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Published by Westland Sport, an imprint of Westland Publications Private

Limited in 2018

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are the trademarks of Westland Publications Private Limited, or its affiliates.

Copyright © VVS Laxman, 2018

ISBN: 9789387894402

The views and opinions expressed in this work are the author’s own and the facts
are as reported by him, and the publisher is in no way liable for the same.

All rights reserved

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recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
For my uncle, who recognised the talent in me, and my parents, who gave me the
freedom to pursue my dream and passion.

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 Contents

1 The Knock That Changed My Life

2 Eden Gardens: The Theatre of My Dreams
3 The Early Years
4 Decision Time: Cricket or Medicine?
5 The Journey of Self-Discovery
6 Test Cap No. 209
7 The Non-Regular Opener
8 The Hyderabad Boy
9 The Road to No. 1 (Part One)
10 The Road to No. 1 (Part Two)
11 The Road to No. 1 (Part Three)
12 The Road to No. 1 (Part Four)
13 Catching Them Cold
14 White-Ball Blues
15 My Best Partnership
16 My Batting Mates
17 Of Laughter and Loneliness
18 The T20 Roller Coaster
19 Mr Comeback Man
20 The Beginning of the End
21 Going Out on My Terms
Acknowledgements
About the Authors
Photographs

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westland publications
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1
The Knock That Changed My Life

I couldn’t stop smiling. I just couldn’t. The coach’s words were music to my
ears.
Venkatesh Prasad and I had just returned to the pavilion, Australia having
bowled us out for 171 in under 60 overs and asked us to follow-on. I was the last
man dismissed, and had just sat down to remove my pads when a friendly hand
came to rest lightly on my shoulder.
‘Don’t take your pads off, Lax.’
‘Oh! Why, John?’
‘You are going in at No. 3.’
My mind went blank. It took a few seconds for the message to sink in.
That’s when the smile surfaced.
‘Really, John?’
By this time, John Wright too was caught up in the mini drama playing out
between the two of us. ‘Really, Lax.’ Our coach’s weather-beaten face opened up
in a crinkly smile.
I wasn’t obsessed with the No. 3 slot. Rahul Dravid had been doing a
fantastic job in that position, and I recognised that individual desires and
aspirations always came second to the team’s needs and goals.
But I loved batting at No. 3. It freed up my mind. I felt extremely
comfortable walking out at the fall of the first wicket. I had been occupying that
position for nearly five years for Hyderabad, in the Ranji Trophy. If I had the
option, I would always bat at No. 3.
And here was the opportunity to do that for Team India. I had batted twice
at one-drop in Test cricket: in Adelaide in December 1999—a handy 41 in the
first innings, followed by a first-ball duck in the second. I didn’t think about that.
 Neither did I think about the fact that we were 0–1 in this Test series,
against Steve Waugh’s all-conquering Australians, who were now targeting an
unprecedented 17th consecutive Test win. Or that we had been wiped out inside
three days in the preceding game in Mumbai. Or that we were 274 behind in the
first innings of this Test and had been asked to follow-on. I just didn’t think
about anything.
On a high after that chat with John, I looked around our silent dressing
room and was greeted by tense, apprehensive faces. We were so far behind the
eight ball and the tunnel that stared us in the face seemed long, dark and
foreboding. But while we were not exactly full of beans, we had no intention of
rolling over and allowing the Aussies to walk all over us.
As a No. 3, you have to be mentally prepared to take guard to the second
ball of the innings. You are always a little bit on edge, willing the openers to see
off the new ball, at the very least. You are looking for cues—the rhythm of the
bowlers, the behaviour of the ball, how the pitch is playing, what is the biggest
threat to your continued presence at the batting crease. I was doing all of this, of
course, but with a pretty open mind; I didn’t want to go out predetermined and
prejudiced. That would have been against every instinct I had followed until
then.
The Mumbai Test the preceding week had been a bit of a wipe-out. Though
Sachin Tendulkar had made two brilliant half-centuries and Harbhajan Singh had
threatened briefly when he had Australia on the mat at 99 for 5, Matthew
Hayden and Adam Gilchrist had taken the game away from us with counter-
attacking centuries. We marvelled at their courage and their bruising strokeplay,
but we were far from overawed. Even without Anil Kumble, who was recovering
from a shoulder surgery, we felt we had the resources to get the better of
Australia. As dispiriting as the Mumbai defeat was, we didn’t think it was a true
indication of the strengths of the two teams.
Between the Mumbai and the Kolkata Tests, I had watched a couple of
movies and then gone to Shirdi to pray to Sai Baba. Spirituality has been my
constant companion since childhood. That, coupled with the environs in which I
grew up and the lessons I learnt by observing my grandfather and my parents,
has given me an equanimity and a calmness that has always helped me tide over
moments of crisis, of which there were several as my career unfolded.
The more I look back at the Eden Test, the more my belief in fate and
destiny is strengthened. I don’t say this merely because we battled the odds and
came out triumphant. Had things not worked out the way they did in the lead-up
to the game, I might not even have been available to take the field.
My classmate from school, Amit Mohan Lal, had accompanied me on the
Shirdi visit after the three-day drubbing in Mumbai. During the journey, I kept
asking questions—of myself, and Shirdi Sai Baba too. I had done everything in
my control, so why this test by fire? Where was it that I had been found
wanting? I had committed myself totally to my dream, I had left no stone
unturned, so why this treatment? Why were the runs not coming? Why was I in
and out of the team? What more could I do?
These were the questions that repeatedly flitted to the top of my mind.
They weren’t anguished, aggressive, angry queries. I was confused more than
anything else, because I felt I deserved better if only for my utter dedication to
my craft, to my sport, to my team and country. As we settled into the journey, I
closed my eyes and rested the back of my head on the top of my seat. Instantly,
as if someone had switched on a projector, my entire life ran through my mind’s
eye. I saw myself as a young kid, leaving home with my oversized kitbag in tow
in Abids, walking to the bus stop to take the bus to practice. I saw the hours and
hours of practice, I watched myself play every ball in every competitive game of
cricket I had played. It was surreal, but it was also oh-so-real. I had gone through
a similar experience in Melbourne in late 1999, ahead of my 167 in Sydney the
following week. But that was the last thing on my mind as we embarked on the
journey to Shirdi.
After a peace-filled few hours, we drove back to Mumbai, and I then flew
out to Hyderabad. By this time, I was ready to visit any temple to seek divine
intervention. I wasn’t desperate. I wasn’t putting my fate in the hands of the
Almighty because that would have been taking the easy way out. But I wanted to
find a certain equilibrium, some peace of mind, before I went to Kolkata. Hence,
at the suggestion of my uncle, I drove to two different temples during my short
stint in Hyderabad between the Mumbai and Kolkata Tests.
Somewhat comforted by these trips, I followed the routine I undertook
before embarking on any cricketing tour—a visit to my maternal grandparents’
house for a meal, a session at the St John’s camp adjacent to their home in
Secunderabad, and a stint with Ashok Singh, my batting coach, before heading
to the airport. Thus I came to Kolkata, having travelled much in a short span of
time, with my mind a lot more uncluttered but still a little unsettled.
Those days, we used to stay two to a room. In Mumbai I had roomed with
Sadagopan Ramesh, the beautiful-to-watch and fun-loving Tamil Nadu opener.
Ramesh and I knew each other from our domestic cricket days and got along
famously. His only grouse was that my half of the room, which he said
resembled a mini temple, was so neatly maintained that it made his half look
even more ramshackle! Ramesh was quite a character, just as he was quite a
batsman when in full flow.
 When I checked into the hotel, I discovered that Ramesh wasn’t my
roommate this time. Instead, it was to be Zaheer Khan.
I wasn’t amused. Like many others, I am a creature of routine, and I knew
what to expect from Ramesh the roomie. Zaheer was young, new, an unknown.
‘Who made this arrangement?’ I half-snapped at the receptionist, aware
that I was being unreasonable.
‘Mr John Wright, sir,’ came the hesitant, semi-fearful reply.
I told her to patch me through to John, and asked him, somewhat irritated,
about the change in plans. ‘No more seniors and juniors, Lax,’ he said. ‘If we
must play and win as a team, we must also learn to stay as a team. We must all
get used to each other. This is how it’s going to be from here on.’
That was that, really. Still in a huff, I bolted up to my room, not knowing
what to expect over the next week from a young lad as different from me as
chalk is from cheese. But what was I to know? That was the start of a wonderful
friendship, a mutual bond of respect and affection that has grown stronger with
time. On the face of it, Zak and I are probably what people would call an odd
couple. We are very different from each other and have entirely different
attitudes to life.
Zak is more laidback and does things at his own pace. It wasn’t that he
wasn’t goal-oriented, but while many of us were regimented, he was not. I am an
introvert and even now, I don’t feel entirely comfortable in a crowd. Zak, by
contrast, is an excellent host who loves having people around. I was an early
riser and followed a rigorous routine. Zak lay in bed for as long as he could,
because all he needed to get ready was five minutes. Our eating habits were
different too. I am a strict vegetarian and he is not. When someone asks me to
explain our chemistry, I really don’t have an answer. It’s just one of those things
—you hit it off immediately with some people, and that’s what happened with
Zak and me. But at that moment, I was still adjusting to the idea of sharing a
room with someone unfamiliar.
Three days before the Test, during our first practice session, I felt a searing
pain in my lower back after having batted for no more than six or seven minutes.
I had been having backaches on and off for the last year or two, but that episode
was painful enough that I had to stop batting right away.
Later that evening, I limped across to meet our physio Andrew Leipus in
his room.
‘Can you just look at my back and fix it, Andrew?’ I asked him. ‘A little bit
of pain, but nothing serious. I should be good to go soon.’
Andrew looked at me, flabbergasted. ‘Nothing serious, Lax? Have you
looked at yourself?’
 I hadn’t. I hauled myself over to the mirror and was stunned by what I saw.
It was as if my upper and lower body were two independent entities. The
upper body was pulling in a direction of its own, slanting to the left. All along, I
had thought I had been standing and walking upright, so this was a spectacular
shock. Like a damaged ship taking in water, I was ‘listing’ to my left. It was
serious alright. A disc had slipped, and each time it scraped against a nerve, it
sent pain shooting through me.
‘But you can fix this, right, Andrew?’
‘Let’s see how it goes.’
I didn’t like that answer. I was looking for something along the lines of,
‘Of course, Lax.’
So, a little more strident, a little more insistent, I said, ‘Tell me you can fix
this, Andrew.’ There was a salty taste in my mouth. I didn’t even realise I had
started to cry.
Perhaps it was the sight of a grown man weeping that did the trick, for
Andrew said something like, ‘Should be alright, I am sure.’
That was good enough for me. John and Sourav had to be told there was an
issue, of course, but I was determined not to miss the game. I went to the ground
with the rest of the team the following day, but all I did was walk gingerly along
its circumference. Keeping a close watch was Hemang Badani, who had been
with Andrew when I first hobbled into his room to seek assistance. Had I been
ruled out, Hemang would have taken my place in the middle order. He looked on
as I stumbled around Eden—no jogging, no running, let alone batting.
The next day—just a day before the match—I was better. Not one hundred
per cent, maybe a little over sixty per cent, but I was getting better. I faced a few
throw-downs at the nets, I was moving reasonably well, the pain was minimal. I
was good to go. I still believe it was Andrew who made that classic at Eden
Gardens possible. He gave me a fresh lease of life, perhaps moved by my tears.
Thank you, Andrew, I will always owe you one!

As the third innings started, on 13 March 2001, Eden Gardens was a heaving,
throbbing, buzzing sea of humanity, like it always is. There was disappointment
that India was so far behind in the match, but there was also a sense of
anticipation. It helped that Sourav Ganguly, a son of the soil, was our captain. It
helped too, that Sachin Tendulkar, the worker of miracles, was in the mix.
As I sat, padded up, helmet in place, I watched Ramesh and Shiv Sundar
Das start off what was to be one of the most memorable third innings of a Test
match. Ramesh and Dasi weren’t quite what you would call veterans, though
Ramesh had made his debut two years ago in the high-pressure cauldron of
India–Pakistan Test cricket. With us so far behind on the first innings, all we
could do was bat the way we knew how, without taking the scoreboard into
consideration.
That’s something we talked about a lot, but it is easier said than done. You
try and break things down, keep them simple, but it is inevitable that from time
to time, you will lapse into negativity.
We needed a decent start to settle our nerves. Australia had a formidable
attack—Glenn McGrath, Jason Gillespie, Shane Warne and Michael
Kasprowicz, who was considered something of an India specialist—and we
hadn’t even touched 200 in the first three innings of the series. So, when the
openers put on 52, batting for a little over an hour, a sense of calm gradually
descended over the dressing room.
The dressing room was our sanctuary. It was where we could be ourselves,
with our extended family, let off steam, indulge in banter and leg-pulling, have
discussions and debates, and sometimes even arguments. A healthy dressing
room is one where people might have different points of view, but are moving in
the same direction.
When we lost Ramesh to Warne, I sprang off my chair, a tingle running
through me. I had dreamed of knocks that would bail the team out of trouble and
end in my being hailed as a hero, but that was about it. As I strode out past a
slightly bemused Ramesh who, like the rest of the audience, had perhaps
expected Rahul to bat at No. 3, I was determined to live every moment.
Over the years, I have always enjoyed my battles with the Aussies. I
suppose it has to do with how they play their cricket—aggressively and with
passion, always positive and looking to assert themselves. I had played against
the likes of Brett Lee and Andrew Symonds at the Under-19 level, and I admired
them. The attacking fields they set gave me additional scoring opportunities and
I loved that the extra pace allowed the ball to come on to my bat, and speed off
it, that much quicker. In hindsight, it’s not surprising that my first Test hundred
came against them in Sydney in early 2000, with my place on the line and our
backs to the wall.
There is a certain comfort in squaring off against an opposition that you
have scored runs off. I had been in good touch in domestic cricket coming into
this series, and had enjoyed my first-innings outing at Eden when I made 59 and
which probably hastened my elevation to No. 3. I saw this as an opportunity to
make the most of my recent form.
 Sure enough, Dasi and I built up a little partnership, and even at that early
stage, I felt I was in a good space. The ball was hitting the middle of my blade,
my feet were moving nicely to Warne in particular, and my mind was blank.
Even when Dasi and Sachin fell in quick succession, I wasn’t perturbed. We had
plenty of batting to come, and I have always been the kind of person who sees
the glass as half full rather than half empty.
But we needed a partnership to steady the ship. At 115 for 3, we were in
trouble. We were under no illusions. Sourav and I had a job on our hands,
especially against an attack that had sensed blood and was primed to move in for
the kill.
Sourav didn’t have a great series with the bat, but that afternoon, he was in
excellent touch. In all my cricketing life, I haven’t seen a better driver of the ball
through the off-side. Sourav did so with effortless ease, all languid left-handed
elegance and economy of movement. As he shredded the bowling, the crowd got
into it. As our partnership topped the 100-run mark and we closed in on the
deficit, the crowd’s hopes started to magnify.
When Sourav fell in the final hour of the third day, a hush descended over
Eden. Not only had their favourite son fallen short of a half-century, but we were
still 42 runs in arrears. Despite the fightback, we were way behind the game. The
fans started to troop out of the stadium, aware that we needed a miracle. By the
time Rahul came out and took guard, half the stadium had emptied.
Rahul and I haven’t discussed it since, but I am sure he must have been a
little miffed at having been replaced at No. 3. The team man that he is, not for
one moment did he make obvious his displeasure, if any, at being pushed down
to No. 6. That was Rahul’s trademark throughout his career, something I have so
admired and enjoyed—he was ready to do whatever the team asked of him. If it
was to keep wicket in one-day cricket, he was game. If he needed to open the
batting in Test matches, however much he didn’t like doing so, he was willing.
And if it meant having to relinquish his preferred No. 3 slot in a Test, so be it.
So Rahul walked in on the third evening, a little under the weather from a
viral fever. Rahul and I have always enjoyed batting with each other. In many
ways, we are similar—in our mental approach, if not in our batting. We could
both take the situation out of the equation, we could go hours without a long
conversation, but we were always there for each other with a quiet word—not so
much advice as encouragement. The role of a partner is important, but in
matches like these, it becomes so much more critical. It is two against eleven out
in the middle and the two batsmen must be on the same page. You must look
after not just your own self but also the partnership to ensure that you remain
focussed and single-minded. That’s what happened with Rahul and me.
 Our first goal was to see out the day, and we did so without too much fuss.
I brought up my second Test hundred along the way.
The Aussies are acknowledged as the masters of sledging, but seldom have
I been at the receiving end. When they did talk to me, much of it was funny
rather than intimidating or abusive. As I scrambled for the single that took me to
my century, Steve Waugh sauntered in from cover and muttered, ‘Now the
young man’s mind must be busy thinking about endorsements.’ I found it
amazing that even in the heat of battle, Steve could come up with something like
that.
During my playing days, I seldom bothered about numbers and felt that the
runs against my name were meaningless if they didn’t help the team win, or at
least pull off a draw. It is only in hindsight that I regret my inability to convert
more of my half-centuries into three-figure knocks.
When I made this hundred, a year after my first hundred in Sydney, I was
certainly happy. But I also remembered what had happened in Sydney despite
my 167. I didn’t want a repeat of that result, so I went to bed that evening
determined to kick on the next morning. Not thinking runs, not thinking scores,
just thinking time. We had to bat on. And on. And on. Little did I, or anyone
else, know what was in store.

Even though we were still 20 runs behind Australia, Eden appeared boisterous
and exuberant when we reached the ground on the fourth morning. From hopeful
onlookers the previous day when we were asked to follow-on, the Eden crowd
had transformed into an electric entity. I was a little tired, having already spent
nearly eight hours in the middle across two innings, but I was high on
adrenaline. A little bit of fatigue wasn’t going to hold me back. And on the odd
occasion when my concentration flagged as it usually does on a hot, humid
March afternoon in Kolkata, Rahul was quickly in my ear, reminding me that the
job was far from finished, that I couldn’t afford to relax for even a second. ‘Job
not done’ was to become the most frequently used phrase during our long
alliance.
And so we carried on, two friends breaking things down to 10-over
periods, setting small goals and never, ever looking at the scoreboard. We were
still so far behind that for most of the day, our only aim was survival. The longer
we could keep the Aussies on the park, the better our chances of salvaging a
draw.
 Thus the first hour came and went, and Rahul and I were still in the
middle. Then came lunch, and we walked back unconquered, feeling just the
tiniest bit of satisfaction that we were still unseparated, still battling away, still
thwarting the best Australia could throw at us. Along the way had come little
milestones—my 150, then my highest Test score, Rahul’s 50. And, most
crucially, a lead now of 102. Even though we had placed a great deal of onus on
not throwing our hand away, we had added 122 runs in 29 overs. I was flying,
having added 62 to my overnight 109. Rahul wasn’t too far behind.
That session was massive from our point of view, not just for having come
away unscathed but also for the runs scored in what was a crucial phase of the
game. It helped, of course, that despite the regularity with which the runs came,
Steve Waugh continued to set attacking fields, always looking for a wicket
instead of trying to merely staunch the flow of runs.
We had multiple challenges to overcome. The second new ball was due,
and there stood McGrath and Gillespie, chomping at the bit, determined to make
the most of the hard, shiny cherry. While there wasn’t much swing on offer, both
men were masterly at bowling in the corridor, asking questions repeatedly and
ready to pounce on the first indiscretion. My plan against the two was simple—
just play in the ‘V’ (the arc between mid-on and mid-off), play the drives, and
cut out horizontal strokes as much as possible. I was determined not to get
bogged down and go into my shell, because especially to the Aussies, that was a
sign of weakness. I knew pretty much what to expect from McGrath and
Gillespie, and I had come prepared. I knew there would also be the odd bumper,
and I was armed with the pull. The trueness of the bounce meant I could play the
stroke without too much risk; as a game plan, it was sound and backed by logic.
The actual challenge lay in the execution, and I was fortunate that my mind and
body were in such good sync that it was possible to play exactly the way I had
visualised it.
After the McGrath–Gillespie new-ball test came the Kasprowicz–Warne
threat. Kaspers was a brilliant exponent of the reverse swing, and because he got
the ball to tail in so late, he was extremely dangerous. The scoring areas against
him were fairly restricted for me—from the right of mid-off to the left of mid-
wicket. It was almost as if the rest of the ground did not exist. There were drives
and whips to leg, but off a very straight bat. Kaspers needed careful watching
and very precise shot selection.
Warney, of course, was Warney, the master showman and the ultimate
practitioner of the difficult art of leg-spin. He loved the stage, he loved the
attention. And he loved it when he got the ball to drift. That meant he could get
the ball to shape in to the right-hander, and break it away wickedly on pitching.
If you played across the line, you were leaving yourself open to being
embarrassed—a leading edge, bowled behind your pads, bowled around your
legs. . .
Since I was in such great touch from the domestic season, I decided to take
the fight to Warney. I had made up my mind to attack him even before the series
started, and I knew that I had to be extremely sure of my footwork. Whenever he
tossed the ball up and got it to drift, I was down the track in a flash, either
driving against the spin, wide of mid-on, or with the turn through the off-side.
Occasionally, to deliveries of the same length, I would go deep into the crease
and play the pull shot. The idea was to throw Warney off his rhythm and not
allow him to settle down. It worked beautifully; the more he bowled, the less bite
there was. The revs on the ball became less and less pronounced. His tiring
shoulder meant the ball was coming that much slower through the air. It was that
battle against Warney that was the highlight of the innings for me. Not at that
time, no, because there simply was no scope to think along these lines. But when
I look back on that innings, on that day, it is that face-off that stands out.
Adam Gilchrist hardly spoke to batsmen from behind the stumps, but I
clearly remember him clapping for a couple of my shots. ‘Oh, it’s almost like the
Don is batting,’ he said more than once. Had I not been so focussed, I might have
figured out if he meant it genuinely or was trying to get under my skin, but
knowing Gilly, I am sure it must have been the former. One shot I remember
with particular fondness: going down the track to Warney bowling from round
the stumps into the rough well outside the leg stump, and hitting him inside-out
along the ground through cover.
As we went into the dressing room during lunch, there were the regulation
pats on the back, a scrub-down, a shower—I have the not unfounded reputation
of hitting the shower at every possible opportunity—but nothing else. It was as if
a spell had been cast, and everyone was fearful of breaking its magical,
mysterious and intangible hold. It wasn’t as if the guys were walking on
eggshells, but conversation wasn’t loud or animated. Rahul and I, of course,
weren’t fussed about all this. Our focus was on going out there and batting on.
And on. And on.
And we did. Lunch to tea was a blur. By then, Australia were tiring, and so
were we, but ours was the kind of nice tiredness you look forward to. It’s the
phase when there is a pleasurable pain coursing through your body. I have heard
people talk about being in the zone. It applies not only to sportspeople but also to
all professionals, no matter their field. You are almost enveloped by this
otherworldly feeling, floating outside of yourself even as you are going about
your business. It is that rare, dream-like phase when, as a batsman, the ball goes
where you want it to go—an obedient little red orb happy to do your bidding.
We should have been knackered because it was so hot and humid. Add to
that the packed stands, the length of our partnership, the mental toll that the early
part of that association had taken on us, and we ought to have been on our last
legs. But looking at how much more hard-worn the Australians were, both
physically and psychologically, we kept egging each other on. And, believe it or
not, I was feeling fresh as a daisy. I don’t sweat much in any case, and my back
was behaving itself, thank you very much. Throughout the length of my innings,
I only used three shirts—one each on the third evening, the fourth day and the
fifth morning. Just the one pair of batting trousers, a size larger than necessary
but essential because the thigh-pad goes in and you don’t want to be constricted.
Plus, exactly two pairs of gloves during those ten and a half hours at the crease. I
told you, I don’t really sweat that much.
As we went in to tea, we would have been singing and dancing were we
that way inclined. Rahul had gone past his century, and his animated celebrations
showed just how much it meant to him, both from a personal and a team point of
view. Rahul is one of the most composed individuals I have come across in any
walk of life, seldom given to shows of emotion. But as he on-drove Warne to get
to his century, he whipped his helmet off, angrily punched the air and pointed his
bat in the direction of the commentators’ box. I had never seen that side of Rahul
before, in several years of playing cricket together. He told me later that there
had been a lot of pent-up emotion that had needed release after a demanding
battle. I knew that was only half the story, but it’s one for Rahul to elaborate on,
not me.
Even as Rahul was serenely making his way to his hundred, I breezed past
my first Test double. It was a heady feeling, especially given the circumstances.
As we entered the dressing room during tea break, with our lead now well past
200, we immediately sensed that the atmosphere had changed dramatically.
There were no nervous giggles, no tense faces. Instead, there was a tremendous
sense of optimism and a genuine belief that we were onto something special. I
had my mandatory shower, which temporarily freshened me up, and when we
returned to the field after 20 minutes, the onus had shifted from survival to
remaining unconquered at the stumps.
Rahul had also come into the game somewhat undercooked, like me, with
no practice for the two days leading into the Test because of a viral fever. As we
went deep into the final session, his fatigue began to become more and more
pronounced. Our running between the wickets suffered somewhat—some would
say it was never a thing of beauty to start with—but we still scored enough
boundaries. Shortly after tea, I went past Sunil Gavaskar sir’s Indian record for
the highest individual score in a Test match—236 not out—and I really didn’t
know how to react. I knew I had passed that milestone because the message was
flashed loud and clear on the giant screen at the ground and the crowd reacted
like only the Eden crowd can, but how was I to celebrate getting past a legend?
In the end, I settled for a wave of the bat and a somewhat embarrassed smile. As
if anybody could get past Sunny bhai.
As the runs mounted, the Aussies brought their part-timers on. In
hindsight, that is the phase when we should have cashed in, when I should have
kicked on. But being the traditionalists that we are, we batted for stumps, we
batted to come out the next morning, and I think that probably cost me my triple
hundred. I am not saying this with any bitterness or disappointment. But it was a
trick we missed out on, something I realise all these years later but failed to spot
then. That apart, we had scored with heavy punches, not just on the scoreboard,
but also on the mental landscape. For the first time, the Aussies showed signs of
cracking. We stored those notes away, aware that the guys in the dressing room
were equally clued in.
Stumps couldn’t come quickly enough, for Rahul or me, and for the
Australians. We sauntered back to a standing ovation from the Eden faithful and
from our dressing room, now buoyant and walking on air. There were no heavy
thuds on the back because you could have knocked both of us over with a
feather. We just stumbled into the changing room, managed to get our gear off
with great difficulty, and immediately hit the treatment table. All day long, we
had worn ice-cold hand-towels around our necks in an effort to beat the heat; by
the time stumps were called, we were bushed beyond imagination. But it was all
worth it; the scoreboard read: India 589/4, Laxman 275*, Dravid 155*.
At the best of times, Rahul finds rehydration a challenge and that evening
he had to be hooked up to a drip. I received a rigorous massage to get the
circulation going in my legs and dragged myself around till I hit the bed. It’s
probably my imagination, but I went to bed with a smile on my face that night.
After all, we were 315 runs to the good. Maybe, just maybe. . .
When play resumed on the final morning, the idea was to bat for an hour
and then stick Australia back in. We were wary of the might of the Aussie
batting, the surface was still a pretty decent one, and we didn’t want all our hard
work and fightback to go in vain by setting Australia a target too soon, only to
watch them run away with the game.
One hour meant enough time for me to get to my 300, but fate had
something else in store. Australia started to bowl wide outside the off stump,
clearly intent on denying us runs and stalling the progress of the scoreboard as
much as possible. Rahul got a few off the middle of the bat early on, and I was
also looking to get on with it. It never occurred to me to play it safe and get to
where no Indian had gotten before—a Test triple century. Do I regret reaching
for the ball well outside off stump from McGrath and spooning it to point?
Should I have batted out that one hour at my disposal and ticked off the 25
needed to get to the Promised Land? No, and no. I have never played my cricket
that way. We had a specific goal—to get as many as possible in that one hour.
The individual milestone would have been terrific, but if I were to get the chance
to replay that day, I would do exactly the same.
I walked off the park immensely satisfied. I hadn’t missed out on 300 by
19 runs; I had made 281, in a crisis, with our backs to the wall, and put the team
in a position from where we could expect to pull off a win against all odds. Isn’t
that what you play the game for?
By the time Sourav called the boys in, we had made 657 for 7. The Eden
crowd had acquired a life of its own, its energy sensationally infectious, a
wonderfully energising force. Sixty-eight had been added to the overnight tally,
and Australia needed 384 to seal the series. We had 75 overs to get ten wickets
and conclude a famous win. Where were we headed?

Like they always do, Australia came out full of beans and positivity. Hayden and
Michael Slater saw off the new ball, and then settled down against Harbhajan,
who had taken India’s first Test hat-trick in the first innings and was shouldering
the responsibility extraordinarily well for one so young, in Anil’s absence. Bhajji
picked up Slater, finally, after a stand of 74, but then Justin Langer came in and
really scared us. He breezed to 28 off just 21 deliveries, temporarily rocking us
and forcing Sourav to go on the defensive a little. Did we play it wrong? Had we
given Australia the opening they were so exceptional at exploiting?
But Langer’s high-risk approach was always one ball away from disaster
and Bhajji—who else—produced that delivery for Ramesh to hold on to the
catch. One wicket led to two as Venkatapathi Raju, my Hyderabad mate,
produced a wonderful arm-ball that pinged Mark Waugh in front for a ten-ball
blob. We now dared to hope. Australia needed 268, we needed 7 wickets in a
little under 45 overs. The scales had tilted our way, but there was still plenty to
do.
Hayden had been a thorn in our side all through the series. He had
followed up a century in Mumbai with 97 in the first innings in Kolkata, and
appeared set to atone for missing out on his hundred as he linked up with Steve
Waugh. Hayden had come to India ahead of the tour to work on his game against
spin, and had mastered the sweep shot, which he employed to great effect. He
wasn’t the only obstacle in our march towards victory, but we knew that it would
be a massive boost for us and a huge blow for Australia if we could get rid of
him.
Hayden and Steve batted on till tea, but as we entered our sanctuary, we
felt we were onto something good. All of us had played enough to know how
quickly things can change in the subcontinent, especially on the final day. We
kept the faith, we remained positive, we could sense the energy and excitement
in each other. But we were also mindful that we needed to hold our nerve and
our catches, that we couldn’t get ahead of ourselves.
It took Bhajji just 14 deliveries after tea to break through—Steve brilliantly
caught at leg slip by Hemang, the substitute. By this time in the series, Ricky
Ponting was a walking wicket as far as Bhajji was concerned. He lasted just four
deliveries, out without scoring, and we could spot the light—not as distant as it
had been at tea.
But Hayden was still around, with an equally destructive Gilchrist for
company. We had felt their fury in Mumbai, and while we weren’t apprehensive,
we weren’t taking anything for granted. Maybe we should have. After all, Sachin
had the ball in his hand.
Sachin whirled away, a wicked grin on his face, a sparkle in his eyes. I
must confess that I have enjoyed watching him bowl as much as I have loved
seeing him take bowling attacks apart. He responded with unbridled joy when
the captain threw him the ball, usually when things weren’t going our way.
Invariably, he delivered, and he celebrated with such gusto that it instantly
transported you to the time when you played the game the way it should be
played—for sheer enjoyment.
Sachin’s three-wicket burst on the final afternoon broke the back of the
Australian middle order and was one of several highlights of an action-packed,
emotion-soaked day.
If Sachin had paid more attention to his bowling, he could have turned out
to be a world-class leg-spinner. World-class any bowler, for that matter. He could
get the ball to swing, to seam. He could bowl excellent off-breaks, and his
command over leg-spin and the googly was mesmeric. That evening, he decided
that the Eden gathering deserved a veritable exhibition of wrist-spin, so he
turned on the magic like only he could.
Three balls after Ponting’s dismissal went Gilly, trapped in front by Sachin
on the sweep with a ripping leg-break. Next over, Hayden fell in a similar
fashion. As umpire SK Bansal’s finger shot upwards, the Eden crowd erupted.
Only the formalities remained. Their joy knew no bounds when Sachin outfoxed
Warne in his next over, with a superb googly that the Sheikh of Tweak barely
saw, let alone read. Pinged in front, Warney walked back sheepishly; it wasn’t
just Sachin the batsman who gave him nightmares.
We couldn’t wait for the end, for the scramble for souvenirs, for the
comfort of the dressing room and each other’s arms, for the celebration of relief
and delight. Bhajji fittingly finished things off with his 13th wicket of the game
and we all sought each other out, embracing and back-slapping. There was the
odd tear or two, but most of us were beside ourselves with joy. We knew we had
been a part of history. That we had made history. But at that point, we weren’t
really aware of what this win would do to Indian cricket, to the psyche of the
Indian player.
Many people came up to congratulate me, but it is all a blur. Sourav was
speechless, for once. He just hugged me tight; there was no need for words,
really. John was a little more vocal. ‘I always knew that you had the potential. I
am glad you showed this to the world,’ he said.
Champagne flowed in the dressing room, but we had to rush off to the
hotel almost immediately. For some reason, we had a flight to catch to Chennai
that night even though the next Test was a few days away and the Aussies
weren’t leaving Kolkata until the following morning. We cut a cake at the hotel,
quickly packed our bags and left for the airport, drained but elated, refusing to
stop smiling. As we entered the aircraft, the other passengers stood up and
clapped so hard and so long that the cheers still reverberate in my ears. Life was
good.

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 2
Eden Gardens: The Theatre of My Dreams

In every cricketer’s career is an opposition or a venue that brings the best out of
them; you relish playing that opponent, you enjoy batting at that ground. In my
case, the opponent was Australia, and the venue was Eden Gardens. When
Australia and Eden came together in March 2001, it was a double whammy.
Though it is the 281 that is remembered most fondly and widely, I have always
loved the experience of batting at the iconic ground in Kolkata, egged on by the
energy and vibrancy of the most die-hard and passionate supporters I have come
across anywhere in the world.
Kolkata is very dear to me. Here, an aura of sheer happiness seems to
surround most people. While most of us constantly look over our shoulders or
are so caught up in the race to be the best that we often don’t take notice of the
smaller things, the simple pleasure that the average Kolkatan derives from the
most ordinary activities is something that I never stop marvelling at.
I travelled there a fair bit when I was an active cricketer, but post
retirement, my visits to Kolkata have become even more frequent, be it as a
television commentator or as a batting consultant to the Cricket Association of
Bengal.
Even before that 281, I had fallen in love with Kolkata, and with Eden. I
looked forward to being enveloped in a simultaneously uncomfortable yet
vaguely comforting cocoon of heat and humidity when I stepped out of the
airport terminal. When I travelled with the Indian team, I was astonished by the
sea of people gathered at the airport to merely catch a glimpse of their favourite
stars. This was perhaps the case at most Indian airports during that time, but
Kolkata was somehow first among equals, a special city that had a unique place
in our hearts.
 My first tryst with Eden, in the summer of 1994, was a memorable
experience, even though I didn’t actually get to play a single ball. The India
Under-19 team was competing for the P Sen Trophy. Bright-eyed at the
opportunity to play at a venue that had hosted several memorable matches, I
arrived at the ground, my excitement at fever pitch. My jaw dropped as I stepped
on to the park—I had never been in a ground as big as this. The stands, deserted
as they were, overhung the playing area, intimidating and invigorating at the
same time. I could almost hear the chants and screams of the non-existent fans. It
was an experience of a lifetime, and the goosebumps resurface every time I think
about it.
Live television had transported me to iconic venues across the world, but
none fascinated me more than Eden. I had watched the final of the 1987 World
Cup spellbound, disappointed that India had fallen at the penultimate hurdle, but
delighted that Allan Border’s Australia beat England in the title clash. I had seen
Mohammad Azharuddin, his captaincy on the line, play an astonishing knock
against England in January 1993, in the first Test of a three-match series. Prior to
that match, Azzu bhai had practised rigorously at the Gymkhana Grounds in
Secunderabad, and I had considered it my privilege to bowl to him in the nets.
He was probably the first childhood hero I saw in the flesh. To watch him rip
England to shreds, his 182 a magnificent compilation of the most exquisite shots,
was nearly a personal success for me.
Later that year, Sachin bowled that remarkable final over against South
Africa in the semi-final of the Hero Cup. South Africa required just 6 runs for
victory at 190 for 8 when Sachin almost snatched the ball from Azzu bhai’s
hand, even though any of the fast bowlers—Kapil Dev, Manoj Prabhakar,
Javagal Srinath or Salil Ankola—could have bowled. He conceded only three
runs and facilitated the team’s entry to the final, where, with Anil Kumble taking
6 for 12, India crushed West Indies by 102 runs.
All these memories came flooding back as I stood transfixed on the
hallowed Eden outfield, that summer of ’94, not even daring to think of what it
would be like if I walked out to the middle in a Test match, with the crowds
going ‘VVS, VVS’. My heart was thudding so rapidly and loudly that I feared
the worst. I had fallen half in love with Eden merely watching matches on
television. Now, I was well and truly gone, and I hadn’t even picked up the bat
yet!
There was to be no game, though. Wet weather ruined my ambitions of an
Eden debut as a teenager, but I knew I would be back. Rather, I hoped I would.
To stride out to the middle, to ask for my guard, to survey the field, to lap up the
electricity and, hopefully, to have ‘VVS, VVS’ ringing in my ears. I had a
dream. . .
I returned to Eden that same year. I had just turned 20 and was playing for
South Zone in the Duleep Trophy against Central Zone. It was November 1994,
and Test cricket wasn’t on the immediate horizon for me. But the Duleep Trophy
call-up was an indicator that I was progressing along the right path. How quickly
I could thrust myself to the forefront depended almost entirely on my
performances.
The previous game, against East Zone in Jamshedpur, hadn’t been an
overwhelming success for me. I had only made 23 and 14 not out, so the Eden
game was a huge one. However, on my Eden debut, batting for a star-studded
South Zone at an unfamiliar No. 5, I made just one before being dismissed by
left-arm spinner Manish Dosi. I was gutted. What had happened to my dream?
What I did get to see was a dream innings from WV Raman, the South
Zone skipper who came in after me, at No. 6. WV and I crossed each other, he
on the way to the middle, I to lick my wounds in the pavilion. For the next five
hours, he put on a veritable exhibition, fusing left-handed elegance with a
typically laidback, almost lazy grace, putting the Central Zone bowling in its
place. My disappointment and dejection disappeared. That innings brought my
focus back, it made me more determined to pursue my passion and not let
failures bog me down.
I have a rather strange record at Eden. I didn’t make even a single first-
class half-century in three matches and five innings, but my Test numbers there
are second to none—1,217 runs in 10 Tests, an average of 110.63, one double
hundred, four hundreds and three half-centuries in 15 innings. Safe to say that
Eden is one of my favourite venues!

