twenty2yards

One screaming hot afternoon in Chandigarh, I settled down in front of my grandfather’s eight year old, curve screened Salora television set to watch a game of cricket. The date was the 21st of May and I had reached the city to spend the summer vacations after celebrating my birthday on the 19^th. The spirits, you can guess, were high. I was in the room to the back of the house, occupied by a cousin sister who worked with a local newspaper and who every summer would be kind enough to share it with me as I spent the days bouncing around Sectors 46, 47 and 33 of Chandigarh with a set of three cousin brothers. My sister’s room was the boiling pot of the house – even the kitchen with all the cooking, burning and frying happening in it, struggled to match the temperatures and heat that could be reached there as it was serenaded by the sun post noon since it faced west. This natural anomaly was compounded by the fact that the only mechanism to control the heat was a cooler which for some quirky reason that my grandfather struggled all his life post retirement to discover, would blow cold air only from one half of its screen while spouting the atmospheric hot one from the rest.

At half past three, a delayed start to compensate for the equally blazing hot weather in Chennai, the game was all set to begin. My grandfather and I, bathed in sweat and shirts off, considered the Indian prospects while my grandmother slept comfortably in a much cooler room in the front of the house that was far away from any rays of the sun. This was 1997, India was playing Pakistan in the Independence Cup (there was a slew of them in 97 and 98 with all the four cricketing nations of the sub-continent celebrating half a century of good riddance from the British and in case of the Bangladeshis, from the Pakistanis) and this was the big ticket clash. Both teams had a win and loss under their belt by then. Sri Lanka had already qualified for the final and this was the last league game and a virtual semi. The expectation was high, even though those were the days of the disappointing 90s when victories over Pakistan had been scarce.

In the second over of the match, came perhaps the only moment of joy of the entire evening for the Indian fan. Shahid ‘Ball Chewer’ Afridi, skied a catch that was comfortably held by Ganguly at mid-off. The danger man was gone and there was a feeling of anticipation and relief. The next few hours belied all. The languid and fluid Saeed Anwar, still in his clean shaven avataar, played havoc with the bowling. Subject to an attack that comprised of the laboring medium pace of Kuruvilla, slow predictable left arm spin of Sunil Joshi and the fizzing leg breaks of Kumble, Anwar embarked on a feast. There were the side dishes as well such as eighteen overs of part time medium pace dished out by Tendulkar and Robin Singh. And of course, the icing on the cake was the lanky seamer from Karnatka who over the course of his career helped many an international left-handed batsman such as Jayasuriya, Anwar and even Curtly Ambrose to improve their career averages – Venky Prasad. Anwar reached a quick fifty and then fell down with cramps in the 18^th over, post which Afridi came back to run for him. He reached a 100, conserved energy and drank fluids, had three big partnerships and hurt Indian egos no end. Despite all the bonhomie and friendship during those IK Gujral days of 1997, this was nothing but a plain and simple humiliation. Anwar overtook Viv Richards’ record of the highest individual one day score and a prospect of India letting a Pakistani batsman hit 200 against them in a one-day game looked very real. Six shy of that, Anwar looped a soft catch to Ganguly again at short fine leg. I was 14, had watched a lot of cricket by then, but was still fiercely parochial and patriotic and took pleasure out of Anwar being denied a double. What happened in the rest of the game was immaterial. Dravid hit a valiant hundred, was denied a runner by Pakistan who very quickly forgot how Anwar had made his runs and India fell short by 35 and were booted out of their own Independence party.

Which is why, sadistically, yesterday’s knock of Sachin Tendulkar’s is a such a big jewel for any Indian fan to flaunt. Pakistan are no longer the team of the 90s, India has far more match winners in their team than the bare looking team of 97 and cricket has come a long way in the last 12 years. But still, if there was one person whom you wished/ fantasized/ prayed for overtaking Anwar, it was Tendulkar. Tendulkar, who did it batting a full fifty overs, at a better strike rate, without a runner and still came back to field in the second innings! You may call me a meano or a jingoist, but for a young fan who sat through each and every shot of that Anwar inning, this was revenge as sweet, sadistic and cynical as it comes.

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