Sunshine. Blessed, divine sunshine. The gloom, the trepidation of showers, and the possibilities of a juicy wicket and a slippery outfield were all gone. A day tailored, very timely by whatever supernatural force exists up there, for the lovely game of cricket.
The Kolkata stalemate meant that all eyes follow this city, for the third and final Test. India are one up, and would love to seal a series victory against the visiting neighbors. Pakistan, after a horrible start to the series, found a lifeline thanks to the twin-century stand between Misbah-ul-Haq and Kamran Akmal. In fact, that partnership didn’t just steady the Paki ship, it sprung the innings, the match and the series to life, setting it up for the final venue.
Bangalore. She had beckoned. And we were there to answer her.
Pakistan took the intensity right into the first session, as Arafat, with his nagging line and assistance from the track, snapped up the early wickets. One would think that Dravid had the perfect opportunity to break the jinx at this stadium, what he’d refer to as ‘home’ more than the structure he owns in Indiranagar. Arafat, however, thought otherwise. Four wickets in a hurry, and Bangalore went silent. Stunned, really. We watched, open-mouthed, as the ball scraped the bottom edge of Laxman’s bat, crashing into the woodwork. Arafat and the Pakistanis were celebrating as Laxman sauntered to the pavilion like a corpse to the coffin. To say that India were in the worst trouble they’ve ever been this tour is an understatement.
Until he came. And saw. And scored. And how.
As a nervous Karthik had padded up, expecting to see an early outing in the middle, out walked Yuvraj who in all certainty is in the form of his life. In Ganguly he found a stable partner, fresh from a Eden century, as one defiant, experienced lefty met the kind of batsman who murders bowlers effortlessly. Pure talent. Pakistan knew that they had to get this man early.
I can’t match the literature on CricInfo, so I’ll save the reporter’s version of it. From the stands, it was Yuvraj Singh all the way. A fresh, ironed-out white kit that didn’t need mere aesthetics to stand out. Almost every time willow met leather, the sound was sweet, sugarcoated. Ganguly’s timing was impeccable, but the flair, power and flamboyance that Yuvraj brought to the crease really set the tone for the rest of the innings. If Ganguly constructed, Yuvraj demolished. As the senior player milked the bowling, the youth drained it. A hundred run partnership, two fifties in the bag, and to the Pakis, the sunshine didn’t seem as inviting as it did earlier.
When Yuvraj did bring up his hundred - and in what style, I might add - he leapt, mid-air, punching it in delight. As the volcano of happiness erupted, the camera switched straight away to Dilip Vengsarkar. I have always maintained that, if there ever is a challenge that India has and shouldn’t mind, it ought to be which players to pick. The selectors now have an uphill task: with Laxman’s century and Jaffer’s double in Kolkata, and now Yuvraj’s century, who really are the best fourteen or fifteen to play?
Yuvraj raced to the hundred-forties in no time, almost unnoticed, as Ganguly crafted run after run, slashing the odd boundary through the off-side, an area of the field where, as someone famously said, he comes only second to God. When the century did come up, finally, the Bengal Tiger just took a few steps towards his partner who was sprinting towards him. Losing the helmet, he raised his arms and the bat, acknowledging the applause from his team mates.
Meanwhile, Bangalore had erupted, forgetting the Dravid dismissal. Local, shmocal. The city loves Sourav. Period.
Younis Khan and the rest of his team, in the process, were reduced to mere spectators. And if the damage could be mapped physically, Mohammed Sami and Yasir Arafat would have a bruise or two, surely. When the three-hundred run partnership came up, one would think that Yuvraj was favorite to get to two-hundred before lunch tomorrow, before he played a shot he would regret for some time to come. Pouching the ball safely, Faisal Iqbal ran to the bowler, Sami, as Younis Khan joined the huddle, not before congratulating Yuvi on the way. Shaking his head, the ‘irreplaceable’ left-hander walked back.
Needless to say, we were on our feet. What an innings! What strokeplay! I distinctly remember a particular pull-shot right after tea, High backlift, on his toes, shoulder coming into play, and as the ball met bat, it met a fatal blow for the delivery. The ball went scorching past the ground, smearing the ropes before crashing into the midwicket fence. Yuvraj’s willowed stick could not have been more expressive or authoritative. The bowler walked back, and though the cheek wasn’t red, the face showed that he had just been slapped. And slapped hard.
Dinesh Karthik ended the day without any hiccups, as India slumped, struggled, and then recovered in style. Breaking record after another, Yuvraj and Ganguly demonstrated to a thirsty audience what dominance and batsmanship is all about. As a spectator, I was more than pleased. I had come along to the stadium amidst contradictory weather reports that we would see rain today. The last time I walked into Chinnaswamy for a match, Australia amassed 306 before the rain-Gods ruined the match. I was wary of the showers.
Tell you what, it rained today. A torrent of boundaries, and sitting in an elevated stand behind backward point or mid-wicket, depending on which end you’re bowling from, I thoroughly enjoyed it.
There are two kinds of showers I love. One from the Gods. The other from the wicket. Today, I confirm. They’re both divine.