I have been asked many times to explain why Eden brought the best out of me.
The answer has always been: ‘I don’t know’. I really don’t. I have thought about
it, and thought about it some more, in the years since I hung up my boots, but
there is no single, tangible reason that I can think of.
Quite obviously, the more I played at Eden, the more comfortable and at
home I felt there. But Eden isn’t the only ground that evoked the ‘comfort zone’
feeling in me. I felt totally at ease at M Chinnaswamy Stadium in Bangalore, for
instance, as well as at the PCA Stadium in Mohali. Outside India, as I walked
into the Sydney Cricket Ground (SCG) or the Gabba in Brisbane, I felt like I
truly belonged. And I did court success in these grounds, but Eden remains
unparalleled.
Nearly three years before that 281 came my first substantial knock in the
City of Joy, also against the Aussies. Within five months of my national debut, I
had been kicked up the order to open the batting, in the Caribbean in March
1997. I was too young, too raw and too eager to question the move; I was just
happy to be playing Test cricket for India, and I was grateful to be considered
good enough to be in the playing eleven, even if it meant having to open the
innings, something I had not done in any grade of cricket until then.
Two half-centuries in four Tests in the Caribbean seemed to suggest that
the move to promote me was a masterstroke, and I followed that with 95 against
Australia, at Eden, in March 1998. Navjot Singh Sidhu was my opening partner,
and we added 191 at a remarkable clip. He was the established star, I was the
young kid trying to work his way up the ladder. For nearly four hours, I
negotiated Michael Kasprowicz and Shane Warne and Gavin Robertson, the off-
spinner, but with a maiden century for the taking, I was caught behind off
Robertson, a bitter blow given how desperate I had been to get to a three-figure
score.
Thereafter, when in Eden, I had this feeling of returning to my cricketing
home every time I hauled my gear to the changing room, or hit the nets to the
right of the pavilion, inside the playing arena. There was a feeling of comfort,
the body loose, the mind relaxed, the heart joyous. Cricket is of course a game of
bat and ball, with skills paramount, but it is also a game that is played between
the ears. The more relaxed and focused you are, the better are your chances of
succeeding.
There is a very thin line between being focused and being obsessed. The
former entails attention to detail during preparation, reading the pitch and the
opposition bowling, being ready for any eventuality, and feeling confident that
you have done everything within your means to give yourself the best shot at
scoring runs. The latter is all-consuming and takes your mind away from the
larger picture, from the process, as it were. If all you are thinking about is the
outcome, the processes get skewed. That’s a lesson I learnt very early—in life,
even earlier than in cricket—and it was a lesson that was to serve me well as my
career gathered steam.
At Eden in those days, the pitch was brilliant to bat on for the first four
days of a Test, at the very least. There was good carry, which was great for a
batsman like me who loved the ball coming on to the bat. I wasn’t so much a
power batsman as a touch player, relying on timing and placement rather than
bludgeoning the cricket ball. The faster the ball came on to the bat, the more
comfortable I felt, because it meant I didn’t need to generate pace on my own.
The bounce in Eden was true and you could trust it. As I had grown up on
matting pitches in Hyderabad, I was fairly competent at rocking back and pulling
the cricket ball, and the bounce at Eden allowed me to pull without fear. The
outfield was lightning quick, so the moment you got the ball past the infield,
there was value for your shots.
And then, there was the crowd.
Indian crowds tend to be the noisiest, the most boisterous, the most
passionate, and I say this with due respect to the cricket-mad fans in Bangladesh
and the papare-driven spectators in Sri Lanka. Not for us the polite applause and
the let’s-get-back-to-our-beers. We love to express ourselves, aloud and without
inhibition, and we let the whole world know what we are made of and who we
are supporting.
Opposition teams have spoken repeatedly of silencing the Indian crowds,
thereby seeking to take the unofficial but hugely influential 12th man out of the
equation. I can see where they are coming from. The energy and the intensity
that emanates from the crowd generally has a two-fold effect. When you are a
little down, especially on the field during the course of a frustrating partnership,
the crowd can dramatically lift you with its incessant chants and messages of
encouragement that are never too far away. And when you are on top, the same
fans bury the opposition in a cacophony of bugles and whistles and screams and
roars. There is a symmetry to their expressions of joy and approbation that is
truly staggering. About 75–80,000 people, most of them strangers to each other,
work together in such great harmony that it seems like a well-rehearsed act. But
that outpouring of delight is nothing if not spontaneous. The Mexican Wave, the
banners and signboards, the screaming and shouting, the painted faces, the
snazzy headwear—if there are grounds with more colourful fans than in India,
well, I’ve never been to them.
It is quite easy, however, to get carried away by all the hype and adulation.
When you walk out to incessant, unmissable chants of your name bursting forth
from every corner of the packed ground, you can’t but feel a million feet tall.
The adrenaline surge you feel as you brace for battle amplifies when the crowd
goes bananas. It becomes imperative then, to find that happy space within your
head where you derive inspiration from the encouragement of the fans, but don’t
start to believe that you are invincible. It is not an easy balance to strike, believe
me. And that is where Sachin stood head and shoulders above the rest. From his
first Test to his 200th, he was greeted with euphoria, treated like royalty, made to
feel as special as he obviously was. And yet, he never allowed that to get to him.
Among the many things I admired and envied about him was his single-
mindedness of purpose, his unwavering concentration, his ability to shut out
everything but the immediate task at hand. It’s no accident that he stacked up the
numbers he did.
It took me a while to get used to the adulation. Early in my career, I was
guilty more than once of playing to the gallery—not showmanship as such, but
trying to please the crowd, trying to give them what I thought they had come to
see. That worked to my disadvantage but, more importantly, to the detriment of
the team. It took me some time to understand that while it was laudable to want
to entertain the crowd, my primary responsibility was to my team. That while a
pretty 30 might excite the fans and trigger a wave of instant euphoria, it was of
little use to my country when the need of the hour was a sedate 70, or mere
occupation of the crease without worrying about the scoreboard.
I never tried to shut the crowd out; it is impossible to, when thousands are
constantly in your ear, even if from 100 metres away. In trying to insulate
yourself from the crowd, you expend energy that could be used gainfully
elsewhere. And, in any case, the Indian crowd was my ally, my friend, my
driving force, so why would I want to shut it out? The trick lay in feeding off
their energy rather than trying to feed their energy by doing something rash and
uncharacteristic. Different players react differently in such situations. Some
thrive when there is a rush of emotion, others develop cold feet and freeze. I
gradually came to terms with the Eden electricity. Through experience and a
temperament that allowed me to treat success and failure with equanimity, I
figured out what worked for me and what didn’t.

The spin-off of that 281 was that every time I played at Eden after that,
especially in a Test match, I was expected to score runs. I too had that
expectation, though it wasn’t always fulfilled. But to have the Eden crowd firmly
behind me, in my corner, rooting for me and willing me to do well, is something
I will cherish for ever and ever. ‘Lokhon da, tumi raaan korbe (Laxman da, you
will score runs),’ used to be a constant from the time I got off the plane in
Kolkata. Unaccustomed to the fanfare and to being in the limelight, I took my
time getting used to it. I realised just how much they wanted me to do well—
from our bus driver to the room-service waiter, from the hotel receptionists to the
ever-smiling masseur in the dressing room. I felt elated, fortunate and blessed.
When so many people are genuinely hoping and wishing and praying for your
success, how can you not walk the extra mile to keep those smiles on their faces?
How can you let them down for want of effort and commitment? These people
taught me another invaluable life-lesson—enjoy your friends’ happiness, your
teammates’ success, as if it’s your own.
And so, every time I alighted from the bus outside the Cricket Association
of Bengal premises and found hordes of people clapping and cheering and
craning their necks to catch just a momentary glimpse of us lost in our own
world of sunglasses and earphones, I offered a silent prayer to the Almighty for
having put us in this extraordinary position of enjoying the goodwill of so many.
I offered an equally silent thanks to all those people, each of them a hero in their
own right, each one sacrificing so much to back and support us. I felt that, as a
team, we owed them success. Happiness. Smiles. Joy. And it was a feeling that
was shared in the dressing room. We might sometimes have come across as
unapproachable and unyielding, but we were never unappreciative or ungrateful.
The Eden dressing room was a little sanctuary in my spiritual cricketing
home. Every time I stepped inside it, I thought of the stalwarts who once
occupied it, of their stirring deeds that the audiences had lapped up with
unalloyed glee. I felt a surge of pride when I reflected on the exploits of our
illustrious predecessors, and I felt privileged to step into the same rarefied space
that the cricketing legends of an era gone by had occupied. Hyderabadi greats
like Mohammad Azharuddin and, before him, ML Jaisimha, had played fantastic
knocks at Eden. Jaisimha sir batted on all five days of the 1960 Test against
Australia, and made 129 against England in the 1964 game, his highest Test
score. Azzu bhai began his Test career at the same ground with a hundred on his
debut, against England in 1984, and scored five centuries in his seven Tests
there. I could scarcely believe that I was occupying the same space they had in
the past.
Before the dressing room was pulled down and redesigned ahead of the
2011 World Cup, most of us had our designated seats there. It wasn’t as if the
chair had ‘VVS Laxman’ written on it, but there was an understanding that I
would occupy that space. Just as Sachin would take the seat next to me. That
was our comfort zone, where we could gather our thoughts, go through our
routines, put on the box, strap the left pad on first and then the right, dig into the
coffin (as we call our kitbags) for gloves, thigh-pads, arm-guards and helmet.
The entire process was cathartic. It was a deliberate distraction from what was to
follow, designed to stop the mind from overanalysing and going into shutdown
mode. It helped me immensely, at various places, but most tangibly at Eden.
To call Eden Gardens my theatre of dreams is an understatement. It
provided the canvas for the pictures I wanted to paint, for the dreams I wanted to
realise. Dreams that had taken shape a long, long time ago, when the cricket bug
bit me and several others of my generation.
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3
The Early Years

Excitement had been building throughout the day. The kids in our complex
gathered at the ground, around which the three blocks of Nandanam Apartments
in Abids, the first gated community in Hyderabad, had been constructed. It was
25 June, 1983—a day that would have a massive impact on our lives.
As kids of that age were wont to do—I was eight and a half, and most of
the others were about the same, give or take a year or so—we discussed the pros
and cons of what lay ahead. Sagely, we all agreed that West Indies were the
stronger team, but we weren’t losing faith in our heroes. ‘We will do it,’ we
insisted, with a little trepidation but also optimism.
After India were bowled out for 183, we met at the ground again,
confidence slightly deflated, dreams somewhat dimmed. Greenidge and Haynes,
Richards and Gomes, Lloyd and Bacchus and Dujon. Surely, it was game over?
Our idols had given it their all, but maybe it wouldn’t be enough against the
might of the two-time defending champions.
Live television had just invaded our homes, and when Balwinder Sandhu
sent Greenidge back with a peach, I went nuts. Instinctively, I raced to the
balcony of our house. Almost magically, my friends appeared in their respective
balconies, buzzing, all of us talking at the same time. It wasn’t pre-planned. We
talked for a few seconds about the dismissal, and then rushed back to our living
rooms to watch the match.
As Kapil Dev took a stunning catch, running backwards from mid-wicket
to dismiss Viv Richards, who was threatening to take the trophy away from
India, we went berserk. When another wicket fell, we ran to our balconies again
and enacted the same routine. We did that over and over again as that Sunday
evening gave way to a memorable night. By the time Mohinder Amarnath
trapped Michael Holding in front, we were delirious. It wasn’t just Kapil Dev
and his intrepid warriors lifting the World Cup on the Lord’s balcony; I felt as if
I was there with them, snaking a tiny hand out to touch the trophy.
I had already been consumed by the cricket fever, but it was when I
watched our team lift the cup and bring so much joy to so many, that I fell
completely in love with it. I dreamt, like many of us have done and still do, of
winning matches for India, of being a Kapil Dev or a Sunil Gavaskar. I had no
idea where all this would take me. All I wanted to do was play cricket, and then
play some more.

While both my parents—nana Shantaram and amma Satyabhama—were doctors,

my family had a strong connection to sports. My father had played for Osmania
Medical College as an opening batsman and leg-spinner, while my maternal
grandfather, Shri R Ramananda Rao, a leading management consultant, was a
sports buff. From an early age, he tuned in to Radio Australia and the BBC to
listen to Test match commentary. He also followed all major sporting action
passionately via newspapers and the radio in an age when television was still
unknown. He was a competent tennis player too, and went on to become the
vice-president of the Andhra Pradesh Sports Council, and later, chairman of the
Sports Authority of Andhra Pradesh.
But as was the norm those days in middle-class families, there was a
distinct slant towards academics. Our parents impressed upon my brother
Ramakrishna (older to me by two years) and me the need to be good at our
studies, to have a firm grounding from which to aspire for bigger things. They
didn’t do so through words, but through their actions, which I understand now to
be the most effective means of communication. Neither of them was particularly
against sports, so long as it wasn’t at the expense of education. That was the first
giant slice of good fortune that came my way.
Baba Krishna Mohan, my maternal uncle, used to play in the Hyderabad
Cricket Association (HCA) league when I was a toddler. Baba uncle would have
a huge influence over my career and become the well-intentioned mentor and
guide I needed at that stage. Whenever my parents took me to Marredpally to my
grandparents’ house—Shyam Vihar—over the weekends, Baba uncle would
either be shadow-practising, knocking the tennis ball to the wall or batting
against a hanging ball. I have absolutely no memory of this, of course, but I have
been told that I used to crawl to the door and watch him go through his routine
with a smile on my drooling face. As I left my crawling days behind, I dragged
my plastic bat, an inseparable companion, behind me. This, too, I don’t
remember.
My earliest cricketing memories are from when I was around five. All the
kids my age at Nandanam took their little bats and tennis balls to the ground and
started thrashing the ball around. It was nothing remarkable or out of the
ordinary. In Hyderabad, as in most parts of the country, cricket was the number
one sport even then, and scenes of children of various ages and sizes swarming
the grounds were hardly a rarity.
Probably because I was one of the younger and smaller kids, people in our
society went out of their way to pamper me. On the third floor of our B block, in
flat 301, lived Mrs Khan, Pakistani cricketer Asif Iqbal’s cousin. When the
Pakistan team visited Hyderabad to play against South Zone in January 1980,
several of the players came over to the Khans’ place one night for dinner. Among
them, apart from Asif Iqbal himself, were Javed Miandad and Zaheer Abbas. I
was fast asleep when my mother roused me and took me upstairs. Mrs Khan
sweetly told the Pakistan players about my cricketing exploits in the building,
and made me take their autographs. I was half-asleep and didn’t recognise a lot
of the players, but I was thrilled to meet international cricketers.
By the time I reached the fourth standard, we were playing cricket with
tennis balls and cork balls inside our compound, this block against that. Now,
those games I remember vividly—competitive, hard fought, but without rancour
or bad blood. In our battles, I would alternate between being Sunil Gavaskar and
Kapil Dev—I also used to bowl medium pace at that time. The Khans had
named me Little Gavaskar because they thought my technique to be solid. The
name caught on once my friends began to find it difficult to get me out. I am not
sure what Sunny bhai would make of this, but as a little boy, I got a massive kick
out of being spoken of in the same breath as one of my heroes.
My school, Little Flower, was no more than five minutes from home. At
the end of classes each day, I would watch the school team practise for a while
before retreating to my world of cricket matches and homework at Nandanam. I
had been a regular spectator at school practice for a week or so when
Mr Jayaprakash, our physical education instructor, came up to me and said,
‘Why are you just sitting outside and watching them practise? Go ahead and join
them.’ I was a little apprehensive, but also thrilled.
Drill sir, as we used to call Mr Jayaprakash, made me take a few catches,
and seemed reasonably impressed with my technique. I don’t know how but,
apparently, I didn’t just catch the ball. I caught it in the manner in which the
books recommended. And I hadn’t seen any of those books.
 At Little Flower, the practice ground was a tarred surface, with a cement
pitch sitting proudly in the middle. For the first month, apart from taking
catches, my job was to get the poles and nets from Drill sir’s room before every
practice session and erect them around the pitch. I’d dismantle them at the end of
the evening and take them back to his room. I was one of four or five boys
entrusted with that responsibility. In hindsight, that was my first exposure to, and
lesson in, cricketing team work.
The month rolled along. Between classes, pitching the poles and nets,
taking catches, going back home for ‘friendlies’ at Nandanam, and then getting
homework out of the way, I had my hands full. But I enjoyed every second of it.
I was getting to do what I wanted; I did like to study, and I loved cricket. What
more could a kid that age ask for?

My batchmate Karthik and I were the only fourth-standard students at school

practice, and once we dismantled the nets, we threw down balls at each other for
a few minutes of batting practice. We had just entered month two with the senior
school team’s training sessions when Drill sir asked me to pad up and bat. I felt a
little tingle of anticipation as I awkwardly made my way to the batting crease.
Up against me were older and stronger boys, and they were going to attack me
with a cricket ball that I hadn’t ever played against. But I had no fear. I played
confidently, getting behind the ball with ease to defend, though I was too thin to
strike it with any force. Drill sir liked what he saw and pencilled me in for the
Under-11 school team. Karthik too was picked and we were on top of the world.
From the sixth standard onwards, I travelled with the school team to play
matches in the city, winning a few, losing a few. I didn’t immediately find a
place in the playing eleven, but I distinctly remember carrying the kit to the bus
stop on our trips to other schools. Every Saturday, after school hours, we would
walk as a team from Little Flower to All Saints School, which boasted a strong
cricket team. We enjoyed the one-kilometre walk, chatting non-stop and often
over each other. A fantastic camaraderie bound us together, both off and on the
field.
But Little Flower was a school that didn’t compromise on education. Our
Unit Tests generally fell on Saturdays, and if we had a match that day, even if it
was the final of a competition, we had to forfeit it. ‘No cricket at the expense of
tests, not a chance’, was the message that was driven into us even at that young
age. I didn’t mind it all that much, not that I had much of a choice. I did enjoy
going to class and writing exams, and while we were a little disappointed,
especially when forced to miss a ‘big’ match, we knew that more matches were
in store for us.
The first time I played for Little Flower was when I was in the seventh
standard. I was delighted that Parth Satwalekar, my classmate since the first
standard, had broken into the eleven along with me. Our team practised together
for an hour and a half, and then Parth and I would troop across to his house,
which wasn’t that far from either my house or our school. Our families were
very close; Parth’s grandmother was the first gynaecologist in Hyderabad and
she delivered my father. Also, as in my case, his parents were doctors. We
gravitated towards each other, and while we went our different ways
professionally, we remain the best of friends. His parents had a huge house in
Abids, and all of us boys would assemble there and play cricket well into the
evening, under the yard lights. That was my first experience of floodlit cricket.

I am a firm believer in turning points. I was playing cricket, I was studying, I

was doing the usual things for a twelve-year-old, when I was exposed to
structured private coaching for the first time. Every Sunday, my mother, Ram
and I would visit my grandparents and spend the day with them. The front yard
at Shyam Vihar was laid with cement, facilitating our cricketing sessions. As my
cousins congregated for summer vacations, we would play tennis-ball cricket
throughout the day. My uncle would tell me later that it was during these
sessions that he fell in love with my strokeplay and my style and spotted
something special in me. He wanted me to receive formal coaching. Luckily for
me, adjacent to Shyam Vihar, the St John’s Cricket Coaching Camp had just
been set up, coinciding with my summer holidays at the end of the seventh
standard. My uncle enrolled me immediately, and took me to the camp on the
first day of its launch.
You need someone in your life, especially in your formative years, who
believes in you more than you do yourself. My uncle saw something in me that
few had seen at that stage, and he was sure I was cut out for bigger things. He
wasn’t trying to live his dreams through me, but he did believe that I wasn’t your
average schoolboy-cricketer. He did everything within his means to facilitate my
development as a batsman, as a cricketer, as a person.
Until I joined the St John’s camp, our summer holidays were spent playing
cricket at my grandparents’ house. I had attended camps at LB Stadium during
the summer vacations after the fourth and fifth standard exams, but all I had
done for a month was shadow practice. Mr Sriramulu, a kabaddi coach, taught us
cricket. But otherwise, the holidays were spent playing in our grandparents’ front
yard. My brother Ram was a fast bowler at heart even though he used to open
the batting for our apartment’s team; he was a huge fan of Imran Khan, Richard
Hadlee, Ian Botham and Kapil Dev. I was largely interested in batting. I did bowl
some medium pace, but if I could, I would bat the whole day.
My uncle was a left-arm medium-pacer who was then playing in the HCA
league. He was coached by AR Bhupathi, a leading coach in Hyderabad, whose
wards at that time included MV Narasimha Rao, P Jyothiprasad, V Manohar and
John Manoj. St John’s camp was started by Narasimha Rao (Bobji sir), who had
just led Hyderabad to the Ranji Trophy title. Bobji sir and his other Andhra Bank
colleagues, Jyothi sir, John sir and Manohar sir, were all established cricketers
with vast knowledge, wisdom, and a passion for honing young talent.
On my first day at camp, Bobji sir asked me to show him my grip. I was
nervous and ended up fumbling. My uncle was furious; he didn’t say a word, he
just bowled to me for more than two hours. It was a chastening experience.
At the camp, I was naturally paired with the juniors, and we practised in
the mornings. I shifted to my grandparents’ house to avoid the early-morning
commute, leaving the comfort of my own home for the first time, at the age of
12. Even though I was with family, I felt out of place, and in a week’s time, I
became homesick and started crying. I desperately wanted to go back home. My
uncle was not amused.
But within a couple of days of returning home, a feeling of emptiness took
hold of me. I knew what I was missing—the routine of waking up early, walking
across to the camp, listening to Bobji sir and the other coaches. I told my mother
that I wanted to go back to the camp, but my uncle wasn’t keen on having me
back, not after I had left in tears just a few days earlier.
My father managed to convince my uncle to take me back, and I
thoroughly enjoyed the rest of the summer. I practised in the mornings with the
juniors, and in the evenings I watched the senior boys practise, from my
grandparents’ balcony. Jyothi sir saw me standing on the balcony day after day
and finally asked me to join the senior practice session.
After bowling for long periods during the evening session, just as the camp
was winding down, he asked me to pad up and bat. And I did, confidently and
fearlessly, against older, quicker bowlers. From that day on, I practised with the
juniors in the morning and returned in the evening to rub shoulders with the
seniors. Once school resumed, I took a bus to the camp for the 3.30 p.m. practice
on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. But it was too demanding a schedule to
maintain, and was shelved after three months.
By then in the eighth standard, I registered with Marredpally Colts Cricket
Club, who featured in the D3 division of the HCA league. I didn’t get to play a
single match most of that first season. All I did was score the games. MP Colts
were a pretty good team and it was hard for me to break into the playing eleven.
But despite knowing that there was little chance of playing, I didn’t miss a single
game. I landed up on time every Sunday, to score and ferry drinks to the middle.
Randolph Sallins, who ran the club and was a likeable man, was so taken
with my commitment that he made place for me in the eleven in the last match of
the season. I responded with 52, and that made Uncle Randy happy. We earned a
promotion to the D1 division the following year, and by the time I was in the
tenth standard, we were playing in C1.
I had my fair share of success, even making 70-odd when I was down with
high fever (I had played on Uncle Randy’s insistence). But I was often run out
and worried about what my uncle would have to say about it. His expectations of
me far exceeded my own. He was very, very serious about my cricket—more
than my parents, more than even I was.

Outside of playing in the HCA league, the Under-13 and Under-15 school cricket
scene gave me a chance to make a name for myself. Parth and I had become
regulars in the school team from when we were in the seventh standard, with
Parth as captain and me as his deputy. When I was 13, I played for the
Hyderabad team in the South Zone Under-13 tournament for the Nutrine Trophy.
The tournament was in Vijayawada, and although my uncle would have loved to
come with me, he couldn’t. He was getting married in Tirupati the same day.
It wasn’t until the following morning that my uncle and parents came to
know that I had made 150 against Kerala. Deccan Chronicle had given the knock
good coverage, with ‘Laxman Slams 150’ in red type. My uncle told me that my
parents were as delighted as he was to see my name in the newspaper. I went on
to make 92 in the final against Tamil Nadu before being bowled by Hemang
Badani. Hyderabad lost the game, and it was the first time I realised that my
individual contribution had little meaning if it didn’t result in a win. But that
tournament introduced VVS Laxman to the cricket world, beyond my family and
my school. It was a huge moment in my cricketing journey.
Within the Hyderabad circles, All Saints loomed as our final frontier. Week
after week, we trooped across to play their very strong team in their backyard.
Sometimes we ran them close, but victory always proved a step too far until we
were in the tenth standard. By then, several of us had played together for a
couple of years and we had evolved into a fairly competitive outfit.
It was in a competition for schools under the Montfort Group of
Institutions that we finally put it past All Saints and went on to win the
tournament. It’s hard to say what gave us more satisfaction—lifting the trophy or
defeating All Saints for the first time.
The step up to Hyderabad Under-15 was a natural process, and I was then
picked to attend a South Zone Under-15 camp in Chennai. We stayed in the
dressing room of the MA Chidambaram Stadium in Chepauk during the 20-day
camp. The heat and the humidity were unbelievably high, and we were cooped
up in the dressing room with no air-conditioning and only a few scattered ceiling
fans. But I saw Robin Singh and met WV Raman for the first time.
Parth and I had joined St Mary’s Junior College to pursue the equivalent of
the 11th and 12th standards in Andhra Pradesh. I had done extremely well in my
10th standard exams—first in the state in science with 98 per cent, and 83 per
cent overall, pulled down only by my weakest subject, Telugu. All through
school, science had been my favourite subject, with math a close second. But
when it was time for junior college, my father suggested that I take up Civics–
Economics–Commerce. I am not sure if this was some sort of a test—my father
had two clinics and it was widely believed in his circles that Ram and I would
become doctors and take over one clinic each—and perhaps he was relieved
when I told him that I wanted to enrol for Biology–Physics–Chemistry because
my goal was to become a doctor. It seemed the most obvious thing to say at that
point.
In the first month of junior college, I started to prepare for EAMCET, the
engineering and medical entrance exam, which was still two years away. But
after that first month, the next time I went to college was to pick up the hall
ticket ahead of the exams. Cricket had taken over my life—I played in the
Hyderabad Under-16 team and finished as the second highest run-getter, behind
Mohiuddin Zaki. PR Man Singh, the HCA secretary and the manager when India
won the World Cup in 1983, fast-tracked Zaki and me to the Under-19 state
team, which meant a lot of state cricket and plenty of competition.
During the summer camp at the end of the first year of junior college, John
Manoj sir wanted me to play in the A1 Division, for a two-day competition for
East Marredpally Cricket Club, a fairly strong team. We were just about winding
up practice when Arshad Ayub walked into the nets. Arshad bhai had by then
played for India, and we had huge respect for him. He was on the lookout for a
batsman to play for his club, Ensconce CC. John sir told me to pad up and face
the bowlers, so I could catch Arshad bhai’s eye. Arshad bhai loved the way I
batted, and asked me to play for Ensconce.
Ensconce’s ‘home ground’ was the Indian Air Force ground in Balanagar
—it was beautiful, with plenty of trees surrounding the playing field. Playing
there, and for Ensconce, hastened my learning process. Arshad bhai was busy
with Hyderabad state team commitments, and Ashok bhai took over as captain.
As had been my routine in my early days with any team, the initial tasks
involved putting the mat in place and removing any puddles that might have
formed if it had rained. I didn’t realise it at that time, but all these ‘non-
cricketing’ activities helped build character and team spirit. My father told me
later that he used to make surprise visits to Balanagar and watch me from a
distance. He didn’t often see me bat, but he was very happy to see me
uncomplainingly and enthusiastically scooping water off the outfield whenever a
match was affected by rain.
When I did play, it was a great experience, standing at second slip, between
Arshad bhai at first slip and Abdul Azeem at third. Arshad bhai was an India
international, Azeem bhai had played for South Zone, and the knowledge they
possessed and passed on was just incredible. The more I look back, the greater is
my conviction that there was some powerful force that shaped my journey,
allowing me to run into and interact with people who were able to make a potent
impression on a young mind.
When it was time for the EAMCET exam, I was on the verge of playing for
the Hyderabad Ranji Trophy side, and had already caught the eye of the Indian
junior selectors. The exam, in 1992, clashed with the India Under-19 national
camp in Bangalore.
My father had lost his father when I was 10 years old, and it had changed
his outlook on life. My paternal grandfather, Shri Jagannath Shastry, was a
Bhagavad Gita teacher, a scholarly and erudite man who exuded divinity and
goodness. He was in hospital with a broken leg after a fall at home, and before
leaving his mortal coil, called my father over one night. He embraced him
tightly, almost going into a trance, and shouted ‘Vijayam, Vijayam, Vijayam’
followed by ‘Aham Brahmasmi, Aham Brahmasmi, Aham Brahmasmi’ before
peacefully breathing his last. This was to make a lasting impression on my
father, and he dedicated himself to the service of humanity from that moment on.
My grandfather had allowed his children to make their own choices. After
his death, my father’s attitude underwent a drastic change. When Ram said he
wanted to pursue a career in engineering, my father was more than happy to
allow him to do his thing. I wanted to play cricket, but I didn’t have the courage
to tell him that.
 My father was passionate about medicine—he worked late into the night
and woke up early in the morning to read journals to keep himself abreast of the
latest developments in the field. During his unannounced visits to my cricket
matches, he must have seen in me a similar passion for cricket, because while he
didn’t overtly push me towards it, he did not ever discourage me from chasing
my dream.
It came as no surprise then, when he bought me a flight ticket from
Bangalore to Hyderabad and back so that I could write my exam and rejoin the
camp without missing more than a day’s activities. I cleared the entrance exam
and was poised to join Gandhi Medical College. I was mechanically doing what
I thought was expected of me—complete my degree in medicine, follow in my
parents’ footsteps and serve society as a doctor.
But my uncle would have none of that. He was keen that I continue to play
cricket. I had doubts about my ability, but my uncle was confident that it was
only a matter of time before I played for the country. ‘He has come this far, don’t
push him into medicine’, was the constant refrain that wore my father down. In
my heart of hearts, I desired the cricketing path, but I wasn’t sure if that was an
option. But when, as a family, we decided after much persuasion from my uncle
that I would put my education on hold for a while, I was very happy. That’s
when my father told me, ‘The profession doesn’t glorify you, you glorify the
profession. We are serving Mother India through medicine, you serve her
through cricket.’
I knew even then that I would never forget those words.
 4
Decision Time: Cricket or Medicine?

The 17-year-old of today is a lot more mature, savvy and worldly wise than the
17-year-old of a quarter century ago. Kids now have greater exposure,
awareness, and access to information, so they don’t remain ignorant for too long.
In an era gone by, and particularly in a cloistered (though not suffocating)
environment, we were less prepared to make decisions compared to the mid-
teens of today.
But there I was at 17, having to make the first huge decision of my life.
This time, there could be no compromise. It had to be this or that. So, should it
be cricket, a journey into the unknown, where my future lay in someone else’s
hands, especially given my lack of cricketing lineage? Or should it be
academics, a degree in medicine, and following in the footsteps of my wonderful
parents?
It seemed impossible to pursue academics and cricket with equal devotion
at that stage—both needed my total, undivided attention. It is one thing to
practise and play cricket in school, without compromising on studies, but it is
quite another to embark on a journey to earn a medical degree, or any
professional degree for that matter. Several of my seniors, and many of my
contemporaries including Anil Kumble and Javagal Srinath, as well as R Ashwin
in the generation that succeeded mine, managed both tasks simultaneously and
successfully. But for me, it had to be one or the other.
I was extremely fortunate to have Baba uncle, who not only had
confidence and faith in my batting talent and career prospects, but also played an
influential and facilitating role in the decision-making process. I was blessed that
my parents were understanding and allowed me to make my own choice. They
did offer me insights into what each route entailed and laid out the pros and cons
—an exciting but risk-ridden career in cricket as opposed to life as a doctor, with
its myriad pressures.
They trusted my instincts and didn’t force me to pick one ahead of the
other. They had faith in me, and it was up to me to prove them right, to prove
that the values they had instilled in me were strong enough to be my guiding
light for the rest of my life.
It couldn’t have been easy for my parents to allow me to put cricket ahead
of academics. We were a middle-class family for whom academics was of
utmost importance. They faced immense pressure from their peers; at social and
professional gatherings, their colleagues constantly warned them that I wouldn’t
be able to make a career out of cricket, and that being a doctor was a far more
‘sound’ and ‘solid’ proposition. This was back in the early ’90s, when cricket
wasn’t anywhere near as financially rewarding as it is now. Friends and well-
wishers felt justified in having and expressing these concerns. But I am grateful
that all this didn’t influence my parents’ stance.
From an early age, I have been a big follower of my inner voice. You can
affix various labels to it, I suppose. Intuition. Gut feel. A spark of inspiration. To
me, it was and will always remain my inner voice, my conscience directing me
along a path it believes to be right. My parents knew that I scrupulously
followed my inner voice, and they were confident that whatever decision I made,
it would be for the right reasons. When, driven by my uncle’s exhortations, I
mustered the courage to tell them that my inner voice wanted me to pursue
cricket, they accepted it with equanimity.
From time to time, I have wondered why my inner voice directed me to
take the path it did. I haven’t found the answer, but when, at seventeen, it boiled
down to choosing between cricket and medicine, the reason was all too obvious.
I realised that I didn’t want to wake up one morning ten years later and regret not
having given my all to the pursuit of cricket. This was my time, the time I could
plunge whole-heartedly into cricket and try to break into the national team. I
wanted to play for the country, with a passion that was obvious for all to see.
It was this passion, this fierce determination, that my parents recognised
and respected. They understood that I wasn’t being facetious or overambitious,
without putting in the commensurate effort. They accepted that I was sincerely
and whole-heartedly committed to my cricket. They were therefore happy to
allow me to embrace the sport.
There was only one rider. I would have five years to make something of
my cricket, five years after junior college to earn the India cap. If, by the
summer of 1997, I hadn’t done so, it would be back to the drawing board, back
to medicine. I could see the rationale behind it. Five years to ensure that my
dream became a reality, five years to focus single-mindedly on the sport that
meant everything to me. If, in those five years, I couldn’t make the next step up
for whatever reason, there would still be enough time to write the medical
entrance exam again, go to college, complete my education, and then wield the
stethoscope rather than the cricket bat.
My parents gave me their blessings and would keep an eye on my
commitment and my approach, but they wouldn’t interfere. They would follow
my progress, but they wouldn’t remind me of deadlines and that I might be
running out of time.
Even as my parents were happy to stay in the background, my uncle
became my constant companion. His own cricketing career having been
restricted to college cricket and the HCA league, Baba uncle took it upon himself
to mentor and mould me, to expose me to the best coaching available, and to
keep me motivated and encouraged at all times. He was with me every step of
the way, living my dream, travelling with me on my journey, always supportive
and understanding. I couldn’t have asked for more in terms of family support—
parents who were willing to invest in me and an uncle who mentored and
supported me in every possible way.
As 17 turned to 18 and 18 gave way to 19, I continued to climb the ladder.
I was aware of the passage of time, but I was not worried that it might pass me
by. Was I anxious that I would not make the Indian team by the time I was 22,
and would have to jettison one dream to follow another? I can tell you with
complete honesty—I was not.
The Bhagavad Gita has been a strong source of inspiration and learning
throughout my life. My paternal grandfather, who had a massive influence on me
when I was growing up, familiarised my brother and me with the shlokas,
patiently explaining to us what they meant. Chapter 12, Bhakti Yoga, speaks of,
among other things, giving one’s best every single time and not worrying about
the results; remaining equanimous in victory and defeat, in success and failure. I
took these principles to heart from when I was 17.
That’s why I didn’t worry about whether I would get picked for the Indian
team when I turned 22. I understood that it was not in my control. The only way
I could influence my selection was by scoring runs—lots and lots of them. But
that was not in my control either, because there was no guarantee that I would
score runs, no matter how talented I was. The only thing in my control was the
effort, the commitment, the hard work, the dedication. So I immersed myself
fully in cricket. My parents had empowered me by allowing me to follow my
heart. In turn, I left no stone unturned in giving my heart and soul to cricket. If
my best was not good enough, I could live with it.
 This period of utter immersion in cricket meant no late evenings out with
friends, no parties and no distractions, because practice beckoned the following
morning. Several of my friends told me that I was missing out on all the ‘fun’
things in life. They asked me to loosen up, to enjoy myself, to go out with them
to watch movies, and to not be obsessed with cricket. How could I convince
them that I was having fun? That I was enjoying myself? That cricket was not an
obsession, it was my calling. I didn’t just want to play cricket, I loved playing it.
I looked forward to the early morning routine, springing out of bed and getting
ready for the nets. After a while, I stopped trying to explain myself or my
lifestyle. To each their own.
I think of those five years between 17 and 22 as the period of aspiration,
characterised by the three Ds that I have always placed great faith in—
Discipline, Determination and Dedication. If I worked hard during this time, it
was with the awareness that I had my entire life ahead, to enjoy the fruits of my
labour.
As I grew older, I realised that the origins of many of today’s success
mantras lie in the scriptures. Especially, but not exclusively, from a cricketing
perspective—focusing on the process and not worrying about the result. The
results take care of themselves if you do the processes right. That’s precisely
what the Gita says—do your duty, but not with an eye on the outcome.
Effectively, it means the only thing that is in your hands is the effort. That is
what drove me—the desire to not leave anything out when it came to effort.
Once that was sorted in my mind, the path ahead was clear: focus on my
cricket, on what was in my hands, on giving it my all, day in and day out, and to
not ever look at it as a chore. If I didn’t plunge into it, I would be letting myself
down, and also all those around me who had encouraged and stood by me.
From this realisation came the understanding that my outlook should not
be shaped by runs, or the lack of them. I understood that one big score wouldn’t
make me a different person overnight, or a failure make me a lesser person.
There are great lessons to learn from success, and bigger ones to imbibe when it
eludes you. Ultimately, your character cannot change according to the outcome.
You are what you are as a person. Your legacy as a human being doesn’t depend
on the results you produce.
This is not to say that I was indifferent towards success or failure. They
affected me as they do every human being. But I learned to control my emotions
and not allow them to rule me.
 5
The Journey of Self-Discovery

The five-year deadline set by my parents to make my India debut could have
become a millstone had I allowed it to. But given the support system I had—my
parents, uncle, friends, coaches—I had no sense of negativity or desperation.
This was the time to make my overriding ambition come true.
Once I passed out of junior college, cricket became everything. I did enrol
for a B.Com degree in Wesley Degree College, but that was only to play cricket,
for my college as well as in the inter-university competitions. Education took a
backseat as I plunged into practice and matches. My life revolved around cricket.
There were no movies, no family get-togethers, no evening outings with friends.
It wasn’t a ‘normal’ adolescent phase, but it was by choice. Even when we had a
function at home, I would leave for practice at the appointed time, without fail.
My parents gave me the freedom to do so, because they realised that I was
motivated.
I am sure that realisation came from watching me do the small things, like
waking up at 4.45 a.m. when the alarm was set for 5 a.m. And from the larger
commitments when it came to training—I had a rigorous schedule during the
off-season, which entailed taking a bus to St John’s for practice from 6 a.m. to
9.30 a.m. There was a second bus ride to the camp in the evenings for another
session from 3.30 p.m. to 6 p.m. This was followed by an hour of shadow
practice in front of the mirror affixed to a huge Godrej almirah in one of the
three bedrooms at home.
My parents never asked me how many runs I scored, or how many matches
I helped my team win. All they were interested in knowing was whether I was
improving with each day, whether I was better—as a batsman, as a human being
—today than I was yesterday. I shudder to think what might have happened had
they been in my ear, seeking reports on my run-scoring and constantly reminding
me of the five-year timeframe. They had allowed me to make my decision, and
had concurred with it, and they could see how hard I was working. That was
good enough for them.
Around all the practice, I played matches. Loads of them. I played for the
Hyderabad Under-19, Under-21 and Under-23 state teams. Away from the nets at
St John’s, I batted wherever I got the chance. Rajesh Yadav (not to be confused
with the Hyderabad fast bowler of the same name), a very close friend, would
bowl at me from 16 yards on a cement surface, for nearly two hours. I am not
sure why he did it, but he would bowl his heart out, delivering the ball as fast as
he could. This clearly took a toll on him, because, after a while, his right
shoulder went bust.
Because of all this, I was progressing rapidly as a batsman. My game
didn’t go up just one notch, I could see it improving by two or three levels. Then,
when I turned 18, I joined Andhra Bank, a major decision that was to impact my
cricketing life favourably.
It wasn’t as if I needed the job. But Andhra Bank, one of the strongest
teams in the HCA league, played three-day games in the top tier. So far, I had
only been playing in the two-day leagues for Ensconce. It was important to play
three-day matches if I was to continue to improve, as well as catch the attention
of the Hyderabad senior selectors.
Apart from Azzu bhai, every other Hyderabad first-class cricketer played
in the HCA league. To play against them was certainly going to hasten my
development. Additionally, the Andhra Bank side included several established
Hyderabad cricketers—Kanwaljit Singh, the captain, Venkatapathi Raju, Vivek
Jaisimha, Rajesh Yadav and Vanka Pratap. Among the young turks were A
Nanda Kishore, the opening batsman, Narenderpal Singh, the fast bowler, and I.
To have the opportunity at 18 to play against Kanwal bhai, Venkat and NP in the
nets was a priceless gift.
Those days, teams in the HCA league were divided into Divisions A, B, C
and D based on the performance of the clubs. Each division had three groups,
each group had 18 sides, and most of them played 50-over matches. The A1
division was further divided into two—institution teams with all the Ranji
Trophy cricketers, which played three-day matches, and the private clubs that
played two-day matches. Only the A1 institution matches were played on turf,
while all the other matches were played on matting surfaces.
The turf pitches were restricted to the Lal Bahadur Shastri Stadium, the
Gymkhana Grounds, and NFC, ECIL, RRC and AOC. Most of the matting ties
were played on the 12 pitches at the Parade Grounds, Hyderabad’s equivalent of
the maidan in Mumbai, and on the ten tracks at the Bison Polo Grounds. A few
games were also played at schools and colleges.
Players who played for institutions held jobs, but otherwise, there was no
money in the sport. The secretaries of the clubs raised funds to manage the day-
to-day affairs during the season, which ran from June to October. The two most
prestigious local tournaments, apart from the league, were the Behram-ud-Dowla
tournament (three-day matches) and the Kishan Prasad tournament (two-day
matches). Additionally, there was the Senior Zonals for A Division players, and
the Junior Zonals for players in Divisions B, C, D and a schools XI. At the end
of the Junior Zonals, a combined Junior Zonal XI was picked to take part in the
Senior Zonals.
Since the Parade Grounds were open to the public and just off the main
road, people often stopped by to watch the matches. From time to time, my
brother came over, and would later tell me how proud he felt when he heard
strangers speak highly of my batting. Gradually, I began to recognise a few
regular faces beyond the boundary, especially when I was batting. They were
strangers, but they cheered with gusto when I played my strokes. My distant
cousin, Hanumantha Rao, travelled an hour by bus to watch me play. In the
Junior Zonals, our Schools XI played against Secunderabad XI, whose captain
was Ravikumar. He was all praise for me even as I took on his bowlers, and told
me that I was very stylish and that he hadn’t seen anyone so young batting with
such authority. He went on to lead our Combined Junior Zonals XI when we
played in the Senior Zonals. These were huge confidence boosters for a young
man trying to find his feet in competitive cricket.
As I started to stack up runs in the highest division, people who mattered
began to take notice. I could sense that there was a buzz around me, as a future
Hyderabad Ranji player.

