How and where does one begin to write about someone who has been a moral part of one's self? I do not intend to post laurels on Rahul Dravid or on his journey into the pantheon of greatness. That, is a subject best handled by journalists and biographers much more qualified than me. And, by those, who weave magic with the sanctity of the written word. Much like RD did with his willow. Instead, I wish to take you though a life-journey..
I did not watch RD's debut innings at Lord's partly because I was struggling with lessons in school and partly because my affection towards cricket at that stage was only playing it and nothing else. So my journey with RD (or perhaps, the other way around), began at a time when he was a "nervous nineties" batsman. Everything about him looked impeccable on the 22 till that point (or, it's near-about). For all the times, Lady Luck did not feel sorry for him, a part of me did. The analogy of studying so hard for an exam but failing to make the upper-cut often came up (of course, such was the maturity at that stage). Little by little, I became part of that struggle, his anguish and his long walks back to the pavilion, head held down...
Fast forward a year, I was busy studying for my tenth class board exams. It was during this time, the Indian cricket team was scheduled to leave for South Africa. I can still recall the advertisement represented by the players with Noble Savages' "I'm an Indian" as a background score. RD's line in that ad was, "Catch us in action in South Africa". The game of cricket reached The Wanderers and I was in the middle of a Chemistry tuition class. Acids were being mixed with alkalis and salts were being produced. My chemistry teacher, Mr.Khade was a remarkable man. He was an avid fan of the game and used to mute the television while ranting out chemical equations, all the while keeping an eye on the match and score. It was during this class, RD approached his eighties on a spicy wicket against a stellar pace attack. Suddenly, Mr.Khade stopped chemistry and focused his attention completely on the match, un-muting the television. Joy knew no bounds when we closed our notebooks and turned our interest to the same. I recall muttering a small prayer to enable RD to end his quest. Eighties turned to nineties and his guardian angel broke free from her shackles and wrapped him under her wing. Perhaps, she had heard my prayer. From then on, RD played like a man possessed! Cuts, drives, pulls, glides were unleashed in all their resplendent glory. He had completed his first spiritual quest. I somehow cannot recall how he got there, but I can never forget the image of his head looking up to the heavens and his bat raised in acknowledgement. While acids and bases continued to yield salts, patience and grit yielded a memorable milestone. I do not remember how I fared in Chemistry but I remember being bathed in that magic moment.
As an adolescent kid with new found charm of junior college, bunking classes was something I took great personal pride in. To me, it was the epitome of rebellion, it was Pink Floyd's magnificence playing with hormones. I would rush home early on Fridays to join my friends in colony cricket. We used to play into the wee hours of the night. The games constituted two phases. Proper "over-arm" cricket outdoors followed by a quick scamper home for meals. This was followed by throw-down matches in the building lobby (Bhatta cricket as it was called in Mumbai). These games were tense. Ten people crammed in a small area with the following rules:
1. If you were caught on the first bounce, you were declared out
2. If you had hit the ball directly on any building wall, you were declared out
3. If you had padded the ball more than once in an over, you were declared out (this led to considerable debate too!)
4. If you had edged the ball onto the back wall (which served as the wicket), you were declared out
So, with these in place, accompanied by a first slip, second slip, silly point, forward short leg, very short mid-on and mid-off and the bowler, the batsman took guard. The aim of this exercise was not to score runs (we did not bother keeping any), but to survive hostile pace. A batsman was not bound by number of overs but could just keep playing till he got out. The approach I took while playing these games was to leave the ball outside the off-stump irrespective of how close it was. Over time, I got pretty good at knowing where my off-stump lay. I once had the pleasure of surviving nearly ten overs and, to this day, it has been the most satisfying and adrenalin-rushing stay at the crease. During these glorious days, RD's concentration and dogged defense became a part of me...
Fast forward another year, I was in Bengaluru, slated to appear for the Karnataka engineering entrance examination. India was playing Sri Lanka at the World Cup at Taunton,England. Exams were forgotten. We were five, sitting in a tiny room glued to the television as two of India's young green-horns launched a superlative counter-attack. Perhaps, if God was induced into taking revenge for what had happened three years ago, this was how He would have done it. I shall never forget that period of play, or the cozy blankets, tasty tea or the re-assuring comfort of that room. Suddenly, all was well. It was at this moment RD's grit and struggle became a part of me...
Over the years, I tried to ape him in every possible way. I used to wear collared T-shirts to games so that I could raise the collar. I started listening to Sting. I used to take guard, left foot first in line with the leg stump, followed by a couple of taps of the bat on the ground and then position the right foot (something I do even today, when I get a chance to play). I used to close my lips while making contact with the ball. I always manned forward short leg in the lobby games. I tried to defend more than attack and took great pride in taking the single so that more flamboyant players could play their strokes. I always used to hit along the ground. I used to shadow practice after playing each ball. Needless to say, I failed quite miserably in these attempts!
The grind of technical education preceded higher studies and professional work. I tried to find a balance between honing analytical skills and psychological ramblings, between sharing wonderful boisterous moments with friends and quiet introspection, between rationality and insanity, between practicality and instinct. It is during this stage of my life that RD became a part of me...
Today, I saw good part of my life flash by. For this, I am grateful to RD. I am grateful for the memories. I am grateful for the dignity, spirit, respect, conduct, character and altruistic romance for the game and it's traditions. Above all else, for shaping my thought, I am grateful for RD. Goodbye and good luck. They do not come like you anymore. You will always be a treasure....
