A Victory to Savour

(and images we will not forget)

How wonderful to be a victorious nation.

Some of the most indelible images from yesterday -

Rohit Sharma, as captain of a now-victorious team - stepping away from the crowded celebrations, to be alone.

Because as much the victory of a team sport is with one’s mates, as captain the burden is often a lonely one - decisions could be collective but the responsibility is finally singular. And it was right that he should savour the moment with himself, alone, even if just for a moment.

Hardik weeping uncontrollably.

The tears just did not stop. He had just bowled what may well have been his toughest over ever, and he had kept a cool head in every one of the six balls. There were crores of people in his country whose dreams he was holding tightly in that grip which held the mystery of six bowling efforts. And he delivered again and again and again and again and again and again. And this was after the most difficult six months of his life, by his own admission, when he was pilloried and abused and abandoned like nobody else, as he was made captain of a glamorous IPL team and saw it get reduced to ashes. He carried the burden of all its failures dreadfully lonely, as if he alone made all eleven members of the team. This was redemption, this was a reaffirmation to himself and the fickle world, that he could give victory, and he did. No wonder he spent the entire post-match time wrapped in the Indian tricolours. His way of saying - much above all of us is the country, a bigger cause, and that was what he would rather strive for, and nobody should ever question him again.

Then Rahul Dravid jumping up in joy from his seat, his arms above, his face finally wreathed in a smile.

Here was a man so generous, that he would step away when there was victory, so the team could bask in glory, and immediately stepped upfront, not allowing team members to face the world, in the most abysmal moments of defeat. There is scarcely a stronger backbone possible. Someone proud and humble, someone self-sufficient and self-effacing, someone omnipresent and invisible - all at the same time. He’s the man who epitomises what this team in blue finally are and can do. Like an Indian philosophy lesson, he cajoles his team to continuously do the right thing, and thereon to let the consequences take care of themselves.

Jasprit Bumrah’s first wicket.

It was of a perfect pitch and Hendricks played for the line even as his bat fully covered the stumps, but impossibly, incredibly, the ball moved an infinitesimal millimetre, an outswinger, and hit the off-stump and the bails tumbled down. There was guile there, of course, but there was so much more which was so Indian - an understated elegance, a hidden smile, a caress like the one a mother might give her son as she sends him out into the world alone for the very first time, a subtle message to never underestimate this nation of underachievers and over-dreamers.

And then Suryakumar and his uber cool attitude, landing a deathly blow with typical sangfroid.

16 runs were needed off the final over, being bowled by Hardik. The first ball was a wide full toss, and Miller tried to lift it for a straight boundary. But he didn't connect perfectly, and Suryakumar, running full blast along the rope, his feet literally centimetres inside, caught the ball, leaped, popped it up as he stepped over the boundary, and then completed the running catch as he jumped back into the field, sparking wild celebrations in the stands, and sheer ecstasy amongst the Indian players. And the man in the middle of the celebrations just went back to his position, as if it was an accounting job, with the balance sheet still to be balanced.

And then the image of Kohli, standing with a trophy in his hand - the player of the match -

his voice full and plain, as he held on to the plaque tightly, announcing that this was his last World Cup match. Here was the dream-maker, nay, dream-giver. The man who never gave up. The man who never made excuses. Unapologetic in his brash talent, unforgiving to himself in his failures, he taught pride and faith to his legions of fans. In the worst of times, he never gave up on RCB. And in this, probably his worst World Cup performance in all matches, save the one which really counted, he rose from the ashes of some of the most forgettable innings of his career to deliver in the end, and that too with a flawlessness which made it look simple. It was, of course, Virat merely being Virat. Like a Sourav in an earlier era with his shirt off, Virat played every match with his heart out. It was hard to distinguish the man from his game, that’s how seamlessly and eloquently he transitioned from one to the other. He would be missed dearly and relentlessly.

And finally, the image of my wife, who slept throughout the match, but got up, wide-eyed, instinctively, before the last over started.

The Indian fan. Who might doze off, but will never give up. The one who will pillory his cricketing gods, but will never let them down. The one who would rebuke profusely when her team gets defeated, but would still be there for her heroes when they come out to fight another battle.

We as a nation will bask in this glory, as if the sun shines directly into our hearts. Our mind and heart space will be given a respite from the trials of a rampant monsoon and the tribulations of a toxic political climate. We will savour the gorgeousness of victory. And hopefully mull, and realize, how it always requires a team - always a team - to achieve what we dearly want to.

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