It was my uncle who persuaded me to join Andhra Bank. Apart from the
formidable array of stars that lit up the team, in the ranks were Jyothi sir, John sir
and Manohar sir, my childhood coaches. Now they could watch me play from
close quarters and identify the areas I needed to improve in as I played a higher
level of the game with players of a calibre I had never come up against.
My eyes were firmly trained on the Ranji cap, but there was quite a
distance to traverse. I continued to play league cricket in Hyderabad and
represent the state age-group sides. I had made my Under-19 debut for
Hyderabad when I was only 16, so I got to play four years of Under-19 cricket.
Midway through my Under-19 stint, I was picked among the Hyderabad Ranji
Trophy probables for the 1991–92 season. I didn’t make it to the squad, but I
made the first cut. It was only a matter of time, I knew. I had just turned 17.
Not to anyone’s great surprise, I was picked among the probables for the
next season as well, after the early season ritual of the Buchi Babu tournament in
Chennai and the Moin-ud-Dowla Gold Cup in Hyderabad. For the latter
tournament, I was playing in the final for the HCA President’s XI, and we were
up against the HCA XI, which comprised the first-choice Ranji players. Naren
Tamhane, the national selector, was among those in attendance, having flown
down to watch MV Sridhar in action. It was as if some force was at play,
bringing him there and giving me a chance to impress him.
We had lost a couple of early wickets when I walked out to bat. Rajesh
Yadav was bowling fairly quickly, but I hit him for four fours in one over, and
went on to make 69. I was kicking myself for not having carried on, but my
disappointment was instantly lifted when Tamhane sir came up to me and said,
‘Young man, you have great potential.’ It was just the kind of boost I needed.
Tamhane sir repeated those words and spoke highly of my talent to my
parents when they came to pick me up at the end of the day’s play. I could see
they were delighted to hear from a neutral and influential source that their son
was progressing in the right direction.

Unlike now, when there is so much emphasis on physical fitness and fielding,
our routines were very basic. I bowled in the nets—I was a medium-pacer, and
would go on to bowl with the new ball for India Under-19—and took lots of
catches every day. But given the treacherous nature of the outfields, we hardly
worked on our fielding. There were no dedicated fielding sessions, and definitely
no fitness routines. The Andhra Bank team trained at the Gymkhana Grounds in
Secunderabad. Typically, we would kick off a practice session with two or three
laps of the ground, followed by five sprints and lots and lots of batting. There
was an elementary gym where I lifted weights, but not in any structured fashion
or under professional guidance. The concept of fitness was alien. It was just play,
and more play.
At Little Flower school, I used to play lovely off and cover drives, but it
was playing on the on-side that excited me. The ground was shaped such that the
straight boundaries were long, but the square boundaries were shorter because
the classrooms were on one side and the staffrooms on the other. If the ball hit
the walls of either the classrooms or the staffrooms, it was what we called 2D—
two runs declared, without any running between the wickets. I wasn’t strong
enough to hit the ball for four down the straight field, so I settled for as many
2Ds as possible. Easy as pie, and no need to run either. That was pretty much the
extent of the use of my wrists during my formative years.
As I entered the world of organised coaching, all my coaches repeatedly
drilled it into me that the essence of batting was to play in the V. They held forth
on the virtues of playing straight to minimise risk, and were not averse to using
the stick to drive the point home.
No, I am not exaggerating.
We were at an Under-13 camp at the Gymkhana Grounds, and the
Hyderabad Ranji Trophy team was practising at the same time. Azzu bhai was
batting, and I stood there in awe, watching him consistently whip balls from
outside off to the leg side. By then, Azzu bhai had established himself in the
Indian team, and had automatically become a hero for every young Hyderabadi
kid who held a bat.
At our nets, one of the drills entailed playing the on drive with the full face
of the bat, directing the ball to the right of the bowler on his follow-through,
sending it scurrying between the bowler and mid-on. Perhaps inspired by my
hero, I started to drop my elbow and use my wrist while playing the on drive.
Sampath sir, our coach at the camp, was not amused. Determined to teach me a
lesson to play in the V and not hit the ball across the line, he picked up a stump
and walked up to me, intending to smack me on my triceps. I panicked and
instinctively lifted my hand in self-defence, and the stump clattered into my
elbow. For an instant, the elbow became numb. Then, the pain and the shock
took over. I started shaking, then crying.
Coincidentally, Sampath sir was nearby when my father dropped me off at
camp the following morning. He came up and asked my father if he had
registered a police complaint. ‘I admire a coach and a teacher who does
everything possible to make sure that his student is perfect,’ my father replied. ‘I
salute you, sir. My son is blessed to have a coach and a guru like you.’ Sampath
sir looked at him, open-mouthed.
Sampath sir was a wonderful guide and mentor who might have been tough
on the outside, but had nothing but the best interests of his wards at heart.
Perhaps because of that painful blow that served as a constant reminder,
and because I was so focused on following the instructions of my coaches to the
last letter, I stopped using my wrists after that morning. I remained technically
correct, playing close to my body, driving down the ground, playing in the V.
Until I was maybe 17 or so, I was what you would call a copybook player. Then,
everything about my batting changed, very, very rapidly.

There wasn’t any one reason why I went from being an orthodox technician to a
wristy batsman. The more I started playing matches and scoring runs, the more
confident I became, and because I had grown so much as a batsman, I began to
dominate the bowlers of my age group. I had begun to enjoy my batting a lot
more, and my natural fluency came to the fore. Almost subconsciously, I began
to challenge myself by playing strokes that weren’t in my repertoire.
I was playing a lot on matting pitches, and the mat at the St John’s ground
was the kind that encouraged pace and bounce. My friend Rajesh had been
testing me from 16 yards on cement pitches. When the ball comes to you quicker
without bounce, you tend to use your elbow and play with a straight bat. When
the ball gets big on you, you have to bring your wrists into play to keep it down.
And a sudden physical growth spurt impacts your approach as well.
I was a little fella physically until 17, then I suddenly grew tall, but the
length of my bat’s blade remained unaltered. From playing close to my body, I
began to reach out to the balls away from my body because now I could. When
you reach out to the ball with your upper body and hands but without much foot
movement, you have to fall back on your wrists to avoid popping return catches
to the bowler.
As we practised regularly, my coaches no longer told me to cut out
wristwork. There was no hard slap on the wrist, no stump against the elbow. That
was because I followed their instructions, especially at the start of the innings,
when I played with the full face of the bat and in the V. It was only as the innings
progressed and I saw the ball better, assessed the conditions and felt assured, that
I used my wrists a lot more to find the gaps. Using my wrists gave me the option
of playing with the field. The way my innings developed was like the
blossoming of a flower—I would start off exclusively targeting the V in the early
stages of the match, and later go on to play all around the park. That’s where the
wristwork helped me, against the pacers as well as the spinners.
Whenever I batted at the Gymkhana, John sir and Manohar sir would stand
by the sight screen and watch my every move. It was as nerve-wracking as
writing an exam, because their scrutiny was intense. But I also knew that
whatever they told me was in my best interest.
Having served time among the Hyderabad Ranji probables, I took my first
concrete step towards an India cap—or so I believed—when I travelled with the
team to Ludhiana for the Ranji semi-final against Punjab. I was 18 and a bit, and
didn’t realistically expect to play in a match as high profile as a semi-final.
Even so, a part of me was desperate for a debut and there was
understandable anxiety and nerves. I began to ask myself if I really had it in me
to succeed at the first-class level. My mind had grown a life of its own as we set
out from Hyderabad to New Delhi by train. We had reached Kazipet when
protests broke out. I don’t know what they were for, but our train returned to
Hyderabad. We flew to Delhi the following day and drove down to Ludhiana.
The nightmare journey had just ended when Arshad bhai informed me that I
would be making my Ranji debut.
The first day of the match was washed out by the rains. Our team wasn’t
keen on playing on the second day because of a damp spot on a good length area
on the pitch, but Bishan Singh Bedi, the Punjab coach, convinced us that we
should get on with the game. Left-arm spinner Bharti Vij exploited the spot to
perfection and I was out on the second ball, caught at slip for a duck.
‘There go my chances,’ I thought, as I laboured back to the dressing room.
I was beyond consolation when MV Sridhar took me out to dinner that night. He
pointed out that GR Viswanath had made a duck in his Test debut. But he
followed it up with 137 in the second innings and went on to become a very
successful batsman. ‘Mark my words, you will too,’ he told me.
In the second innings, promoted from No. 6 to No. 4, I only made 17
before falling leg before to fast bowler Arun Bedi. I had struck three pleasing
boundaries, but we lost badly and crashed out of the tournament. Nevertheless,
when I returned to Hyderabad, I was VVS Laxman, first-class cricketer.

As one season gave way to another, my routine continued. Total commitment in

the lead-up to the action, then travel to Chennai for the Buchi Babu and round
off preparations with the Moin-ud-Dowla. I was still available to represent
Hyderabad in Under-19 cricket, so the big question ahead of the Hyderabad
selection panels was whether to persist with me in the Ranji Trophy, or release
me to play for the state Under-19 side one final year.
As it turned out, I got one Ranji game on a rank turner in Kottayam against
Kerala, where I eased to 21 with 5 fours when off-spinner B Ramprakash landed
the ball on the edge of the pitch and got it to turn a mile and knock my stumps
over. I was stupefied at how much the ball had turned, but I chalked it down as
another lesson in my cricketing education. After that game, it was back to
Under-19 cricket, and a momentous chapter in my career.
I didn’t have a great run in the all-India inter-state Under-19s in Patiala,
and we lost to Haryana in the knockouts. I was picked for South Zone on the
strength of my reputation, I suspect, and had another average run, yet my name
figured in the Rest of India side to play the champions, Punjab. There was a five-
day gap before the start of the match, and while everyone else stayed back in
Patiala, I decided that I needed some cheering up. So I opted for the long train
journey back home. I spent a day with my parents and uncle, and had a session at
the nets in the evening. Talking to my coaches restored my confidence, and the
four days spent on the train were well worth it because I ended up making a
century against Punjab.
This was in early 1994, just before the Australian Under-19 team was to
tour India. For all the runs I had scored, I was yet to make my way into the India
Under-19 squad. I had attended the India Under-19 selection trials in Mumbai
the previous year, ahead of the tour of South Africa. There were some 60 of us—
we were all housed in the dormitory at the Wankhede Stadium—who were
pruned to 40 after the first day, and to 30 after the second. Finally, we were
divided into two teams to play a ‘selection’ match against each other at the
Hindu Gymkhana. It was a small ground and I tried to hit left-arm spinner Rahul
Sanghvi out of the ground. Instead, I was caught and bowled for four. My India
Under-19 dream lay in tatters.
However, the century against Punjab earned me a place in the Board
President’s XI to take on the Australian Under-19s. The Australians were a
strong unit, with Mike Hussey, Brett Lee, Jason Gillespie, Matthew Nicholson
and Andrew Symonds, among others. I made only 30-something, but Sandeep
Patil, the India Under-19 coach, clearly liked what he saw, because he insisted
that I be picked for the ‘Test’ series.
Symonds, Corey Richards and Nicholson, in particular, had hammered our
spinners to all parts of the Gymkhana Grounds during that Board XI game. S
Sriram, the Tamil Nadu all-rounder, was our captain and ace left-arm spinner. He
held himself back till the 60th over because he didn’t want the Aussies to have a
look at him before the ‘Tests’, but in his very first over, Symonds carted him for
three giant sixes. We had never seen such power-hitting at our level, and were
shell-shocked.
We had five days of practice at Chepauk before the first ‘Test’, and every
evening, we congregated in coach Patil’s room. All of us were in awe of Sandy
bhai, as we called him—dashing batsman, World Cup winner, a larger-than-life
figure. As he recounted his journey, including that World Cup victory in 1983—
which was the clincher for me, to aspire for a career in cricket—we couldn’t
have enough of him. He educated us on the preparatory routines of his legendary
teammates and himself, of their plans and discussions before and during
matches. He told us how much wearing the India cap meant to him, and what it
was like to be part of a dressing room full of superstars.
More importantly, he instilled in us the belief that we could not only
compete with this Australian side, but also beat them because we were good
enough to do so. He told us that the intensity of a practice game was entirely
different from a ‘Test’ series, and convinced us not to read too much into what
had happened in Hyderabad. By the time of the first ‘Test’, we had embraced his
philosophy and went into the game without fear or nerves.
A hard, green surface greeted us in Chennai, and the Australian quicks
were immediately in business on day one. As wickets tumbled around me, I held
firm and remained unbeaten on 88 while batting at No. 6 in the first innings. We
emerged with our heads held high from the drawn game. The next ‘Test’ was on
a turner at the Agricultural College ground in Thiruvananthapuram, and I was
among the run-getters again—151 not out in the first innings, 77 in the second,
the scores made even more special because we won by 226 runs to take a 1–0
lead.
The third ‘Test’ was at the Wankhede Stadium, and Sandy bhai promoted
me to No. 5. He had also requested Gavaskar sir to come to the ground to watch
me bat. My father, then in Mumbai for a medical conference, was seated in the
same stand as the two senior cricketers and overheard their discussions about
me. Fortunately, I gave them all something to smile about with 36 in the first
innings and 84 in the second, to finish as the highest run-getter for India.
My father’s fortuitous visit to the Wankhede apart, my parents were largely
disconnected from my cricket. I called them every day from wherever I was, not
to talk about cricket but to seek their blessings. Before we hung up, they would
ask me to repeat one mantra: ‘I am first’. The first referred not so much to where
one finished, but the preparations to get there. They were keen that I should be
No. 1 when it came to effort.
It was Baba uncle who chased me—he called my hotel room every evening
and kept track of my day-to-day activities. His big concern was that I would lose
interest in cricket and fail to realise my potential. He had more faith in my ability
than anyone else, and I am not sure how he would have taken it if, for some
reason, I had not gone on to play for India.
 The successful run against Australia Under-19 also opened my eyes to a
world of possibilities. When we played for Andhra Bank, we each got a bat and
a pair of gloves at the start of the season. During practice ahead of the Chennai
‘Test’, I broke the only bat I had. In desperation, I asked Pankaj Dharmani if I
could borrow one of his bats—he had a contract with Beat All Sports (BAS).
After a few hits, I felt so comfortable with the feel of the bat that I requested him
to let me use it for the rest of the series. All those runs I made against the
Aussies flowed off Pankaj’s bat.
At the end of the series, I asked him if he could help me secure a contract.
Almost immediately, Somi Kohli of BAS got cracking. When we travelled to
England that summer for the Under-19 series, I had four bats, two pairs of pads
and four pairs of gloves. For free. I just couldn’t believe it. Two months earlier, I
had been scrambling for a bat and moping over a broken willow. Now, I had four
bats. Wow!

The England tour that summer was a fantastic experience. It was the first time I
was travelling outside India, the first time I was spending time away from my
family, in an alien environment. I was nervous and a little apprehensive of what
lay ahead, but I was also excited to be able to play in a different country, in
conditions I wasn’t familiar with. Here was a chance to build on the gains of the
series against the Australians and an opportunity to prise open the doors to
senior selection.
We played two practice matches before the one-day series, both of which
we won comfortably. I warmed up nicely with 84 in the first game and 54 in the
second, both times unbeaten. That the latter came against an Under-25 side was
especially satisfying. But we were brought down to earth in the one-day series
when England won both games with ease. I didn’t make many runs—20 in the
first, run out for 5 in the second.
It was time for the longer version. We played the first ‘Test’ in Taunton.
England Under-19 was a strong side that included Michael Vaughan, Marcus
Trescothick, Chris Silverwood, Vikram Solanki and Anthony McGrath, all future
internationals. Steven Lugsden was reputed to be the quickest bowler in the
England Under-19 team, and among the fastest in the country. The England fast
bowlers knocked our top three over in no time and we were 27 for 3 when I was
joined by Amit Sharma, our captain. I laid into Lugsden with four fours in one
over and stacked up 119, inclusive of 19 fours. It was exhilarating to hear the
applause from the smattering of fans during our stand of 205, with Amit also
hitting a century. We posted 430 and went on to win the game by nine wickets.
As we were preparing to leave Taunton, an elderly gentleman came up to
me and said, ‘Young man, I have seen a lot of cricket. You have the potential to
make it really big at the international level.’ I thanked him, but I had no clue who
he was. Seeing the perplexed look on my face, Sandy bhai quickly came across
to do the introductions. It was Dicky Rutnagur, the respected Indian journalist
who had by then made England his home. Even though I didn’t make too many
runs in the two remaining ‘Tests’, the tour did wonders for my confidence.
Rutnagur sir’s words rang in my ears every time I felt a little low.
At the end of the tour, Sandy bhai told the media that I was ready to play
for India. Only I know what those words meant to me then. Not only did my
coach and one of my idols think I was good enough to play for the country, he
was also letting the whole world know this. For a while, I was walking on air.
Then dawned the realisation that here was one more person I couldn’t let down.
My uncle had told me before I left for England that I should try for a
professional contract in the Bradford League for the following summer. It was
then the most competitive second-tier league after the County Championship.
Azzu bhai was playing for Derbyshire at the time, and the idea was to ask him to
help me out. To my great disappointment, by the time we reached England, he
had already returned to India.
However, when I broached the subject with Sandy bhai, he immediately
got in touch with Solly Adams, who had helped several players from India—
primarily from Mumbai—play in the Bradford League. Solly bhai used his good
offices to earn me a stint with Hanging Heaton for the summer of 1995. And so,
the Under-19 tour of England turned out to be a success in more ways than one.

As soon as we landed in Mumbai from England, we left for Malaysia and Hong
Kong to play a couple of exhibition games. When we returned, it was time for
the Duleep Trophy. Sandy bhai had convinced the national selectors that the
standout Under-19 players from the England tour should be picked for the
respective zonal sides, which was how J Arunkumar and I got into the South
Zone squad. WV Raman was our captain and V Chamundeswarnath, the former
Andhra skipper, our coach.
We had a packed batting line-up including Rahul Dravid and Robin Singh,
so it was tough for them to fit me in as a specialist batsman. Since I was bowling
medium-pace regularly for India Under-19 at the time, Chamundeswarnath
insisted that I be picked as a bowler who could bat at No. 7. I didn’t have a great
first three games, and was understandably dropped for the last match. Raman
came to the room I shared with my Hyderabad teammate NP Singh at the end of
the last league tie and said, ‘Better attitude, lads, the next time.’ I was taken
aback. I didn’t know what we had done wrong for him to tick us off like that.
As it turned out, our next game was the Ranji tie against Tamil Nadu. At
the start of the match, I reminded NP of Raman’s censure, and that got the big
fella all pumped up. He dismissed Raman—he still cherishes that photograph—
and I made 60, my first half-century in first-class cricket. My first hundred came
soon after, against Kerala, in a season that produced more than 500 runs from
five games. Between our Ranji commitments was a game in Mumbai for India
Youth against England A, after which I travelled the entire night by car and
arrived in Bijapur early in the morning for the Ranji match against Karnataka
starting that day. I was that desperate to keep playing.
Hyderabad’s qualification for the knockouts hinged on us defeating Andhra
in the last league match in Vijayawada. We had a strong batting line-up but could
only muster 240. My contribution was a patient 96 not out, with just six fours, on
a tricky surface. I was coming to terms with the disappointment of not reaching
my hundred when Azzu bhai walked up and gave me his India Test T-shirt. ‘Very
well played, you will have a bright future,’ he said.
Because it was an India T-shirt, I knew that I could never wear it, not even
in the privacy of my home. When I returned to Hyderabad, I showed it to my
uncle and wondered why Azzu bhai had given it to me if I couldn’t wear it. ‘It’s
his way of motivating and encouraging you because he believes you have what it
takes to play for the country,’ my uncle said.
Azzu bhai was a massive influence for not just me, but Hyderabad cricket
as a whole. We were captivated by his wondrous strokeplay, but more than that,
we were exposed to his work ethic, his emphasis on fitness, the attention he paid
to fielding and catching. Azzu bhai is still the only batsman to have made
hundreds in his first three Tests, but he took greater pride in his fielding. We
often saw him stay back after a practice session and take close to 100 catches.
He was careful about what he ate, his attention to detail was enviable, his mere
presence inspiring.
I was totally in awe of him then, and I still am, all these years later. In the
second innings against Andhra, we shared a stand of 85. I distinctly remember
taking a ball from outside off and wristing it to the right of mid-on. Azzu bhai’s
eyes widened, and he nodded in appreciation. For my childhood hero to
acknowledge my skills was like a massive seal of approval. Azzu bhai also
recognised that my blade was a little shorter than it should be, so he called up
Somi Kohli and asked him to send me bats with a blade that was half-inch
longer.
While I delighted in the attention from my hero, our season ended in
December as we lost to Andhra and failed to qualify for the knockouts. We left
Vijayawada knowing that we had very little to look forward to.
It was a bitter blow because there were no more matches, but I decided to
use that time to work on various aspects of my cricket. January through March
was nonstop practice, and then it was time to go to England again, to Hanging
Heaton and the Bradford League.
When I landed in England in 1995, I was a novice when it came to even
the most basic things. At home, all my needs were taken care of, as I lived with
my parents. In England, I was all alone and had to fend for myself. I was given a
huge three-bedroom house, but that was about it. I had to learn to do things on
my own—cleaning the house, doing my laundry. The expectations from the club
were straightforward. ‘You are here as a professional player, we expect you to
score runs. That’s your job, that’s what you are paid for.’ There was no sympathy
if you failed, no pats on the back, no ‘better luck next time’. If you did not score
runs this Saturday, no one would talk to you until you scored runs the next
Saturday in the next game. It was unnerving.
My culinary skills were next to non-existent, so for the first week, I
survived on cornflakes, baked beans, yoghurt and chocolate. Being a vegetarian
wasn’t easy, so I appealed to Solly bhai’s good heart. After that first week, I
went to his place for lunch every afternoon, and that’s how I reconnected with
the Mumbai lads, Jatin Paranjape, Paras Mhambrey, Abey Kuruvilla, Sairaj
Bahutule and Amol Muzumdar. Amol, a very good friend of mine, also got a
contract to play in the second division of the Bradford League, and he moved in
with me, which erased the feeling of loneliness to a great extent.
Since we only had games over the weekend, we had the week to ourselves.
I noticed that all the Mumbai lads were working, so I asked the chairman of my
club if I too could get a job. He spoke to the owner of a petrol station, Manish
Patel, and I got a job working four nights a week, between 9 p.m. and 7 a.m. The
journey each way—the house was in Dewsbury, the gas station in Rawdon—
involved two bus rides and two long walks, but I was up for it. I was to handle
the till, sitting behind a bulletproof window. It sounded easy enough, until I
encountered people who drove off without paying, or when drunk youngsters
sauntered in, in the early hours, and created a ruckus.
For a wide-eyed youngster from Hyderabad, all this was completely new
and mildly shocking, but I willed myself to stay on and savour the experience.
My uncle wrote me a letter castigating me for working. ‘You haven’t gone there
to earn extra pounds but to work on your game,’ was his rebuke. But I wanted to
erase the image of the laidback Hyderabadi. I wanted to quietly tell those who
cared to listen that Hyderabadis weren’t lazy and indifferent. It wasn’t about the
money. By the end, I had been exposed to situations I might never have
encountered otherwise and that made me a better human being.
On quiet nights at the station, I watched Hindi movies or read motivational
books. At the crack of dawn, the suppliers arrived with refills—milk, foodstuff,
cigarettes. Once that was out of the way, I had to mop the floor before Manish
Patel arrived, at 7 a.m. It was a timely initiation into self-reliance and discipline.
It toughened me up and opened my eyes to a life I would not have known existed
had I stayed back in Hyderabad. In so many ways, it helped me understand what
VVS Laxman was all about.
Cricket-wise, I had a tough season. At Hanging Heaton, the surface was
very slow and not to my liking. It hampered my stroke-making, and it was no
surprise that I scored runs in away games but not at home. When I didn’t get
runs, the attitude of the club was deeply disconcerting. But upset as I was at
being given the silent treatment, it also helped me realise the importance of a
professional approach. Towards the end of my stint, I started to feel homesick,
but I was determined to fulfil my contract. When I returned to India after those
five months, I was a changed person. I was a lot more independent and self-
confident. I had looked after myself, I had handled criticism and praise
reasonably well, and I had saved some money too!

The Indian season used to be unique in that we had two tournaments in the
south, which featured strong teams from across the country, and players could
use these to get themselves into match mode. I used the Buchi Babu and the
Moin-ud-Dowla tournaments to refamiliarise myself with conditions after eight
months of no match-play in India, and earned a call-up to the Board President’s
XI that was to play Lee Germon’s New Zealand in Rajkot in October 1995. I
watched the game from the sidelines, but to share a dressing room again with
Azzu bhai, the Board XI captain, and other internationals furthered my
education.
It was Duleep Trophy season again, this time under Raman’s captaincy.
That Manohar sir, who had watched me climb the rungs from close quarters, was
the coach of South Zone was both confidence-building and reassuring. He knew
what buttons to push, and did so without hesitation. Unfortunately, I was run out
for 47 in the first innings of the second game against West Zone in Alwar, and he
was upset that I had thrown it away. At the end of the day’s play, he made me
wear my pads and run 15 laps of the ground. It was both embarrassing and
humiliating. Manohar sir must have sensed my despondency, because once I
completed my ‘punishment’, he told me, ‘This will be a constant reminder to
you that once you get a start, you must go on and get a good score.’
Those words stayed with me during the second innings. By then, the
surface had deteriorated rapidly. I had never seen so much rough on a pitch. The
abrasive nature of the track also facilitated reverse swing, and Salil Ankola was
getting the ball to reverse at a considerable pace. It was the first time I was
facing reverse, and I couldn’t for the life of me understand how the ball could
swing in the direction of the shine, against all logic. Rahul Dravid sensed my
discomfiture and talked me through it. When he was at the non-striker’s end, he
held his bat in his left hand if the shiny side was on the outside, and in his right
hand if it was on the inside. The tip-off was to prove invaluable. Rahul made a
hundred and I scored 121. Manohar sir was happy, but I was even more
delighted at having come through perhaps the most probing test of my skill and
character until then.
I made another hundred, in Lucknow against East Zone, as did Rahul. It
was another difficult pitch to bat on, but I was timing the ball beautifully.
Suddenly, I had two hundreds in four matches, and was picked to play in a
quadrangular ‘A’ series in Sharjah with Madan Lal as our coach. I sat out the
first two games but responded with a century at No. 3 against the UAE. The
coach was impressed, as were the national selectors, but when I rejoined the
Hyderabad team, the runs suddenly dried up.
It wasn’t until the last league game that I rediscovered my touch, making
70 against Karnataka, but throwing my hand away when batting with the tail.
Shivlal Yadav was immediately in my ear, cautioning against doing so in the
future. I took that to heart, learning to enjoy batting alongside the tail and egging
them on to hold their own.
The runs came in a torrent after that as we played in the Ranji knockouts. I
made 132 against Assam in the pre-quarters, and 196 against Vidarbha in the
last-eight game. The semi-final was against old foes Karnataka, and in the
second innings, I was on 199 with the last ball of the match to go. Rahul, my
good friend who was leading Karnataka, advised Dodda Ganesh to bowl the ball
wide of the off stump. I somehow made excellent contact and picked up the
boundary that took me to my maiden first-class double-ton, an unbeaten 203.
On the train back to Hyderabad, for the first time in my life, I began to feel
that the India cap was within reach. The Indian team was to tour England in the
summer of 1996, and I felt I had done everything I could to put my hand up for
selection. But not all dreams are immediately realised. I was devastated when I
was not picked for the squad and instead named first standby. I felt my scores
had done the talking for me, but I was not giving up. I still believed it was just a
matter of time.

I did go to England that summer, if not in the way I had hoped. I had signed up
with Pudsey Congs as a professional for the season. I had played against the
Congs for Hanging Heaton the previous year, and managed to attract the eye of
Phil Carrick, their skipper. Phil had played for the Yorkshire first team for 23
years and captained them for several seasons. He was a respected player and
well known in Yorkshire circles. Even when I was having a poor run at home for
Hanging Heaton, Phil told me that he saw a lot of potential in me. He realised
that the pitch there, slow as it was, didn’t suit my batting, so he asked if I would
like to play for the Congs instead.
I took up the offer and went to play league cricket in England for a second
season, in 1996. I didn’t want an unmanageable three-bedroom apartment this
time, so we started to look for a one-bedroom apartment. During that one-week
house-hunt, I stayed with Phil and his family in their seven-acre farmhouse. His
wife, Ellie, and daughters, Emma and Philippa, immediately made me feel
welcome and treated me like a member of their family. I was touched that for
that entire week they ate only vegetarian food for my sake. It was the first time I
was enjoying the hospitality of an Englishman and his family. Their warmth
filled me with joy, and I suppose that reflected in my cricket.
I smashed records, scored runs aplenty and won awards galore. At Phil’s
behest, I dumped medium-pace and started bowling off-spin. That helped me
win the best all-rounder award, to go with the best batsman and best fielder
prizes. My uncle had made me promise that there would be no adventurism such
as working part-time, so I devoted the entire summer to working on my cricket.
Between matches, I turned up to watch the Indian team in action. In those days,
you could drop in to the Indian dressing room, and I watched matches from there
in Nottingham and at Headingley. Seeing Rahul and Sourav made me even more
determined to earn my spurs. My peers were playing for the country and I didn’t
want to be left out.
The five months with the Congs took my game to another level. Phil
allowed me to practise at the Yorkshire academy, and Matthew Hoggard bowled
to me whenever he was not part of the Yorkshire second XI. Apart from
Matthew, the Congs also had Richard Kettleborough, the ICC Elite Panel umpire
who was a handy all-rounder. That was the benefit season for another celebrated
Yorkshireman, Peter Hartley, so we went around the county playing a lot of
exhibition games.
It was a breakthrough season for me in every way imaginable. Alongside
practising with the Yorkshire county team, I also trained with them and received
structured routines from their trainer. Throughout those five months, all I did
was live cricket. For that, I can never be grateful enough to Phil and to his lovely
family. Phil predicted then that in the near future, Hoggard and I would play
international cricket against each other. Prophetic words.
When I left for home, Phil sent a letter through me to my uncle. In it, he
talked about Laxman the person, and how committed to the game I was. He
wrote about my technique, and the specific areas we had worked on during those
five months. He had spoken to me about the challenges and pressures of a
professional player. He had shared his experiences of bowling for hours to
Geoffrey Boycott, and what made Boycott the batsman he was. He opened my
eyes to how a professional player should prepare for and approach a game, and
how he should take responsibility for the team.
When I played for Hanging Heaton in 1995, it was alongside amateurs for
whom cricket was more of a hobby than a passion. This time, I was mentored by
someone who had not only theoretical knowledge but also the experience of
playing professional cricket. In his letter, Phil also lauded my comfort against
fast bowlers. Because of my technique against fast bowling and because I had
more time to play my strokes, he felt I would definitely succeed in international
cricket. I had batted at No. 4 for Hanging Heaton, but Phil had pushed me up to
open the batting and I’d had a lot of success. He also acknowledged my
contribution towards the growth of the youngsters in the side, as well as the
second-team players. When my uncle showed me the letter, I felt proud and
humbled.
I returned to India in the autumn of 1996 a more evolved cricketer. There
was a temporary setback when I fell for nought to Dodda Ganesh in the Irani
Cup game in Bangalore, but I made up with a fine 70 in the second.
It was after this game that the Indian team to play Australia in the one-off
Test in New Delhi was to be announced. I didn’t know the exact date, but I knew
the selection committee meeting was imminent. Whenever I was at home, I hung
around the phone, waiting for the call that never came.
Then, one afternoon, as I made my way back home from St John’s, I saw
many of my journalist friends gathered outside my apartment. From the big grins
on their faces, I knew. Without a word being said, I guessed that I had been
included in the Test side. There were backslaps and handshakes and big hugs.
Everything happened in slow motion. For a while, I went numb. Then, I just
couldn’t wipe the goofy smile off my face.
We all trooped into the house, and I broke the news to my mother. She
stood on tip-toe to kiss me on my cheek, a gesture that broke the dam. My head
began to spin, and there was a surreal feeling, but the celebrations were low-key,
as was typical, until my uncle arrived in a maelstrom of emotions and swept me
off my feet. My mother made sweets for all of us, I gave a number of interviews
and was happily exhausted by the time my father returned from the hospital.
‘Nana, I am in the Indian team,’ I told him. He looked at me for a long moment,
then gently pulled me towards him by the back of my neck and held me tightly.
First mission accomplished.
 6
Test Cap No. 209

19 November 1996. I was trembling with nervous anticipation as I stood on a

chair and looked down at the audience.
This wasn’t something I had anticipated when I was selected to play for the
country. Sourav had been unavailable due to injury and Sanjay Manjrekar had
decided to open the innings. I had been selected along with Pankaj Dharmani to
fill the middle-order spots that had opened up. Pankaj and I had driven down to
Ahmedabad from Baroda after playing for the Board President’s XI against the
South Africans.
We had all been herded into our coach Madan Lal’s suite for the customary
team meeting, the evening before the start of the Test series against South Africa.
I had had two solid batting sessions with the team in the lead-up to the Test
match in Ahmedabad, and had been reasonably confident after the match-eve
stint that I would make my debut the following day. Madan Lal announced the
playing eleven and the team broke into spontaneous applause. When ‘Laxman’
rolled off his tongue, I beamed uncontrollably, my eyes glistening with unshed
tears. This was it, then, eight weeks after I was first picked for the Indian squad.
As was the tradition then, I was asked to address my mates. There was Sachin
Tendulkar, our captain and a role model, even though he was from my
generation. There was Azzu bhai, my hero and inspiration. Anil Kumble, already
a proven match-winner. Javagal Srinath, a senior member and prankster if ever
there was one. And Rahul Dravid, who had been my good friend for a long time
by then.
Overwhelmed as I was, I struggled to put words together. Then Srinath
piped up, ‘Show some respect, man. Stand on the chair and talk to us.’ That put
me at ease. A little bit. I climbed up on the chair gingerly, a wide gamut of
emotions running through me, ecstasy the foremost one. I launched into a serious
monologue about how much this meant to me, how emotional I was, what an
honour it was to represent the country. My lips couldn’t keep pace with my
racing mind, and I tripped over the words. Before I could make much headway,
the guys got together and shut me down. ‘Don’t be so sentimental,’ someone
shouted. The rest was drowned out in laughter and controlled mayhem.

