From the iSport Cricket Pavilion: iSporter Varun Iyer makes his debut by penning his thoughts in a splendid article on Indian Cricket's favourite hero! Read more as he lets his emotions flow through each word of this masterpiece!
2011 will be an epochal year in the lives of many an Indian. Many of us in a quarter life crisis, at the cusp of separation from boyhood, shedding parsimony for professional pay were born in the years when the World Cup was ours. The period between 1983 - 1987. After the Kapil catch and before the Aussie ascent. After the last Indian World Cup victory in 28 years and before the first of four Aussie assaults. Steve Waugh was bowling when I was born, Safari suits were the rage, and the only constant between those times and these is the amount of hair that remains on my head. But 2011 is here. 2011 is the year. Of the ultimate triumph.
Satyameva Jayate, difficult as it may be to believe, is the guiding principle that this nation embodies. It is the triumph of truth. Chronology of the parallels between Indian cinema and cricket can be quite telling. Ardha Satya (1983, Om Puri, Kapil captaining us to the World Cup) preceded Satya (1998, Manoj Bajpai, Sach sighted at Sharjah). The process however has been slower since then. 1998, we knew what the truth was. Sach. But truth alone cannot prevail in isolation. Truth needs conviction, must be fed on raw guts and to murder the machinations of marauders, manifest itself in acceptable forms.
From 1998, we believed. And built. Much of what we reap has been sown by stalwarts who are now characters in the chapters titled 'The Making'. Kumble, the man who could not spin, who could not smile, but who would slay and be slain in order to win. Dada, the tiger who roared, cajoled, goaded, infuriated, but above all believed. These chieftains of our destiny past will watch from the studio, with fatherly concern and guru-esqe attention, as a timeless comrade, will lead children half his age, men one fourth his talent but hopefully equal in desire onto the final lap.
In a billion households across the country, on television sets in slums, on streets, in high rises, the anticipation will be overrun by anxiety. The will sit solemnly and wonder, what is the truth? What is our Sach?
Is it the steadfast willow battered over the years by the pounding of menacing demons across the planet?
Is it the wrists of steel that have nudged a thousand singles ?
Is it the ageing but willing legs that have fought off bouts of numbing cramp to stand, when all else has collapsed alongside ?
Is it those eyes that have shone, sparkled, signalled, calmed, but wept at what-ifs ?
Is it the heart that has beaten, in sync with a billion, men and women, old and young ?
Is it the chest that has taken body blows, but swells with pride at the sight of the flag ?
Is it the man who aged, but never let the child ever grow, in the twenty two tumultous years ?
The truth as always, is a combination of all of these. At times distorted. But on the second of April, a few kilometres away from Shivaji Park, across the railway tracks from Churchgate, a stone's throw away from the sea, Moses will come, and part the waters. The Ten will be delivered to mankind. On that day, we shall see the truth.
On that day, Sach shall prevail.
2011 will be an epochal year in the lives of many an Indian. Many of us in a quarter life crisis, at the cusp of separation from boyhood, shedding parsimony for professional pay were born in the years when the World Cup was ours. The period between 1983 - 1987. After the Kapil catch and before the Aussie ascent. After the last Indian World Cup victory in 28 years and before the first of four Aussie assaults. Steve Waugh was bowling when I was born, Safari suits were the rage, and the only constant between those times and these is the amount of hair that remains on my head. But 2011 is here. 2011 is the year. Of the ultimate triumph.
Satyameva Jayate, difficult as it may be to believe, is the guiding principle that this nation embodies. It is the triumph of truth. Chronology of the parallels between Indian cinema and cricket can be quite telling. Ardha Satya (1983, Om Puri, Kapil captaining us to the World Cup) preceded Satya (1998, Manoj Bajpai, Sach sighted at Sharjah). The process however has been slower since then. 1998, we knew what the truth was. Sach. But truth alone cannot prevail in isolation. Truth needs conviction, must be fed on raw guts and to murder the machinations of marauders, manifest itself in acceptable forms.
From 1998, we believed. And built. Much of what we reap has been sown by stalwarts who are now characters in the chapters titled 'The Making'. Kumble, the man who could not spin, who could not smile, but who would slay and be slain in order to win. Dada, the tiger who roared, cajoled, goaded, infuriated, but above all believed. These chieftains of our destiny past will watch from the studio, with fatherly concern and guru-esqe attention, as a timeless comrade, will lead children half his age, men one fourth his talent but hopefully equal in desire onto the final lap.
In a billion households across the country, on television sets in slums, on streets, in high rises, the anticipation will be overrun by anxiety. The will sit solemnly and wonder, what is the truth? What is our Sach?
Is it the steadfast willow battered over the years by the pounding of menacing demons across the planet?
Is it the wrists of steel that have nudged a thousand singles ?
Is it the ageing but willing legs that have fought off bouts of numbing cramp to stand, when all else has collapsed alongside ?
Is it those eyes that have shone, sparkled, signalled, calmed, but wept at what-ifs ?
Is it the heart that has beaten, in sync with a billion, men and women, old and young ?
Is it the chest that has taken body blows, but swells with pride at the sight of the flag ?
Is it the man who aged, but never let the child ever grow, in the twenty two tumultous years ?
The truth as always, is a combination of all of these. At times distorted. But on the second of April, a few kilometres away from Shivaji Park, across the railway tracks from Churchgate, a stone's throw away from the sea, Moses will come, and part the waters. The Ten will be delivered to mankind. On that day, we shall see the truth.
On that day, Sach shall prevail.
