Unwalled...

I first read about Rahul Dravid in a Kannada magazine. The magazine came with a glossy sheet right after the cover. While the front side of this sheet served as the title page, on the reverse, the magazine carried a full-page photograph of an achiever. At the bottom of the photograph ran a strip of three to four sentences speaking of the person's attainments. A moustachioed Rahul Dravid was featured in one of the editions. He had been recognised for his performances in domestic cricket, in which he represented Karnataka. I did not pass a judgment on whether he would make the Indian squad, for I had no clue how one got into it. I sure did not think I would be watching India's test matches one day solely catch him in action. In my defence, I had no reason to suspect Javagal Srinath would retire anytime soon.

My next memory of Dravid is the 145 against Sri Lanka in the 1999 World Cup. This apart from his endorsements for Kissan jam, Pepsi and Thomson, and the persistent complaints about his defensive predilection. Rahul Dravid had been picked to represent India at a time when Karnataka cricket was at its prime. Many from the state got in and out of the side, many a time making way for one of their state-mates. Rahul Dravid had shown more staying power. But, it was only after Javagal's bowling had begun to give in that Dravid became the focus of my cricket viewing. Not that I watched many games in full. School, after all, is a place where you mostly learn about things that don't necessarily excite you by staring at white doodles on a blackboard. And the hours of such staring usually overlapped with a day's play of test cricket.

I still remember that thrusting of the bat at Kolkata, perhaps from the news clips. I have learnt that it was aimed at the Press box, though I felt, back then, it was a message to the City of Joy's prince, who'd had Dravid drop from number three in the batting order in the first innings to a number six in the second. Anyway, I was inspired enough by Dravid to get myself a collection of cricketing gear, including a helmet. I couldn't get a chest guard, though. My dad wanted me to choose between that and a good bat! Attending a coaching camp that summer, my desire was to emulate that trademark Dravid cover drive – a long stride forward, a sweet strike and an elegant follow through to dispatch the ball through the cover region. Now, it seems so childish. Cricket, to the exponent of that stroke, was hardly ever a whim. The drive, in all probability, will never be replicated again, now that Dravid has walked away. The fate, I guess, is shared by the on drive, the cut, late-cut and drive after a snap switch to the back foot, and the controlled pull shot aided by a roll of the wrists.

The 233 in the first innings followed by a 72* in the second, accruing which he cut the ball gloriously and elated by kissing the emblem on his cap at the Adelaide Oval in 2003, having clinched the game for India, is an evergreen Dravid memory. Also, during 2003-04, the Wall was the Foundation of Indian cricket, carrying the edifice and keeping it erect. Naturally, I had to argue that he was better than you know who. The reasoning was compelling, too. He had kept wickets without letting his willow wallow. And, anywhere on the cricket field and in the batting line-up was his comfort zone – a Zen-like equanimity.

Captaincy seemed to be more of a tribulation, possibly because the position had less to do with cricket itself. His batting wasn't woeful in this phase either. He did reasonably well, exulting after overseas series victories in the West Indies and England. He got to 10,000 ODI runs and remarked that the tally was inevitable given that he had played 300 odd matches. In so being modest, he'd swept under the carpet the tenacity and the resilience needed to be a part of the team over such an extended period, especially when one has been dropped early on in his career. The 2007 World Cup, if it had been a day, was probably the only one on which Dravid wished he should’ve stayed in bed. He abdicated the thorny throne of captaincy, and in hindsight, thankfully for all of us. Cricket was better off without any insidious influence that could've made him consider retirement acting on him.     

The tour down under that spanned late 2007 and early '08 showed everyone why his much carped about defence was so essential. In the middle of a lean patch – one in which he sometimes seemed to struggle to edge the ball – he was still comfortable letting the deliveries outside the off stump through to the 'keeper and ducked under the bouncers. This was at the core of his mandate, one that often seemed self-appointed. Uncrowned, uncelebrated, he, throughout his career, neutered the new ball, shielding a pedigreed middle order against the dreaded swing. The significance of the 31,258 balls he faced is thus immense.

He never regained the form he enjoyed in 2003, but 2011 was a rather fruitful year. Going past 13,000 test runs he described whatever he had accumulated after the 10,000 mark as a windfall. There can be no arguments that the bonus was well-deserved, though perhaps inadequate. A thousand runs in the calendar year, and that he was the Indian team's saving grace in England, not for the first time, made his quitting the game quite surprising.  

Jeffrey Archer responded to Dravid's retirement by saying that sport now is without one of its finest gentleman. I remember reading one of Archer's short stories, The Century, in the English class during my pre-university course. The story is woven around a cricket match between Cambridge and Oxford. The climax of the story involves the skipper of Cambridge electing against running his opposite number out on 99, guided by the belief that the opponent deserves a century - something the Oxford skipper is intensely longing. The obliged captain responds by letting the ball crash into his stumps (or is he out hit wicket?) once he has attained the ton, thus returning the favour, and choosing to not exploit the opportunity to get his team a victory that might infringe on the spirit of the game. Rahul Dravid, from among the modern cricketers, could instinctively be imagined to be in the shoes of either character, if the chain of events were to unfold on a cricket pitch close to you that is.

Some other reactions to Dravid's departure from the game have harped on how his long and brilliant career is more a result of his perseverance than his talent. That he can knuckle down and whittle any challenge that is before him is his talent. Maybe, he wasn’t consigned to cricket. But, he chose cricket and the game chose him, and what ensued was a holy matrimony – one that is still prosperous and joyous – rather than destiny. Had he chosen politics, he would have garnered more seats than one of his namesakes, and if business had been his calling, he would have been on course to emerge as a tycoon a la another Rahul. We, the cricket fans, were just lucky! 

Idolatry is inexorably interspersed with Indian cricket. Naturally, the Indian cricketing pantheon comprises many Gods, without still being a match for the galaxy of religious deities in the country. While one God may have his sect blare conch shells and clink cymbals and chant his name, and the other inspired a congregation on a city's streets to condemn his ostracism from the High Table – a sacrilege, Dravid manifested bliss in your heart only if you were willing to engage in silent contemplation and be in tune with his own serenity. And the ones who've had this bliss, now unwalled, can hardly settle for trivial euphoria.    

Thank you, Rahul Dravid.

A paean to the Wall.

P.S: On top of my wishlist is a video compilation of every moment Dravid's been on the field. I am still hoping  he might return, if only for a cameo, but that would be very unlike him.