left-arm over-the-wicket, wide of the crease, angle it across the right hander and get him caught behind forehanding!

Four Retirements (Lara, Inzamam, Kumble and Jayasuriya) and a Wedding (Abhiash - yes, I have picked up this term - I read the Bangalore Times)

The one month since my last post on this blog (or any other blog for that matter) has seen India's second-most (in)famous wedding (rank 1, I think, still belongs to the wedding of that foster son of Jayalalitha's - elections were won and lost on that one. We will have to wait and see what effect this one has on Amar Singh and the UP elections); the announcement of India's new look, 'young' team to Bangladesh (I can't seem to recollect any other team make such elaborate plans for a tour of Bangladesh - such commitment to the game and professionalism surely augurs well for the future of Indian cricket); my introduction to Ingmar Bergman (the opening sequence in Persona puts any big-budget-special-effects-modern-Hollywood-movie to shame, and the movie itself ranks in my top-5 of all time, of about 1500 movies watched over the course of my life. How did I calculate this? The unparalleled Rishabh Gupta finally made a list of all the movies he owns and it amounted to around three hundred and fifty. When I went through that list, proving to him that The Departed would not even feature in my top 50 favourite films, I realised that I had watched about 250 of the films on his list. Now, this list does not include too many movies in Indian languages, and many English movies that I have watched. Making a rough calculation from there, I reached the figure of 1500) and Federico Fellini(will put something in these brackets when I have seen 8 1/2. I have this urge to make a comment about the term "foreign films", but I shall save that for a different post); the World Cup droning on in the background (I can recall three matches worth watching); Samrat Singh's 19(1)(a) rantings on responsible behaviour and "making out" on campus (frankly, I thought the comments on the notice were more entertaining than the notice itself); and most importantly, Lara's retirement (Ian Bradshaw also retired, but I don't think anyone really took note of that). This post is about that retirement (and a couple of others from this edition of the World Cup).

(I prefer footnotes to brackets, they make the text look cleaner and more academic, but on blogger, I guess I'll have to do with brackets)

A famous quiz question from the start of this World Cup was - "Only five players from the 1992 World Cup are playing here in the 2007 World Cup. Who?" The answer to that was -
Lara, Sachin, Inzy, Jayasuriya and Anderson Cummins. At the end of this World Cup, only one person will continue playing international cricket, despite strong calls for his 'dignified' exit from cricket when he is still on a 'high'. Two others, who emerged a little after that World Cup, Kumble and McGrath, are also calling it a day. None of the teams will continue to be led by a player who even played in the 1996 World Cup. For the first time in all my cricket watching years has the older generation been so systematically wiped out. I use this term 'wiped out' because except for McGrath, the other players would have liked to continue playing if their team still wanted them to. This is the proverbial golden handshake - we've let you play this last World Cup, now leave before we throw you out.

The loss that hurts me the most is, of course, Brian Lara. My favourite batsman of all time has been forced out of a game he stopped enjoying some months ago thanks to West Indies' callous attitude towards one of their greatest assets ever. Much like how we treat Sachin every time the team does badly. At the same time, it is this very West Indian atmosphere that allowed Lara to become the best batsman of his generation. As usual, West Indies produced a batsman who, like Sobers and Richards before him, was not bound by the confines of playing 'correct' shots, and yet looked majestic. Every time Lara takes strike, time seems to slow down. When his bat swishes backward, in that high backlift, for a split second, we are unsure of whether the ball might just sneak through. It is this tension, and Lara's extraordinary success rate that made him the most exciting batsman to watch in the last decade-and-a-half.

I have often wondered what he might have achieved if he was in the Australian side - with a stronger batting order supporting him, and a better administration backing him. If Lara had come through the Australian system, I don't think he would have been recognisable. He'd have this percentage cricket style, a business-like approach to batting devoid of all the romance that is attached to Lara's cricket. His high backlift and flourish would have been stamped out of him by the coaches at the junior levels, and we would have had a more prolific Justin Langer redux in place of Lara.

In almost stark contrast to Lara is Inzamam. While Lara's batting is buzzing with intense energy and dancing footwork, Inzamam waits and waits and waits. With minimal effort, he plays his cricket - be it his batting, his running between the wickets or his captaincy. Kumble is different from both these players - he toils tirelessly, conspiring and calculating at the same time. His cricket is played as much between his ears as beyond them. With still no spinner in the country as effective as him, he might continue to serve in the Test team for some years to come. However, this is not the case with Inzamam - Pakistan cricket has taken this World Cup debacle badly, and heads will roll for it. As always, the easiest target is the captain himself.

Jayasuriya and McGrath have one last match in the game, and it might well be their most important. Both have played exceedingly well in this edition of the World Cup, and both will be looking to leave with a bang. And while Australia will be looking for a hat-trick, individually, McGrath and Jayasuriya will try and ensure that they make more of a mark on the game than they did in the 1996 World Cup final. Watch this match closely, for you might never see a bowler as mechanically efficient as McGrath, with Asif's career in a cloud, and you might never see forearms as powerful as Jayasuriya's.

The West Indies and I

My three favourite cricketers of all time are Brian Lara, Curtly Ambrose and Mohammad Azharuddin (all left handers). (It took me some years to convince myself that Azhar bats left-handed, but my faith in that fact is unshakeable at the moment.)

As a necessary corollay of who my favourite players were, I fell in love with the West Indian cricket team in my early years of cricket watching - around the 1992 World Cup. I supported the West Indies irrespective of who they were playing against - even if they played India. I spent nights together watching cricket in the West Indies - somehow it always seemed like such a fun affair. Maybe it was just the experience of staying up all night (read 11.30pm, after which sleep would invariably take over) watching cricket, maybe it was stadiums that looked like the hockey ground on our campus with makeshift stands, maybe it was just Michael Holding's accent - watching West Indies play was something else.

And then there were my two heroes - Ambrose and Lara. I always wondered what would happen if Ambrose bowled to Lara, for it was my belief that both were invincible - nobody could get Lara out, and nobody could hit Ambrose for a boundary. One was 6'7", and the other, a little over five-feet, but in their aggression, they were almost similar.

When Ambrose's bowling came thundering down at the batsman from a height of ten feet, I'd have this wry smile on my face, waiting for the ball to rise up around the nose and make the batsman jump around. I dreamt of bowling like that one day - intimidating the batsman with my sheer presence, and getting them out when they move and bat as if they're scared of the ball. Given all this, I almost ignored that Ambrose's bowling was not all about its intimidatory effects - he was quick, deadly accurate, and moved the ball when his profession demanded it. I cannot recall a single instance when he has ever felt the need to say anything to the batsman, - his cold, expressionless eyes said so little that the batsman feared whatever hidden message they were trying to convey and assumed the worst.

Lara on the other hand, was, to use a chiched expression, poetry. I copied his high backlift and drive, cut and pull technique with little success all my life (although it did take me to two centuries in neighbourhood cricket - one where I was actually out on 30-odd and refused to walk even though the 'umpire' had given me out). There were days when I'd be upset all day when Lara got out cheaply, other days when I'd skip meals because he missed a century! I had a fairly large collection of Brian Lara photos carefully cut from newspapers and stickers, which I lost when I lost my wallet. My wallet had some money (my winnings at a quiz), quite a handsome amount at that age, but I had my priorities right - I was more upset about the stickers.

Gradually, though, my environment and innate Indianness began to affect me. This other little batsman from Mumbai joined the man they called the Prince, and this batsman who was then, according to me, the most boring batsman in the world changed the way I watched cricket.

But this World Cup, I'm back where my heart belongs. Go West Indies! Make sure no one takes the Cup away from home!