Yours Whimsically - Part 16: 'A Century Is Not Enough'

It is not possible to talk about Indian cricket without talking of Sourav Ganguly. Being a 90s kid, my earliest recollection of watching the game begins roughly at the turn of the millennium. History says this was a tumultuous time in world cricket, what with Hansie Cronje’s match-fixing scandal and a shadow cast even on Indian cricket. It was in such circumstances that a certain Sourav Ganguly was asked to lead the Indian team. The rest, as they say, is history. The turn-around in Indian cricket can largely be attributed to one personality. As a fan, I pre-ordered his autobiography, and read it – at record speed – the day, rather the afternoon, it arrived. (The previous book I read in a day was Chetan Bhagat’s ‘2 States’.)

Ganguly played at the same time as Tendulkar and Dravid. While Tendulkar was already a household name, Dravid and Ganguly started their careers simultaneously. Sachin was a statesman and Dravid, a gentleman, Ganguly chose aggression and attitude, thus defining the character of the team he led and more importantly, built. Much is written these days about Kohli’s raw aggression, which rubs off on the team. This mindset of taking the attack to the opposition is perhaps Ganguly’s greatest legacy to Indian cricket.

When Tendulkar’s autobiography “Playing It My Way” was released, there was much hype, primarily because for many, it was the ‘word of God’. Personally, I was disappointed with the book. It was like reading match-report after match-report, except for the fact that they were written in first person. Moreover, Tendulkar seemed ‘destined’ to succeed. A child prodigy from the famed ‘Mumbai School of batting’, he piled success after success. While the country celebrated those successes, they do not make a great story to tell. Even more so because much of what is said in the book was already public knowledge. Apart from brief insights into Sachin – the family man, the book had little new to offer.

With this at the back of my mind, I expected Ganguly’s “A Century Is Not Enough” to be a lot more candid and colorful, like his character and career.

Many would want to believe that Dada’s career began with a century at Lord’s. However, it was four years earlier in Australia that Ganguly made his disastrous ODI debut. Having scored only 3, it was almost curtains down on his career. Ganguly fought back, making runs in the domestic circuit, forcing his way into the Test team. This ‘never say die’ attitude, which defined his career, forms the core of this book.

For most readers, Ganguly’s view on the Greg Chappell era would be the most awaited part of the book. And Dada does not disappoint. What is a revelation, however, is that it was Ganguly who suggested Chappell’s name for the job, having briefly interacted with him before the 2003-04 tour of Australia. In fact, it was perhaps this stint which proved instrumental in the successful tour Down Under. Unfortunately, for Dada and Indian cricket, this phase proved to be the lowest phase. A winning captain was sacked from captaincy and dropped from the team. Even a century in the previous series was not enough to earn him a place in the playing eleven. Team India’s most successful captain had to fight for his spot in the team and prove himself by playing domestic tournaments. Despite suggestions from his father to hang his boots up, it was Ganguly’s attitude and pride which kept him going, having the last laugh in the “Ganguly – Guru Greg” saga.

Ganguly interweaves the narration of his struggles and successes with tidbits of philosophy, relevant not only to sportspersons but to anybody else as well. It is this which makes it an enriching experience. His pride is evident when he talks of the team he built, talents he helped nurture or when he discusses his contributions/performances. He is very candid and does not hesitate to share that when he was dropped, he felt an increasing sense of pessimism at every Indian victory. Or for that matter, his expectations soared high when Tendulkar resigned as captain. It is this forthrightness which adds flavor to the book.

The otherwise candid Dada, however, does not delve deep into the “Monkeygate” Test or the controversial Multan declaration, with Sachin on 194*. We will perhaps have to wait for Dravid’s autobiography to know the entire saga. Also, Ganguly deals with cricket and cricket only, giving very little insight into Ganguly the person, off the field. Another aspect which I feel is a drawback is he falls short on details – even while describing the historical 2001 Eden Gardens Test, the 2003-04 tour of Australia or the 2003 World Cup. A little more depth into his approach to the game as captain and the team as a unit would have made the book more rounded.