My first few months with the Indian Test team were a proverbial roller coaster
ride. It was surreal, yet all too real, to experience glorious highs and crippling
lows, both from the team’s and a personal point of view. I experienced what it
was like to be part of a winning setup, and I realised how confusing it could be
for a newcomer when the team was not doing well. I learnt, with a lot of help,
that if you were not a part of the playing eleven, you had to find ways to keep
yourself prepared and ready for any eventuality. I figured out that there was no
safety net if you fell down. I grasped the significance of victory, and I
understood why the team was so afraid of defeat.
My first taste of the Indian dressing room as a member of the Test team
was at Feroze Shah Kotla in Delhi, for a one-off Test against Australia in
October. Prior to the Kotla game, I had played for the Board President’s XI
against the Aussies in Patiala. By then, the Test squad had already been
announced, so I approached the Patiala game without any nerves or unease.
I had always been a huge fan of the brand of cricket the Australians played,
and several of my favourite cricketers were Australian—the Waugh twins, Steve
and Mark, and Mark Taylor. We were all to stay in the same hotel, and I was
keen to see these guys in the flesh. But the Aussies were to reach Patiala only the
day before the match. I requested the hotel manager to inform me when they
arrived, but as evening gave way to night, I drifted off to sleep.
It was nearly 9 p.m. when the phone in my hotel room rang. The Aussies
had arrived! I quickly got up and stepped out of my first-floor room, from where
I could see them at the check-in counter. I stood there for a long time, just
soaking it all in. They were the first senior international side I would be playing
against. It was better to get the awe out of the way quickly.
I made only 36 in that weather-affected drawn game in Patiala, then joined
the Test team in the national capital, aware that the chances of a debut were
minimal. As I was checking in at the Taj Palace hotel in Delhi, the receptionist
told me that I would be sharing a room with Azzu bhai. This was too good to be
true!
I waited and waited for Azzu bhai to walk into the room, but it was to be a
long and fruitless wait. Later, I came to know that he was miffed at having to
share a room. He had been the captain, after all, till a month ago. He apparently
told the team management that if they didn’t think he merited a room to himself,
he would just pay for one. And so there I was, on my first day with the Indian
team, with a room of my own.
We had an early practice session the following morning, and I bumped into
Sachin in the lift. I had interacted with him briefly in England a few months
earlier, so he knew who I was, but that was the extent of our relationship. After a
cursory ‘Hello’, I kept my mouth shut. He was the Indian captain, how was I
supposed to react? Sensing my discomfiture, Sachin immediately put me at ease.
He congratulated me on making it to the Test team, asked me to relax and enjoy
the game, and not put too much pressure on myself. That helped, for the
moment. As I boarded the team bus and made my way towards the back, I
almost lost it again. In a daze, I walked past the men whom I had admired and
idolised for so long.
The first day at practice was a fairy tale, even though I didn’t get to bat—if
you were not playing the game, you never got to bat for even five minutes. But I
didn’t mind that at all. Just being a part of the madness and chaos was enough.
Till then, I had played cricket in anonymity, with few spectators and little
attention. To suddenly be transported to a world where everything seemed
available at the snap of one’s fingers was a heady feeling. There was such a buzz
everywhere, so much energy.
It was only later that I realised how easy it was to get carried away. You
were made to feel like a king, and everyone waited on you. But the seniors didn’t
seem to care. They were so absorbed in their cricket, it was great to watch them
go through the business without fuss. Everyone knew exactly what to do and
while it was a little intimidating, it was also an eye-opener.
Nayan Mongia got a big hundred in that match, as we feasted on an
inexperienced Australian attack, which included new spinners Peter McIntyre
and Brad Hogg, to clinch a comfortable victory. That first Test as a part of the
Indian team was all about watching and learning from the sidelines. Actually,
most of my first year went that way. I tried to get to know my teammates, hang
out with them, be accepted as part of the group. I asked a lot of questions—
including, in hindsight, several silly ones—because all of it was so new to me,
and I was extremely curious.
The night before my debut for the Indian team in Ahmedabad, I tried to follow
my usual routine after leaving the coach’s room—early dinner, early to bed. But
sleep just wouldn’t come. I couldn’t stop thinking about playing the South
African attack. I had faced them in Baroda, and it was obvious that they were far
superior to anything I had encountered previously. They were quick, threatening,
and skilful. I would be less than honest if I said that I didn’t have gremlins of
self-doubt, particularly after managing just 4 and 27 in two innings.
At the team huddle before play, I received my Test cap from Azzu bhai. It
was a proud moment, getting my cap and getting it from someone I had looked
up to for so long. Sachin won the toss and we batted, but my first Test innings
was memorable for all the wrong reasons. My first scoring stroke in Test cricket
was a four off a full toss from Paul Adams, but that was as good as it got. Adams
had a very peculiar action, his head almost disappearing into his body at the time
of release, and I had never faced a left-arm wrist-spinner before. I simply
couldn’t read him. To make matters worse, I held myself responsible for Azzu
bhai’s run-out. I had this tendency of taking a couple of steps down the pitch in
defence, and I did so after playing Allan Donald towards point. By the time I
looked up, Azzu bhai was more than halfway down the track. Before I could
shout ‘No’, Jonty Rhodes had swooped down from point and hit the stumps at
the non-striker’s end. Azzu bhai was run out for 35. What had I done?
I had barely recovered from the shock when Donald trapped me in front,
but there was no time to mope because things were happening rapidly. It was a
tricky surface and a wicket was always round the corner. The noise from the
packed house was deafening, the adrenaline pumping. Donald took four wickets
as we were bowled out for 223, with Sachin’s 42 the highest score. Our spinners,
Anil Kumble, Sunil Joshi and Narendra Hirwani, replied in kind but Fanie de
Villiers, the paceman, held firm while making an unbeaten 67. His ninth-wicket
stand of 60 with Donald took South Africa past our total and by the time Adams,
the No. 11, was dismissed, South Africa had posted 244, a lead of 21.
In our second dig, Donald struck with the new ball again and we lost
wickets in a clump before Anil joined me. We had struggled to 124 for 7, and
our overall lead was just 103. It was a crucial phase of the match, and I felt that I
was also playing for my place in the team. Sourav would be back for the next
game, so I needed to get some runs for myself. And we were in a pickle, so I had
to score for the team.
I had perhaps lost a little bit of focus in the first innings, I told myself. The
atmosphere in the stadium, the noise and the energy, had charged me up. The
adventure of travelling with the team had impacted me adversely. Before the
Australia Test, my father had gifted me a copy of Thus Spake, a book by Swami
Vivekananda. The morning of the second innings, I had read a bit from it before
going out to bat. It’s the kind of book that inspires you. By the time I put it down
and walked out, I was determined to stand up for the team.
Luckily, I also had a wonderful guiding hand in Anil. After each over, he
would tell me, ‘You have to fight it out.’ He supported me through a tricky
phase, even as I appealed to higher powers for help. I was wearing a chain with
Sai Baba’s pendant, and I looked at it before every ball, praying that I would
score runs. Between that ritual and Anil’s calming influence, I played the way I
had in first-class cricket—keeping the good balls out, capitalising on the loose
ones. If it was slightly short, I played the pull or the back-foot punch. If it was
full, I drove it crisply. And if I didn’t have to play at a ball, I didn’t. It was an
innings of grit more than anything else, with massive help from Anil.
I made my first Test half-century, and our 56-run partnership helped set
South Africa a target of 170 in the fourth innings. The consensus was that Anil
would bowl us to victory, but Srinath showed that there was more to him than
pranking. The ball was really flying, and standing at slip, I was hoping the edges
wouldn’t come to me. He was bowling with such fire. The South Africans were
blown away by his six-wicket haul and capitulated for 105, and we celebrated
long and hard. I had seen victory at close quarters in Delhi but this time, I had
done my bit for it—and on my debut.
Amid the din, I remember telling Rahul, ‘Jam, this is what I love, this is
what I have always wanted.’ The wise man that he is, Rahul replied, ‘Enjoy it,
Lax. This is the good part, but it isn’t as easy as it looks.’ It didn’t take me long
to appreciate the import of those words, but at that point, I was on cloud nine. In
my hotel room, the phone rang off the hook. Every time it chirped, I told Sanjay,
who was my roommate, to answer the call, assuming it must be for him. Until he
said, ‘Your first Test, you made a fifty. Everyone is calling to talk to you, you are
the hero now.’

Up 1–0 in the three-match series, we were upbeat going to Eden Gardens.

Predictably, the reception we got was tumultuous. No one is more invested in
cricket than the Kolkatan, and to add to their delight, Sourav was back in the
eleven. He had to be slotted into the middle order and I had done enough to keep
my place, so there had to be a rejig, which meant Rahul went up to open the
batting and Sanjay was left out. I didn’t know how to handle the situation. I was
only playing my second Test, and was sharing a room with a senior cricketer
who had been dropped. There was understandable sadness in the room.
Consequently, I spent a lot of time with Rahul and some of the other guys I’d
known for a long time through domestic cricket.
Things didn’t go well on the field either. Gary Kirsten and Andrew Hudson
flayed us with a wonderful opening partnership on day one and from there on,
everything went downhill. I fell cheaply in our reply and had barely taken off my
pads when Azzu bhai was struck on his arm and walked off the ground, retired
hurt. That didn’t seem to go down too well with Madan Lal, who felt that he
should have stayed on and gutsed it out. Azzu bhai was fuming, not taking
kindly to his commitment being questioned by the coach in front of everyone
else. When he went back to the middle, he started to smash the bowling around,
almost as if trying to hit every ball for four and prove a point. He did make a
century and Anil weighed in with another excellent knock, but we were well
beaten. From the high of Ahmedabad and a chirpy dressing room, the Eden
defeat was a humbling, chastening comedown. The joie de vivre had
disappeared, no one looked anyone else in the eye. How things could change, so
dramatically and so quickly!
I had my first encounter with the axe when we went to Kanpur for the third
Test. Little did I know that it was to be a recurring theme in the first few years of
my career. On another tricky surface, we did enough to secure the series. I went
on as a substitute and pulled off a very good running catch, and felt that I had
played a small role in our success. The thing that stands out for me from that
game, though, is a little incident involving Daryll Cullinan. I was sitting just
outside the boundary rope when he was dismissed, and as he was walking back,
we were clapping for our team. Cullinan broke stride, came towards us and
thundered, ‘You guys are coming to Durban soon, we shall see who claps there.’
I was stunned; were we out of order in applauding our teammates?

Cullinan’s ‘come to Durban’ jibe was still fresh in my mind as I scurried to get
ready to go to South Africa almost immediately after the Kanpur victory. It was
my first overseas tour with the Indian team, and it was to a hostile land where I
expected spicy pitches to assist South Africa’s pace-heavy attack. We had two
quality quicks in Srinath and Venkatesh Prasad, but the supporting cast were raw
and inexperienced. After a four-day game in Port Elizabeth, we went to dreaded
Durban for the first Test. Our worst nightmares played themselves out at
Kingsmead.
 It was a demanding surface, as we had expected—there was express pace,
generous bounce and substantial lateral movement. I wasn’t in the playing
eleven, but what I saw from the outside blew me away. I witnessed first-hand the
quality of cricket Hansie Cronje’s men showcased in that game. It’s one thing
watching it on TV, it’s quite another witnessing the action from 80 yards away. I
began to ask myself—‘Am I good enough to negotiate Donald, de Villiers,
Pollock and McMillan? How will I stand up to them? Will I be badly exposed?’
I wasn’t the only one who was thinking along those lines. Even I, fresh to
the setup, could see that the mindset of our team had changed. The dressing
room was riddled with doubts and negativity, and we were too busy talking up
the opposition and how good they were. We made excuses for what was to come;
predictably, we were battered into submission, shot out for 100 in the first
innings and an even more humiliating 66 in the second. Just one Test into the
three-match series, we were prepared for the worst.
We were cowering in embarrassment after having lost inside three days
when Madan Lal decided that instead of returning immediately to the hotel, we
would have a net session. I started off bowling medium pace from 18 yards to
our batsmen, then was padding up to have a hit when the indoor centre opened
and the coach hauled the batsmen who had played the Test across for another
stint. I was sitting there all alone, my pads on, bat in hand, wondering what was
going on. That’s how it was then. If you were in the eleven, you got to bat at the
nets. If you were not playing, then no batting, no preparation.
Sensing my disappointment and frustration, my Hyderabad teammate
Venkatapathi Raju appeared by my side with advice that was invaluable.
‘You must look after your own preparation instead of relying only on the
coach because you have to be ready to perform when the opportunity comes,’ he
told me.
‘But how, Venkat?’
It was easy for the substitutes to lose touch because there weren’t too many
net bowlers around then, and when they did turn up, they bowled at the main
batsmen because our bowlers needed to rest and recover. Consequently, the
opportunity to prepare for a match, to top up one’s batting, was minimal to nil, as
I was finding out.
Venkat walked the talk by staying back long after the team had left for the
hotel and feeding me throw-downs. To him, it might have been a small thing, but
I was suddenly lifted by the selflessness of my teammate. He need not have
invested his time in me, but here he was, happy to go the extra mile to help me
remain in touch and on my toes. But that was no surprise because that is pretty
much how Venkat is, as a cricketer and a person.
 Off we went to Cape Town then, for the second Test. It was my first New
Year’s Eve in a foreign land, and I roamed the waterfront with the guys, enjoying
the spectacle and temporarily forgetting our on-field travails. On 1 January, after
practice, we went to Cape Point as a group and bonded as a team. The festivities
had cheered us up, and we looked to the new year with renewed hope as the
cloud of negativity lifted a bit.
On the morning of the Test match, I walked across to throw balls to the
man who was giving catches to the slip cordon. I had batted in the nets the
previous day, but that was about it, so I assumed that I wouldn’t be playing this
game either. As I loaded my arm to throw the first ball, Anil walked up to me
and said, ‘What are you doing? You should be taking catches, not giving them.
You are playing this game.’
It wasn’t the best of circumstances to make an overseas debut. But while I
was short of mental preparation, I was thrilled to be back in the Test eleven. At
lunch on the third day, we met Mr Nelson Mandela, the inspirational South
African president, a simple, humble man who never raised his voice in anger and
yet oversaw one of the greatest revolutions in the history of mankind. It was the
highlight of the tour for me, to be able to shake the hand of a great human being
about whom I had heard and read so much.
As if to entertain Mr Mandela, Sachin and Azzu bhai put on an exhibition
of batting, the likes of which I had seldom seen. I had disappointingly been
strangled down leg off Pollock, but everything was forgotten as our two best
batsmen regaled the Newlands audience, with Mr Mandela as its central figure.
The ball flew off their bats as if pre-ordained. In the dressing room, we were in a
trance. Out in the stands, the fans were going berserk because they knew how
privileged they were. In the middle, the South Africans watched open-mouthed,
then doffed their hats to the sheer brilliance of the dynamic pair. It was riveting
batsmanship for as long as it lasted. Sachin and Azzu bhai both completed
extraordinary centuries.
Despite their heroics, we were well behind when our second innings
started, and a familiar batting collapse ensued. I was given an early wake-up call
when Donald hit me second-ball on my visor with one that climbed sharply from
a length. It shook me up and rattled me somewhat, but in a twisted sort of way, it
was perhaps just the kind of start I needed. Suddenly, my senses were
heightened, my reflexes were sharp, and my focus intense. I gritted it out,
putting a huge price on my wicket, hanging in there, determined to not throw it
away. We were shot out cheaply but I checked a small box in my personal sheet:
I was 35 not out when we were bowled out. I had proved to myself that I could
hold my own against that quality of bowling.
Between the second and third Tests, we played a warm-up game in Bloemfontein
with Anil as the skipper, and I built on the second-innings knock in Cape Town
by spending more time at the crease and boosting my confidence ahead of the
final Test in Johannesburg. On a personal note, I was carrying form and
confidence to the Wanderers, and couldn’t wait for the first ball to be bowled.
We make plans, and then watch helplessly as forces beyond our control
step in to wreck them. I had been looking forward to lots of runs on a reasonably
docile surface when, on the second morning, Lance Klusener pinged me on my
right glove. It was just the fourth ball I had faced, and I didn’t really pay too
much attention to the blow. But in the next over, when I couldn’t even grip the
bat, I realised that the damage wasn’t miniscule. Ali Irani, our physio, dashed to
the middle and eased my hand from the glove, to find that the ring finger had
dislocated.
Ali pulled the finger back and I felt excruciating pain even as I heard
something snap. That was that. I couldn’t put my glove back on, and I dragged
myself off the park, the physical pain insignificant compared to the turmoil in
my mind and the ache in my heart. I knew that the tour was over for me, and a
visit to the hospital merely confirmed that. The X-ray revealed a fracture, and as
I sat there waiting for the doctor to wrap my hand in plaster that would be my
companion for three weeks, I watched my good mate Rahul play beautifully to
bring up his first Test hundred.
I had been named in the one-day squad as well, but when I returned to the
dressing room, it was decided that the three-week lay-off meant I should return
home with the Test specialists. My life came to a standstill. I had come to South
Africa hoping to make a century, hoping to establish myself in the Test side. I
believed that in order to cement my place in the Indian team, I had to make at
least one century. It was just my perception—and a wrong one, as I was to find
out a few years later—but I was distraught that I would have to leave the country
prematurely, without having done what I had set out to do.
It was too much for a 22-year-old, and I broke down in the dressing room.
One by one, my teammates consoled me. They had well-meaning, kind words of
encouragement, but nothing really registered in my mind. In the haze, I distinctly
remember thinking that Sachin hadn’t spoken to me at all. But as the dressing
room cleared out and I sat there feeling sorry for myself, Sachin quietly came in
and sat next to me. My coffin was open—I was putting my gear back—and on
the inside of the lid was a photograph of Sai Baba. Sachin pointed to the picture
and asked me if I was a believer. When I nodded yes, he told me philosophically,
‘He will take care of you. He will protect you.’
That re-opened the floodgates, but Sachin wasn’t done talking.
‘You have a bright future,’ he said. ‘A lot of cricketers would have been
quietly happy to leave a tour as tough as this one under these circumstances. But
you are upset that you have to go home, you are crying that you will not be able
to play. That speaks volumes for your character, and that’s what tells me that you
will have a very good career. Never ever lose this attitude of yours.’
Those words perked me up. My captain, and the best batsman in the world,
had faith in me. As soon as Sachin left the dressing room, I cleaned myself up
and decided that I should not sour the atmosphere by sulking. We had worked
ourselves into a fairly good position, and the last thing the team needed was
negative energy. So I went out and sat with the reserves, egging my friends on.
We fell short of driving home the advantage, as a combination of stubborn
batting and bad light thwarted our march. But it was my first serious lesson in
overseas cricket. When you are playing away from home, you need to seize the
important moments. Though we didn’t do that, we did show that we had the
potential to beat South Africa in their own backyard. We should have believed
that we could, but we hadn’t, from the start of the series.
I returned to Hyderabad, my dreams unfulfilled. I had tried desperately
hard to be a part of the team in every sense. I had been overeager and intense,
and I took every match as an examination I just could not fail. I had seen my
friends Rahul and Sourav establish themselves, being accepted as part of the
team, and I had wanted that for myself. It strengthened my belief that unless I
made a hundred, I would not be accepted. Everyone might know I had the
potential, but acceptance from my teammates was very important. I was
convinced that if I didn’t make that breakthrough century, I would be pretty
much on my own.
Back home, the finger still in plaster and unable to bat, I felt sad and lonely
as I watched the triangular series in South Africa on television. I should have
been out there playing. Now, after this setback, would I ever play for India
again?

Having had a taste of international cricket, of being a part of the Indian dressing
room, I wanted more. But I also started to doubt myself. Had I done enough to
earn a recall once I recovered from the injury? Did the people who mattered
really think I deserved my place in the team? I remembered Sachin’s words, but
I also wondered if he had merely said the right things at what was a difficult time
for me. When you fall into the abyss of self-pity, you start looking for the worst,
and I was dangerously close to that predicament. I wanted to be in South Africa,
not in Abids, Hyderabad.
My father and my uncle did their best to keep me positive. In his own
measured, comforting manner, my father slowly uprooted the seeds of self-
doubt. My uncle, more emotional and impulsive, curbed his natural exuberance
and patiently explained to me that injuries were part and parcel of sport. He told
me that my broken finger was a war wound I should wear with pride. Their
enthusiasm was infectious, and it helped me step out of the cocoon of despair I
had built around myself.
Although I couldn’t bat, there was nothing to stop me from keeping myself
physically fit ahead of the next assignment, a full tour of the Caribbean. I met an
orthopaedic doctor who made me do various exercises so that there would be no
stiffness when the plaster was removed. I had marvelled at the fitness of the
South Africans during my debut series, and was eager to learn what worked for
them. I had struck up a friendship with Herschelle Gibbs, and he had introduced
me to Paddy Upton, who was then the physical trainer of the South African side.
Paddy was happy to share his secrets, and I tried to follow the routine he
had suggested for me as I waited for the finger to heal. As the days ticked by, I
became more and more desperate to start hitting the ball. That desperation
peaked when the team for the West Indies tour was announced and I found
myself back in the fray.
But I had been picked as an opener. I, who had never opened before in my
life, at any level, against anyone. I would have to face up to Curtly Ambrose and
Courtney Walsh, perhaps the most potent new-ball attack in the world at the
time. I blanched, not out of fear but from uncertainty. That’s when my father
stepped in, not for the first time, with his wisdom. ‘It is your duty to perform any
role that the team wants you to,’ he said. That settled it for me.
The reason for my elevation to the top of the order was provided by Shivlal
Yadav, one of my well-wishers and the South Zone representative in the national
selection panel at the time. The middle order was packed—the selectors had
named a combined squad for the Tests and ODIs—with Robin Singh also in the
mix. The selectors and the team management felt that since I had batted a lot in
first-class cricket at No. 3, I had the technique and the mindset required to open
the batting. I was reassured by this explanation, but there was one small hurdle
still to be overcome.
Or rather, what I thought was a small hurdle.
The team had been named on a Friday, and we were to fly out of Mumbai
on the following Tuesday. Madan Lal, our coach, wanted me to undergo a fitness
test in New Delhi on Sunday to see for himself that I had recovered fully from
the broken finger. I had no fears on this count—I had been batting a lot on a
cement pitch with considerable bounce to figure out if there was any jarring, and
there had been none. The hand was fine, I was ready to go.
On Saturday, it was time to hit the nets one last time before the fitness test
in Delhi. Rajesh Yadav and I were on our way to St John’s on my Kinetic Honda,
and were breezing past the Buddha statue on Tank Bund when the unexpected
happened: a flat tyre. The bike skidded and all of a sudden, I found myself on the
road. Before I could find my bearings, the bike landed on my left knee,
damaging my meniscus. The shooting pain was accompanied by heavy swelling,
and I saw my Caribbean dream disappear before my eyes.
We got the flat tyre fixed and limped back home. Close to hysteria, I called
up my father, and he took me to the orthopaedic doctor at Uday Clinic, next to
our apartment block. One look at the X-ray, and the ortho confirmed that
clinically, there was a meniscus tear. By then, it was Saturday night, and I was
scheduled to fly out for the fitness test the next morning. I was on heavy
painkillers and ice packs the whole night, and when my father dropped me off at
the airport in the morning, I was still limping noticeably. In a bid to distract me,
he joked, ‘Your style of walking now resembles ML Jaisimha’s!’
I was still smiling at my father’s remark when Madan Lal picked me up at
the Delhi airport and took me to the Jawaharlal Nehru Stadium. I had expected a
long batting stint, but I was only asked to bat for five minutes. For the next half-
hour, he gave me fielding practice and made me chase balls down, unaware of
my accident the previous day. Fortunately for me, the painkiller had kicked in,
and any pain I felt, I masked effectively.
I got through the fitness test and returned to Hyderabad that same night,
more relieved than elated. My proud father was there to receive me. It was the
first time he had seen me endure so much pain and come out the better for it.
In a matter of four months, I had made a half-century in my Test debut,
fractured my hand, injured my knee, and had yet kept my wits about me. I was
now looking forward to playing the quickest bowlers in the world, in the
unfamiliar role of an opener, in their own backyard. My father was delighted
with the character I had shown in adversity. It pleased him that his son was not
relying on short-cuts in his pursuit of success.
‘Irrespective of what happens in the West Indies, for me, you have already
achieved what a sportsperson should,’ he told me.
At that moment, that was all I needed to hear.
 7
The Non-Regular Opener

We had just returned to our hotel from the SCG on New Year’s Day in 2000.
The mood in the camp was abysmal. We hadn’t just been defeated in the first
two Tests, we’d been beaten out of sight. Australia were proud, strong, cocky.
We had been meek, timid, hesitant. There seemed to be no end in sight to our
overseas travails.
Personally, the tour hadn’t gone well at all. I had been so keyed up coming
to Australia. I was fascinated by the country, the people, the pitches, and their
attacking brand of cricket. Although I was far removed from the average Aussie
in terms of temperament, I felt a certain kinship with them. I badly wanted to
wow the Australians. Instead, and not for the first time since I started opening
the batting in the Caribbean in early 1997, I wondered if my Test career was
already over.
Lying on the floor in the room, my eyes shut, I watched the last three years
run through my head at whirlwind speed. It was the first time I was experiencing
anything of this nature—the same scenario was to play out a little over a year
later, on my visit to Shirdi ahead of the Kolkata Test of 2001. I didn’t like much
of what I saw. I couldn’t fault myself when it came to commitment and my work
ethic, but the returns hadn’t been encouraging. The maiden hundred remained
elusive even though I had come close. I had done reasonably well in an
unfamiliar position, but something was missing.
As the images played out in my mind, my thoughts wandered. I reflected
on the tour that had gone by, and the tour that I thought was over for me. I had
not made runs in Adelaide, where, for the first time since the West Indian tour of
1997, I hadn’t opened the innings. I hadn’t delivered in Melbourne either, despite
returning to the top of the order. The runs in the warm-up games, in difficult
circumstances and against quality attacks, counted for little. I had failed in four
Test innings, I hadn’t been picked for the triangular series with Pakistan and
Australia, which was to follow the New Year Test in Sydney. I felt a huge sense
of despondency. I had let myself down, and all those who had backed me, but
more importantly, I had not lived up to the expectations of my teammates. I had
failed my country. This wasn’t why I had started playing cricket in the first
place. This wasn’t why I had agreed to open in the West Indies even though I
had never played in that position previously.

Ahead of the trip to the Caribbean in early 1997—and we only had four days
between the team announcement and our departure—I had made one technical
adjustment that I was to later regret. Having set my initial misgivings aside and
whole-heartedly accepted the responsibility that came with opening the batting,
my coaches in Hyderabad and I felt that I could no longer afford to forward press
like I had done all my life. It was a huge blunder, I came to realise that
subsequently, because it completely threw me off my rhythm. It wasn’t easy to
erase the muscle memory of 15 or so years in two or three practice sessions. The
wisdom of hindsight reveals the folly of the change in approach, but at that time,
we did what we thought would give me the best chance to succeed in my new
role in the batting order.
My coaches and I decided that I should abandon the forward press, and that
my initial trigger movement should now be back and across to give me a little
more time to allow for pace and swing. They told me that it would be difficult to
match up as an opener if I didn’t make the adjustment. They suggested that I
play back and across because of the quality of bowling I would encounter, most
notably from Curtly Ambrose and Courtney Walsh. Ambrose and Walsh were
not just tall pacemen who could extract steep bounce. They also got the ball to
move around and gave nothing away. Unless you were on top of your defensive
game, there was little chance of success.
Once it was decided that I was going to open, we sat down and watched the
footage available of the West Indian bowlers. It confirmed our assessment—
steep bounce from a good length area would be the greatest challenge. Right
from my childhood, my initial trigger had been a short step forward with my left
leg, with the weight on the ball of my foot. Then, based on the length, my next
movement would be either forward or back. We felt that with this footwork and
trigger movement, it would be difficult to counter the bounce from a good
length. A majority of the international openers who had succeeded against these
bowlers employed the back-and-across trigger movement, so we decided to use
the same.
When you play back and across, the right leg moves a little back and a
little sideways, but the weight continues to remain on the ball of the foot. This
movement, we felt, would give me a fraction of a second more to counter the
bounce from a length. It made sense at the time, so I changed the style that had
served me excellently till then.
It’s funny how the mind works. A month ago, in South Africa, against an
equally quick Allan Donald on faster, bouncier tracks, I had used the forward
press without hassles. The few days we had at our disposal after the team to the
West Indies was announced seemed to have worked against me, because we
probably overanalysed things to my detriment.
I have always believed that the starting point, the first movements you
make as a batsman, are the ones that dictate the movements to follow. The one
flaw that crept in now, without my realising it, was that my head, instead of
being still, started to fall to the right. Instead of moving only my feet, I started to
move my head too, and that disturbed my balance. When the head—the heaviest
part of the body—is not still, it biomechanically affects all the succeeding
movements. By going against my grain, I was already selling myself short.
The other change I made, on my own, was my mental approach. I was a
free-flowing batsman, a natural strokemaker, playing well-executed, attacking
shots. But I assumed that as an opening batsman, my role was more about taking
the shine off the new ball, blunting the pace bowlers, playing only when I had to,
leaving as many balls as possible, and not worrying too much about the
scoreboard for the first hour or thereabouts. Then, I could play my shots,
particularly in overseas conditions. I was so preoccupied with not getting out
that the flow imperceptibly vanished from my batting. I realised far too late that
even though I was getting my eye in, I wasn’t finding the rhythm to play my
shots. The combination of balance, coordination and mindset that had brought
me success in first-class cricket had gone haywire. From an attacking batsman
looking for runs at every possible opportunity, I became obsessed with playing
correctly, like an opening batsman is expected to, more intent on occupying the
crease than anything else.
The early success I courted with this altered technique and mindset
convinced me that the changes were justified. When roomie Navjot Sidhu and I
opened in the practice game against Jamaica at Sabina Park in Kingston against
a formidable attack that included Walsh and Franklyn Rose, I more than held my
own. I batted for more than six hours, played out 271 deliveries, and was on
course for a century in my first appearance as an opener when I was run out for
98. I had gone to the Caribbean expecting the ball to rush on to the bat, but even
at Sabina Park, all we got was a very slow surface. I didn’t enjoy playing so
many balls for so few runs.
After that game, which ended in a draw, and ahead of the first Test, both
teams were invited for dinner by the Indian High Commissioner in Kingston.
Rohan Kanhai, then the manager of the West Indian team, sought me out that
evening to say, ‘Young man, I saw your knock. You have lots of potential, keep
up the good work.’ Mr Kanhai was a legend, and I had heard so much about him
from Jaisimha sir. I was also aware that he had taken Gavaskar sir under his
wing during the latter’s debut series in 1971, offering sage advice to the young
opener in the opposition. To hear him say nice things about my batting made me
proud.
When I committed to opening the batting, I had taken up a challenge that I
believed I was well equipped to meet. I had always enjoyed playing against fast
bowlers, as compared to spinners, especially at the start of my innings, and I
thought it was better to bat at a position from where I could set the game up for
the team. But it wasn’t easy coming to terms with the fact that I would be batting
one position higher—I had got used to batting at No. 3 for Hyderabad and it was
the position I was most comfortable at.
Superficially, it is almost the same position, and even when you are slotted
in at No. 3, you are mentally prepared to face the second ball of the innings. In
reality, things aren’t as simple.
Rahul Dravid had to open the batting for India in Tests several times, and
while he did so uncomplainingly and with no little success, he was never
comfortable in that role. I held a similar point of view. In first-class cricket, I can
barely recall an instance when, from No. 3, I went in to face the second ball of
the innings. Yes, I have gone out in the third or the fourth over, by which time
there is some kind of shape to the innings, but very, very rarely to the second
ball. When you are batting at No. 3, the approach is the same as that of an opener
—give the first hour to the bowler—but you don’t face the new cherry
straightaway.
In teams for whom I had batted at No. 3 in domestic cricket, the opening
batsmen had been very good, while the quality of the opposition fast bowlers
hadn’t been consistently threatening. Seldom did I have to come out in the first
or second over and face a hostile spell. In international cricket, it was the exact
opposite. All the teams had excellent new-ball attacks, and an early wicket was
always on the cards. And here I was, facing up to the two best fast bowlers in the
world in their own backyard, both of them fresh and mean and with a brand new
ball to attack with.
There was little indication of the pitfalls that lay in store for me when,
following my 98 in the warm-up fixture, I made 64 in my first Test innings as an
opener. This was also at Sabina Park, and while I was delighted with the runs
under my belt, I was far from my fluent self. Rose dismissed me for the second
time in the drawn Test for 27, but any confidence I might have derived from
Kingston disappeared instantly when I was dismissed for a second-ball blob by
Ambrose in the second Test in Port of Spain.
We suffered a debilitating defeat in the third Test in Bridgetown after being
set only 120 for victory. Batting in the fourth innings was tricky, but there was
no justification for us being bowled out for 81, inside 36 overs. I top-scored with
19, but what did that even mean? What did it count for? After a promising start
in Kingston, my next three scores as an opener were 0, 6 and 19. That was the
first time I heard muffled talk of me being a non-regular opener. I was to be
dropped for the fourth Test in St John’s until Sidhu contracted malaria, and I
responded with 56 in a game badly affected by rain. Ajay Jadeja, my opening
partner for that game, amassed 96, so I was predictably dropped for the fifth and
last Test in Georgetown with Sidhu having recovered from his illness.
Those three hours of ineptitude with the bat in Bridgetown cost us the
series, and it was hard to look for positives. Personally, I could take consolation
from having made two half-centuries in six innings as an opening batsman, but
that would have been clutching at straws. The atmosphere within the team
deteriorated rapidly after the Bridgetown disaster. There was a bust-up between
Sidhu and Madan Lal that affected me deeply—it was the second time I was
seeing the coach take on a senior player after his showdown with Azzu bhai in
Kolkata.
Madan Lal was giving us catches at Arnos Vale before the start of the one-
day international when our physio Ali Irani went up and whispered in his ear.
Immediately, the coach’s face changed colour. He threw down his gloves and
bat, and went into the dressing room. While our drills continued, we could sense
that all was not well. When I entered the dressing room, the atmosphere was
tense. I was told by my colleagues that Sidhu had expressed his inability to play
after sustaining a leg injury at the nets. He had a shiner on his thigh, big and
black and blue, and was clearly in distress, but apparently the coach had insisted
that the injury wasn’t as serious as the senior batsman was making it out to be.
On top of that, we went on to lose the game from a decent position, which made
things decidedly worse.
As a player, I didn’t feel secure because I didn’t know what was required
of me. I didn’t feel at any stage that I was valued. There was lack of
communication about where I stood despite getting two half-centuries in the Test
matches. It’s when things aren’t going well that the role of the coach becomes
important. At that level, his responsibility isn’t restricted to making minor
technical adjustments. It is more about man-management and motivation, and
keeping channels of communication open. Instead, we found ourselves at the
opposite end of the spectrum. There was no communication whatsoever from the
coach; the seniors were caught up in their own selves as they were not delivering
the goods, and Sachin put too much pressure on himself. To see him break down
after the Bridgetown defeat was heart-rending. He felt as if the whole world was
ranged against him. A strong, empathetic coach would have helped.
Unfortunately, there was little support for him.
I have the greatest respect for Madan Lal as a person, but as a coach, there
was so much he could have done differently. He wasn’t a good communicator,
and he should have invested more in creating a positive environment. The cracks
in the team, which had been papered over in the early stages of the tour, opened
up dramatically after the Barbados hammering. Everything was linked to the
outcome. The defeat changed the mindset of the team, and the two-man coaching
staff of Madan Lal and Ali Irani didn’t seem equipped to meet the challenge of
restoring the equilibrium of the already shattered players.
Throughout the tour, there was no concerted effort to get the best out of the
players. In fact, it was a tour bereft of leadership. There was no one to even talk
about how to bounce back as a team. It was tough for me because I was so intent
upon, and desirous of, fulfilling my goal. Every time I didn’t score runs, I put
more pressure on myself. I didn’t realise it then, but I was not enjoying the
game, I was not playing the game my way. The fun element had gone out of my
cricket very early in what could have been a breakthrough tour for me. To
compound matters, I didn’t get to play a single one-dayer either.

So I hadn’t set the world afire in my first Test series as an opener, but I thought I
had done reasonably well under the circumstances. My last Test innings was a
half-century, and I fully expected to be on the tour to Sri Lanka later that year.
However, when the team was announced, I wasn’t in the squad. There was no
communication from either the team management or the selection panel, which
left me even more confused. Where I was lacking? What were the areas I needed
to improve in?
The axing reinforced my thinking that unless you created an impact
straightaway—read scored a hundred—you were easy meat. It was also the
beginning of the first phase of uncertainty in my Test career. I was sometimes
picked, mostly not. Each time I came back, I did so convinced that it was my last
opportunity. That was an obvious recipe for disaster, because I was getting
bogged down by the weight of my own expectations. I lost focus in the process. I
was only interested in the outcome.
I didn’t have a great start to the 1997–98 domestic season. My crisis of
confidence was acute. I played for the Board President’s XI against the Sri
Lankans in Cuttack in November 1997 and scored a hundred at No. 3, but the
runs didn’t come for Hyderabad, where too I had gone back to No. 3. Jaisimha
sir had taken over as our coach, and he told me that while I might be an opener
for India, for him, I would always be a No. 3 batsman.
I found my touch as the domestic season unfolded, and made a double
hundred in the knockouts against Baroda at the IPCL ground, an effort that
earned me a recall for the Australia series at home in early 1998. But there was
no place for me in the playing eleven in the first Test in Chennai in March 1998.
As was typical in those days, if you weren’t playing the Test, you didn’t get to
bat in the nets the day before the match, like I didn’t ahead of the second Test in
Kolkata. I still went down to Eden in the evening to practise on my own, and it
was Harsha Bhogle who bowled to me!
The next morning, I was told that I was playing the Test. Harsha must have
given me a good workout, for I danced to 95 and had a big opening stand with
Sidhu, but fell with a century beckoning. I had played the ball on its merits and
capitalised on the loose ones to ease into the 90s when my old belief that you
had to get a century to be acknowledged as a Test player resurfaced. In a hurry to
get to my first Test hundred, I became over ambitious against Gavin Robertson’s
off-spin. I stood upright and tried to cut the ball even though it wasn’t there for
the stroke. I ended up nicking to Ian Healy behind the stumps. Azzu bhai made
his customary century in Kolkata and Anil then took over in the second innings
as we won the Test by an innings and 219 runs to take a winning 2–0 lead in the
three-match series.
The last Test was in Bangalore, and despite Sachin’s 177 and a 24-run first-
innings lead, we lost the dead rubber by eight wickets. My personal contribution
was 6 and 15, enough to be dropped for the one-off Test against Zimbabwe in
the winter in Harare.
Cold as these words are, I am not sure if they convey the turmoil in my
mind. I was in one day, out the next, as if propelled by a revolving door that
either pushed me to the outside, or fortuitously dragged me in, according to its
whims. A consistent long run would have allowed me to play myself in or out
permanently. This game of musical chairs was doing nothing for my morale. I
had bowed to the demands of the team and accepted the role of an opener, but I
felt that the selectors and the team management always considered me a stopgap
despite my best efforts. Every time I underperformed in a couple of innings, the
axe hovered over me because I was forever considered the ‘non-regular’ opener.
I admit that I should have done more as an opener. Virender Sehwag, for
instance, excelled when he was promoted to open the batting in Tests because he
stuck to the same game plan that had brought him there. I just wasn’t myself. I
didn’t trust my abilities or have the confidence as an opener that I had as a
middle-order batsman. Because of the change in my mindset and because I was
trying to think like an opener, I curbed my natural instincts and style. It was not
surprising that once I altered my approach and became more conservative, the
results also changed. If I had got a 167 in my first or second Test as an opener,
who knows, my approach towards opening might have been different.
As surely as day follows night, the chop for the Zimbabwe Test was
succeeded by a return to the team, this time for the winter tour of New Zealand
in 1998. The first Test in Dunedin was to be my comeback because Jadeja had
sprained his leg, but the match had to be abandoned due to incessant rain. So as
to not disappoint the crowd, we played an exhibition day-night 50-over game
with a red ball, and I made 82. Dropped for the second Test, I had been told by
Azzu bhai, back as the captain, and Anshuman Gaekwad, our coach, that I would
play in the next Test in Hamilton. On the morning of the match, after we arrived
at the ground, I was informed that I wasn’t in the eleven. Here we go again!

