Test Cricket Chronicles: MS Dhoni

"I don’t think anyone knew Mahendra Singh Dhoni. I don’t think anyone was meant to."

Harsha Bhogle was as right as rain in kicking around the Gordian knot.

Picture  Courtesy: blogs.tribune.com.pk

On December 30^th, when Indians all across were not ready to throw over their fleeces, a certain Mahendra Singh Dhoni had stopped the ticking clock.

“The Indian Captain calls it a day!” my phone lit up, and face fell down. In a jiffy, I was leafing through the link that followed. MS Dhoni won’t be seen anymore in India whites. The Skipper retires from Test Cricket with immediate effect. A gob in the gullet made an immediate manifestation. The vision befogged with potbellied globules of brackish water.

And then it hit me! The much harrowed day had most assuredly egressed. His retirement was inevitable, everyone’s is. But who knew the game’s best finisher would call it a close in a manner so devil-may-care kind. With no farewell test match, no guard of honour, and no victory lap.

Rahul Dravid: One Final Adoration

I do not want to write this. This is too emotional a subject for me. The title itself makes me go mushy. And you do not write, when you know you are going to be bias, when you know your emotions will win over your logical approach. Yet I do, for the simple reason that this the only way I can pour my heart out.

An exhibition match became worth a celebration when it was confirmed that India’s Mr. Dependable (I like this name. It complements the mannerly, unblemished schoolboy that you have always been) will be walking out to take guard once again at the #3 slot. This game out of nowhere equals a pilgrimage for your fans, Dravidians, as we like to call ourselves. After having withstood your ODI and Test retirement, one odd goodbye isn’t much of a thing. But the fact that this might be your last game ever, sends tingles down the rachis.

Now more than the exuberance of seeing you bat once again, there’s some off-base fear that grips me.  The fear of you not finding your form, again.  The fear of what your final scores will be. The fear of exodusing amidst the nostalgic concert halls of the Mecca of Cricket, as you turn up. The fear of standing misty-eyed, as you cosset every blade of the grass on the field. The fear of misplacing my nonage once again, as you stop the ticking clock and vamoose into the beguiling alcoves of athanasia.

So how do I groom for such an exploit, emotionally?  Even if it’s plainly as a rubbernecker.

The Reminiscences of an Old Fashioned Cricket Fan: A Flash from the Past

As school life is nearing the borderline, and with each passing day I am inching towards the ‘adult’ lot, my pen makes me realize why life was bliss when I was a kid.

Life was bliss when after a nice chiding by the teacher at school, you walked into your room, and your face immediately enlivened on seeing your MRF bat with a Britannia sticker (yes, my bat was an amalgamation of both Sachin Tendulkar and Rahul Dravid).

Life was bliss when you stormed out off the room after learning‘karele’ is what you’ll have to eat today, only to be stopped by your Mother who gave you two rolled paranthas, daubed by Kissan Fruit Jam, which you gulped down in no time (yes, Kissan was more relished than Butter Paneer).

Life was bliss when  you went birthday shopping with your parents and returned with a light blue shaded jersey, that read – ‘Dravid 19’ (yes, ‘Dhoni 7’ came quite late).

Life was bliss when you woke up paralyzed, halfway through the night, after an incubus, and the huge poster of Rahul Dravid kissing his cap that graced your bedroom door, caught your attention. You were re-assured of everything being alright and you crawled back into your bed, to have a good night’s sleep (now you know why I call him my Watchful Protector, my Silent Guardian).

Life was bliss because along with your parents, friends and family, there was a pack of guys who owned you, who inspired you, constantly, and who imbued in you a belief to become whatever you wanted to be, the way they did, ‘cause they were just like you!

There was a short, curly haired, five foot something, who was the only one you hero worshiped, next to your Father. You had heard narratives of people ‘dancing down the aisles’ from his famous Sharjah blitz. You had even braved splintering your ankle as you had climbed up your neighbor’s wall to watch the Indo-Pak clash of WC, 2003, because your house had a powercut. You saw Shoaib Akhtar steaming in, and Sachin cutting him for a six over backward point. You were overpowered, and just then your nearby resident misreckoned you for being another mango heister. You had to race back home before anyone could know what had happened.

MS Dhoni: The Golden Calf

In two weeks, this is my second article on him. And I just can’t help writing. If someone keeps you stuck like a barnacle to your television set even after the bewitching hours and makes you transfer his videos to the cell, recurrently, till you have reached a phase where you can just pull your hair, I don’t think you can help much.

After Sachin’s retirement, One Day cricket had nearly kicked the bucket for many of us. It didn’t tantalize the cricket fan in us anymore. It was humdrum. 15 were needed of the last six. We went to sleep.

And then India won with one wicket left!

“I think I am blessed with a good cricketing sense.” The skipper could not have been more on-the-nose in his self assessment.

The Yumm Yuss Dee Effect!!

They were right when they said, “you never know when it happens.” And what I’ve lately cryptanalyzed is that this saying holds true in case of admiration too.

People ask me “Why do you love Dhoni?” “Why are you always going so gaga about him?”

I have my reasons. Some absolutely logical, and some other, equally illogical, dillogical!

But if you ask me, “When did you begin liking Dhoni?”

I will be tongue tied, for I don’t have an answer.

Maybe when he along with his long locks obliterated the Sri Lankan attack, that awestrucking 183*. Maybe when he gave the ball to Uthappa in the India-Pak ball out. Or maybe when he took of his jersey after winning the WC of the shortest format.

Whatever the reason maybe, it ensured that I was enslaved. And enslaved for keeps.

Yes I follow Mahendra Singh Dhoni. I follow him not to strike a note about his stats and records or to call him “lucky.”  I do not follow him to debate about he being the best Indian Captain, for I know that he incontrovertibly is. But I follow him, ‘cause for me he’s a synagaogue of idealness. A perfect cricketer, and more than that, a perfect human being.

Calm, ice-cool, composed. Planning scrupulously, wangling insidiously and striddling the opposition like an edacious beast of prey. Bogusing a brine of phlegm amidst tempestuous storms. An wellspring of sagacity, amidst the gore. The calming dominion in Indian Cricket.

That’s what he is to me.

I wonder what my cardiograph looks like when he’s taking strike. Those who get a chance to watch him with me being in the same room, can figure out three different forms of me in the post-hitting moments 1) a girl admiring and being awed by the alacritous runner between the wickets; 2) a wacko caterwauling “Oh, boy!” at the top of her lungs with both hands up in the air, if the ball crosses the ropes; 3) and, a leaviathan springing, throwing expletives at the air if the ball takes one beautiful flight and kisses the sky.

You might be charmed to see a MJ moonwalk, or a Madhuri Dixit dance straight from  the 90s. I will be beguiled to see a MS Dhoni sideways dive. Or for that matter, even a flash of his pearly whites.

Having talked of MSD’s antics, I am so cajoled and can’t stonewall the fire in belly to talk about Champions Trophy as well.

Putting the dumb in a dumbfounding decision, when it was dreaded that in the battle of common sense vs. ICC, common sense might just retire hurt, fortunately, cricket overshadowed the stupidity.

Yes, Shikhar Dhawan played well, Virat Kohli batted elegantly, Jadeja came a long way, from internet jokes to the golden ball, and Ashwin bowled as if he never really left home; but among all these spine-tingling performances, MS Dhoni’s was heart-stirring like none other’s. How tiring it should be to scrunch balls, keep wickets and simultaneously, make strategies for eleven people? But Mahendra Singh Dhoni, like a warrior, never halts in the battle.