For a cricket fan, Ganguly infused the team with raw energy and passion, backing his team mates – giving up his opening slot to promote Viru into the destructive batsman he became, for instance. In short, he redefined captaincy and leadership. Sourav Ganguly went from being just another guy from a middle-class Bengali family to captaining Team India, “the most coveted job after the Indian Prime Minister”. More importantly, he struggled. He had his share of demons – internal and external – to vanquish on his path to success. It is unfortunate that the World Cup eluded him. It is this ‘humanness’ which makes the Ganguly-story endearing, prompting us to turn the pages of "A Century Is Not Enough".

Yours Whimsically - Part 15: A Sunday Siesta

Of all the little things I enjoy, nothing compares to the joy and tranquility of a nap on a Sunday afternoon. Frankly, it need not be a Sunday. The title is given simply because it sounds better than a ‘Monday siesta’ or a ‘Thursday siesta’. All you need in order to enjoy one is the ‘art of doing nothing’. You cannot enjoy a siesta when you have work either prior to or following it. It is akin to meditation. You need to zero in on your objective and let it take over. (The zero is an interesting concept. Zero or Shoonya means ‘nothing’. However, it can also mean the all-encompassing. Shoonya can be none and whole at the same time!) A siesta is best enjoyed when you have nothing to do, allowing it to engulf you entirely.

Living in a hostel teaches you many life skills. Of the few I have learnt, I surely count appreciating the beauty of a siesta to be one. Prior to being a hostelite, I used to scorn those who lazed their way through Sunday afternoons. The tables have turned and I now absolutely appreciate the value of sleep, surrendering to it as and when it demands, especially in those golden moments on beautiful afternoons.

Having been a hostelite for more than four years now, Sundays at home and in the hostel move along similar trajectories; the only difference being, perhaps, the food. At home, a Sunday usually opens with the false alarm of the maid having arrived, forcing my brother and me to wake up. Such honour is not bestowed even upon guests who arrive not so frequently. With a cup of coffee, the next couple of hours are spent reading the newspapers, which switch hands between Dad, brother and me, while Mom is busy making breakfast. Dad is an ace at taking his afternoon naps in the morning, especially with the TV switched on!

A heavy lunch on a Sunday is just the right prelude to a siesta. If it is ragi mudde, need I say more? Wash the lunch down with a glass of buttermilk and the stage is set. Eyes droop, mental activity decreases while voices on the TV become a drone. I unroll a mat, place my head on the pillow, wrap myself in a blanket and ever so slowly, slip into blissful oblivion. Unless there are pressing commitments or (unwelcome) visitors, this siesta can stretch upto three hours. Nobody is complaining about it, is there?

In the hostel, since Saturday ends late – or even if it doesn’t – dawn does not break until near-noon on Sunday. Having missed breakfast, lunch is the first meal of the day (like most other days!). Often, conversations at the table are spicier than the food itself. Having downed a fresh lime soda, we friends disperse along separate ways. I return with my copy of The Hindu. 

A warm breeze blows through the window as I settle down to read the paper. It does take a lot of time to read the elaborately structured Sunday edition. Lying down to read the last few pages of the paper, I already sense my eyes becoming a little heavy. There is a buzz as a stray housefly flits around the room, looking for an exit. I spread a thin blanket over myself and pick up the book placed next to my pillow. A beautiful line forces me to stop reading and reflect upon it. I look up at the fan which has been gently whirring all this while. Spotlessly clean. I thank the housekeeping for having done a good job. There’s a myna at the window, chirping away, piercing the silence of an otherwise still afternoon. A few seconds later, it flies away and everything is static once more. The housefly is no longer in the room. The line has just triggered an insight. I sense it bubbling upwards. However, much before it reaches the surface, sleep takes over. The book is on my chest, in a loving embrace. The spectacles remain perched on the nose.

Siesta and I exchange pleasantries. I still perceive the world outside, though faintly. Steadily, Siesta overpowers me. One by one, the senses shut off. At the height of our communion, I do not realise the incessant howling of dogs below the window. I am oblivious to the vibration of my phone. It takes a very brief power cut to break the spell. Siesta has lost her magic. I feel my senses returning and yet, I find myself resisting their return. It is my friend’s knock on the door which finally wakes me up in time for the evening coffee.

Despite knowing that we'll meet again in a week's time or perhaps even before that, I bid farewell to Siesta with a heavy heart. Siesta disappears through the door as caffeine enters the system, leaving memories and expectations in her wake.