Almost immediately after we returned from New Zealand, we prepared for the
mother of all battles. Pakistan were in India for the first Test series between the
sides in our country in more than 11 years, and the hype was enormous. We were
fancied to come up trumps in our backyard, but Pakistan had a fantastic bowling
attack spearheaded by Wasim Akram and Waqar Younis, with the crafty off-
spinner Saqlain Mushtaq capable of being a genuine threat to even the best
players of the turning ball.
The first Test in Chennai, in January 1999, was my first game for the
country in 10 months, since the Bangalore defeat to Australia. I had a new
opening partner in Sadagopan Ramesh, the gifted left-hander from Tamil Nadu.
Ramesh showed no sign of nerves as he took on the two Ws on debut and pulled
off a flurry of boundaries. While you could never relax for a moment against
Wasim and Waqar, I felt in control until, by the eighth or ninth over, the ball
began to reverse alarmingly.
I had faced reverse swing before, but not at this pace and bowled with such
skill, and most definitely not so early in the innings. It was a totally different ball
game, the little red orb darting this way and that, as if magically propelled by
exceptional fingers and wondrous wrists. Had I not been at the receiving end, I
would have appreciated what Wasim and Waqar were doing. As it turned out, it
wasn’t just me that they felled. In a Test match that will go down as one of the
classics, Sachin braved a terrible back and single-handedly kept India in the
game as we chased 271 for victory. We were in a bad way at 82 for 5, after
Sourav was adjudged caught even though the ball appeared to bounce twice,
when Sachin was joined by Nayan Mongia. For more than two hours, they raised
our hopes while adding 136. Nayan held his end up while Sachin was on top of
his game, even though he was in extreme pain and under enormous pressure. His
136 is as good an innings as I have seen. It was a pity that it had to come in a
losing cause as we lost our last four wickets for four runs, to go down by 12
runs. For the second time in two years, I saw Sachin weep like a child in the
dressing room. And none of us knew how to comfort him. The sporting Chennai
crowd applauded the Pakistanis on their victory lap while we were distraught at
having snatched defeat from the jaws of victory.
We didn’t have much time to lick our wounds because the next Test was
four days away, at Kotla. This time, we got our own back, thanks to the genius of
Anil Kumble. Ramesh continued the impressive start to his Test career with half-
centuries in both innings, and there were enough contributions from the rest as
we set Pakistan a target of more than 400 to win the game. For nearly two hours,
as Saeed Anwar and Shahid Afridi put on 100 for the first wicket, we wondered
if that would suffice. It turned out to be more than enough once Anil got into the
act.
Anil is the greatest competitor I have played with or against. I’ve never
known him to take a backward step or shy away from a challenge. He would be
itching for the ball on day one of a Test match in England or South Africa, on
pitches that had nothing for the spinner. Even if things weren’t rolling his way,
he would bound in ball after ball, always thinking wicket. He had the aggression
of the fast bowler and the guile of a spinner. It is no accident that he signed off as
India’s highest wicket-taker in Tests.
Once he ended the pesky opening stand by having Afridi caught behind,
Anil got on a roll like he often does. The wickets started to tumble, but it wasn’t
until Pakistan were eight down that we realised that Anil was on to something
special. He had been our match-winner at home for so long that we almost took
it for granted that he would bowl us to victory, but when he had eight of eight,
the prospect of emulating Jim Laker and picking up all ten in an innings loomed
large. For the first time in his life, Srinath bowled not to take wickets, and there
was one moment of alarm when Ramesh ran back to try and hold on to a catch
off his bowling that was met with the most unparliamentary words from the
bowler himself! Anil had done so much for Indian cricket that we wanted him to
get all ten more than he probably did. I consider myself extremely privileged to
have taken the catch at short leg to dismiss Wasim, Anil’s tenth wicket of the
innings. We all converged on the hero, who seemed the calmest person on the
field. Even today, I get goose bumps when I recall that Perfect Ten.
We had shown our character to bounce back from the Chennai heartbreak
and level the series, but I had issues of my own. In both the innings at Kotla, I
had got out bowled by Wasim, not having judged the trajectory of the ball either
time. Something was off, I was certain. I decided to get my eyes checked back in
Hyderabad, in the 10-day gap before the next game, the Asian Test
Championship showdown in Kolkata.
Sure enough, the eye test confirmed my fears. I had astigmatism, which is
essentially a problem with how the eye focuses light. My vision was getting
blurred in overcast conditions. I would have to use contact lenses as a corrective
measure. But now that I knew what the problem was, I could work towards
overcoming it.
It wasn’t just my eyes that I got tested during that trip to Hyderabad. I
realised that getting out bowled so often wasn’t only to do with my vision. A
massive technical flaw had crept into my game, its origin stemming from the
initial back-and-across movement that I had adopted from the tour of the West
Indies.
As I mentioned earlier, my head was falling over to the off-side.
Consequently, my left leg was going across and outside the off stump, and I was
playing around my front pad with an angled bat. The subsequent bat-pad gap left
me susceptible to the ball coming in, which was often expertly exploited by the
great Wasim and which explained why I was getting bowled through the gate so
often.
I reworked my technique, going into the second stance, which would
remain my ally till my retirement. It was my batting coach back home, Ashok
Singh, who suggested this. Without getting too technical, the second stance
entails widening the gap between the legs when the bowler is about to load, so
that you have greater stability. This meant that from my original stance, I moved
the left foot a little forward and the right foot a little back. Then, as the bowler
was about to release the ball, I went back and across. My head was in a better
position, on top of the ball and not falling over.
Because I prepared early for my body to react, I also got a fraction of a
second more to get into position. While that really helped me in the following
Test, I knew that it was important to get the timing of the movement right. The
success of the movement depends entirely on its timing. If I got that wrong, then
even against the slowest of bowlers, I would be late on the ball.
Ashok bhai and I worked incessantly on the modified technique in the
short time at his disposal. We used a small corridor in his house as the pitch, and
he bowled left-handed with scuffed up plastic balls. The more I batted, the more
comfortable I felt. Balls that were previously scurrying off to mid-wicket were
now going towards mid-on, where I intended them to go.
Armed with new contact lenses and a new stance, I went to Kolkata feeling
good. After a first-innings failure, I made 67 in the second, playing Wasim and
reverse swing a lot better. One shot I will never forget is digging out an in-
dipping yorker from Wasim and hitting it through mid-wicket for four. It was the
clearest sign that my head was still and in a good position, otherwise I would
have been rapped on my pads, like I had been in the first Test.
That’s obviously not the only reason I remember that game. On the first
morning, we had Pakistan on the mat at 26 for 6 as Srinath ran amok. Pakistan
rallied through Moin Khan to reach 185 and our hopes of a big lead evaporated
when Shoaib Akhtar produced two excellent yorkers off consecutive deliveries
to pack off both Rahul and Sachin. Our 38-run lead evaporated in no time as
Saeed Anwar produced a classic, unbeaten 188 out of 316, to single-handedly
keep his team in the hunt.
That left us needing 279 for victory, and we started brightly with Ramesh
and myself putting on 108 for the first wicket. I had just settled down in the
dressing room after being dismissed by Saqlain when Eden erupted. Sachin had
been run out at the bowler’s end after an unfortunate collision with Shoaib. His
bat got stuck between Shoaib’s legs and, when the ball hit the stumps, it was just
short of the crease. As per the rule, he was out but many felt that Pakistan’s
appeal for the dismissal was against the spirit of the game. The Kolkata crowd
was so incensed that it threw missiles on the field. Eventually, the stadium had to
be cleared and the match was played to empty stands.
It was downhill from the time Sachin was dismissed, and Wasim and
Shoaib bowled us out for 232. Pakistan, 26 for 6 inside the first hour of the Test,
had pulled off an incredible 46-run heist.
We went to Colombo immediately afterwards, for our next game in the
Asian Test Championship, and piled on the runs, even though I only managed
11. But Mahela Jayawardene batted for 11 hours for 242 as Sri Lanka kept us on
the park for nearly two days. I badly needed a score, but I had little in the tank
when we went out to bat a second time. I had never fielded for that long,
especially in the enervating humidity of Colombo. The dressing room was a long
way beyond the boundary rope, located on the first floor. My legs felt heavy
walking up the steps, and everything after that was a rush. You have just ten
minutes to have a quick wash, don your gear, get your mind in order, and get
back out to bat again. Until then, I had never felt uncomfortable with this
routine. But the humidity, the length of the Sri Lankan innings and the fact that I
had spent long hours crouching at short leg and silly point had taken a massive
toll. I started questioning the wisdom of opening the batting, and I appreciated
the demands on an opener even more. I somehow hung in there for two hours but
had only 25 runs to show for my labour. I had got eight innings in a row and
managed just one half-century. This time, even I couldn’t complain if I got the
drop. I couldn’t stop asking myself—had I already played my last Test?

At the start of the 1999–2000 season, as India played New Zealand in a three-
Test series at home, I was surplus to requirements. Instead, in September 1999, I
led the India A team that played Australia A in a limited-overs series in Los
Angeles, on dangerous pitches that did little for the confidence of players on
either side. Back home, I was scoring runs once again, including a century for
Hyderabad, batting at No. 3 against Goa. It was during this match that the team
for the tour of Australia was announced, and the selectors felt I had done enough
to merit a recall. As if in celebration, I made another hundred in the Ranji
Trophy against Andhra, on a slow, low surface at the Gymkhana in
Secunderabad. I played as an opener in preparation for what lay ahead.
When we arrived in Australia, I racked up one more century, this time in a
warm-up game against Queensland at the Gabba, batting at No. 3 behind Devang
Gandhi and Ramesh. It was a strong attack—with quick men Andy Bichel,
Adam Dale and Scott Muller, apart from Symonds, the off-spinner—on a pacy
surface where, apart from Sachin, the rest struggled. I unleashed 20 fours on my
way to 113. Sachin was equally aggressive during his 83, but with the exception
of Ramesh who made 43, no one else touched 20. What gave me great
satisfaction was that in the space of ten days, I had made runs on a typical Indian
track and then followed it up with another substantial knock on a spicy
Australian strip, against a high-class bowling unit. I went to Adelaide in a
relaxed and confident frame of mind but courted twin failures in the first Test as
the one-drop batsman. When Devang was dropped for the Melbourne Test, I
returned to opening the batting but had little to show for it. My contributions
were 5 and 1 as we were well beaten for the second time in the series.

This entire journey played itself out as I lay on the floor in our hotel room in
Sydney, a day before the final Test of the series. As I jerked awake, I told myself
that I hadn’t come this far without reason. I recalled the essence of the Gita
—nishkama karma, reposing your faith in Lord Krishna and doing your job
without worrying about the outcome. I could feel the confidence return.
Even then, I was so sure I had done everything possible to play myself out
of the team that when we warmed up for play the next morning, I automatically
went to give catches, like I had in Cape Town in 1996. This time, Sourav came
up to me and said, ‘Lax, better take a few and bat a bit, you could be going out to
face the new ball in 45 minutes.’ I said a silent prayer and decided in that instant
that I was done with trying to be the ‘correct’ Test opener who was expected to
bat out time. I had tried that approach and it hadn’t worked, so it was only fair
that I go back to what had helped me reach this level.
It was with positivity that I strode out alongside MSK Prasad when Sachin
won the toss. I wasn’t going to get bogged down. I was going to play my shots.
If I felt the ball was there to hit, I was going to be hit it, never mind if it was the
first over.
As it turned out, I made a miserable 7 in more than an hour and a half. I
played out 60 deliveries, but on a damp pitch and in overcast conditions against
Glenn McGrath, Damien Fleming and Brett Lee, I simply couldn’t get going.
McGrath finally put me out of my misery. We were shot out for 150 and I had
more than 10 hours to reflect on the first innings as Australia replied with 552.
I remember standing at slip and telling Sourav, ‘It has always been my
dream to score a hundred in Australia, and I reckon I have only one more
chance, in the second innings. I am not sure I will play for India ever again if I
don’t make a hundred in this Test.’
This state of mind was a constant in the three years that I opened the
batting. I had started off visualising playing in front of packed houses, scoring
heavily and helping my team, my country, win matches. But I hadn’t come
anywhere close to it.
Desperately trying to summon up some positive energy, I reminded myself
that aggression had to be my ally when we began our second innings, more than
400 runs behind. But McGrath and Fleming offered no scoring opportunities. On
top of that, I was smacked on the helmet by a quick McGrath bouncer that
followed me as I tried to sway out of its way.
Like it had in Cape Town when Donald hit me, this shocked me out of my
reverie. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t shaken up, but since my childhood, I
had always scored heavily when in physical discomfort. McGrath followed up
that bouncer with a half-volley that I put away for four, and I was up and
running.
When I was caught at first slip by Shane Warne on 54 off a McGrath no-
ball, I felt that some divine power had chosen to sit on my shoulder and drive me
forward. The strokes cascaded off the bat, which felt like an extension of my
arms. There were a couple of edges that streaked to the fence, but most of my
strokes were authentic and precise. There was no desperation in my approach.
Australia had set attacking fields with several men in catching positions, and that
opened up big gaps in the outfield, which I cashed in on.
I wanted to prove a point to myself, show that I was capable of getting runs
at the highest level, against any opposition and under any conditions. I took
everything else out of the equation. I didn’t think about past failures, I didn’t
worry about what the future held. I was in the zone. I allowed my instincts to
take over, and they didn’t let me down. I played like I did for Hyderabad in the
Ranji Trophy, with a free and clear mind.
On that quick pitch, I realised that there were so many shots in my
repertoire that I had subconsciously put away. The blow to the helmet was
instrumental in sharpening my reflexes, and everything else that followed. Out
came the drive, the pull, the punch, the cut, the straight drive, the wristy flick.
When Warne came on, I stepped out and hit him over mid-wicket, over mid-on,
against prodigious turn. After a long time, I was playing the ball and not the
bowler.
When I became a Test centurion for the first time, I whipped off my helmet
and threw my hands up in the air. The look on my face told the story.
Satisfaction and relief competed for centre-stage, and I finally, truly believed that
I belonged in international cricket. In some corner of my mind was also the
thought that I had bought myself some time. I finally had a three-figure knock.
From time to time, I pull out a video of that innings just to relive the
drama. There is no better feeling than the appreciation of your mates and peers.
The Australian players applauded me as I walked off the ground after being
dismissed for 167 off 198 balls. Brett Lee, my good friend, running up to
congratulate me after having me caught behind, and the reception I received
from our dressing room where everyone was on their feet, are memories that I
will cherish forever.
I addressed the media at the end of the game and got the feeling that they
were all genuinely happy for me. As I was walking back to our sanctuary,
someone tapped me on my shoulder. When I looked up, he shook my hand,
clasped my shoulder and said, ‘Young man, you made my day.’ It was John
Howard, the Australian prime minister!
Sachin gifted me a pair of Oakley sunglasses to show his appreciation. I
knew I owed my selection for the tour to him—he made no secret of the fact that
he was a big admirer of my talent, technique and mental strength. Before the
warm-up game against Queensland at the Gabba, he had told me, ‘You go out
and enjoy yourself.’ I had finally enjoyed myself and Sachin was delighted for
me. Kapil paaji, our coach, sent me a big bottle of champagne that eventually
ended up in Sachin’s room. And the team management convinced the selectors
that I should stay on for the tri-series even though I hadn’t been picked in the
original squad. They got their way, but I couldn’t justify their faith as I had a
forgettable series.
In six innings against Pakistan and Australia, I made just 24 runs while
opening, batting at No. 3 and No. 4. I played out a lot of deliveries—116—for
these frugal returns, and we lost all those matches as we embarrassingly crashed
out of the tournament.

Between the tri-series in Australia and the two-Test series at home against South
Africa was the domestic 50-over Challenger Series in which I was the highest
run-getter. Fresh off this, and the Sydney 167, I was hoping to translate my form
into runs in the first Test in Mumbai. Instead, I managed only 17 and 0 as we
went down in a tight contest. That evening, when I returned from dinner with my
roomie Venkatesh Prasad, I found the phone blinking. There was a voice
message from Rahul. ‘Bad luck, buddy. I am sure you will bounce back
strongly.’ I had no idea why he had left that message, but I had a sinking feeling.
I immediately switched on the TV, anxiously surfed the channels and finally
discovered that I had been dropped for the next Test in Bangalore. Neither the
captain nor the coach had bothered to inform me that I wasn’t needed.
As I was boarding the aircraft to return to Hyderabad, I finally got through
to Sachin. All he said was, ‘Just keep working hard, Lachi.’ Only that, nothing
else. I landed in Hyderabad, still furious at the turn of events. I had every reason
to believe that I deserved a longer run in the wake of the Sydney century, yet I
was on the sidelines after just one more Test. It was happening far too often for
my liking. That there was no communication from the decision-makers was even
more frustrating. I had reached a point where I needed to make some decisions
myself.
My uncle and I sat down and discussed my career threadbare. We analysed
the ups and downs, we chronicled the number of times I had been dropped and
recalled. There was no discernible pattern except that whenever I failed in a
couple of matches, or whenever we came up against what was considered
‘tough’ opposition, I was left out of the squad because I was, after all these
years, still a non-regular opener.
At the end of the chat, we both decided that enough was enough. I would
not open the batting for India again.
It wasn’t a lightly made call. The middle order was crammed, and there
was no guarantee that even a mountain of domestic runs would earn me a recall.
But I was fine with that. The important thing was to play the game for the reason
I had first held a bat in my hands—to enjoy myself, to have fun.
In the desire to establish myself in the national team, even if it meant
batting in an unfamiliar position with little backing, I seemed to have lost sight
of the bigger picture. The tour of Australia was a genuine eye-opener. In India,
we have always treated first-class cricket as a stepping stone, as a means to
higher honours. Not too many of us have played for our states with the respect
and sense of fulfilment the game deserves.
But just looking at the Australian guys I knew so well, good friends like
Lee and Symonds, made me understand that while it is laudable to aspire to play
for the country, it is possible at the same time to have fun while playing for your
state, while playing for any team for that matter. It struck me that even after
three-and-a-half years as an India cricketer, I didn’t really know the meaning of
playing cricket.
That’s when I made up my mind to play the game on my own terms. I told
myself that I would play like a king, not to prove or establish myself. I knew that
I had the goods—the Gabba hundred and the SCG 167 were evidence enough.
Once that decision was made, my outlook on the game changed. I wanted to
have fun, and I still wanted to win matches for the country. To be in a position to
win matches, it was important that I played consistently. But the classification of
non-regular opener was preventing me from doing so. I had tried my best in that
position, but it hadn’t worked out, and it was pulling me down.
I told myself that from now on, I would lead the life of a normal first-class
cricketer. I would take pride in contributing to Hyderabad cricket, and play for
Indian Airlines, my employers. But I would never open the batting again.
 8
The Hyderabad Boy

The Australia tour changed my outlook towards cricket. Playing for the country
was a massive honour, but it was not the be all and end all of cricket. I had to
stay in the present and enjoy the challenges and charms of the first-class game,
not merely use it as a stepping stone to more widely recognised honours. If, in
the process of helping my team climb the rungs, I did enough to catch the eye of
the national selectors, fantastic.
Armed with this attitude, I set about my goal of steering Hyderabad to the
Ranji Trophy title. For all the talent that Hyderabad had thrown up with stunning
regularity, we had just one title to show, in 1986–87, under MV Narasimha Rao’s
captaincy. We were always there or thereabouts, invariably making it to the
knockout stages and often battling it out in the semi-final, but we were not
spoken of in the same breath as Mumbai or Karnataka or Delhi because we
didn’t win titles.
It was this anomaly that I was desperate to correct. Obviously, several
things need to go right for a team to go all the way, and you need the personnel
that can drive the dream. I sincerely believed that the side we had in 1999–2000
was the most talented, committed and driven Hyderabad team that I had been a
part of.
When I broke into the Hyderabad team in 1993, we had a plethora of
extremely skilled players. But there was no awareness about the importance of
fitness, which was soon to sweep the cricketing landscape. Working out was not
high on anyone’s list of priorities. A few relaxed, cursory laps around the ground
was the only concession. The players relied more on cricketing fitness, while net
sessions were devoted to bashing every ball out of sight rather than working out
the kinks and addressing specific problem areas.
 Arshad Ayub was the captain back in 1993, and he tried his best to instil
discipline and an uncompromising work ethic among his colleagues. But we
didn’t have a trainer, so our fitness routines were basic. We ran two laps of the
Gymkhana Grounds, followed by five 40-metre sprints from the pitch to the
square boundary. After this, we brought out two mats, the players were divided,
and Arshad bhai led the way in stretching and core exercises, accompanied by
muffled laughs and the odd wisecrack.
Once we got this 15-minute session out of the way, it was time for
breakfast—bananas, eggs, milk and tea—after which we had nets. Midway
through the nets, we would adjourn for a break marked by tea from Paradise
restaurant, along with samosas. Another extended net session, and we were
done. We would have been at the ground for close to five hours and in the end, it
would have amounted to only 20 minutes of batting!
During camps and at team meetings, Arshad bhai exhorted us to look
beyond Hyderabad and aspire to play for India. He asked us to emulate our
ambitious peers in other formidable Ranji Trophy teams—Mumbai, Delhi and
Karnataka. He urged us to walk the extra mile if we were desirous of greater
things. Arshad bhai once sat me down and recalled how much he had to struggle
to first get into the Indian team, and then to stay there. For an 18-year-old, it was
precisely the tonic required. Arshad bhai was instrumental in putting the fight
into me, as a batsman and a cricketer.
There was a perception in Indian circles that Hyderabad cricket meant fun
and games, that the players weren’t really serious about pursuing a career in the
sport. The feeling I got, especially when I started to play for India A and then for
India, was that Hyderabadis were perceived to be soft and laidback. Perhaps it
had something to do with how the team reacted to defeat; maybe we didn’t mope
and sulk and openly show our disappointment following losses, but that didn’t
mean we didn’t hurt. The Hyderabad school of cricket has revolved around
playing the game extremely hard and with total passion in the middle, but
leaving it behind once we exit the white line. This approach was misconstrued as
indifference, which is why many of the Hyderabad players didn’t get as many
chances at the zonal level or against visiting teams as they should have.
In my first season with Hyderabad, we had three accomplished, senior
batsmen who had totally different styles and attitudes. Abdul Azeem was a
dasher at the top of the order, blessed with a wide repertoire of strokes that he
played with gay abandon. MV Sridhar was the ultimate accumulator, an expert at
occupying the crease and grinding attacks into the dust. Vivek Jaisimha was
flashy and flamboyant, brilliant to watch because of an innate grace that lay in
his genes. Kanwaljit Singh and Venkatapathi Raju are two of the best spinners I
have ever come across, period. Then, there were the hard-working contributors
such as RA Swaroop and MV Ramanamurthy, who walked that extra mile to
maximise their abilities. Nothing meant more to them than doing well for
Hyderabad, and they produced vintage performances. However, they were never
talked about as often or with as much excitement as players from other parts of
the country who had only 60 per cent of their ability and 80 per cent of their
commitment.
Hyderabad cricket had been labelled as a fun-loving, happy-go-lucky entity
from the 1960s. The rest of the country struggled to see it in any other light even
though the men who had given Hyderabad that identity were all brilliant
performers and wonderful readers of the game, including the legendary Tiger
Pataudi and ML Jaisimha.
Players of my generation were in awe of these stalwarts. We had all heard
stories of their charisma and crowd-pulling power. Our seniors had painted vivid
pictures of their style and chutzpah on the field of play, and the tremendous fun
they had off it. They played cricket because they loved it, and they were
extremely proficient at what they did. Just because they were not overtly
aggressive didn’t mean anything. Once the day’s play was over, teammates and
opposition alike would assemble either at Jaisimha sir’s house or at a club, and
discuss cricket over a beer or two. GR Viswanath sir, one of my heroes, has often
spoken of how much he learnt in his formative cricketing days from merely
listening to these giants talk cricket. I was fortunate that, early in my career, I
had the good fortune of interacting with Jaisimha sir. He left an indelible impact
with his incisive dissection of the game and his gift of cutting to the chase.
I would be less than honest if I said that all this was not playing on my
mind as I returned to the Hyderabad setup after being dropped following the
Mumbai Test against South Africa in early 2000. I was hurt, disappointed and
angry, but I also told myself that I would channel these emotions to serve
Hyderabad cricket as best as I could. An India comeback was the farthest thing
from my mind. I had no intention of trying to force the selectors’ hands, even if I
piled up the runs.
I have always believed in setting goals, no matter what level I played at.
Individual goals, team goals. The goal for the 1999–2000 season was
straightforward—win the Ranji Trophy for Hyderabad. Nothing else mattered.
The season had gone well for me, both before the tour of Australia when I
made hundreds in the South Zone league against Goa and Andhra, and before the
Mumbai Test, for which I warmed up with another century against Bihar in a
Super League game. Now I was available to Hyderabad for the rest of the
season, and I wanted to make that count.
 Admittedly, I wasn’t exactly brimming with joy when I returned to the
Hyderabad dressing room. It wasn’t so much that I had been dropped, it was the
lack of communication and being summarily cast aside like a used rag that
angered me no end.
My Hyderabad teammates welcomed me back with open arms, but also
with empathy and understanding. I had grown as a cricketer in front of Arshad
bhai, Kanwal bhai and Venkat, and they took it upon themselves to lift my spirts.
Arshad bhai took me aside and said, ‘Laxman, you have always done well for
Hyderabad, and that is what has taken you to the Indian team. Forget about India
for now, focus on Hyderabad. You have to play long innings and be the man
around whom the batting revolves. And the only way to do that is to not look at
the scoreboard but to just bat for long periods. Don’t go into your shell, express
yourself. Only then will you be successful. Play to the merit of the ball, take
everything else out of the equation. Do what you did when you were a young
lad, enjoy yourself.’ It was simple advice but it made a lot of sense; it was also
very comforting, given the mental space I was in.
Kanwal bhai and Venkat had similar things to say. ‘Remember, the reason
you started to play cricket was because it was fun. Don’t allow negative
emotions to take control of you.’ Their patience and understanding at a difficult
time immediately cleared my head. These were men I looked up to, and to have
their backing meant the world to me.
It helped, too, that I had a bunch of friends the same age as I was, who
were also in the team. There was Parth Satwalekar, my childhood buddy. There
was A Nanda Kishore, the phlegmatic opening batsman. Narenderpal Singh, the
fun-loving fast bowler who was always ready with a joke. And Daniel Manohar,
the elegant left-hander with a bright future. They knew that I needed tough love.
And they didn’t hold back.
Our first game on my return was in New Delhi against Railways. I had
been reserved and aloof at the practice sessions, extremely serious and still
trying to come to grips with my disappointment. My body language exuded
‘touch-me-not’. But my friends refused to walk on eggshells around me.
We went out for a meal the night before the game, and the message they
put out to me was that while they were all supportive of me, they wanted me to
forget about what had happened with the Indian team and focus on what lay
ahead. ‘What you should be doing now is helping all of us achieve our dream of
winning the trophy,’ they said. As the evening progressed, I felt more and more
relaxed. I could feel the tenseness evaporating, and soon I was actively
participating in the conversation. I shared my India experiences with the guys, I
told them how the Australian tour had impressed on me the importance of
respecting our performances in domestic cricket. ‘Being a first-class cricketer is
also a big thing,’ I said. To which Parth replied, ‘Welcome back, Lachi!’

Until the mid-1990s, we in Hyderabad went with the flow, relying on our skills.
It wasn’t until 1995, when Ramakanth came into the team as a physio and
trainer, that our work ethic changed. Ramakanth was himself an athlete and
trained at the Lal Bahadur Shastri Stadium. The more I watched him work out,
the more impressed I was, and I soon began to train alongside him. I was keen
that he should join the HCA, and found an ally in Radheshyam Sharma, who ran
the Continental Cricket Club, one of the teams in the HCA league. Once Rama
came in, our training sessions were a lot more structured, even if several of the
players had no real understanding of fitness.
Ramakanth and Azzu bhai together changed our attitude to our bodies.
Azzu bhai was so busy with his international commitments that he could play no
more than a match or two for Hyderabad each season. Whenever he was with the
team, we watched his routine carefully and tried to follow it for the rest of the
season. For instance, he did 2000 sit-ups, and once he left, we copied that. But
when Azzu bhai came back the next year, he laughed at us for those 2000 sit-
ups, pointing out that 200 were more than enough!
I hung on to his every word, every action. I watched him prepare—gear in
place and shipshape. His commitment was astonishing, and he taught me the
value of maximising time at practice. When he practised with us between his
India duties, he was done in an hour and a half without skipping any aspect—40
minutes of fitness, 30 minutes of batting, 20 minutes of catching and fielding. He
would still have time for banter and advice, but the intensity of his workouts
appealed to me. When I became a regular in the Indian team and occasionally
joined my Hyderabad mates for practice, I made sure that I put in an intense 90
minutes instead of ending up with 20 minutes of batting after a five-hour session.
Once I made my India debut, there was a sweeping change in the mindset
of the Hyderabad players. Several of my young teammates now believed that if
they worked hard enough and dreamt big, they too could play for the country. ‘If
Laxman can, why can’t I?’ became the motto.
Being with the Indian team had exposed me to different training methods,
and I wanted to share them with my friends. All of us desired to make
Hyderabad the best team in India, and towards that end, we embarked on a
rigorous training schedule from the summer of 1997–98. I had gleaned enough
from Paddy Upton, the fitness trainer for the South African team, and we put
schedules in place accordingly. We were to have two fitness sessions every day,
apart from skill sessions at the nets, beginning as early as five in the morning.
Some 20 km outside Hyderabad, in Ammaguda village, we did step-
training at the 470-step climb to reach the famous dargah, and we did the trip
four, sometimes five times in a row. Halfway through, we would double over in
pain and start throwing up, but we didn’t allow that to be a deterrent. Other days,
we trooped across to the Mahendra Hills for hill-running. Together we practised
yoga; we all learnt transcendental meditation. We did everything possible to
become fitter cricketers. We believed Hyderabad could win the Ranji Trophy,
and wanted to tick every preparatory box to make that possible.
The Hyderabad dressing room was a great example of camaraderie and
bonhomie. There was no senior-junior disparity. Everyone was fair game, and
the biggest pranksters were Doc Sridhar, Kanwal bhai, Rajesh Yadav and
Venkat. Every day they would pick a target and play practical jokes—sometimes
they didn’t even spare each other—and that immediately lightened the mood.
Any youngster who came in anxious was quickly made to feel at home. Doc was
a wonderful captain and a great man-manager. I haven’t met anyone more
accomplished at taking youngsters under his wing and getting them to play
above themselves. The best captain I have played under, Doc was also the
backbone of the team with his untiring occupation of the crease and his love for
big scores.
Whenever we played our home games at the beautiful Gymkhana Grounds
in Secunderabad, the lunch spread wouldn’t have been out of place at a wedding.
We all tucked into the rich food—I remember observing the relish with which
my teammates devoured their biryani—and it was only when I started to play for
India A and Board President’s XIs, and then India, that I realised the need to be
disciplined about diet, particularly on match days. Several of my most hilarious
memories of the Hyderabad dressing room revolve around lunch. While some of
my mates were in the habit of picking up a fresh plate for every new helping,
still others would leave the field just as the interval came up, to ensure that they
weren’t denied the juiciest pieces of meat!
We youngsters delighted in being a part of this wonderful setup, but
somewhere along the line, we stopped having fun once we got into the middle.
We were so focused on the game that we forgot how to enjoy ourselves, and we
weren’t even aware of this until Jaisimha sir pointed it out to us when he took
over as the coach at the start of the 1996–97 season.
‘You guys don’t understand the meaning of cricket, of being cricketers,’ he
said in his rich, deep, captivating tone. ‘You are taking cricket way too seriously.
It is a game—you have to love it, not be afraid of it. Cricketers are supposed to
be bindaas, flamboyant. Look at you all, approaching it as if it’s a matter of life
and death.’
He was a patient man with a vast reservoir of knowledge that we could all
tap into. Over long sessions, he stressed the importance of not being obsessed
with cricket. It was a valuable lesson; the line between passion and obsession is
a thin but crucial one and if you are not careful, the joy can quickly go out of
your game.
During our travels, by train as was the norm then, or when we played,
Jaisimha sir was the centre of attraction. People magically appeared by his side,
for a shake of his hand and an autograph. Some of them reminded him of the
knocks he had played or recalled one of the many incidents involving him and
his mates. It was obvious that people were fond of him. Once the day’s play was
over, he regaled us with stories. With a drink in hand, he reeled off anecdotes,
most of them about cricket. He talked about his friends (the entire team!), about
their preparation and their approach, but seldom about himself.
Jaisimha sir had been a giant in international cricket, and was much loved
and revered in Hyderabad. We were all in awe of him, but he had no airs. Aware
that we would be intimidated by his stature, he went out of his way to make
everyone feel comfortable. He was always a step ahead of the game, and even
for us newbies, it wasn’t hard to see what a star he must have been during his
playing days.
When I was dropped from the Indian team, Jaisimha sir worked hard to
restore my confidence. He understood my psyche and knew which buttons to
push when. He suggested subtle changes to my technique without advocating a
total overhaul, and allowed me to try out these alterations and adopt them, but
only when I felt comfortable. He was a guide and a mentor more than a coach,
‘Uncle’ to all of us and one of the warmest, most giving souls that I have met.
In March 1999, after India’s Test matches against Pakistan at home and the
one-off Test in Colombo against Sri Lanka, I returned to play for Hyderabad. I
hadn’t made a lot of runs when we travelled to Baroda for a Ranji Trophy Super
League fixture. I was batting in one of the two nets, and clearly struggling. After
watching me for five minutes, Jaisimha sir stopped the bowler in his run-up and
pulled me out of the nets. He took me for a walk around the ground, and gently
told me that he too had been a reluctant opener for the Indian team.
During that walk, he reminded me of what I had done when I was
successful. When he took over as coach, he had asked me about my preparations
towards getting a big score. I had told him that I didn’t look at the scoreboard or
worry about the runs. I just played session by session, I played time, and enjoyed
the process of batting long.
‘Are you doing that now?’ he asked. ‘Your mind is wavering a lot, you are
thinking about too many things. You are not having fun. You are placing too
much emphasis on technique, on doing well for India. You are not watching the
ball closely, so you are not reacting quickly.’
Having broached the mental aspect, he then made a technical point. ‘If you
don’t watch the ball closely, not only do you move late, your head tends to fall.
That leaves you susceptible to the ball coming in.’
Then he threw down a challenge. ‘It doesn’t matter how many runs you
get,’ he said. ‘My challenge as a coach to an India player is—can you bat the
entire day and not get out? I don’t care about the runs you score, come back not
out at the end of the day. And remember, the changes in your mindset and
technique are very minute. Don’t pay too much attention to minute changes—
register the message and then forget about it.’ Jaisimha sir handled different
players differently. He felt I would best rise to a challenge.
We completed our walk around the ground and he asked me to go back to
the nets and have fun. The next 20 minutes were awesome. I experienced the
satisfaction of hitting the ball well, and felt an upsurge in confidence. After
Baroda posted 439, I got to bat midway through the second day. With Jaisimha
sir’s challenge still fresh in my mind, I didn’t even go looking for runs. I batted
on until being dismissed by Swaroop, my former Hyderabad teammate. I
occupied the crease for 609 minutes, faced 400 balls, and made 219 with 27
fours. Runs against my name, the credit against Jaisimha sir’s.
Whenever he was on a cricket field, he was only in whites, neatly pressed
and spotless. He used to say that cricket was his life, it was his love. ‘I respect
the game, that’s why I always wear my whites. I feel very proud to be able to
don the whites.’ His untimely demise in 1999 left a huge void and deeply
affected those of us who were involved with Hyderabad cricket.

When I made my Ranji debut in February 1993, Jyothi Prasad sir was the coach,
and Manohar sir took over from him. That made my transition from a club
cricketer to a first-class cricketer smooth, because both of them had been a part
of my journey at the St John’s coaching camp, and knew my game as well as
anyone else. Later, Vijay Mohanraj sir took charge, before Jaisimha sir, and he
brought a whole new dimension to our thinking.
He had played in Mumbai, alongside some of the biggest names in Indian
cricket, and he sought to instil that ‘never-give-up’ attitude in Hyderabad.
Himself a top batsman, he emphasised batting long. The khadoos approach that
is synonymous with Mumbai became a part of my kitbag from the time Vijay sir
became the coach, but he was also clear that I must not compromise on flair.
In 1999–2000, Arshad bhai the coach managed what Arshad bhai the
captain could not. While he had stressed on fitness during his playing days, he
walked the talk as coach by bringing in a specialist trainer. We started to have
intense sessions, and soon enough, our fitness standards improved visibly. With a
generational shift, the players also became more informed and disciplined. For
Hyderabad cricket, that was a seismic change.
The shift happened in other avenues too. Doc had been the fulcrum around
which the batting had revolved for so long, and imperceptibly, I joined him as a
key cog in the Hyderabad batting wheel. Among the young guns, I probably
became the unofficial leader after I played for India. When I was away on
international duty, NP, Nanda and Vanka Pratap took over the leadership role—
we had all started our careers when Arshad bhai was the captain—and the four
of us became the bridge between generations. Once Doc and Azeem bhai retired,
Daniel Manohar came in, other youngsters arrived, and we became default
mentors even though we were very young ourselves. We were all driven, we all
wanted Hyderabad to become the best side it could be, if not the best team in the
country.