PS: The repeated use of "I" is by no means an attempt to focus this article on me, but rather, point to the influence RD has on "I"
I did not watch RD's debut innings at Lord's partly because I was struggling with lessons in school and partly because my affection towards cricket at that stage was only playing it and nothing else. So my journey with RD (or perhaps, the other way around), began at a time when he was a "nervous nineties" batsman. Everything about him looked impeccable on the 22 till that point (or, it's near-about). For all the times, Lady Luck did not feel sorry for him, a part of me did. The analogy of studying so hard for an exam but failing to make the upper-cut often came up (of course, such was the maturity at that stage). Little by little, I became part of that struggle, his anguish and his long walks back to the pavilion, head held down...
Fast forward a year, I was busy studying for my tenth class board exams. It was during this time, the Indian cricket team was scheduled to leave for South Africa. I can still recall the advertisement represented by the players with Noble Savages' "I'm an Indian" as a background score. RD's line in that ad was, "Catch us in action in South Africa". The game of cricket reached The Wanderers and I was in the middle of a Chemistry tuition class. Acids were being mixed with alkalis and salts were being produced. My chemistry teacher, Mr.Khade was a remarkable man. He was an avid fan of the game and used to mute the television while ranting out chemical equations, all the while keeping an eye on the match and score. It was during this class, RD approached his eighties on a spicy wicket against a stellar pace attack. Suddenly, Mr.Khade stopped chemistry and focused his attention completely on the match, un-muting the television. Joy knew no bounds when we closed our notebooks and turned our interest to the same. I recall muttering a small prayer to enable RD to end his quest. Eighties turned to nineties and his guardian angel broke free from her shackles and wrapped him under her wing. Perhaps, she had heard my prayer. From then on, RD played like a man possessed! Cuts, drives, pulls, glides were unleashed in all their resplendent glory. He had completed his first spiritual quest. I somehow cannot recall how he got there, but I can never forget the image of his head looking up to the heavens and his bat raised in acknowledgement. While acids and bases continued to yield salts, patience and grit yielded a memorable milestone. I do not remember how I fared in Chemistry but I remember being bathed in that magic moment.
As an adolescent kid with new found charm of junior college, bunking classes was something I took great personal pride in. To me, it was the epitome of rebellion, it was Pink Floyd's magnificence playing with hormones. I would rush home early on Fridays to join my friends in colony cricket. We used to play into the wee hours of the night. The games constituted two phases. Proper "over-arm" cricket outdoors followed by a quick scamper home for meals. This was followed by throw-down matches in the building lobby (Bhatta cricket as it was called in Mumbai). These games were tense. Ten people crammed in a small area with the following rules:
1. If you were caught on the first bounce, you were declared out
2. If you had hit the ball directly on any building wall, you were declared out
3. If you had padded the ball more than once in an over, you were declared out (this led to considerable debate too!)
4. If you had edged the ball onto the back wall (which served as the wicket), you were declared out
So, with these in place, accompanied by a first slip, second slip, silly point, forward short leg, very short mid-on and mid-off and the bowler, the batsman took guard. The aim of this exercise was not to score runs (we did not bother keeping any), but to survive hostile pace. A batsman was not bound by number of overs but could just keep playing till he got out. The approach I took while playing these games was to leave the ball outside the off-stump irrespective of how close it was. Over time, I got pretty good at knowing where my off-stump lay. I once had the pleasure of surviving nearly ten overs and, to this day, it has been the most satisfying and adrenalin-rushing stay at the crease. During these glorious days, RD's concentration and dogged defense became a part of me...
Fast forward another year, I was in Bengaluru, slated to appear for the Karnataka engineering entrance examination. India was playing Sri Lanka at the World Cup at Taunton,England. Exams were forgotten. We were five, sitting in a tiny room glued to the television as two of India's young green-horns launched a superlative counter-attack. Perhaps, if God was induced into taking revenge for what had happened three years ago, this was how He would have done it. I shall never forget that period of play, or the cozy blankets, tasty tea or the re-assuring comfort of that room. Suddenly, all was well. It was at this moment RD's grit and struggle became a part of me...
Over the years, I tried to ape him in every possible way. I used to wear collared T-shirts to games so that I could raise the collar. I started listening to Sting. I used to take guard, left foot first in line with the leg stump, followed by a couple of taps of the bat on the ground and then position the right foot (something I do even today, when I get a chance to play). I used to close my lips while making contact with the ball. I always manned forward short leg in the lobby games. I tried to defend more than attack and took great pride in taking the single so that more flamboyant players could play their strokes. I always used to hit along the ground. I used to shadow practice after playing each ball. Needless to say, I failed quite miserably in these attempts!
The grind of technical education preceded higher studies and professional work. I tried to find a balance between honing analytical skills and psychological ramblings, between sharing wonderful boisterous moments with friends and quiet introspection, between rationality and insanity, between practicality and instinct. It is during this stage of my life that RD became a part of me...
Today, I saw good part of my life flash by. For this, I am grateful to RD. I am grateful for the memories. I am grateful for the dignity, spirit, respect, conduct, character and altruistic romance for the game and it's traditions. Above all else, for shaping my thought, I am grateful for RD. Goodbye and good luck. They do not come like you anymore. You will always be a treasure....
PS: The repeated use of "I" is by no means an attempt to focus this article on me, but rather, point to the influence RD has on "I"
