Smoke on the water

It was forecast to be the mother of all cricketing clashes. A contest bound to be so tense and gripping, that no true cricket fan could possibly take his eyes off of the action, the journalists suggested. A series so potentially fantastic that it was all for all cricketing purposes said and done, "The Final Frontier", they added. A clash between two teams so intriguingly matched, only a brave man would call the result well in advance, they veritably concluded.

Well, I couldn't help but chuckle to myself. Of course, I too had been looking forward to the series between two of my favourite sides. Of course I was keenly anticipating yet another contest between (arguably) the world's best batsman and the world's best bowler. And of course, unlike when we toured Down Under, I actually expected the Indians to give the Aussies a run for their money this time around.

But to elevate a cricketing tour to such lofty extents, and that too to do it starting so well in advance - surely that was getting just a trifle carried away? Surely, it was but axiomatic that when expectations are set so virtually impossibly high, realizations can but never hope to meet them.

Thankfully, I didn't tip on what I felt was the likely end result. For to have done so would have been akin to offloading one's life savings into the stock market just prior to its crash: veritable suicide at best, and in reality, a far more embarrassing plight.

And yet, after the bombshell of Anil Kumble's absence, it did seem as if the series would be indeed be one-sided and go entirely the way of the tourists. And the first day of the first test seemed to offer a microcosm of things to come: India were put in to bat on a pitch with fairly copious amounts of bounce, and in true lily-livered style, our batsmen collapsed -- all barring one, that is. Used to playing on pitches where the ball almost never rose above knee-level, and against attacks so pedestrian they were not even worth mentioning, the sight of Glenn Mcgrath and Jason Gillespie running in to bowl on a surface that had more than its fair share for the quicks, was just about enough to put our home-grown heroes to pasture. So much so that the other 10 men could barely offer a whiff of support to the one man who batted like a real batsman on that occasion.

And what an innings he played on that day. For once, I almost began to see why people tended to throw around comparisons between him and the greatest batsman who ever lived: for such was the mastery of Tendulkar on that day, and such was the purity and stunning nature of his shot selection, that even the Don would not have been offended had someone drawn a parallel between that knock and to some of his own from time gone by. I really thought I'd seen it all, when I saw Tendulkar make his 136 against Pakistan at Madras (an innings I still rate as the best test knock I've ever seen by an Indian -- though VVSL's 281 at Calcutta does come a close second), but even there, he had never looked quite so good, nor had his bat seemed nearly as broad. Here, it was almost as if he was playing in a league of his own, whilst the other 12 or so cricketers on the field, just stood by and gaped in awe. It was truly batting that special, notwithstanding the fact that it didn't last for all that long.

But once he was dismissed, and India had subsequently slumped to a pathetic 140/7 before tea, it was always clear that the Australians held a massive advantage. And despite the hiccups of being at 99/5, they romped home in the end. A word for Adam Gilchrist's innings: what can you say about a man who comes in when his side is slowly but surely being strangled, and yet proceeds to play like they were always on top to begin with? An 84-ball 100 coming in at 99/5?! No wonder that the crowds of Mumbai took to him in a way that Indian spectators very rarely do to foreign cricketers, and almost made him one of their own. One of my Australian friends remarked to me that when Gilchrist got out on that day, the Indian crowd almost seemed disappointed: for such was their level of enjoyment and appreciation for the innings played by one of Australia's most popular cricketers, they were even willing to put their own partisan outlook aside for that day.

After India got massacred in that test, just about everyone wrote off their chances for the rest of the series. I know I all but did. Not that I was too unhappy though - for in a way, I was almost hoping that Australia would win at Calcutta, as I felt it but befitting that Steve Waugh would finally achieve his most cherished ambition (of winning in India) in the very city, and in front of the same people, he had done the most for. And going by the Australian skipper's quite unprecedented level of emotion upon getting to his 25th test 100 on the second morning of the match, it was clear that he too thought it had all been sown up. A heroic and typically gritty century, that would seal up the series and prevent the Indians from achieving any comebacks-such was to be the script. But, the Gods had other ideas this time. They may have been willing to allow Calcutta's second favourite son an opportunity to briefly exult, but as far as they were concerned, the celebration was not to be a conclusive one at all.