I have always held that of all the Hyderabad teams that I played in, the batch of
1999–2000 was the best. I don’t say that just because of our performance in the
Ranji Trophy that season. There was great quality in the side, but there was also
steel and aggression, which you could see in the body language of the players.
We weren’t loud or boorish, but we exuded intent and desire. Everyone was
internally driven to do their best for Hyderabad and I believe we did well
because we were so focused on our task. The team was expressive and unafraid
to show that it was up for a fight, and every tough situation threw up a new hero.
No one was satisfied with one or two good performances, everyone wanted to
achieve excellence.
By then, Jaisimha sir had passed away. We wanted to win the trophy for
him. If we needed any extra incentive at all, it was this. There was a purpose in
everything we did, and we were quietly confident that we had the mettle to go all
the way.
 As the season unfolded, I settled down to my task of driving the team
forward. I had gotten a grip on my disappointment. That wasn’t going to be a
distraction. Individual milestones didn’t matter anymore. I hardly acknowledged
a half-century, and if I got a hundred, I looked at it as just the first step taken.
Midway through the season, Doc announced his retirement and Azzu bhai was
away on India duty, so I felt I owed it to the team to shoulder additional
responsibility and set myself up as the point around which the batting unit, if not
the entire team, revolved.
The runs flowed, and attractively at that, even if I say so myself. We
marched to the quarter-final where we ran into Uttar Pradesh in cold Kanpur, on
a seaming track against an experienced domestic attack. I had to knuckle down
and grind it out, and I did so for seven hours to make 128 out of 291. Uttar
Pradesh obviously were more at home, and even though Kanwal bhai got six
wickets, they replied with 362. We had no option but to erase the deficit and put
up a sizeable target with elimination staring us in the face. I had to be less
circumspect and lead the way, and I was delighted with how I responded.
Boundaries flowed off my bat as I raced to 177 off just 241 deliveries and
remained unbeaten. Our declaration at 381 for 5 gave us enough time to have a
go at them, and this time Venkat responded with a six-for as we pulled off an
excellent win by 92 runs.
It gave us the boost we needed going into the semi-final against a strong
Karnataka side in Bangalore. Anil and Rahul were both unavailable, but
Karnataka still had a tremendous attack in Venkatesh Prasad, Dodda Ganesh,
Mansur Ali Khan and Sunil Joshi. Their batting was also mighty—J Arunkumar,
Barrington Rowland, the prolific Vijay Bharadwaj, Thilak Naidu. We had a fight
on our hands, but we believed we had the team to get past them, even in their
own den.
I was eyeing a big one, taking the onus on myself even though Azzu bhai
was also in the eleven. In a bid to impose myself, I stepped out and took on
Joshi, popping up a simple catch to mid-on. Somehow, Barrington put it down. I
should have been back in the hut for 30. Instead, I would go on to make my
highest first-class score. On such small passages do fortunes change
dramatically.
After being dropped, I realised I had made a mistake, not in my attitude but
in my shot selection. I told myself that I would play my natural and attacking
game with the bigger goal in mind, and that I wouldn’t allow myself to get
bogged down. Especially against Joshi, I stepped out repeatedly and hit him with
and against the turn, along the ground and in the air. I raised my bat to the
dressing room as I ticked off the milestones—50, 100, 150, 200, 250, 300. Azzu
bhai too made a hundred, and I thoroughly enjoyed batting with him.
I went to stumps on day two at 346, within striking distance of Doc’s all-
time Hyderabad record of 366. It was impossible not to think of that number
overnight—till date, it remains the third highest first-class score by an Indian.
When we arrived at the ground on the third morning, I was stunned to see Doc,
recently retired, outside our dressing room. He had predicted a very good career
for me when I was dismissed for zero on my Ranji debut, and now, he had driven
through the night from Hyderabad because he wanted to see me break his record.
It touched me beyond words. A pleasurable pain ran through my body. Doc had
been an older brother and mentor, and his appearance after a 550-km overnight
drive signified to me the bonding and closeness that was such an endearing trait
of Hyderabad cricket.
Destiny, though, has its own way of functioning, and Doc’s record
remained intact as I was dismissed on day three for 353. I was too exhausted to
be disappointed, and only wished I had made more runs to ensure we put the
total beyond Karnataka’s reach. In the event, 711 proved more than sufficient as
we powered into the final.
Like the quarters and the semis, the final too was an away game for us,
against a redoubtable Mumbai side further fortified by Sachin’s presence. It was
my first face-to-face with Sachin since the Mumbai Test.
He walked up to me on the morning of the game when both teams were at
the ground doing warm-ups and we had a long chat. By then, he had quit the
Indian captaincy. He was aware of the string of scores I had pieced together that
season, and encouraged me to keep working hard. ‘You will be back soon, mark
my words,’ he said. I knew he wanted the best for me; when I had been dropped
for the Bangalore Test against South Africa, Sachin himself had seemed helpless.
During the course of our long conversation, he kept reminding me of my
167, he reflected on my tears in Johannesburg in 1997 when I broke my finger.
The Sydney hundred, he said, was a reflection of my true potential. His words
were sincere and well-meaning, but I was not thinking of getting back into the
Indian team. I heard him out because of the enormous respect I had for him. I
wanted to tell him that my runs for Hyderabad were not comeback runs, they had
a bigger purpose. As much as I appreciated his sentiments, whatever he said was
not going to make any difference to my state of mind. I knew I was in an
excellent space, having a grand time with my friends and chasing my dream of
winning the Ranji Trophy for my state. Thoughts of a comeback were, at best, in
the deepest recesses of my mind.
Those five days of the Ranji final were the hottest of my cricketing life. It
was towards the end of April, and even the sea breeze that rippled through the
Wankhede was searing. The humidity was draining. We got Sachin cheaply (he
only made 53!) as Mumbai piled up 376. After losing two quick wickets, Azzu
bhai and I got together in a rescue act. We soon got on top of Ajit Agarkar, Abey
Kuruvilla and Paras Mhambrey, and the runs came rapidly. My contribution in
our stand of 89 was a dominating 46 when I was run out after a mix-up. Azzu
bhai played the ball towards shortish mid-on and set off. I should have turned
down the non-existent single, but responded to his call and was well short of my
ground.
Back in the changing room, I was cursing myself for not scoring more, for
again being run out. I knew that once Mumbai took the lead, there was no way
back for us. Sadly, no one else apart from Azzu bhai topped 30 and we were
bowled out for 195. Sachin made a second-innings century and batted us out of
the game. I rounded off the final with another hundred—my eighth of the season
—but there was a hollow ring to it.
The second-innings 111 boosted my Ranji Trophy runs for the 1999–2000
season to 1,415, an average of 108 per innings. To this date, it remains the most
runs in a single edition. Records, of course, are meant to be broken, and it won’t
be long before someone goes past that number.
It was a memorable season—for reasons good and not so good. It
transformed me, and it exposed me to the formula for batting success, no matter
what the level or the opposition. The one lesson that stayed with me forever was
to not look at the scoreboard. The other was to play more shots and not allow the
bowlers to settle down. And the most significant was to never ever be satisfied at
reaching a milestone. A fifty or a hundred was only a stepping stone, nothing
more than that.
Bitter disappointment stemmed from being so close to the title, yet
finishing so far behind. We had believed we were good enough to go all the way,
that we were no less a side than Mumbai, Karnataka and Delhi, the
acknowledged powerhouses. We had realised that we could not rely on
individual brilliance, we had to fire as a unit. And that’s exactly what we had
done, in every game bar the final.
I don’t have many cricketing regrets, but at the top of that short list is not
winning the Ranji Trophy. It was with that goal in mind that I played one more
season after retiring from Test cricket in 2012. Whatever I am is because of
Hyderabad cricket, and by winning the Ranji Trophy, I wanted to give something
back to my city in my own way. But that wasn’t to be. The Ranji title will remain
a dream unfulfilled.
 9
The Road to No. 1
(Part One)

From the depths of despair, anguish and heartbreak sprang the desire to be the
best team in the world.
By all accounts, 2000 was the worst year for Indian cricket. We had just
returned from Australia, hammered in the Tests and the triangular series that
followed. My personal cup of woe spilled over when I was dropped after the
Mumbai defeat against South Africa. Then came Sachin’s announcement that he
was quitting as captain after the second Test in Bangalore.
The air was filled with uncertainty and dread. And just when you thought
things couldn’t get any worse, came the bombshell.
We were in Bangalore, playing the Ranji Trophy semi-final against
Karnataka. By close of play on day one, 11 April, both Azzu bhai and I had
completed our hundreds and Hyderabad had reached 344 for 2. During the post-
tea session, I noticed unusual activity beyond the boundary rope—numerous
news channel cameras had joined the few photographers who had been at the
ground all day. I was surprised—why had so many media people gathered so
suddenly?
Azzu bhai and I were walking back towards the dressing room at stumps,
and hadn’t even crossed the boundary when microphones were thrust in his face.
Journalists spoke over each other, shooting off questions that I didn’t
comprehend. Azzu bhai was equally clueless. It was only when I reached the
dressing room that Arshad Ayub, our coach, informed me that Hansie Cronje, the
South African captain, had confessed to receiving money from bookmakers, and
had implicated Azzu bhai too. I must confess that I went numb on hearing the
name of my hero and idol mentioned in the same breath as match-fixing.
Match-fixing. It wasn’t a term discussed even in hushed tones within our
dressing room. But when it exploded in our faces in April that year, we didn’t
know how to react. There was stunned disbelief and we were at our lowest ebb
as the Indian cricket team, as a nation.
My mother had never met Hansie, but on seeing him lead South Africa
with such calm and dignity, she had become his fan. To hear that two of my
colleagues, who had touched my own family emotionally, were being dragged
into this episode wasn’t easy to digest.
I have been asked many times how I could not have been aware that
something was amiss. How we, as a team, could feign ignorance when some of
our teammates were allegedly deeply involved. I can’t speak for anyone but
myself. I truly, honestly, had no clue. I was so caught up in my own cricket and
my own world, in my struggles to establish myself in the team, that I had shut
everything out. My focus was obsessively inwards, it was as simple as that.
It wasn’t easy, however, to insulate oneself from the anger and outrage that
the fans felt once Cronje went public. I was then employed with Indian Airlines
as Assistant Manager (Commercial), and among my primary responsibilities was
routine interpersonal interactions. The constant taunts and barbs hurt, but I could
understand the reactions of the fans. ‘You guys have let us down. We trusted
you, we backed you, and look at what you have given us in return,’ they lashed
out. To the fans, we were all equally culpable. We had been tried publicly and
found guilty. Trust went out of the window. We faced a long road back, not just
to win matches but to get back the confidence of our countrymen. And I didn’t
even know if I figured in the selectors’ plans, which left me even more confused,
helpless, and out of joint.

The long off-season gave us a little respite and plenty of time for introspection.
Then came the ICC KnockOut Trophy in Nairobi, and the first indications that
the tide would turn.
India had picked Yuvraj Singh and Zaheer Khan, two young men with
exciting cricketing and crowd-pulling skills. Yuvraj had been the hero earlier in
the year when India won the Under-19 World Cup in Sri Lanka, a powerful
batsman and an electric fielder. Zaheer was a rare commodity in India at that
time, an express left-arm fast bowler. They brought youthful intrepidness and
intensity to the team, naturally aligning with the approach of the new skipper,
Sourav Ganguly, by playing aggressively and never taking a step back.
Sometimes, I felt that the cricketing gods had decided that Indian cricket had
suffered enough, so they bathed us in their blessings.
We had a great run at the Champions Trophy, as Yuvraj and Zaheer made
an instant impression in our march to the final. It wasn’t just that we started to
win matches, it was also the manner in which we did it, that got the fans buzzing
again. Even though we lost to New Zealand in the final, our brand of cricket was
captivating. As a country, we were on the cusp of a new era. We had had enough
of being the nice guys waiting for things to come to us. We were looking to
make things happen, and the nation identified with the attitude and approach of
the team. All wasn’t yet forgiven—I suspect it will never be forgotten—but we
had managed to win back some of the fans, and the signs were promising.
Our first Test of the new season following the Champions Trophy was not
just Sourav’s first as captain, it was also our opposition Bangladesh’s maiden
appearance in the longer format. Sourav asked me to open the batting as we were
only playing five specialist batsmen. I refused politely but firmly. I had been in
good nick in domestic cricket and was looking forward to returning to the Test
fold, but my experiments with opening the batting were behind me. If there was
no place in the middle order, that was alright. I wasn’t going to make the mistake
of sacrificing the pleasure of playing cricket by taking shortcuts anymore.
Bangladesh offered stiff early resistance, but we were too strong and too
experienced for them. Anshuman Gaekwad was our interim coach/cricket
manager, but John Wright had already been appointed as India’s first overseas
coach and was to take charge of the team during the home series against
Zimbabwe. That summer, Rahul had played county cricket with Kent where
John was the coach. Sourav had represented Lanchashire, and the three of them
had several chats, after which John was appointed as India’s coach.
None of us knew what to expect from our first foreign coach. There was no
apprehension, just loads of excitement. Bob Simpson had been with us as a
consultant, but that was more for limited-overs cricket. Here, we would have a
foreigner interacting with us day in and day out.
We had a new captain, we had a new coach. Through accident and design,
there was a structural revamp within the playing group too. Yuvi and Zak had
already broken through, and a lot of other youngsters were on the rise—Shiv
Sundar Das, Sarandeep Singh, Murali Kartik (who had debuted against South
Africa) and Mohammad Kaif. We were in a phase of transition, and the Board of
Control for Cricket in India (BCCI) had identified the Sourav–John combination
as the core management group to take the team forward.
John joined us in New Delhi in November 2000, three days prior to the
first Test against Zimbabwe. I am sure he was as curious about what to expect
from us as we were about him. He had played and captained New Zealand in
India, but this was his first time as a member of the ‘home’ side. For him, that
first Test was about observing and learning, about getting to know us and our
style of functioning. But it didn’t prevent him from exposing us to Rocket Man
for the first time.
Midway through the third morning, Dasi brought up his first Test half-
century, and raised his bat towards the dressing room. John stood up and clapped
vigorously, then discovered that he was all alone on the balcony. He stormed
inside and let us know what he thought of us. ‘Your teammate has battled hard
and reached fifty, and you guys can’t even be bothered to come out and
acknowledge his contribution?’ he shouted. ‘What’s wrong with you all?’
Point taken, John, even though that was a one-off. He had rudely shaken us
out of our cloistered, self-absorbed world.
For John, the first few weeks were about learning about India, about being
exposed to the superstar culture here. That he came from low-profile,
understated New Zealand made it hard for him to understand why fans went
berserk when Sachin made a regulation stop at mid-off. He couldn’t believe how
so many people who had nothing to do with cricket had access to our dressing
room. He was aghast at the kind of food we ate, both during practice and on
match days. He made mental notes, perhaps not wanting to dive into the deep
end right at the start. The winds of change would soon be upon us.
After the Nagpur Test, for which I was dropped, and the subsequent ODI
series of which I wasn’t a part, John took it upon himself to watch domestic
cricket. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust the other decision-makers. He wanted a
first-hand taste of first-class cricket in India. He followed players rather than
teams, which was why we ran into each other a fair bit. The Duleep Trophy had
just started, and I was piling on the runs—a double-ton against West Zone in
Surat, a big hundred against North in Vijayawada. John wasn’t going to base his
judgement on the scoreboard or word of mouth. He wanted to see for himself.
Within the first couple of months, he had a fair idea of the players, and how the
system worked.
Our biggest challenge of the season was just round the corner, a three-Test
series against Steve Waugh’s all-conquering Australians. We had all identified it
as a huge opportunity for Indian cricket. John wanted to provide the tools that
would help us compete favourably against Australia.

We have had camps before and since, but the one at the IIT grounds in Chennai
ahead of that Australian series was the best I have been a part of. To me, that
camp was the game changer for Indian cricket. Previous camps had been about
coming together, hitting the nets, going back home. This one was different,
invigoratingly so.
The first two days were devoted exclusively to meetings and talks. John
had had a big role to play in the selection of 30-odd ‘probables’, and we spent
the opening two days at Fisherman’s Cove with an emphasis on goal setting. For
the first time, every single player was involved in the exercise. Players were
encouraged to speak about personal goals, as well as those we had for the team
and for Indian cricket. We were segregated into batting and bowling groups, and
were asked to outline our ideas and plans. It was an interactive, corporate-type
atmosphere, and a rewarding couple of days. John made it clear that as players,
we had to take responsibility for not just how we played, but also how we
conducted ourselves and shaped the character of the team.
This is what we arrived at after our animated discussions:
Batting goals: Bat four sessions of a Test, play out between 120 and 130
overs. Make the first innings count. Have at least one 100-run stand and two
stands in excess of 50. Encourage contributions from the lower order. Don’t lose
wickets in clumps.
Bowling goals: Aim for early wickets. Bowl in partnerships. Complement
your partner, don’t compete with him. Understand when to attack, and when to
fall back on containment.
Fielding goals: Improve fitness. Identify specialists for close-in cordon,
and ensure that each position has multiple back-ups. Slip fielders were identified
—Sachin, Rahul, Sourav and myself. We decided that it was mandatory for each
of us to take 100 catches every day, even on match days.
Common goals: Concentrate on getting better at running between the
wickets. Remain aggressive in the field, throw yourselves around, keep energy
levels high. Make lots of noise, show intent through body language. Each
session would have a designated captain whose responsibility was to ensure that
we didn’t lose intensity.
It was a whole new experience for us. We understood John’s vision, and
told ourselves that if he was willing to invest so much in us, we couldn’t let
ourselves or him down by slacking.
Then it was back to the nets, intense and well-defined, for a few days,
followed by the Challenger Series. By then, Andrew Leipus had been with us as
a physio for 15 months, also doubling as a trainer. Adelaide-based Andrew was
very young, having just finished his master’s in physiotherapy. To be involved
with a high-profile international cricket team was a massive opportunity for him.
While he was on top of his game when it came to injury prevention and
management, he learnt the ropes on the go when it came to training. He
scrupulously followed the fitness routines that John wanted him to, and used the
Internet to good effect to educate himself.
He was easily the most hard-working member of our contingent, with his
day kicking off at 7.30 a.m. and not ending before 11 p.m. He was constantly in
demand, but he did whatever was required with a smile, without complaint. On
match days, his routine started with handling our pre-match warm-up drills, after
which he’d rush back to the dressing room to tape vulnerable fingers, ankles,
thighs. He worked on niggles and mobilised tight parts of the body, running from
one player to another. During the lunch and tea intervals, he stretched players
who needed loosening up and put the players who were not a part of the playing
eleven through another set of training exercises.
At the end of a day’s play, he handled the cooling down process of the
players, then took the reserve players to the gym for a brief workout. Once we
returned to the hotel, he treated players with minor injuries—there was hardly an
individual who didn’t carry an ache—so they would be fresh for the next day’s
action. He squeezed in a hurried dinner whenever he found a few minutes.
Andrew joined us just before the home series against New Zealand in October
1999 and effortlessly managed the twin roles of qualified physio and untrained
trainer until early 2002, when Adrian le Roux joined us as the trainer.
We soon discovered that Andrew was prone to panicking easily. He didn’t
always understand why John wanted him to conduct a particular fitness drill, but
enforced it nevertheless. We would rib him and ask him why he wouldn’t
question the coach. Mortified that we thought that was even an option, he’d say,
‘How can I say no to John?’
Because he was such an open book, Andrew was vulnerable to practical
jokes. He got married just before our tour to Zimbabwe in July 2001, and
Harbhajan decided that he should welcome him back with a wedding ‘gift’.
Bhajji was a great mimic who could impersonate just about anyone in the squad.
He called up Andrew in his room one night and mimicked our manager, Chetan
Chauhan. ‘We have an official group photograph at the ground tomorrow before
start of play, so make sure you are in your formals,’ Bhajji Chauhan told him.
The following morning, we were all sitting in the bus, some of us in shorts,
others in track pants, when Andrew strode in impeccably dressed—official team
shirt, neatly ironed trousers, tour tie and blazer, and gleaming leather shoes.
Apart from Bhajji, no one had any idea why he was dressed thus. As he spotted
us in our practice gear, Andrew’s face turned purple with rage and
embarrassment until he heard muffled chuckles from Bhajji, who was seated at
the back of the bus. We all had a good laugh at Andrew’s expense. To his credit,
he joined us in the banter, perhaps secretly delighted that he had escaped lightly.
We had had physios before Andrew, and several afterwards, but he was the
only member of the support staff for whom the team hosted a farewell dinner
when he left us towards the end of 2004. He was a consummate professional, but
also a wonderful and trustworthy friend.
While Andrew was establishing himself, so was the team at various levels
—Sourav as captain, John as coach. There was no Anil, there was no Srinath,
both out injured for the series against Australia. It was a young side in terms of
experience, but we also felt we had what it took to become a formidable team.
The mindset was to start afresh, to forget about the past and look to the future.
On the final day of the camp, we watched Remember the Titans in the hotel’s
ballroom—an inspiring story of a team divided along racial lines but brought
together by a common purpose. John had intuitively chosen the right movie, just
as he had tweaked the right chords throughout that week.
As we exited the camp, we firmed up our long-term goal—to be
recognised as the best Test team in world cricket. And how would we achieve
that? By doing well overseas and becoming the team to beat anywhere, whether
home or away.
To me, it was the perfect way to round off the camp—a meaningful,
beautifully run one. I was all charged up, and I wasn’t the only one.

India and Australia were in the nascent stages of what was to evolve into a fierce
rivalry. But until then, the skirmishes had been restricted to the field. This time,
things were different. Steve Waugh was busy making provocative statements
even before his team left Australia, and Sourav retaliated in kind. This wasn’t
something we had discussed as a team, it was just Sourav all the way. Our
captain had a free spirit and didn’t hide behind diplomacy and political
correctness. He spoke his mind, setting the stage for a fiery battle of skills and
verbals.
Before the Mumbai Test, John sat me down for a long chat. It was a
pleasant and unexpected surprise. For the first time, I was promised security and
confidence, and that put me at ease. I am sure John had similar conversations
with other players, helping them shed their inhibitions and fears. I was used to
being ignored by coaches, and was grateful that John was making a sincere effort
to make me feel like I belonged. He had seen me play in the Duleep Trophy, and
he clearly liked what he saw. He told me, ‘You are on par with the main guys
when it comes to skills. I would put you in the same league as Sachin, Rahul and
Sourav.’ He called me Magician, and while that was good for the ego, it was the
unshakeable belief he had in my abilities that lifted my morale.
It isn’t as if you don’t need an infusion of confidence when you are playing
international cricket. Having gone through his fair share of tribulations, John
knew what we needed, and when. He was empathetic, and his man-management
skills were brilliant. He knew I was trying hard, perhaps too hard, to establish
myself, and he took pains to put things into perspective.
‘I know you have been in and out, but for me, you are one of the best,’ he
would constantly tell me. ‘Don’t feel insecure, go out and express yourself.
That’s the freedom I want you to bat with. I can assure you that you will be here
for the next 10 Tests.’ He had similar interactions with other players and our
respect for him increased even more. Both then, and later, he didn’t lay too much
emphasis on performance. His focus was on the process, on the effort, on
playing with freedom and without fear.
Because he became so popular and revered in such a short time, he could
also afford to tell us what we weren’t doing right. He was incensed that we were
playing as a group of individuals, instead of as a team. One of his main
complaints was that we were happy with individual milestones and didn’t hurt
enough when the team lost. ‘I don’t care about milestones,’ he would shout.
‘Your job is to score runs and take wickets, that’s why you are getting paid.
That’s why you are known as a professional cricketer. The country is doing you
a favour by allowing you to represent it.’
John was looking for impact performances, which mirrored my attitude
when I played for Hyderabad. That attitude, I realised, changed when I played
for India. John made me realise that when I went out to bat for India, I was
thinking of my own score. I was going out to score runs and establish myself,
not to win matches for the team. John’s words, his attitude and his work ethic
transformed us all. From 2001 onwards, we focused on winning together, as a
team, with individual achievements becoming only an added bonus. The good
thing about that young group—our average age was 25—was that everyone was
receptive. Everyone believed that if we followed John’s mantra and married it
with talent and determination, it would make a difference.
By the time of the first Test with John as our coach, against Australia in
February 2001, we couldn’t wait for the action to start. There was a quiet
confidence within the group. We understood the responsibility that rode on our
shoulders. We knew that the task of restoring the belief of the fans was far from
complete. We were a young team with two new openers, and there was no Azzu
bhai, who had been banned by the BCCI. Interest levels were so low that
advertisers and sponsors stayed away, and it was widely expected that we would
be wiped out. Waugh’s Aussies were here to conquer the Final Frontier. We had
even bigger mountains to scale, bigger goals to achieve than merely winning a
Test series.
On a tough surface in Mumbai, we were level pegging for an innings and a
half until Matthew Hayden and Adam Gilchrist took the game away from us. We
were well beaten, by ten wickets and inside three days. In the dressing room,
there were long faces and everyone started to feel that we were back to square
one. John would have none of it, though. He sat us down and told us to analyse
the game. For the first time after a defeat, we introspected in a positive and
constructive fashion, and realised that we had done a lot of things well. We
hadn’t done some other things well at all, such as capitalising on openings or
piecing together partnerships. But while there was scope for improvement, we
had no reason to be down on ourselves. When we left the dressing room that
evening, we were walking tall. Previous defeats had attracted only unchecked
criticism and harsh words from coaches. We used to slink out feeling small and
ashamed, each one going his own way. This time around, it was different.
We still needed a near miracle to stop the Australians in Kolkata, but I am
convinced the heroics that came to pass owed their origin to both the Chennai
camp and to John’s encouraging post-match deconstruction in Mumbai. Going
into Kolkata, our confidence levels were high despite the Mumbai mauling, and
we were determined to stick to our processes, cricketing and otherwise.
Throughout the series, we targeted Australia’s captain verbally. We succeeded in
rattling Steve because he had come unprepared for any sort of barrage from the
‘nice’ Indians. No expletives were uttered, but there was a conscious effort to
engage him in his own mental disintegration battle.
In the decider in Chennai, Sachin took it upon himself to get stuck into
Steve since there was little difference between them stature-wise. From wherever
he was fielding, he would go within Steve’s earshot and say stuff like, ‘You are
an Aussie, where is your aggression now? Scared of losing, are you?’ Or, ‘Too
much responsibility on you now, Steve. This is your Final Frontier, and this is
also your last visit to India. Desperate much?’ Sachin was playing with his ego,
and succeeded when Steve was dismissed handling the ball, a rare mode of
dismissal in any form of the game.
I don’t usually like to get involved in a war of words, but even I got sucked
into the whole thing. Australia were a very good team, but they were also very
arrogant. That is their personality and their character, and it could be
intimidating if you allowed it to be. John and Sourav realised that we had to beat
the Aussies at their own game to have any chance of success, and we did so—
both during the defeat in Mumbai, and the victories in Kolkata and Chennai.
We took some brilliant catches, and our fielding was spectacular at times.
We were buoyed that we had come from behind to win a series that did not
feature our two biggest wicket-taking weapons, Anil and Sri. Everything was
beginning to fall in place. The vision we had set in the Chennai camp and the
foundations we had laid were beginning to become a reality. What we had
discussed was now in motion, the framework had started to take shape. The
magnitude of the Kolkata win and the spirit we showed in sealing the series in
Chennai meant the wooing of our fans was complete. Our supporters had been
our unofficial 12th man, and it was great to have them back in our corner.
Another tick in the Chennai Dossier.

It was the perfect end to a season that had begun with so much uncertainty and
despair. It was now time to take the next step in our fierce desire to become the
best in the world. That entailed winning Test series overseas. Our next three
assignments were all away—in Zimbabwe, Sri Lanka and then South Africa, and
they would show us where we stood as a unit.
During the off-season, we all worked on our fitness, following the routines
systematically laid out by Andrew. Even though he was a physio, Andrew had a
basic idea of fitness, and he was remorselessly pushed by John, whose intensity
was infectious. John impressed upon us that fitness was in our control, that it
wasn’t a reactive exercise. He wanted a fitness culture within the team that was
second to none. We were introduced to the bleep test, which was a novelty
because hitherto, we had never had an organised fitness test. The bleep test
examined endurance, and we had other tests to examine other parameters like
strength, core strength, flexibility and speed. We were all given individual
targets, and if we didn’t meet them, there were penalties in the form of more
demanding physical routines. The message John wanted to drive home was that
talent can only get you so far. To be consistently good across the world, you also
need to be fit so that you are as switched on at the end of a fruitless day as you
were at the beginning.
The three away tours didn’t yield the results we were looking for, however.
As good a side as Zimbabwe were at that time, we were clearly better. When we
won the first Test in Harare, it seemed as if we would break our long overseas
drought, but one poor session in Bulawayo resulted in a 1–1 series draw. In Sri
Lanka, neither Sachin (toe injury) nor I (knee) were available. Sourav and Rahul
fashioned a brilliant series-levelling win in Kandy, but we lost the decider. Each
time we won a Test, we failed to back it up with another good result. We would
start the next match slowly, hand the initiative to the opposition, and then play
catch-up without much headway.
South Africa loomed next, and by the time of the Test series, we were back
at full strength. Bloemfontein gave the world a first glimpse of Virender Sehwag
the Test batsman. Batting at No. 6 on his debut, Viru made a spectacular hundred
and put on more than 200 with Sachin, but we were still hammered by nine
wickets. By then, everyone was beginning to feel the heat, not least John. He had
arrived as a messiah and had got off to a cracking start at home, but we had lost
four of our six overseas Tests. There was a mild sense of panic.
In order to accommodate Viru in the playing eleven, Rahul had opened the
batting in the first Test, a position he wasn’t comfortable at. After the first Test, it
was decided that the batting order needed to be reorganised. I was asked to open
the batting, and again I refused. Consequently, the day before the Port Elizabeth
Test, it was announced at the team meeting that I was being dropped. On the
morning of the match, however, a bleak and cloudy day, John told me that I was
indeed playing. We didn’t make the most of the seaming track or helpful
overcast conditions and allowed South Africa to post 362. At 119 for 8 with me
on 38, we were staring at a follow-on. Fortunately, I found a doughty ally in
Anil. A crisis invariably seemed to bring the best out of Anil as a batsman. He
dug in while I played my shots in racing to 89. Our 80-run partnership helped us
make South Africa bat again, and then Deep Dasgupta, the opener for this game
alongside SS Das, and Rahul batted beautifully on the final day to help us come
away with a draw.
That was as good as a victory for us, given where we had been in the
match and how our season had gone thus far. However, our delight evaporated as
more than half the team was pulled up by Mike Denness, the match referee, for
excessive appealing and dissent. To make matters worse, Sachin was accused
and found guilty of ball tampering. Sachin always had this habit of cleaning the
seam—not picking the seam—to remove any grass that might have got stuck,
and he only did so with his finger, never his nail. Without a proper hearing,
Denness found him guilty of ball tampering, banned Viru for one game for
dissent, and fined several others for excessive appealing. Consequently, the
scheduled third Test in Centurion eventually became an unofficial game, and
given our state of mind, it was no surprise that we were well beaten, with Shaun
Pollock making an extraordinary hundred.
As a team, we found it difficult to reconcile to the results. We had not lived
up to our own expectations, and had failed miserably in our mission to start
stacking up overseas victories. We had showcased our potential in patches, but
neither the batting group nor the bowling unit had been consistent in throwing up
the kind of impactful performances that help win matches. We all took some
comfort from having scored runs on tough surfaces against quality attacks, but in
the broader scenario, that didn’t count for much.
The results notwithstanding, we were becoming more professional in our
approach. A computer analyst, CK Nandan, who had played first-class cricket
for Karnataka, travelled with the Indian team for the first time on the tour of
Zimbabwe, and a few months later, Adrian le Roux came on board as the fitness
trainer, exposing us to methods we didn’t even know existed. We were all aware
that John was giving us every opportunity to be the best prepared we could be
for combat. We needed to back his efforts.
It was in South Africa that John finally felt the need for a professional
trainer. Andrew’s workload when it came to injury management had
mushroomed to such a degree that he had little time to handle our fitness
requirements. We lost the Bloemfontein Test in four days, and John decided that
the scheduled fifth day was the perfect opportunity to see what Adrian, a Bloem
boy himself, had to offer.
The team reached the Mangaung Oval in the afternoon, by which time
Adrian had already set up training stations—not that we had heard of the term
then—in different parts of the ground. There were cones, markers, the works.
For the next 45 minutes, he put us through the most intense workout of our lives,
taking us through speed, endurance, agility and movement drills that we had
previously not been exposed to despite Andrew’s best efforts. By the end of the
session, we were knackered. We had just played four days of high-pressure Test
cricket, and this routine took everything out of us. That was one of the issues
with John. While he wanted us to be the fittest we could be and his intentions
were good, he didn’t understand when we needed to be pushed and when we
needed a break. All that was to change once Adrian’s audition was successful.
Adrian was with us for a little over a year—from early 2002 till the 2003
World Cup—but in that short span, he made a huge impact. He was obviously
knowledgeable, and was also one of the most disciplined individuals I had ever
met. We would have loved for him to stay on with us, but the demands of a
young family meant he had to return to South Africa.
While there were basic fitness routines for the team, Adrian devised
specialised training techniques for individuals based on how each player’s body
reacted and responded. He was clear that our fat percentage had to reduce.
Whether due to our eating habits or due to genetics, he said we all carried excess
fat, so he introduced fat percentage parameters that we had to strictly adhere to.
He brought in metabolism sessions—before breakfast each morning, it was
mandatory for each of us to have a 30-minute session of cycling, jogging or
swimming at a heartbeat rate of between 120 and 130. We all carried a heartrate
monitor that charted calories burnt, and the intensity and duration of our
activities. He had access to all these numbers. There were no short-cuts, no
exceptions. You had to fall in line with Adrian’s demands to meet his
expectations.
Previously, some of the players used to skip breakfast, but now there was
no compromise on that. Everyone had to have breakfast before leaving for the
ground which, by default, promoted team bonding. He streamlined the food that
was served in our dressing room, cutting out fat-rich foods. Specific diet changes
were advocated—for a vegetarian like me, whey protein was a must. The warm-
up routines, until then dreary and monotonous, were customised to the needs of
each individual, and the training sessions became more systematic.
It became mandatory for everyone to have an ice bath at the end of each
day to cool our bodies down. After that, we would have the heaviest meal of the
day before leaving for the hotel. Adrian kept a close watch on fluid levels,
especially in the hot and humid conditions that take so much out of one in the
subcontinent, and encouraged us to monitor our urine samples each morning to
establish how much hydration and replenishment of salts was required.
The shape of our practice sessions also changed. We no longer went to the
ground two days before the game, instead feasting on a carb-heavy diet so that
energy levels were high going into the match. We had optional practice or a very
light session the day before the match so that we could remain fresh the
following day. Adrian was a triathlete—he participated in races in Australia and
New Zealand when he could—and thus set the example. As we started to see the
results of his methods, we shed all inhibitions and fell in line.
The selectors rang in the changes in the bowling department by bringing in
the uncapped trio of Iqbal Siddiqui, Tinu Yohannan and Sanjay Bangar for the
home series against England in December 2001, which we won 1–0. Even as we
played Zimbabwe again, in a two-Test series at home in early 2002, our eyes
were trained on the Caribbean. For almost the entire team—except for the few
who had been on the 1997 tour—this would be their first experience of a five-
Test series. Our skills, character, fitness and resolve would be put through a stern
examination against a strong West Indian outfit. We looked at this tour as an
immediate opportunity to make up for unconvincing overseas displays that
season.
We still had the confidence that we could win anywhere, but while there
were standout individual displays of brilliance, we were not able to deliver as a
group with any consistency. It was frustrating. Every time we won a Test
overseas, we immediately surrendered the initiative in the next. Maybe we were
complacent after a victory, maybe we got a little carried away, maybe we were
unable to come down after the mental high of an away triumph. Maybe
therefore, we started the next match slowly and were immediately punished. We
talked about this a great deal, and came to the conclusion that there was no point
in overanalysis. The important thing was to take each match in isolation, forget
the previous result and live in the present.
The West Indies series followed the pattern we seemed to have embraced
irrevocably. Rahul got up after being flattened by a Mervyn Dillon bouncer to
make a solid century in the rain-hit first Test in Georgetown, and we then went
to Port of Spain, our favourite hunting ground in the Caribbean. I was striking
the ball quite beautifully, and made twin half-centuries in our 37-run victory. The
challenge was to avoid what had happened in Zimbabwe and Sri Lanka, but we
failed on that count as West Indies immediately bounced back with a 10-wicket
win in Bridgetown. We had not slackened one bit; we were still working hard
and were as committed as ever, but defeat followed victory with the sureness of
night following day.
The next Test at St John’s—the flattest surface I have played on—produced
the most courageous act I have witnessed on the cricket field. Of all the people I
have played alongside and against, no one had a bigger heart and showed greater
fight than Anil Kumble. He didn’t have a negative bone in his body, and went
above and beyond the call of duty to pull his weight. Even though he had a
shoulder surgery and missed the Australia series in 2001, he was an integral part
of our Chennai camp, working with the young spinners. At St John’s, Anil had
his jaw broken while batting—also by Dillon—and was to fly back home during
the middle of the Test.
We had declared our innings at 513 for 9 on the back of a double-century
stand for the sixth wicket between wicketkeeper Ajay Ratra and myself, both of
us making hundreds. Our total, imposing as it was, wasn’t going to challenge the
strong West Indian line-up on the docile surface, especially without Anil to keep
probing away. We were reconciled to long hours of toil when, typically without
fuss, Anil made a dramatic entry into the middle.
He had ascertained that even though a jaw surgery was inevitable, he
would not be aggravating the injury by taking the field for a session. Having
found a doctor at the ground, Anil had his jaw wired. His face swathed in
bandages, he walked out like a warrior going to battle. I couldn’t believe what I
was seeing. Every step he took was a giant stride by a colossus of a man. I can’t
even begin to imagine how much pain he felt as he ran in to bowl. His face
giving nothing away, he put on an extraordinary exhibition of great skill and
tremendous courage. For two hours, he kept West Indies on their toes, forcing
their best batsmen of spin—Ramnaresh Sarwan, Brian Lara and Carl Hooper—
to be at their most watchful. He trapped Lara in front and should have had
Hooper as well in similar fashion.
Already a hero in our eyes, Anil’s stature grew manifold after that spell.
His spirit and never-say-die approach were truly inspiring. He led us off the field
to a standing ovation from the crowd and left for the airport from the ground for
the surgery that awaited him on arrival in Bengaluru. There wasn’t a dry eye in
the dressing room when Anil said goodbye.
To finish a career with 619 Test wickets is a fantastic accomplishment, but
Anil is more than his numbers. He has the heart, mind and skills of a champion,
the courage of a lion, the patience of Job. That day in Antigua summed him up
like no words ever can.
Motivated by Anil’s heroics, we went to Kingston for the final Test in a
happy space, even though the match finished in a draw. Five good days would
give us our first series win in the Caribbean since 1971, and we knew we were
good enough to do it. However, after conceding a 210-run first-innings lead, we
scrambled to save the Test. West Indies had set us 408 for victory. Realistically,
we had to bat out about 100 overs to secure a draw.
I had a wonderful time with the bat, having already made more than 450
runs in the previous seven innings. I was in supreme control and batting with the
kind of confidence I had seldom felt in Test cricket. I knew that I could steer the
ship to safety. We were into the final hour on the fourth evening, with Ajay Ratra
and me in the middle of a partnership, when John sent out a message. His
instructions were explicit: ‘Thundershowers are forecast for tomorrow morning.
Just hang in there and see the evening through.’ Unambiguous, well-reasoned.
It wasn’t that I disregarded his instructions. Because I was in such good
form, I thought balls were there to be hit which might actually not have been
there. I tried to pull Adam Sanford, got a top edge and was brilliantly caught by
Dillon. I dragged myself away, aghast at what I had done, and my mood didn’t
improve when Bhajji got out a few minutes later. By stumps, we were seven
down, looking at another humbling defeat.
West Indies took a little over 40 minutes on day five to knock over the
three remaining wickets and seal victory. The thundershowers arrived as
predicted during the post-match presentation, adding to the gloom in our camp.
As we packed our kitbags and readied to leave for the hotel, John asked me to
stay back. He grabbed me by my hand and dragged me up from the changing
room in the basement to the ground floor.
Pointing to the lashing rain, he told me bluntly, ‘We lost this Test, this
series, only because of you.’
I was shattered. I was India’s highest run-getter, with 474 from eight
innings. I was the man of the match when we won in Port of Spain. I had got
runs in tough situations, batting alongside the top order and with the tail. When I
heard John blame me for the loss of the series, I was both angry and upset. I
asked him how he could hold me responsible, given my form and the role I had
played in the Trinidad win.
‘I specifically sent out a message informing you that there was forecast for
rain, so just hang in there,’ he replied. ‘You still went ahead and played the pull,
and see what happened. All the hard work that you have put in, that the team has
put in all these weeks, has gone down the drain. You put personal glory ahead of
the team’s requirement. Do you still think I am wrong to blame you?’
John was most certainly not wrong. At a loss for words, I merely nodded in
agreement. As a batsman, I had felt that the ball was there to be punished and so
went for my stroke. But as a team player, it was my responsibility to curb my
natural instincts, and I hadn’t been able to do that when the team needed it from
me. It was just a matter of another 20 to 25 overs. We could have saved the
match. That day, John emphatically drove home the message that it didn’t matter
if you were the highest run-getter, if you were the man of the series. You had to
play according to the requirements of the team, and I hadn’t done so. It didn’t
help that the rains were so intense and sustained that the first two one-dayers,
scheduled to have been held at Sabina Park, were completely washed out.
Chastened and humbled, I took the message on board—team before self,
substance before style. No compromises.

