Writing on The Wall

It was a moment of classical supreme irony and historical co-incidence, as a speeding in-swinger from Sri Lankan speedster Dilhara Fernando castled Indian batting maestro Sachin Tendulkar. To use that famous cricketing cliché, Tendulkar was " comprehensively bowled"(forget that slight inside edge). Sachin stayed momentarily glued on the wicket, perhaps realizing that these were his last few seconds on a batting strip in the World Cup arena ever. Like the great Sir Don Bradman in his farewell Test knock, India’s former great had got out for a duck, just when his struggling team and country looked up to him to be it’s bulwark, it’s saviour. He failed. Yet again. The Player of the World Cup in South Africa in 2003 was quietly strolling back to a stunned dressing room in Queen’s Park Oval. In homes across India, several thousands of TV sets had been switched off. The night had just got darker. A few hours earlier, and it seemed as if the Indians had almost at last found light at the end of the tunnel.

Rahul Dravid won the crucial toss, and hostess Mandira Bedi who has redefined trans-fats in ready-made noodles, almost jumped out of her cushioned sofa, as if India had just won the World Cup. Indians are terribly superstitious, so the luck with the coin was seen as an auspicious beginning, like half the job well done. It was. Sanath Jayasuria , M Jaywardene and K Sangakarra , the core batting strength of Sri Lanka, among them scored just 28 runs in 13 overs. And at 133 for 4 in 32.2 overs, India was in the driver’s seat safety belt securely fastened. India was cruising with both attitude and determination, a rare occurrence these days. But expectedly they created speed-breakers, nasty bumps and traffic signals in the form of C Silva (59) and T Dilshan (38). For some inexplicable reason Ajit Agarkar vanished into thin air and the boundary-line, and Dravid forgot that Virendra Sehwag has a perpetual habit of causing discomfort to opposing batsmen with accurate off-spinners. The tail wagged with abundant joy, but a score of 254 did not look that daunting. Or insurmountable.

The gods had indeed been generous towards India actually. Sri Lanka had thrashed their nemesis Bangladesh so remorselessly that the Net Run Rate was irrelevant. Secondly, if India won, not only would they enter the Super 8s, but would actually nose-ahead of Sri Lanka with bonus points. Thirdly, they had won the tricky toss, and were away of their target goal. No ambiguities, no nebulous goal-setting. Fourthly, the magic number required for victory on a solid batting track of 255 was highly attainable by the best line-up of top-notch hitters. Lastly, the team was aware that this was its litmus test on the road to El Dorado, and for which they had been preparing for 2 years. Thousands of miles away, a billion people stayed awake with the stars and mosquitoes, fighting sleep and each other, waiting anxiously with bated breath. It was agonizing.

I don’t know how to explain this, but somehow India just did not seem to inspire that belief in me that they were confident of winning. Some abstruse intangible was evidently missing; the hunger in the eyes. That robust aggression in body language. I can condone the initial embarrassment to Bangladesh as one bad nightmare or acute nerves, but in it’s hour of real test, we were not just wanting. We were abysmally short of basic cricketing standards.

Robin Uthappa seemed restless and uneasy, and Chaminda Vaas knew that the young man was a vulnerable prey on foreign conditions with his rash impetuosity. Uthappa looked like a nervous wreck, giving his bowler some good catch practice on return. Sourav Ganguly should have known better that he had to delay the law of averages from hitting him at least till India were through to the next round. A half-baked shot lofted to mid-off and the man responsible for India’s strong foundations of late had left without laying the foundation stones or the bricks. Then, of course, for the umpteenth time Sachin Tendulkar perished with such predictable nothingness.

A brief glimmer of hope emerged from some obdurate resistance from Virendra Sehwag, the Nawab looking a picture of model concentration and versatile shot-making. But when a tricky doosra from the untrustworthy Muttiah Murlitharan got him for 48 (46 balls), at 98 for 4 in 22.5 overs, the bells had begun to toll.

Yuvraj Singh ran down the wicket as if he suddenly wanted to give his skipper an everlasting loving hug, and MS Dhoni departed with brisk steps, accumulating zeroes with amazing panache, and making him look a farcical caricature as his TV commercials followed him back into the gloomy pavilion.

Ajit Agarkar, who gives you the impression that he does not take his batting seriously, survived 25 balls for 10 runs till the bug of mighty swipe got him without any provocation. With Dravid at the other end, he did not have to indulge in such acts of mindless indiscretion. It was downright stupid stuff from the light-eyed Mumbaikar.

Dravid, as usual, stood tough and unrelenting, but instead of the Lankan bowlers it was the cramps that got him. A fine knock including a flurry of boundaries epitomized the captain’s valiant dying hurrah but by that time the crew had abandoned ship. Dravid was the Last Wall Standing.

The faces in the dressing room told a sorry tale. Sad disconsolate eyes on sullen faces looking aimlessly ahead. Anil Kumble had been reduced to being a photographer pursuing a private passion, and Irfan Pathan, a gate-crasher on a passenger train. . But ideally, they should both have been playing instead of Uthappa and Agarkar in this game. Hey, but why cry over spilt milk?

India is a country of eternal optimists, and even as I write this, someone called me to say that Bermuda will upset Bangladesh. Sure, they can. But the truth is that India is not in the zone at all, and even if we they were to, through some miraculous intervention, make it into the Super 8s, they don’t stand a chance. Frankly, as Dravid, said, "We don’t deserve the trophy."

For the Indians it will soon be a long flight back across the Atlantic. And as for us, let us welcome them home without any bitterness, anger or rebuke. It is a game after all. Even if for the Indians unfortunately at the moment, you only lose some, and lose some.