As the players lined up in an emptying stadium after what I dimly remember as the third and last one-dayer against South Africa in New Delhi, on the eve of the Indian cricket team’s departure for the tour of Australia, sometime in November 1991, the notes of Ballade pour Adeline tinkled, broken only by commentators' remarks, with the camera zeroing in on each player’s face. That was some sort of a departure from the routine post-one-dayer rituals (a departure in the choice of music too, why did Doordarshan not choose to play the more usual Theme from Shaft that they seemed to reserve for any sporting activity, especially football? Indeed, we were so used to hear that piece being played as the credits rolled after any football game was telecast, my brother and I still refer to it jokingly as “football-er bajna” and I have not heard the ballad played for any sport telecast before that day or after), and my only interest then was to catch a glimpse of the newly-drafted members of the national cricket team. Every time I use the word "national" or "Indian" before the cricket team now, I am pricked by my consciousness of how the existence of the women’s cricket team is completely subsumed by these epithets. And that consciousness then takes its turn to remind me also that time is so irredeemable. I can think like the girl I was then only with some effort, only with a very conscious desire to put away the lenses I have acquired over time or with training. But to return to the subject of this post, what was interesting for Bengalis that moment was that Sourav Ganguly and Subroto Banerjee had both found place in the squad leaving for Australia. Banerjee played for Bihar, but nevertheless was a Bengali, and a medium-fast bowler at that, and Sourav, who had blazed the domestic scene for a while, had made the cut even if at a time when his brother Snehashish looked the more probable Bengal candidate, judging by performance. If they performed well on the tour, they stood a good chance of being considered for the World Cup in Australia. So like many cricket-enthusiasts, I waited for the first glimpse of Sourav "live", and the commentators did a good job of introducing all the new faces.
The Indian batsmens’ vulnerability to the rising ball outside the off-stump, Ravi Shastri’s double hundred at Sydney, Tendulkar’s brilliant ton in the same Test, Merv Hughes’ moustache, Sourav’s lone one-day appearance on that tour, his "failure", his "attitude problems"—I assiduously kept track of the Indian summer Down Under, through Sportstar, Anandamela, not to mention the dailies, not least because the tour was a curtain-raiser of sorts for the first cricket World Cup that I would see well enough to remember. I had by then seen enough of Indian cricket to doubt if Sourav would ever again be considered, but somehow, however unjustifiably, even from the little I saw of him in press reports, it seemed that here was a gritty fellow who would not give up without a fight. For the next four years, all we heard of the Bengal Tiger was through match reports in local papers, for those were days before the current media explosion, and national aspirants, first-time or otherwise, were not likely to be interviewed by the media for every extra mile they ran.
As Ganguly walked out to bat at Lord’s four years later with India tottering, the Bengali teenager in me daydreamed that the gutsy guy would end up with a ton. As Boycott’s Prince of Calcutta gradually emerged as one of the key batsmen in the Indian side, as one of the most elegant batsmen in his day, as one of the finest players of spin, as the grittiest of captains, I wondered, would it mean anything at all to him if I ever got the chance to tell him that I believed,in 1992, however irrationally, that he would make a comeback, and in style?
And then, it was time for him to make another comeback when he got unceremoniously dropped in September 2005 as both player and captain under a cloud of bureaucratic intrigue within the BCCI. All was not quite cricket. Like his die-hard fans I believed again that he would come back, that he still had a few years to offer to cricket, that the questions about his commitment to the game were baseless, and that since he had so much to prove, he would not give up without a fight. For this stint of the Tiger’s in the wilderness, I had to keep track again through match reports, for even though the print and electronic media in India were following every pugmark he left, I was in the US, which meant keeping track of cricket only on the internet. Kiran More’s often puerile reactions during interviews by the media, Greg Chappell’s evident mishandling of individuals, and the general climate of muscle-flexing and intrigue that had set in with a change of guard in the BCCI, all seemed to suggest that Sourav had not been dropped only for cricketing reasons. The disquiet voiced occasionally by junior members of the team (promptly gagged by the BCCI who even "showcaused" Sachin Tendulkar once) seemed suggestive, to say the least. I kept track of what had become the national guessing-game and was once again inexplicably certain that the tables would turn in Sourav’s favour, or maybe more correctly, that he would turn them. And then it did happen. The Prince, now perhaps chastened by experience, and looking to only enjoy whatever cricket lay ahead of him, seemed regally reluctant to give in to interviewers’ provocations to admit even once that he had proven something. All he said was that life had come full circle.
And then one glorious year of batting followed for him, but only before he was dropped again from the ODI side. I cannot this time be optimistic about the Prince’s recall, no matter no batsman in the game has scored more runs than him in 2007, for there is an unmistakably strong current in favour of youngsters, if the simultaneous omission of Rahul Dravid should also be taken to mean something. And given the BCCI’s consistently abysmal lack of professionalism in these matters -- perhaps the current ODI captain’s too -- these senior players were not even told that these changes were being envisaged. We will never know what Sourav and Rahul must have felt, and we better not. All that followers of the game anywhere would want now is to see both of them enjoying their game in whatever form of cricket they would be playing. For the past few months I have been lax in keeping track of cricket--all the hullabaloo over IPL and ICL--and have not wondered for even once what it might mean to Sourav if I suddenly met him somewhere and told him that I believed both in 1992 and 2005 (not a teenager any more then:), that he would be back. That he would do a Zorro.
18 June 2008. I am sitting in the Clipper Lounge at Dumdum airport, courtesy a friend travelling Club World on the British Airways flight to London. In walks Nirupa Ganguly, and then, in a familiar voice I hear in Bengali, “…board bolbe na… board...” So I turn to look, and there is he, Sourav, probably filling out immigration forms for his parents and brother. I wonder if I should ask him for an autograph. Should I let him alone, or should I compel him to be Sourav Ganguly at 7 in the morning as he looks harassed tackling bureaucratic procedures? As we sit debating to ask or not to ask, a middle-aged gentleman walks almost past us, booming, “Sourav ekdom kichchhu mone korbe na, eta amar meyer jonye…” Sourav obliges with a smile, and very politely enquires after the health of his fan. Forced politesse, but I’d give full marks for such politeness under pressure. So we get up, and head straight for his table and I declare, “Onake dekhe sahosta pelam, but you are free to refuse.” He looks almost hurt, looks up from his papers, and says, “Why would I refuse?” I can’t tell him it’s got nothing to do with the myth of Lord Snooty, but rather with my good intentions to let his brief holiday from being a celebrity begin at the airport itself. And after he has signed, he asks very courteously, where I am headed to. I reply, thank him, turn away, not telling him how I always ‘knew’ he would come back.