The away tours were coming thick and fast, and we welcomed that because it
aligned with our long-term ambition of establishing ourselves as the best Test
side. We didn’t take home victories for granted, but historically, India was a
strong team in its own backyard. We worked as hard and derived as much
satisfaction from winning at home, but because we weren’t used to success
overseas, those wins were always that much sweeter.
The wonderful run chase in the final of the NatWest Series against England
at Lord’s, orchestrated by young turks Yuvi and Kaif, served as a shot in the arm
ahead of the four-Test series in the summer of 2002. India were known as poor
travellers, a group that took time to adjust to conditions, which was why we
invariably finished a series stronger than we started it. In Zimbabwe and then the
Caribbean, where we drew first blood, we bucked the trend, but normal service
was restored at Lord’s when England easily won the first Test on a very good
batting surface.
Viru had taken such rapid strides in a short time that Sourav and John were
averse to leaving him out of the playing XI. The middle order was packed, so he
was asked to open the batting, a move that was to have far-reaching
ramifications as time went by. Viru’s dynamism was just the fillip the
experienced middle order needed, and it was no coincidence that nearly every
overseas win over the next decade had the Viru stamp on it. That he was unfazed
by the challenges of the new ball became evident when he smashed 84 off just
96 deliveries in his first Test innings as opener. He was to establish himself as
the X factor, the one Indian batsman who instilled dread in the opposition and
awe in his teammates.
Even from the Lord’s defeat, we drew positives. Our 397 in the second
innings was then the highest fourth-innings total on English soil, and even
though we were forced to dig deep, the experienced Rahul and the baby-faced
Parthiv Patel, on debut, eked out a heartwarming draw on the final day in
Nottingham in the next Test to keep us in the series.
Down 0–1 with two to play, we reached Headingley, the most English of
venues, knowing that this was our best chance of squaring the series. The last
Test was at The Oval, traditionally a batting paradise where forcing an outright
result was next to impossible. Leeds had to be used to our advantage. And that
was a tall order.
But we had our game plan in place. Over the first two Tests, we had tried
to play the conditions, as you often should. But our faster bowlers hadn’t been
all that effective. England’s batsmen were seldom put under pressure. In three
innings, they had made 487, 301 for 6 declared and 617. Sourav was keen that
we forget about the conditions and play to our strengths. We had two exceptional
spinners in Anil and Bhajji—the former had played at Lord’s, the latter at Trent
Bridge. It was time to unleash the two of them together at Headingley, on the
most seamer-friendly surface in England.
It wasn’t an easy decision to make because if we won the toss, we would
have to bat first to give our two spinners the best chance of exploiting the pitch
in the fourth innings. The core batting group was not worried about batting first.
We knew the odds would be stacked against us on the first day at the very least,
and England had a strong pace attack—Matthew Hoggard, Andy Caddick,
Andrew Flintoff, Alex Tudor. We could get serious egg on our faces, but we also
knew this was our best chance to square the series. Was it worth the gamble? For
sure.
We looked at it as a very positive move. Others called it ‘bold’, which to
me is a euphemism for foolhardy. After the toss, which Sourav won, Ian Botham
walked past me as I was taking throw-downs. ‘VVS, do you know that you guys
have decided to bat? I hope you all know what you are doing. I can’t believe it.’ I
told him that we as a group had wanted to bat first. He looked at me in disbelief
and walked off shaking his head.
Sourav was that kind of captain, actually—positive and attacking, and not
afraid of losing in trying to push for victory. It was in that regard that he was
different from Sachin. During his tenure, Sachin also had the same aggressive
mindset, but he was severely affected by the outcome. He was intense when it
came to the result, no matter which side he was captaining. He became captain at
a very young age, and didn’t have the same support structure to fall back on that
Sourav had—and I don’t mean just from a backroom perspective. As captain,
you are bound to experience great victories and miserable failures. Sachin
allowed himself to be affected by the outcome. He wasn’t necessarily a bowler’s
captain, and he could be very demanding. Because he was always thinking win,
he didn’t have a defensive bone in him. In effect, even as captain, he used to
think the way he did when he batted.
For Sourav, cricket was a game. He insisted on effort, and if he was
convinced the team had given its all, he was okay with a defeat. While Sachin
inherited a team of several juniors and the odd senior who had been around for
more than a decade, Sourav became a captain of his peers. He had many to fall
back on—Sachin, Rahul, Anil, Sri, myself—and he was receptive to suggestions,
even if they came from the newest member of the side. Most crucially, he also
had John working alongside him.
Sourav could absorb the pressures of being the captain of the Indian side
like a sponge. He didn’t much mind losing, he didn’t care about his reputation as
a captain. If you are mindful of your reputation, you end up being measured and
guarded in what you do. Sourav wasn’t like that. He couldn’t care less what
people outside the dressing room thought of him, and that was a huge blessing.
Everyone in the squad trusted Sourav and John, and we all wanted the team
to win. We had belief in our batting, and there was nary a murmur of protest
when Sourav announced the day before the Leeds Test that if we won the toss,
we would bat. We did, and promptly lost Viru in the seventh over, but then
followed the partnership that defined the spirit and spunk of the team.
Rahul’s knock was unbelievable but—and I mean this as a compliment—
that was what we had come to expect of him. Sanjay Bangar played one of the
best innings I have seen. In hostile conditions and against top-class bowling, in
his first innings in England, he showed patience and impeccable judgement. I
called him Gautama Buddha because he never showed any emotions. During
their match-defining second-wicket stand, Rahul and Sanjay complemented each
other superbly. England’s fast bowlers went flat out, trying to blast us out. With
pluck and skill, Sanjay and Rahul first tired out and then deflated the pace attack.
Even though both of them were subdued when it came to strokeplay, all the fast
bowlers were exhausted within an hour after lunch because their best efforts
were being met with barn-door resistance.
After they had steadied the ship following Viru’s early dismissal, Sanjay
and Rahul started to capitalise on time spent in the middle. As English shoulders
dropped, and the loose balls slowly surfaced, they played a few more strokes. In
four and a half hours, they put on 170, each run pushing England back. They had
the best of bowling conditions—a fresh and helpful pitch, overcast conditions,
and the new ball—but they could find no way past the resolute pair. There was
plenty of batting to follow, and England knew as well as we did that the
momentum was firmly on India’s side.
Expectedly, Sachin arrived in a blaze of boundaries. After Rahul and
Sachin piled on the runs, Sourav toyed with the bowling, hammering boundaries
at will. Having expected to run roughshod over us, England were demoralised.
The change in their mood was palpable once they figured that they would have
to play a lot of spin on the third, fourth and fifth days against two quality
practitioners of that craft.
Given how deflated they were after we had batted in the most difficult and
unfamiliar conditions and racked up 628 for 8, it was always on the cards that we
would complete the victory we were so desperately after. Anil and Bhajji took 11
wickets between them as we stormed to an innings victory. It was our first Test
win in England since the 2–0 series triumph in 1986. For us, this Headingley
success was as significant as the one in Kolkata. It reinforced our belief that we
had the ammunition to conquer all conditions, in all situations, against any side,
home or away.
The partnership between Rahul and Sanjay was the key to our victory.
Rahul deservedly got the man of the match award, but we also had our own
internal man of the match award, and the team gave that to Sanjay. Apart from
his 68, he had also picked up two wickets in the second innings. It’s these kinds
of contributions that John liked to highlight. The message he wanted to drive
home was that this was not only a team of superstars, but also a team of one-
percenters who would get recognition and respect. All of a sudden, we had a
whole lot of new heroes, basking in the adulation that even a relatively minor
contribution attracted.
The Oval surface thwarted any hope either side might have entertained of a
series-deciding victory. England helped themselves to 515 after Michael
Vaughan amassed 195, but we were not fazed by that total on what was a very
good batting surface. Rahul was coming off hundreds in the previous two Tests,
and his confidence manifested itself in a monumental 217 that led our reply.
Sachin and Sourav helped themselves to half-centuries, and I chipped in with 40
as we batted around Rahul. When we were bowled out on the fourth afternoon
for 508, there was little time left in the game. Everyone was saved the dreariness
of a final-day batathon when rain prevented a single ball from being bowled. The
series scoreline, 1–1, was a true reflection of the closeness of the contests and
the strengths of the two teams.

We had less than a month between coming back from England and our next
assignment, a full home series against West Indies, in October 2002. Having
played so much cricket overseas in the last 15 months, we needed to adjust even
to familiar environs. After comprehensive wins in the first two Tests, we were
pushed into a corner in the final game in Kolkata. West Indies took a 139-run
lead and we were four down for 87 when I joined Sachin on the fourth afternoon.
John’s Kingston admonishment ringing in my ears, I bedded down. We had
already won the series and this was what is popularly referred to as a ‘dead
rubber’, but there was nothing dead about it for me. When you are representing
your country, there is no such thing as an inconsequential match. Sachin made a
majestic 176, while I was pedestrian in comparison. I batted nearly nine hours
and kept out 396 deliveries, and when we shook hands on a draw, I had reached
154. John and I exchanged a knowing smile, though both of us also knew that
nothing could compensate for the Sabina Park disaster that May.
After a tight one-day series that West Indies won 4–3, off we went to New
Zealand where we had enjoyed very little success in the past. The World Cup
was less than four months away and that, coupled with the need to make a
statement in an unforgiving land, excited the group no end. The tour, however,
was a forgettable one. We were routed in the Tests 2–0, and lost the ODIs 5–
2. Midway through the drubbing, I came to know that I wouldn’t figure in the
World Cup. It was a dismal couple of months, the only constants being green,
damp surfaces and sustained failures.
The pitches were far too loaded in favour of the bowlers. There was lateral
movement throughout the Test matches, which didn’t last very long. The first
game in Wellington was wrapped up inside 200 overs; New Zealand’s 10-wicket
margin of victory was deceptive because it didn’t tell the whole tale. The second
Test was even shorter, and New Zealand squeaked home by four wickets. With a
little bit of luck, we could have won both Tests. We got the worst of the
conditions, losing both tosses and having to bat on the first morning. I felt it was
a bit of a lottery and to this day, I can’t understand why the pitches were so wet
and seamer-friendly. Even the practice pitches were laden with live grass.
Someone like Parthiv, who has no pretensions to being a quality bowler, was
getting the ball to jag around a mile and getting batsmen out in practice! The
quality of the Tests wasn’t great, but we didn’t lose confidence in our skills even
though we lost both Tests inside three days each.
The World Cup would bring the curtain down on the season, but the Test
commitments were done and dusted. Between the tour of Zimbabwe in mid-2001
and early 2003, we had gone on five tours and lost three of them, drawing the
other two. We weren’t any closer to conquering away conditions, but we weren’t
disheartened because we had not expected an overnight turnaround. We were
aware that we had embarked on a process and that results would take time. We
were happy with the way the team had progressed.
Part of our cricketing paraphernalia included a portable drawing board that
John would place prominently in the dressing room. There were columns for
sessions won, lost and drawn; at the end of each session, John would rate our
performance. We found that we had won almost the same number of sessions as
our opponents in each Test, in each series. It was just that we hadn’t won the
important sessions, the ones that mattered. While this necessitated soul-
searching, there was no need to be despondent. We were a much fitter side, a
much better fielding unit than before. The atmosphere within the team was
positive, the vibes excellent. We were enjoying each other’s success, helping
each other out. Win or lose, we didn’t stop having fun. Unlike in the past, we
didn’t sulk or moan when we lost a match. That didn’t mean we didn’t care
about the result. It hurt every time we lost, but our discussions revolved around
whether we were focused on achieving team goals. The result was important, but
it was not the only thing. We were confident that we were on the right track, that
it was merely a matter of time before the wheel started to turn.
 10
The Road to No. 1
(Part Two)

After the 2003 World Cup, when India lost the final to Australia—I wasn’t part
of the squad—we had a long off-season and went our separate ways. I visited my
friends in the United States and returned energised. The highlight of the 2003–04
season would be a tour to Australia for four Test matches in December–January,
and we felt as a group that this time, we could score our first series win Down
Under.
The season didn’t begin well as New Zealand comfortably held us to a
scoreless draw in a two-Test series at home, but our thoughts were already partly
with Australia and we didn’t especially mind the stalemate. We were a settled
team by then, and most of us had the experience of playing all over the world.
We had become well-rounded cricketers and individuals, and several of us who
had travelled to Australia for the embarrassing 3–0 rout in 1999–2000 were a
part of the current squad. There were also exciting new players who had excelled
away from home. Those that had gone on the previous tour had come back better
for the experience, whereas Australia were still smarting from their defeat in
India in 2001. They were thirsting for revenge. A cracker of a contest was on the
cards.
As had become the norm, we had a couple of meetings on arriving in
Australia. At the end of those sessions, our mantra was to become trendsetters
—‘Let us do what no Indian team has done before’. Bruce Reid, the gangly
former Australian left-arm quick, joined us as the bowling consultant, and he
was to play a pivotal role in the education of Irfan Pathan and Lakshmipathi
Balaji, our young pacemen. We were in a spot in the first Test at the Gabba, but
bounced back strongly to finish the drawn game with momentum on our side.
Australia made a typically brisk start and were coasting at 262 for 2 when we
were saved by the rain. On resumption, Zak was outstanding. He bowled with
pace and purpose to run through the batting and finish with five wickets.
Australia were bowled out for 323 and we frittered away a bright start to stumble
to 127 for 4 when I walked in to join Sourav.
Australia’s practice had been to target the opposition skipper—the head of
the snake, if you like—and it was a joint effort that involved the players and the
media. They weren’t too fond of Sourav since he had masterminded their
downfall in India two and a half years earlier, and came hard at him. Sourav
loved nothing more than a challenge. The scent of battle appealed to him. The
faster Australia bowled, the quicker the ball whizzed off his willow. He had
made a short trip to Australia before the series and met up with Greg Chappell
for tips to succeed Down Under. Whether he put those learnings into practice, I
am not sure, but he pounded the Aussies to all parts of the ground. I watched
from the non-striker’s end as he took on the bowling and ran excellently between
the stumps.
I had decided to put to good use the learnings from my previous tour of
Australia, particularly from the 167 in Sydney in January 2000. I felt the best
approach was to back my strokeplay. I had devised a game plan that I was
confident would work, breaking it down into three basic elements:

1) To assess the pitch early and pick a length from where, even if the ball was in
the line of stumps, I could let it sail by, especially early in the innings. It is
important to figure out not just how to leave the ball, but also which ones to
leave. The balls to let sail by, on almost all Australian pitches during that
time, were those that pitched probably one yard closer to the bowler from a
good length. On Indian tracks, balls pitching at that length would crash into
the middle of the stumps. But in Australia, and especially at the Gabba, these
would go above the stumps by at least a foot and a half, if not more. And if I
played the balls pitched there, there was a high probability of me either
nicking to the slips or getting into uncomfortable positions, with the ball
hitting the top of the handle.
2) To desist from driving balls pitched in the good length area on the rise. Unless
the ball was right under my eyes, I would put the drive in cold storage.
Anything pitched behind the length must be played off the back foot, on both
the off-side and the on-side.
3) To be mindful of the angle of the bat when I was playing off the back foot.
When you are batting in the subcontinent, because of the lack of bounce, you
play the punch with an almost vertical bat. In Australia, the bat has to be
somewhere between vertical and horizontal, because you can then hit the ball
 into the ground. In the subcontinent, it is preferable to get behind the line of
the ball. In Australia, you had to get beside the line because then you had the
room to hit the ball into the ground.

That tour was easily the best I batted in my career. I had complete control
over my instincts, and I executed my game plan to perfection. I watched videos
of the opposition bowlers, so I could pick the length early from the wrist
position. My coaches had told me in my formative years to watch the ball
closely, to see which side the shine was on, and identify whether the seam was
upright or the bowler was holding his fingers across the seam. But one of the
other things I learned from the career-turning 1999–2000 tour was to focus on
the wrist position of the bowling arm. When the inside of the wrist was upright
and facing me, the ball would be pitched up. If the wrist was a little flexed and
partly visible to the bowler too, the length would be shorter.
I backed myself to play my shots because I knew that if I was over-
defensive, the Australians would offer no loose balls. They were consistent with
their discipline once they knew that you weren’t coming at them. It was essential
to let them know that you were up for a fight.
The surface was still offering the bowlers reasonable assistance when I
walked in, but I have always enjoyed batting at the Gabba. It’s one of the better
tracks on which I’ve batted because even though there is some lateral movement,
the bounce is true and the ball comes on to the bat. That suited my style and
allowed me to express myself.
I found my rhythm right from the first ball, and Sourav and I decided that
we would not go into our shell. Particularly against Stuart MacGill’s leg-spin, we
imposed our authority quickly, using the left-right combination to our advantage.
He played a lot of drives and sweeps. I chose to drive, and also hang back and
employ the pull.
Steve Waugh’s philosophy of captaincy revolved around looking for
wickets. Because we were four down, he must have felt that another wicket soon
would expose the lower order. He set attacking fields, and we cashed in with
boundaries galore. I reached 75 in practically no time when greed got the better
of me. I got a short ball from MacGill that deserved to go for four, but because it
was so short, I had too much time. I tried to hit it very hard but owing to the
extra bounce, the ball took the top edge and ballooned to point. I had got myself
out and was disappointed at not getting to a hundred—I was in total control, on
top of the bowling, and I had thrown it away. I did, however, derive pride from
the manner in which our captain had taken the lead in making an early statement
on the tour.
 The only dampener in that Test was the loss of Bhajji to a finger injury.
With 32 wickets in three Tests in 2001, he had been our bowling hero and we
had expected him to tie up the Australians in this series too. Instead, he was
forced to miss the rest of the matches as he underwent surgery on his bowling
hand. This, however, opened the door for Anil to return to the side. With
stunning results.
We left Brisbane delighted at the draw and with our confidence reinforced
that we could beat this Australian outfit on their home patch. They were still a
formidable side, but were missing two champion bowlers while a third was on
the comeback trail. Glenn McGrath was out injured, Shane Warne was serving a
one-year doping ban, and Brett Lee was just feeling his way back from injury. It
was up to us batsmen to set the tone and give our bowlers the big totals with
which to attack them.
Australia had a knack of mocking your plans, and they played true to
character on the first day of the second Test, in Adelaide. With Ricky Ponting
taking us apart, they rattled up 400 for 5 by stumps. It had been a long day for
us, and we trooped back tired and somewhat dispirited. By then, we had taken to
plastering every available space in the dressing room with positive messages,
and those messages seemed to tease us when we slumped into our chairs. John,
the master man-manager, took charge. He reminded us that in our team talks, we
had agreed there would be tough situations, and that our real character would
show in the way we bounced back. I won’t say we all felt 10 feet tall when we
finally left for our hotel, but the world didn’t seem that horrible a place anymore.
Anil had taken two of the five wickets on the first day, decent returns on
his comeback to the Test side, but he wasn’t satisfied. Because of the shoulder
surgery that had forced him out of cricket for almost a year, he had had to
change the way he bowled. He wasn’t able to get the same fizz off the track, so
he added new tricks to his repertoire. He started to bowl slower through the air,
and developed two different googlies. He was a meaner, craftier and more skilful
bowler, as he was to show throughout the tour, which he ended with 24 wickets
from three Tests. And to think that he would have struggled to get into the eleven
if Bhajji had been available. On such slender threads do careers change and
fortunes oscillate.
Anil’s five-wicket haul the next day meant we could bowl Australia out for
556, but we lost early wickets again and were struggling at 85 for 4. Sourav had
just been run out and when I joined Rahul in the middle, it was obvious that he
was perturbed at the mix-up that had led to the skipper’s dismissal. Sourav had
slammed a big hundred in the previous Test and we were already in a pickle
before his fall, so that added to Rahul’s discomfiture.
 We had two hours to negotiate before stumps, so the first thing I told Rahul
was, ‘Jam, we can’t change what has happened. Put whatever happened behind
you, let’s not lose a wicket till close of play.’ As always, Waugh looked to attack
us, and we scored boundaries at will. I didn’t feel the pressure of the situation. It
didn’t once occur to me that we were in trouble.
Especially when I played Australia in Australia, I felt every innings was an
opportunity to exhibit my talent. I loved their attacking style, I relished the quick
outfields that provided value for shots even on the vast grounds. I thrived on the
pace and bounce that didn’t require me to generate my own power. When you
experience that pleasure and all the strokes in your repertoire flow off the middle
of the bat, you get into a zone where you cut out all distractions—the match
situation and the scoreboard are nothing if not distractions. When we were in
trouble as a team, I was blessed with the gift of taking these out of the equation.
By close on the second day, we had put on 95 in quick time. We were still
way behind Australia, but even they knew we were on to a good thing. The third
morning, John appeared by my side as I was knocking at the Adelaide Oval and
whispered, ‘Come on Magician, let’s have a repeat of Eden.’
That’s precisely what we gave him. Like in every partnership Rahul and I
had, our focus was on the process. It was important to build on the momentum
we had generated the previous evening, and it helped that Waugh didn’t have a
sweeper cover in place for MacGill. He turned the leg-break a long way, but
invariably offered a boundary ball in every over. The runs came rapidly, and it
was nice to see Rahul playing with freedom. Both of us wanted to make this tour
count, especially in light of our performances four years earlier, and when we
punched gloves after a boundary or between overs, we told each other, ‘One
more over. One more over.’
Our stand had mushroomed to 303 when I was dismissed on the stroke of
tea for 148, to my first poor stroke of the innings. It was the last over before the
interval, and my eyes lit up when I received a short ball from Andy Bichel. I
went for the cut, but while the length demanded the shot, the line did not. The
ball was not as wide as I thought, and I could not free my arms as much as I
needed to. The result was a nick through to the wicketkeeper. I was furious with
myself, but not because I had missed out on 150 or a double hundred. I hadn’t
made the bowler earn my scalp. I had thrown it away.
Rahul, the master of mind over matter, completed a magnificent double
and ensured that we got to within 33 of Australia’s tally. By the time he was last
man dismissed, we were well into the first session of day four.
Australia’s approach was always positive. If they sensed an opening, they
went for the kill. They knew that their lead was marginal and that it was still a
good batting strip, so they came out typically gung-ho, wanting to pile on the
runs quickly and set it up for their bowlers to take over. As it turned out, it was
this very attitude that cost them dear.
I remember telling Rahul while standing alongside him in the slips, that the
Australian batsmen were trying too hard and taking far too many risks. By
contrast, Sourav was not over attacking. He had good fields, and was backed by
a wonderful spell from Ajit Agarkar. Ajit had established himself as a serious
wicket-taker in one-day cricket, but he was still coming to grips with Test
cricket. It didn’t help that he was in and out of the Test side, but that afternoon,
he was spot-on with his lines. He gave nothing away, bowled wicket-to-wicket
and got the ball to move just a little. In going for extravagant strokes, Australia
paid the price. Sachin then chipped in with his leg-spin picking up the important
scalps of Damien Martyn and Steve Waugh, both expertly caught by Rahul at
slip. Australia were bowled out for 196 with Ajit returning 6 for 41. Our target
was 230, and time was not a factor. It was our game to win. Or lose.
It was a somewhat nervous chase, as you might expect. We got
partnerships but we also lost wickets, though we were never in serious danger of
losing the game. We needed 60 when it was my turn to bat, and I hit a few
boundaries quickly to take us to within nine of the target. In trying to clear
Simon Katich’s left-arm wrist-spin over the infield, I holed out to mid-wicket,
but Rahul stayed on to apply the finishing touches, memorably kissing the crest
on his cap as he shuffled to the winning run. It was a sweet, sweet victory,
against Australia in Australia. It had come after being well behind the game at
the end of day one, then day two. It gave us the assurance, like Headingley had
done, that we could win anywhere, from any position.
For more than four hours on day one of the Boxing Day Test, we seemed to
have shed our post-victory blues of the past. Viru was truly magnificent in the
third Test in Melbourne, caning the bowling with disdain. He forged a strong
opening alliance with Aakash Chopra. These two men from Delhi were
diametrically opposite in their approach, and that was great for us. Viru would
take the bowling on, while Aakash put a huge price on his wicket and
accomplished the unenviable task of taking the shine off the new ball and tiring
out the fast bowlers so that the rest of us could come in and play our strokes.
They added 141, and when Viru and Rahul were involved in a second
hundred stand in succession, we were in total control. Australia were on the back
foot, scrambling for cover, such was the ferocity of Viru’s strokeplay. As was
typical, he was dismissed going for a six to bring up his double hundred,
triggering a collapse we were powerless to stop. From 278 for 1, we rolled over
for 366. Australia were all over us with Ricky breezing to another double ton.
We suffered a second batting meltdown and were spanked by nine wickets. The
old bogey had raised its head again.
Sachin, meanwhile, was having a quiet series with the bat, and it was
beginning to get to him. After the Melbourne defeat, he pulled me into the
meeting room for a chat. He took great pride in scoring runs for the team, and he
was hurting because he felt he was not contributing with the bat. He had been
dismissed in different, freakish ways—adjudged leg before when he offered no
stroke to a ball that was clearly going above the stumps, strangled down leg. But
he felt the one shot that had let him down was the cover drive. It worried him
that he was regularly being sucked into playing that stroke. I sensed that more
than anything else, he was looking for reassurance. I told him that he was hitting
the ball well, that it was just a matter of time before he turned it around.
Despite the Melbourne loss, we were not downcast heading into the final
Test in Sydney. The conditions there were more suitable, and we had two quality
spinners in Anil and Murali Kartik, who were ready to pounce on any assistance
from a historically spin-friendly surface. Sourav’s luck with the coin held, and
Viru and Aakash gave us another great start, putting on 123. Our game plan
revolved around stacking up a massive total and then strangling the Aussies
through scoreboard pressure. It was Steve Waugh’s final Test and all through the
series, we had felt that the Australians were distracted by the events surrounding
their long-standing captain’s imminent departure. We were in pounce mode,
hoping to cash in if they faltered even a tiny bit.
I was involved in a second triple-hundred stand of the series, but this one
was an absolute education. It was a lesson in restraint and self-control. As
batsmen, we all make plans. We cut out some shots in the early part of our
innings, take our time assessing the pitch and the bowling, and once we get our
eye in, we play all the shots in our arsenal. Not Sachin, not that innings. Having
determined after Melbourne that the cover drive was his bête noire, Sachin
consciously cut the shot out of his armoury. He didn’t play the cover drive as he
reached 50, he didn’t do so when he crossed 100, and he continued to ignore it
after he passed 150.
I was as determined as Sachin that I should produce a big knock, but for
entirely different reasons. While he was short of runs, I was batting beautifully
and wanted to make my form count. But I also wanted to put on an exhibition for
my parents, who had come to Australia for the Boxing Day and New Year Tests.
The first time they had watched me ‘live’ at the ground was at the
Melbourne Cricket Ground, but I let them and the team down by making only 19
and 18. Despite my travails, they had a wonderful time, sitting alongside
Matthew Hayden’s parents. My father told me that when Haydos completed his
century and raised his bat in the direction of his parents, they beamed with pride
and delight. I wanted my parents to experience the same emotions.
My parents hadn’t met an Australian couple before, and couldn’t stop
talking about how wonderful Haydos’s mom and dad were. ‘Different country,
different culture, but the same as us,’ my father told me. I was relieved that their
short tour of Australia had got off to the perfect start. It was up to me to make
sure that the rest of their stay was as memorable.
The team spent New Year’s eve on a yacht at Darling Harbour, where we
took the opportunity to refocus on our desire to be trendsetters. We were still in
the series, and we had got off to a cracking start. I wanted to do something
special for my parents. These were my thoughts as I took guard. After that, my
mind went blank, and the distractions disappeared.
We comfortably saw off the 90 minutes to close on the first day and when
play started on day two, I stayed true to my game plan. I gave the first half-hour
to the bowlers, playing exclusively in the V. Once I was confident that I had the
measure of the conditions and the bowling, the V slowly widened. Without
making a conscious effort, I began dealing in boundaries, including four in one
Brett Lee over. I was capitalising on picking the length early, having honed my
preparations even earlier.
A lot of the time, when you are playing with a blank mind and when you
have done your homework, you surprise yourself with your batting. It is as if the
ball is at your mercy, waiting for your command so that it can do your bidding.
There is the danger, of course, of getting carried away. So I told myself that as
long as I played the shots I was good at, it didn’t matter if I played too many
shots. I was a touch and rhythm player, but I have been guilty of falling prey to a
mental error after a rush of boundaries. That wasn’t happening in this series
because I wasn’t being overambitious in my shot selection.
I got the impression as I stacked up the boundaries that Waugh felt he was
always one fielder short. He wasn’t sure what fields to set, because I played balls
pitching on the same spot to different parts of the ground. If the ball was pitched
up outside off, I opened the face of the bat and played it to covers. To a similar
ball, I also either played with a straight bat to mid-off, or closed the bat face and
used my wrists to play to mid-on. Likewise, off the back foot, to short balls
pitching in the same area, I either played the back-foot punch through cover, or
directed it to mid-wicket with my wrists.
I celebrated my hundred in my usual manner—helmet off, hands thrown up
in the air, a big smile on my face, but nothing exaggerated. I first waved to the
dressing room, acknowledging the support of my mates, then turned towards the
Corporate Box where I knew my parents were seated and raised the bat in their
direction. I couldn’t see them, but I knew they were there, and I knew they could
see me. My father hadn’t even watched me on TV previously, he got updates on
my performances from patients at his clinic! My mother would watch a little bit
here and there, but her primary source of information was my uncle. This was
only the second time they had watched me bat in person, and I was thrilled to
salute them with a hundred—my way of saying thank you to them for allowing
me to chase my dream.
It was the first time my parents were being exposed to reactions from the
crowd. ‘The standing ovation you received was my proudest moment,’ my father
told me. I was even more proud to have scored a hundred with my parents in the
audience.
I got out to the third new ball for 178, but this time there was no
disappointment. It was one of the best deliveries I received in my career. Jason
Gillespie nipped one back sharply from outside off after landing it on the seam,
and found the gap between my bat and my pad to rattle the middle stump. When
you know that you have got out to a good ball and that you haven’t given it
away, you can live with it.
As I walked off elated, the crowd rose again to applaud my effort. I was
happy that Sachin and I had put on 376, and taken the team to a position from
where we could hope for a series-deciding victory. When I entered the dressing
room, the whoops and cheering lifted my spirits further. Every member of the
team was genuinely happy for me. That was the beauty of that team. There was
nothing affected about the celebrations. Everyone spontaneously celebrated
others’ successes.
Meanwhile, throughout his innings, not once did Sachin deviate from his
methodology of taking the off-side out of the picture. Even full-tosses and half-
volleys from regular bowlers and part-timers alike were steadfastly ignored, and
when Sourav applied the closure on the third morning, Sachin had reached his
Test-best 241. We had amassed 705 for 7.
Langer and Hayden teed off and Simon Katich made a century, but Anil’s
tireless, crafty, marathon 46.5-over spell that netted him eight wickets gave us a
healthy lead of 231. We batted on to extend that advantage to 442, giving
ourselves nearly 95 overs to bowl Australia out. But the surface didn’t help our
spinners even on the fifth afternoon, and when Australia might have wobbled,
their fantastic captain bailed them out. Tough as nails and always at his best in
the face of adversity, Steve ground out a typical fighting 80, steering his side to
safety.
For us, it was a glorious opportunity lost, but we weren’t disheartened. We
had left these shores four years earlier after a fearful pounding. This time, we
had held our own and, apart from at Melbourne, were clearly the stronger side. It
was a big improvement from 2000—2–1 would have been brilliant, but 1–1
wasn’t the worst result. More importantly, we had proved to ourselves that the
New Zealand series had been a one-off dictated by the conditions, and that we
were more than equipped to tackle challenges overseas.