So out from the Ashes, they allowed to rise a man who batted in that test match as if the very ambrosia from the Gods was flowing through his veins, and a man who went on and on and made batting look so easy, that it was impossible even for the Australians not to appreciate his effort.

Not that Waugh did his side any favours with his tactics, mind you. There was a certain high-mindedness and level of arrogance to his assumption that enforcing the follow-on on the second day after being 274 ahead, was but a fait accompli. Any student of the game, and one who had seen just how well the pitch was behaving, and had afforded for some possibility that a talented Indian lineup might put up a fight in the second dig as a result on the conditions prevalent, would have batted again and maximised his tean's chances of victory. By not doing so, Waugh clearly left the door open for India, and as they say, the rest is history.

The way Laxman batted though, not even the most astute of cricketing judges could have predicted. What an innings, and how fortunate I felt to be able to watch it from start to finish. So cruelly denied of the final moments of excitement in many a test from yesteryear, this time I was not going to miss out. I sat and watched it from start to finish, and barely moved a muscle to boot.

After Calcutta, Australia were always going to have it tough in the final test against a talented side that had regained its momentum: but they still responded like champions on the first day at Chennai. Coming out all guns blistering, they piled up the mammoth score of 330/3 at the end of the first day, and looked to have all but sown it up. Steve Waugh had gotten in and looked to be set for the long haul, and Matthew Hayden was making it look all quite effortless. But then, the hand of God intervened once more. The skipper, who had put his head down, and who had seemed intent right from his arrival at the crease, to getting a big one and to snuffing India out of the series once and for all, faltered. And unlike with Diego Maradona, on this occasion the HOG did absolutely nothing towards advancing the cause of the guilty party or his team-as it turned out, Australia were to lose 7/65 from there on, and with it in the end, a series that they were so desperate to wrap up.

As an Indian fan, I suppose I ought to have exulted at the end of it all. I surprise I ought to have celebrated that my team had beaten the Australians. I ought to have danced and jumped and down that a team that had been all but written off by its own supporters (including, yours truly, of course) had bounced back and won a series that would be remembered by all and sundry for time to come. But instead, all I could feel was a sense of numbness and incredible disappointment. I couldn't believe it. A man I admired so much, and a man who had done so much towards uplifting the cause of those far less fortunate than he, had been denied his one major wish: a series win in India. How could the Gods be so unjust. Cricket was but a game. So how they could let India win, when there were far greater things at stake here? It wasn't bloody fair I tell you - it just wasn't.

A few hours later though, I snapped out of my depression. I looked at the bright side. I saw that MY team had actually won a series against a side that had won its 16 previous tests on the trot. I observed that for a change they had done so on good pitches (and without one-dimensional match-winners who could only bowl at home and who would promptly fail when taken abroad), and thus these wins did carry some relevance to India's overseas performances in the near future. I exulted that in Harbhajan Singh and VVS Laxman, two cricketers I had always admired, had come to the forefront and exhibited the sort of talent that most other countries would give their left arm to possess.

And above all, I consoled myself in the knowledge that human kind loves nothing more than tragedy, and that had Steve Waugh led his side to a series win here, or had Bradman scored those extra 4 runs in his final innings, ironically we would have ended up adoring them a trifle less. As they might whimsically say, sometimes, nothing succeeds quite as much as failure: and in his own way, Stephen Rodger Waugh would enact far more sympathy in defeat, than he ever could have done in victory.

So Waughbhai, worry not too much so; and if you must take one lesson away from India, let it go:

Ashes to Ashes,
Dust to Dust,
If VVSL don't get ya,
then Bajji simply must.

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Mail Harish Chandramouli