Whispers of a potential tour to Pakistan had started to surface midway through

the tour of Australia. We couldn’t ignore them, but we couldn’t allow them to
take our focus away from the task at hand either. India’s prime minister, Shri
Vajpayee, wanted the tour to go ahead as another attempt to build bridges
between the nations. It wasn’t until after the Sydney Test that a delegation from
New Delhi came over to Australia along with some members of the BCCI to
discuss the modalities, and we were all grateful for the timing—at the end of the
Test series, so that there were no distractions.
The delegation held a meeting with some of the more experienced players
to ascertain our stand on touring Pakistan. We were appreciative of this too. The
tour wasn’t foisted upon us, we were given the option to discuss and disagree if
we so felt, but we all instantly agreed to do our bit to support our prime
minister’s objective. That we were promised the best possible security was a
bonus. As sportspersons, as ambassadors of our game and more importantly our
country, we felt privileged to be in a position to bring people together.
We went to Pakistan not long after the conclusion of the triangular series in
Australia, and the reception we got when we landed in Lahore was
heartwarming. We could see genuine love and respect in the eyes of our friends
from across the border. What we struggled to get used to was the overwhelming
security cover that was thrown around us. We had heard stories of the dragnet
around the Indian team when they had travelled to Sri Lanka during the civil war
there, but apart from Sachin, no one else had encountered this level of security.
Our routes were kept secret and wherever we turned, we found security
personnel and commandos. It was a first for all of us, and it highlighted the
sensitivity of the tour.
It was a little disquieting, but we felt no fear or apprehension. We had
complete faith in the people looking after us, and as the tour went on, we learnt
to ignore the ubiquitous gun-toting personnel. Within the team, there was
anticipation, expectation and excitement. For some strange reason, there was no
pressure whatsoever. It was the first time in Pakistan for almost everyone in the
squad, and we soon felt at home as the welcoming hospitality of our hosts
enveloped us.
The hospitality didn’t extend to the playing field, of course. India and
Pakistan have been fiercely competitive rivals, with no quarter asked and none
given. We were exposed to that harsh reality—not that we expected anything
different—in our only practice game in Lahore before the one-day series. We
thought we had enough on the board when we rattled up 335, but Imran Nazir
and Taufeeq Umar toyed with us. They put on 127 in less than nine overs, and
we were hammered with four overs to spare. We hadn’t arrived here expecting to
run roughshod over Pakistan, but this game confirmed what our pre-tour analysis
had told us—Pakistan were a brilliant side brimming with talent, and we had our
work cut out. We still carried the confidence from Australia that we were second
to none. The level of your game goes up when you play a strong opposition.
Automatically, you become better as individuals and as a team. The warm-up
drubbing was a wake-up call. Perhaps subconsciously, we had been caught up in
all the paraphernalia of touring Pakistan. But our identities stemmed from what
we did on the cricket field, and we were determined to shut everything else out
once we crossed the white line.
The one-day series was a fascinating battle of wits and skill. I missed the
first ODI after aggravating a strain in the knee in the practice game and when I
returned, I had modest returns in the next three matches. The teams traded blows
equally so that when we went into the decider in Lahore, the series was
tantalisingly poised at 2–2. No Indian team had won a series in Pakistan before
and we were aware of that. And while we wanted to create history, we chose to
live in the moment and not get too far ahead of ourselves.
I rediscovered my touch in the last ODI as the runs came freely. The timing
was back and I found the boundaries with ease as I brought up a very satisfying
fourth hundred of the year. It took us to 293, a very big total in 2004. That was
magnified by the fact that it was the decider and that it was an India-Pakistan
game. Irfan and Bala were excellent up front and Sachin took a superb leaping
catch at long-on to dismiss Inzamam-ul-Haq. A back injury to Sourav was the
only discordant note as we surged home by 40 runs and sealed the series 3–2.
Much of the talk during team meetings was about keeping things simple,
playing our natural game and not getting intimidated. We knew that there would
be loads of support for Pakistan, but there was a steady stream of people who
travelled from India to keep our spirits high and our tricolour fluttering in the
stands. We weren’t unaware of the expectations back home, and from millions of
our countrymen in different parts of the globe. We spoke of the dangers of
getting emotionally attached to these extraneous factors, and emphasised staying
in our bubble and not getting distracted. The ODI series triumph was a huge shot
in the arm, but three Tests still remained to be played.
Sourav wasn’t available for the first Test, but that didn’t knock us off kilter.
Rahul had led previously and our philosophy was a shared one. We were not
individual-driven but spurred by our goals and ideals, and while we would miss
Sourav, it wouldn’t be a crippling blow. Our batting was strong, experienced and
in form. The bowling was young and energetic and on the upward learning
curve. Irfan was bowling really well, and Pakistan saw the blossoming of young
Bala, who was unfortunate to have injuries cut short what could have been a
storied career. Bhajji wasn’t around, but Anil had rediscovered himself, and
Sachin was bowling his leg-spin the best he had ever done in his life. Everything
was beautifully set up. All we had to do was stick to our processes and not stray
from the charted path.
After the packed stands during the ODIs, the turnout was somewhat
underwhelming for the Test series, which kicked off in Multan. Perhaps the heat,
the distance of the ground from the city centre, and the fact that school exams
were on, led to the lukewarm response, but that wasn’t for us to lose sleep over.
Rahul won a very good toss and as they had done in Australia, Viru and Aakash
got us off to a solid start. Or rather, Aakash was solid, while Viru was
spectacular.
He put on an absolute exhibition, dismissing the ball from his presence
with total disdain. The harder Pakistan tried, the quicker he scored. Sachin was
happy to bat in his younger partner’s shadow and by the end of day one, we had
already stacked up more than 350 runs.
It didn’t take Viru all that long on the second morning to become India’s
first triple centurion in Tests. It couldn’t have come sooner. For all our batting
riches, 281 as the highest score by an Indian wasn’t particularly edifying. We
needed to get into the 300-club, and while many professed surprise that Viru was
the first one there, I wasn’t among them. Viru had the strokes and the smarts to
go with adequate technique, and because he scored so quickly, he had a very
good chance of stacking up the records so long as he didn’t get bored and do
something daft.
When Viru strode back after a mesmerising 309, the focus shifted to
Sachin’s double hundred. More than a decade after Vinod Kambli had scored
back-to-back doubles for India, Sachin was on the verge of emulating his
childhood buddy. I had failed to cash in on the run fest, run out after a mix-up
with Sachin. I wasn’t a great one for watching the action, so when I was in the
dressing room, I would put on my headphones and go to sleep. Someone would
wake me up when a teammate reached a milestone and I would join in the
celebrations.
As a hand gently nudged me and I slid the headphones off my ears, I heard
the words, ‘Get ready, we are fielding.’ I was irritated that no one had woken me
up when Sachin reached his 200, but as I opened my mouth to protest, I sensed a
certain unease, if not disquiet, in the room. It was then that I learnt that Rahul
had applied the closure with Sachin on 194.
It was obvious, looking at Sachin, that he was upset. At the end of the
day’s play, he hit the gym and started to lift heavy weights to try and get
whatever he was feeling out of his system. But his frustrations didn’t boil over to
the team. He was mature enough to not let off steam in front of the others, and
while we all felt for him in our own ways, we didn’t discuss the merits or
otherwise of Rahul’s decision. By now, the team ethos was very strong—the
focus was on the group rather than on individuals, and it was time to focus on
what we had to do as a unit on the field.
From time to time, I would glance surreptitiously at Rahul to see if he was
feeling any pressure, but he seemed perfectly in control of himself. Seeing the
captain thus, whatever vestigial apprehensions there might have been vanished
for the rest of the boys. Winning the Test and the series was the bigger goal, and
nothing could divert our attention from that. We had a fabulous mix of
experienced heads and youthful energy, but the biggest advantage was that the
lines of communication were always open. Rahul and Sachin had a chat about it
the morning after the declaration and decided to draw a line in the sand. Credit to
both for handling a delicate situation with such equanimity.
Pakistan battled hard in response to our 675, but they were always up
against it. Irfan and Bala were excellent, and I was particularly impressed with
how far Bala had come in such a short time. When he came to Australia, Bala
was predominantly an inswing bowler; by the time he left that country three
months later, he had added the outswinger to his armoury, thanks entirely to
Bruce Reid, who had joined us as the bowling consultant. Bruce had been
tireless in his work with Bala and Irfan, and the results were obvious in Pakistan.
Bala was getting the ball to shape away from the right-handers, while Irfan was
swinging the new Kookaburra in late. Zak’s experience and Anil’s expertise
were on show, and we forced Pakistan to follow-on even though we had spent
more than eight hours on the field.
Zak didn’t bowl a single over in the second innings—his was a career
littered with injuries, especially in the first half—but Anil was relentless as he
hunted Pakistan down with 6 for 72. Fittingly, it was Rahul who held the catch to
formalise our innings victory. History was within our grasp.
On to Lahore, and to a familiar, frustrating, maddening, inexplicable
encore. We seemed to have learned little from the past. This was becoming
something of a bad habit. Perhaps we were drained after an emotional victory,
perhaps we didn’t recover well in the short time between the two Tests. Perhaps
those are just excuses. No matter. Umar Gul and Pakistan blew us away on the
first day, and there was no coming back. Yuvi made an outstanding hundred on a
seaming track but that was about it as we were rolled over for 287. Once
Pakistan opened up a 200-run lead, we surrendered meekly. In the matter of a
week, the fight had ebbed out of us. Maybe we were still happy with just the one
win. Maybe for all our tall talk and supposed ambition, we weren’t committed
enough.
To address these issues once again, we had a fruitful team talk on arriving
in Rawalpindi for the final match of the tour. Sourav had rejoined us—he had
returned to India for treatment on his back at the conclusion of the first Test—
and with the full complement at our disposal, it was important for us to regroup.
We always had good chats after a defeat and spoke at length about our
determination to bounce back, but it was a concern that we were backing up
good wins with careless defeats. It all boiled down to attitude. We were still
strong as a cricketing group, but collectively we were not able to maintain the
momentum, often starting poorly and playing ourselves out of the contest.
We revisited the Lahore debacle and stressed the significance of
partnerships, with bat and ball. We had to avoid losing wickets in clusters. And
when bowling, if wickets didn’t fall, then we had to maintain pressure through
dot balls and maiden overs. Simple, basic stuff, but stuff that needed to be talked
about anyway. Individually, several of us were fired up. Rahul hadn’t got a big
score, I hadn’t made a significant contribution. We also had a selection dilemma.
With Sourav back, someone had to make way for him. Normally, it would have
been the one who replaced him in the XI, but given what Yuvi had done in the
previous game, it was impossible to leave him out.
So, who then? Unfortunately, the axe fell on Aakash. He might not have
made massive scores, but alongside Viru, he had given us great starts in
Australia and here in Pakistan. He had seen off the new ball expertly, driven the
bowlers to exasperation with his resolute occupation of the crease. It wasn’t fair
to him, but Aakash showed great character in accepting the decision with poise.
Parthiv was pushed up to open the batting, and I felt for him. To open the
batting in a Test match after keeping wicket is a huge demand physically and
mentally, but Parthiv was mature and responsible beyond his years. He is one of
those silent, unsung heroes who did everything and more that the team asked of
him, uncomplainingly and with a smile. There is a huge heart inside that little
frame, and he rose to the occasion by making 69 after having donned the big
gloves for 73 overs on the first day. When he and Sachin fell within one run of
each other, we were 130 for 3 in reply to Pakistan’s 224, and the match was
finely balanced.
Neither Rahul nor I had had a memorable series. I had scored 53 runs in
three innings, he had made 39. This was the first series I was playing after
getting married, and I wanted to score runs with Sailaja looking on. Rahul and I
chose the ideal stage to return to run-scoring ways. I began with a host of
boundaries and quickly brought up my fifty, but this wasn’t to be one of our
mega stands. We put on 131, which was crucial given the context. I was
beginning to feel good about myself when I completely lost sight of a full toss
from Shoaib Akhtar, who was operating with the second new ball. The
sightscreen at the ground when batting from the pavilion end was very low, and I
didn’t see the ball at all as it left Shoaib’s hand and clattered into my stumps. I
stood open-mouthed at the manner in which I had been dismissed.
Rahul, however, kept batting on and on and on. He had made it a habit in
the preceding four years of improving on his best Test score each time he got to
a double hundred, and he stuck to that theme, stringing together good stands
with almost everyone before being dismissed on the reverse sweep. By then, his
12-hour epic had yielded 270 of the finest, and with a lead of close to 400, we
were on the cusp of history.
There was so much time left in the match that unless play was washed out
for two full days, victory was guaranteed. We made things difficult for ourselves
by dropping half a dozen catches on the fourth day, but the result wasn’t in any
doubt. Bala was the pick of the bowlers, showing aggression while picking up
three wickets, and Anil backed him up expertly with four wickets, running
through the tail. Pakistan were rolled over for 245 and we ran out, resounding
winners by the massive margin of an innings and 131 runs, even more
comprehensive than the Multan triumph.
The huge smiles and unrestrained thumping of backs showed how much
this 2–1 victory meant to each one of us, and to the group. We celebrated really
hard, savouring a memorable series against a good Pakistan team in their own
backyard, despite the distractions.
The results made the tour a success from every conceivable angle. We had
won the hearts of the people with our conduct and our cricket, and Pakistan had
bowled us over with its warmth and love. The respect we got from everyone we
met is something I will treasure, always. Lahore was very similar to New Delhi;
it is one of the most inclusive cities I have visited. We went to the Pakistani side
of the Wagah border, and all of us have pictures with one leg in Pakistan and one
leg in our homeland. We made friends on the field, and off it too. We knew we
were on to something special, but it wasn’t until we landed in Delhi that we
realised just how much our victories meant to our country. On the flight back to
Hyderabad after the grand reception in Delhi, I didn’t stop smiling or signing
autographs. The whole of India was rejoicing in our victory, and it was humbling
to have been a part of the team that put the smiles on the faces of our fellow
citizens. It was then that I understood the true import of Indo-Pak cricket.

Pakistan was our only overseas series win in three years. We had lost in Sri
Lanka, the Caribbean and South Africa, but we had also drawn in Zimbabwe,
England and Australia. The 2003–04 season had gone particularly well, and with
a string of home Tests ahead in the season to follow, the next year should have
driven us forward. Instead, the exact opposite transpired. We didn’t just stagnate,
we regressed. Just like that.
After a long off-season and with a new selection committee having been
installed, our first challenge was against Australia, in October–November 2004.
The Aussies came well prepared, drawing both from their experiences in 2001
and from the strategies adopted by Nasser Hussain later in 2001 when England
had toured India. In a dramatic shift from their aggressive mindset, Australia
appealed to our egos by falling back on the defensive. They worked out plans to
frustrate us by cutting out the boundaries, and we played right into their hands.
To begin with, there was inconsistency in selection; a couple of Tests after
his century in Lahore, Yuvi was asked to open the batting and Mohammad Kaif
was recalled to the middle order. Yuvi wasn’t given enough time to establish his
credentials as an opener, and all of a sudden, there was a sense of insecurity with
people starting to play for their places. Team goals inevitably took a hit in the
climate of uncertainty, and it was no surprise that we lost the opening Test to
Australia in Bangalore.
We were in for a shock when, after rain perhaps robbed us of a series-
levelling win in Chennai, an absolute green top welcomed us in Nagpur.
Australia had a distinct advantage even before the start of the Test. Sourav
couldn’t play because of a leg injury, and Sachin had just returned after his first
tryst with a tennis elbow. We had disintegrated from being a team to a collection
of individuals, our shared goals lying in a heap of rubble that was the result of
insecurity stemming from the inconsistencies in selection, the total lack of
transparency and utter breakdown of channels of communication.
Australia rode on the unexpected Nagpur gift to score their first series win
in India in three-and-a-half decades. It was a shattering result at the start of the
season, especially as we had been tamed in our own backyard. No matter what
the circumstances, we should not have lost. So when we went to the Wankhede
Stadium, we had plenty to play for.
Personally, I had hit a trough after the highs of the previous season. The
runs had dried up, and I suspected I would be in the firing line if I didn’t make
runs in Mumbai. That we were confronted by the most treacherous surface of my
career when we arrived at Wankhede didn’t do anything for my confidence.
Balls were exploding off a length, hitting batsmen sharply on the chest and the
ribs. If you were a batsman, you weren’t wrong in thinking that it wouldn’t be
long before a ball came at you with your name on it.
We were shot out for 104 in the first innings, of which I made just one.
Australia opened up a lead of 99, which should have been decisive on that
minefield, and we went to stumps on five without loss at the end of day two.
Sailaja was scheduled to fly back to Hyderabad that evening, and had left for the
airport by the time I returned to my room.
I was dangerously close to a breakdown when I spotted a folder on my bed,
inside which was a letter from Sailaja. She knew that I wasn’t feeling on top of
the world, and intended to lift me with her words, if not her presence. It was a
touching letter. She had intuitively sensed my discomfort and dejection. She
ended the note with the words, ‘No matter what happens from here, you have
plenty to be proud of. And I will always be proud of you.’
It took me a while to regain my composure, and I promised myself that I
wouldn’t let Sailaja down. I called John and informed him that I wanted extra
batting before the start of the third day. We went to the ground much before the
rest of the team, and I batted for 30 minutes against the assortment of net
bowlers John had assembled. I was extremely scratchy; my mind was clouded,
my thoughts drifting to my current predicament and the dangerous track that lay
in wait.
The longer I batted, however, the better I felt. Hitting a lot of balls in the
nets when not in a good space was my trusted method to rediscover my touch
and slowly get my feel back. The better the feel, the better the rhythm in my
movements, in my timing. When I left the nets after thanking the bowlers, I felt I
was as ready as I could be under the circumstances.
I was slotted in at No. 3 in the second dig, and I found myself walking out
after the day’s third ball when McGrath dismissed Gautam Gambhir, the
debutant. Viru fell, also to McGrath, with only 14 on the board. An early finish
loomed.
Sachin arrived with a simple message—be positive. Whenever I batted
with Sachin, it was like having a coach at the other end. He loved to chat,
second-guessing the bowlers and making counter-plans. He said, ‘Lachi, we
can’t just look to survive on this pitch. An unplayable ball is not far away, so
let’s try and get a few before that. Whenever a scoring opportunity comes along,
let’s take it, even if there is an element of risk. It is important to back yourself
and play your shots.’
Encouraged by his attitude, I struck a couple of boundaries and he did
likewise. That’s when I realised how much the Australians feared the possibility
of the two of us taking the game away from them. From crowding us with close-
in fielders, Ricky Ponting opened up the field to cut off boundaries even though
we were still well behind.
Sachin and I made the most of Nathan Hauritz’s inexperience. It is very
difficult to bowl on a turner, especially when you are a young spinner not
exposed to such conditions. The toughest ball to negotiate on a turning track is
the one that goes straight through. We played a lot off the back foot. While the
ball was gripping and turning, it was also sitting in the pitch. If it was pitched
short, we had plenty of time to rock back and play the pull or the back-foot
punch. I had played top-class spinners both in the Hyderabad nets and in
domestic cricket, so I played horizontal bat shots freely off the back foot.
When Hauritz over-corrected and pitched the ball too full, Sachin played
the sweep while I used the crease to manoeuvre the ball. Sachin was the more
aggressive until he was dismissed for 55 after we had added 91. I struck plenty
of boundaries, 12 in all, between long bouts of watchfulness, batting more than
three hours in compiling 69 of the toughest, most satisfying runs of my life.
It took a brilliant catch by Hauritz, diving to his left on his follow-through,
to get rid of me. As I walked back, I told myself that even if it was not a
hundred, this was one of my best Test knocks. Even discounting my state of
mind, it had come against the formidable Aussies on a dangerous track, with our
backs to the wall. I had also overcome the mental battle—bat for my place
versus score runs for the team—and delivered under pressure, whether it was
self-imposed or external.
The value of our partnership was put into perspective when we lost our last
six wickets for just 23, exploding any suspicion that the pitch had eased out.
Australia’s target was a mere 107, but the mood in our camp was positive.
Everyone was charged up. We were going to fight it out. We had the runs on the
board, they still had to make them. We had three high-class spinners in Anil,
Bhajji and Murali Kartik, and knew that if Michael Clarke could take six wickets
against us, we had the skill to exploit the conditions as well, if not better.
We expected Australia to come hard at us, more so because they didn’t
have too many batsmen with a good defensive technique for these conditions.
Rahul pulled off a masterstroke by bringing Kartik on before Anil, and the left-
arm spinner rose magnificently to the occasion.
Kartik is one of the best spinners I have come across in any form of
cricket, and I firmly believe that he should have played a lot more Test cricket
and finished with loads more wickets. Just eight Tests and 24 wickets is no
reflection of his skills. He foxed the Australians using the arm-ball—which
hastens through on pitching and doesn’t deviate off the surface—to devastating
effect. I didn’t encounter a left-arm spinner with a better arm-ball all through my
career. That evening, Kartik was aggressive, and his control over his length
immaculate.
Buoyed by Anil’s words of encouragement, Kartik outwitted Ponting,
Damien Martyn and Clarke in no time. He was a fierce competitor who, like
Anil and Bhajji, had the temperament of a fast bowler. He was always up for a
fight, aggressive and constantly looking for wickets. He also had the skills to
back that attitude. It’s a shame that after his Mumbai heroics, he played only one
more Test match.
Kartik’s three-wicket haul and Bhajji’s decimation of the tail sent Australia
plummeting to 93 all out. We had something to show at long last, a thrilling 13-
run win that temporarily masked the growing discontent and insecurity within
the group.
Later in the year, we got the better of South Africa with 1–0 in a two-Test
home series, also in November, and were too strong for Bangladesh away in
December 2004, but there was no joy in winning. We were merely going through
the motions, each man for himself and each man to himself.
It was in this fragmented state that we took on Pakistan in the return series.
We were expected to win—our fans were willing to overlook the Australian
series as just one of those things—and we felt the weight of their expectations.
We were well positioned to win the first Test in Mohali until a flat-as-a-pancake
final-day surface and staunch resistance from Kamran Akmal and Abdul Razzaq
denied us victory. Rahul’s century in each innings gave us the lead in Kolkata,
but we were routed in Bangalore despite a wonderful double century by Viru.
This was the season when, with Australia, South Africa and Pakistan visiting us,
we had the glorious opportunity to further our ambition of becoming the best in
the world. Instead, we lost one, won one, and drew the third series, which was
definitely not acceptable.
As the season unfolded, I could clearly see John becoming more and more
disillusioned. He was still committed to his task and his intensity did not drop,
but each day, his heart was a little less in it. It pained me to see him in such
turmoil. There was nothing I would not have done for him. He is a lovely man
and gave everything he had to Indian cricket. In his last year, I don’t think Indian
cricket reciprocated.
John’s contract was coming to an end at the conclusion of the one-dayers
against Pakistan—by now, I had again become superfluous to the limited-overs
side—and after the Bangalore defeat, he drew me aside to tell me that he had no
intention of seeking an extension. John was the catalyst behind India being
among the world leaders, and I wanted to shake him violently and ask him to
stay back. But I knew what he had been through, and I took in his words with the
utmost sadness. I had gotten used to his idiosyncrasies and his eccentricities, just
as I had become a fan of his supreme dedication to what was more than just a job
for him.
The 2004–05 season had started with a stable core. By the end of it,
instability had taken deep root. In a matter of four series, we had slipped several
rungs in all aspects. Much of that flowed from what happened in boardrooms
and selection committee meetings, more off-field stuff than on it. It was, in
hindsight, the ideal precursor to the tumultuous days under Greg Chappell, our
next coach.
 11
The Road to No. 1
(Part Three)

I had been a huge fan of Greg Chappell for a very long time. I had admired his
presence at the crease in photographs and videos of him—elegant, almost
majestic. Tall and upright, he struck the ball beautifully and had wonderful
hands, especially when he fielded in the slips. Over the years, I was also
impressed by his reading and understanding of the game. During my two
interactions with him long before he took charge as our coach, I had come away
with my knowledge enhanced and my respect for him multiplied.
When Greg was named as John’s successor, I was both happy and excited.
It wasn’t until the formal announcement that we knew for sure that Greg would
be our new coach. In those days, the players weren’t asked to express their
views, and we didn’t. But just like everyone within the group knew that Rahul
had been very keen on having John as the coach in 2000 and got Sourav to
agree, we all got the sense that Sourav was eager to have Greg as the coach. He
had spent time with Greg in Sydney before our tour of Australia in 2003–04 and
benefited from those sessions.
I looked forward to feeding off Greg’s knowledge and his vast reservoir of
expertise. I had idolised him from when I was a kid. There was a photograph of
Greg wielding his Grey-Nicolls bat pasted on my father’s almirah, and since my
uncle was a big fan too, it was natural that I followed suit.
Given where Indian cricket was at when John parted ways with us, it was
imperative that we had a strong, respected individual who could lift the morale
of the team and dispel the clouds of uncertainty hovering over our heads. We had
made a lot of progress as a unit in 2003–04, but I for one felt that we had not
been allowed to build on that in the season that followed. For various reasons,
none of them cricketing, we had been reduced to a house divided. People were
looking over their shoulders and above their heads, wondering when the axe
would fall. I truly believed that Greg would be a player’s coach, that he would
restore our spirits and confidence, and put back on track our faltering campaign
to become the best in the world.
During the summer of 2005, I went to England to play club cricket for
Lashings. Retired and current cricketers played alongside celebrities to raise
funds. Among my teammates that year was Greg Blewett, the Australian
batsman. When news broke of Greg Chappell’s appointment, Blewett told me
that I needed to be careful with Greg. That we as a team needed to be careful
around our new coach. He must have noticed the shocked look on my face,
because he quickly explained that he was speaking from experience. Greg had
been the coach of South Australia when Blewett played for the state, he said,
adding that the former Australian captain had created a lot of instability within
the team. Apparently, when Greg was the coach, the dressing-room atmosphere
had been far from ideal. I didn’t take Blewett seriously. I thought he was just
letting off steam.
I believed that Greg was the ideal person to help me take my game to the
next level. I was about to enter my tenth year as an India cricketer, and I wanted
to contribute more consistently to the team’s cause. I also thought that having a
coach who understood batting as well as Greg did was a massive plus, not just
for me but for our batting unit as a whole.
Our first formal introduction to our new coach was at a camp in Bangalore,
ahead of a triangular one-day tournament in Sri Lanka. Greg was there with Ian
Fraser, his assistant, and it was a camp that was uniquely different. There was
cricket, but not just cricket. Greg introduced us to various other aspects, one of
the more interesting ones being the de Bono method of lateral thinking, with the
six hats and the works. You could sense that he was going to be a little
innovative, not afraid to introduce us to concepts we hadn’t heard of. From the
skills point of view as well, it was a very good camp and even though there
hadn’t been a great deal of emphasis on the tactical elements, we all left the
camp energised and optimistic that the season ahead would be fruitful.
My struggles with the 50-over format continued in Sri Lanka, this time not
helped by back spasms, which had become something of a constant companion. I
was in a lot of pain and with my movements restricted, I missed the first two
games. I played the next two with limited success, and was dropped for the final.
When we reached Sri Lanka for the tri-series, Greg had his first one-on-one with
me. He wanted me to play my natural game, to play aggressively. He told me
that I was a very important member of the side.
The instability in the team environment was in some ways because of a
new selection panel, and Sourav himself was under pressure because he was not
scoring as many runs as he would have loved to as captain. I felt that with Greg
coming in, I would get a fair chance to establish myself. I hoped that someone of
Greg’s stature would not allow a repeat of the 2004–05 season.
I do regret being the quiet, non-pushy guy who took everything in his
stride, without complaint. That’s something I realised post-retirement. But my
parents had taught me never to beg for or demand anything. They held the view
that if the team needed me, they would seek me out. But I now feel that may not
be the right approach. If you feel something is unfair, you must question the
process. People felt they could take liberties with me, and when I unprotestingly
allowed them to, they were quick to jump on me.
I did, however, quickly realise, like a majority of my teammates, that Greg
wasn’t quite the messiah Indian cricket was looking for. We did produce the
results, undoubtedly. Our 50-over team won a record 16 consecutive ODIs while
chasing, we scored our first Test win in South Africa, we won a series in the
Caribbean for the first time in 35 years. Apart from the unforgettable heartbreak
of the first-round elimination from the 2007 World Cup—and it hurts me even
today, though I wasn’t a part of the squad—we strung together a fairly good run
in both Tests and ODIs, but I must stress that the results were less due to the
coach and more due to the players.
It’s not as if my teammates and I are determined to paint Greg as an evil
monster. As I have already said, I was among those most delighted at being
presented with an opportunity to work alongside and under him, but it didn’t
take long for our respect to dissipate because of Greg’s attitude and approach. He
was brusque and abrasive, highly opinionated and rigid in his thinking. His man-
management skills were non-existent. He quickly sowed further seeds of
discontent in an already diffident team.
I have heard it said that we ‘seniors’ didn’t take kindly to being ‘ordered
around’ by Greg. That we couldn’t digest the fact that he didn’t treat us any
differently from those who had just broken into the side. I would say that’s a
figment of someone’s creative imagination. If we had misgivings when it came
to Greg—and we did have plenty, yes—it wasn’t because of our egos. We never
felt we were bigger than the game. I can certainly speak for myself, and I will
say this much—Greg sent out conflicting signals, treating me with a callousness
that I found shockingly unacceptable. I will always respect Greg Chappell the
batsman. Unfortunately, I can’t say the same for Greg Chappell the coach.
Sri Lanka had been an exploratory exercise. Next up was Zimbabwe for a
triangular series, with New Zealand as the third team, to be followed by a two-
Test series against the hosts. It should have been a gentle initiation. After all,
Zimbabwe were at that time an inexperienced side who had lost their top players
for one reason or the other, and were, with all due respect, in no position to even
stretch us.
I landed in Harare ahead of our only practice game before the first Test in
Bulawayo. This warm-up match was in Mutare, a small city we had never been
to before. It was here that the chain of events that was to drive a wedge between
friends and teammates kicked off, though as with most things, I was very much
in the dark about what transpired in the background.
I got what I wanted out of the Mutare exercise, both during the warm-up
game and at our net sessions that ran simultaneously. I was in a good mental
space at the nets on the eve of the first Test when even I noticed some unusual
bustle and activity to and from the middle. First, Sourav and Greg walked into
the dressing room in the middle of our training, and a little later, Rahul joined
them. They were engaged in an animated discussion, and it didn’t appear to be
pleasant.
I was doing my cool-downs when Rahul returned to the ground, and I
asked him what that little meeting had been about. Apparently, Greg had told
Sourav that he didn’t fit into the playing eleven for the Test match. I was taken
aback. After all, there were less than 24 hours to the game, and the Indian
captain was being told that he didn’t deserve a place in the side. I didn’t know
what to make of it because all I had was one basic piece of information, with no
background and no knowledge of the nature of the discussion. It was all very
strange, and quite obviously, Sourav wasn’t happy.
That evening, we had a meeting—just the players, without the support staff
—and decided that no matter what, Sourav was our captain and he would play
both Tests. That out of the way, we focused on game plans. We lost the toss but
Zimbabwe didn’t make too many, and I found myself batting at close on day
one.
I tried to put all the negativity of the past season out of my mind as I
resumed my innings in Bulawayo. Out in the middle, it was tough going.
However strong you are, it’s impossible to rid your mind of the uncertainty that’s
hovering just beneath the surface. I put that aside to make a satisfying and
dominating 140, and seemed on course for a double when I was run out after a
misunderstanding with Sourav.
After a regulation victory, the team went to Victoria Falls—Greg had
hopped across to Harare, the venue for the second Test—and you could cut the
tension in our bus with a knife. No one could quite comprehend what was going
on—the coach was targeting the captain at the very start of his tenure, and this
after the captain had been primarily responsible for the coach landing the job.
Too much had been said in public about the supposed fallout between Sourav
and Greg, with all and sundry weighing in with their opinions. Several of us felt
that it was important to sort out any issues that might have cropped up behind
closed doors, not in full view of the team, which was gradually beginning to
panic.
I had felt no delight at the Bulawayo hundred, but I was unprepared for
what lay in store in Harare. We were fielding when I felt a bit of stiffness in my
back. I came in to the dressing room for treatment, and Dheeraj Jadhav subbed
for me in the slips. Having got a rubdown, I was waiting to return to the field at
the end of the ongoing over when I spotted a piece of toast on a plate. There
were four deliveries still to go, so I picked up the piece and was nibbling on it
when Dheeraj put down a catch at slip.
Greg was furious, and directed his anger towards me. ‘Even if you were in
pain, you should have stayed on in the middle,’ he thundered. ‘You come in, you
are eating, and your replacement has put down a catch. In my book, he didn’t
drop the catch, you did.’ I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. It was so
ridiculous. I understood that the coach sometimes had to crack the whip, but he
also knew that I had come to get my back mobilised. The piece of toast hadn’t
kept me in the dressing room any longer than was required. He was accusing me
of shirking responsibility and also questioning my integrity. Not on, Greg.
Any new coach comes with his own set of ideas and his vision for the
team. We all understood that, and we never tried to compare what Greg was
doing with what John had done. But increasingly, it was becoming hard not to.
For one thing, the workload at training went up hugely, but it didn’t seem to
come with any great planning. Under John, we had the option of not going for
practice two days before a Test. On match eve, we would have a relatively light
session so that the body was fresh going into the game. There was a scientific
touch to our preparation, with a focus on hitting peak mental and physical fitness
on the morning of the match.
With Greg, it was totally different. The workload increased a great deal,
and we were made to take a lot more catches. We didn’t complain, but when we
came back, we were informed of Greg’s unhappiness with our attitude and
commitment, which he had expressed in an email sent to the BCCI. It looked
like he wanted radical changes, and he wanted them yesterday. In the immediacy
of our return from Zimbabwe, there was a review meeting, after which Sourav
was removed as the skipper and axed from the ODI team, and Rahul was made
the new captain. The way it happened was not harmonious, and surely not fair to
a guy who had taken charge at a difficult time for Indian cricket and done an
excellent job for more than five years. If the decision-makers felt that he was
past his sell-by date, fine. But they could have handled the situation with greater
tact and some common sense. Sourav deserved better—anyone in his place
deserved to be treated with greater respect and empathy.
India played a string of ODIs at home against Sri Lanka, and then came the
Test series. Chennai was a damp squib and when we went to New Delhi, I was
asked to bat at No. 3 while Rahul, the skipper, opened in the first innings. I was
pleasantly surprised to find myself at No. 3, and though I scored 69, I was
disappointed at not converting a good start to a significant score. Sachin’s 35th
Test hundred—he went past Sunny bhai’s record for the most Test tons—spurred
us to victory.
When we went to Ahmedabad, illness forced Rahul to miss the match, for
the very first time since he had donned the whites. With Sourav not in the side
either, Viru took over as captain in Anil’s 100th Test, and I continued to bat at
my favoured position. This time, on a track that demanded watchfulness more
than blazing strokeplay, I found the right balance and produced a particularly
pleasing hundred, my second in the last five Tests. Greg seemed elated after that
knock, and I got the feeling he was starting to treat me differently. Until that
knock, we had no more than a passing professional relationship. But post this
match, Greg appeared to reach out to me to make me feel important, which I
found somewhat strange.
Greg, I suspected, wanted me to bat at No. 3 because he felt I provided
positivity and aggression in that position. He vociferously backed me to occupy
that spot, and I couldn’t help but reflect on what John had told me in early 2001
—that he thought I was in the same league as Sachin, Rahul and Sourav. Until
then, I had always been a soft target. John fought for me and stood by me for the
better part of his tenure. With Greg pushing for me to bat at the spot I was most
comfortable at, I felt that he was finally standing up for me and valued my
presence in the team. Though, after what had happened with him in Harare, I
was taking nothing for granted.
We went to Pakistan in early 2006 for what was to be a huge challenge for
us and for our coach. The Lahore Test was badly hit by the weather, though there
was time enough for Rahul, who was again opening, and Viru to stack up a 400-
plus opening partnership. I faced exactly one delivery before the match was
called off. After that stalemate, we went to dusty Faisalabad for the next Test.
And it was there that I once again began to question the wisdom of our training
methods.
 The day before the Test, Fraser put us through a weird drill, taking us along
an obstacle course as if we were preparing for a cross-country run and not a
game of cricket. Predictably, my back flared up again because of the unusual
rotation of the body. I was in serious pain, and was close to pulling out of the
Test match. I said as much to Anil the evening before the game. Anil wasn’t
amused. ‘You have to play, at any cost,’ he thundered, looking out for me more
than for the team. He had seen from close quarters the treatment I had received
from the successive think tanks, and he didn’t want me to sit out a Test match,
even if it meant stretching my pain barrier.
Anil had been a friend and well-wisher, and I immediately bought into
what he said. I am glad he goaded me into playing the match, because I made 90
and put on nearly 200 with Rahul, all this after Pakistan had rattled up close to
600. It wasn’t a free-flowing knock because I was clearly handicapped by the
back injury. In trying to get to my hundred in a rush, I was caught behind off
Danish Kaneria, the leg-spinner. I regretted that stroke because it set off a mini
collapse, but then MS Dhoni and Irfan Pathan played wonderfully and counter-
attacked in style to earn us the first-innings lead and a respectable draw.
It was MS’s first Test hundred, but I knew even then that it wouldn’t be his
last. I had first seen him during a four-day warm-up match in Bengaluru between
the probables for the Australia Test series in October 2004. He came with a
massive reputation. Javagal Srinath had seen him take the Pakistan A attack to
the cleaners during a triangular series in Nairobi the previous year, and came
back raving. Sri was taken not just by the runs MS made, but how cleanly he
struck the ball and how fearlessly he took on the fastest bowlers. I was looking
forward to seeing him bat, but he got out to a short ball without scoring. I felt for
the youngster. I had wanted him to do well. It was, however, only a matter of
time.
By the Faisalabad Test, MS had established himself in the ODI side, helped
by a magnificent 148 against Pakistan in Visakhapatnam and a riotous unbeaten
183 against Sri Lanka in Jaipur, both in 2005. He had played only a handful of
Test matches since his debut against Sri Lanka in December 2005, and this was
his opportunity to show what he could do in the longer format. His 148 came off
just 153 deliveries, dotted by towering sixes as he took on the Pakistani
pacemen. Shoaib Akhtar was bowling particularly quickly, but MS dismantled
him with spectacular pulls and cuts. He smashed the ball with plenty of power
and quickly had the sparse local crowd rooting for him. When he returned to the
dressing room after being stumped off Kaneria, he joked, ‘I am going to
announce my retirement now! I never thought I would get a Test hundred. My
dream has been fulfilled.’
 MS didn’t come across as someone who was too ambitious. He seemed to
enjoy every minute of being part of the team. We knew little about where he
came from, or what hardships he had endured to get to where he had. Most
youngsters breaking into the team are so busy trying to establish themselves that
the fun element goes out of their cricket, and I say this from experience. MS was
different. Whether he was batting, keeping wicket or at training, he had a ball.
His room was an open house, the door open till past midnight. He was a big
PlayStation freak, with a special liking for war games.
He was understandably shy when he broke into the team, but we got to
know each other well because I stood in the slips and we had lots of
conversations. What stood out was his balance and maturity as a human being.
He understood the game really well, and his situational awareness was excellent.
And he had plenty of self-belief. He was unorthodox as a wicketkeeper and
batsman, but he didn’t succumb to pressure and try to be classical. He had a
unique batting technique, and because he knew his game so well, he knew how
to use it to score runs. At the end of the day, the most important thing was runs
on the board. MS didn’t care if people thought he scored those runs prettily or
otherwise.
As wicketkeeper, he was in the best position to judge what was happening
off the surface, and it wasn’t long before the captain and the bowlers started to
turn to him for suggestions. His biggest test behind the stumps came in the
Wankhede Test against England in 2006. Anil was getting a lot of bounce off a
length because of the red soil that constituted the surface, and MS had a difficult
time gathering the ball. I was a little apprehensive as we had plenty of home
Tests lined up and he would face a greater diet of the same. I need not have
worried. In a matter of two months, he improved dramatically. He was a quick
learner, and realised that going at the ball with hard hands wasn’t the right
approach. He worked hard on getting his hands soft, and after Mumbai, his
receiving of the ball became much better. With experience, he became
outstanding to the spinners. I haven’t seen hands quicker than his when it comes
to stumping.
MS didn’t overcomplicate things or work overmuch on his game. He didn’t
believe in taking a thousand catches or hitting a lot of ball at nets. He is one of
the naturally fittest cricketers I have played with or against, with a great love for
football at warm-ups. His strength is his extraordinary mind, uncluttered and
razor sharp.
MS and Irfan had given us the edge going into Karachi for the final Test,
with the series still locked 0–0. We had played on two shirtfronts, but things
changed dramatically in Karachi as Irfan produced a sensational first-over hat-
trick and we had Pakistan on the mat at 39 for 6 on the first morning. To slide
from that position of strength to a 341-run hammering was a chastening,
disheartening, incomprehensible experience. Mohammad Asif opened us up like
a can of beans in both innings and I was clean bowled both times. That I had
batted for an hour on both occasions and was yet undone by his prodigious seam
movement was a tribute to his skill. Yuvi played a brilliant hand in the second
innings and made one of the more spectacular hundreds overseas, but it was to
no avail as we were well beaten. Back in Hyderabad, I enjoyed watching India
easily win the one-day series that followed, but that hardly compensated for the
Test defeat.
No sooner did the one-day team return home than England arrived in India
for a three-Test series. In keeping with my yo-yoing fortunes, I was pushed down
to No. 5 in Nagpur even though I had done little wrong at No. 3. Worse, there
was no communication from the team management, no rationale behind the
constant shuffling of the batting order. Matthew Hoggard was getting the ball to
reverse a mile in the first innings, and I was trapped in front, first ball. It was
also to be my last ball of the series.
Away we went to Mohali and, after practice the day before the second Test,
Rahul came up to my room. He didn’t come bearing good news; he told me that I
wouldn’t be playing the next day. Just as I was coming to terms with that, he
said, ‘At some stage, this had to happen, Lax. This is the match.’
This had to happen? Really? After my 90 in Faisalabad, I had batted thrice
in Test matches, making 19, 21 and 0. Certainly poor returns, but poor enough to
be dropped? In the preceding seven Tests, in two of which I hardly batted, I had
made two centuries and a 90. I had had enough experience of being dropped on a
whim, but even for me, this was hard to digest. A couple of months ago, the
coach was singing my praises and was determined to bat me at No. 3. Four Tests
later, I found myself on the sidelines! This had to happen, Lax.
We won in Mohali and carried a 1–0 lead to Mumbai for the final Test.
There too, I found myself on the bench as we continued to play five bowlers, and
Yuvi played instead of me as the fifth batsman. Sitting in the dressing room as
the match began, I picked up a copy of The Times of India which, coincidentally,
carried the stats of Indian batsmen in Tests since Greg had taken over. If memory
serves me right, I was No. 2 on that list. It was both reassuring and confusing. If
that wasn’t good enough, then what was?
Such questions have a way of answering themselves reasonably quickly.
Even as I was reading the paper, Greg came up to me and asked if I would open
the batting in Tests going forward.
‘I made my decision in 2000, Greg. I will not open the batting in Test
cricket, that is final.’
‘How old are you?’ he asked, totally out of context.
Surprised, I replied, ‘31.’
‘Don’t you think 31 is too young an age to be sitting at home? If you are
not willing to open, you don’t fit into the playing eleven.’
I thrust the newspaper at him. ‘Since you took charge, this has been my
performance,’ I said, my voice rising. ‘I am surprised you are talking to me like
this.’
Greg stormed out without a word. He could have said something, anything.
I looked at his receding back, and whatever respect I had for him dripped away
rapidly. There was no consistency in his thoughts or his actions. From the
Sourav incident in Zimbabwe to the way he spoke to me in Harare, and now this
—you could make out his man-management skills were very, very poor, to the
extent of being non-existent.

India’s first full season under Greg had been a roller coaster. It had started with
the hope, if not the promise, of a better tomorrow, but by the end, we were no
better off than at the beginning. Instead, the sense of insecurity had taken deeper
root. There appeared to be different strokes for different folks, and even in
private, conversations were guarded because it seemed as if the walls actually
had ears. Of the four Test series we had played, we had defeated Zimbabwe and
Sri Lanka, lost to Pakistan, and been held to a draw by England at home. The
best Test side in the world? A long way from it.
The wonderful environs of the Caribbean were to help us usher in a fresh
season as we hunkered down for a four-Test showdown. India hadn’t won a Test
series in the West Indies since 1971, but we believed we had the side that could
rewrite history. We needed to start the 2006–07 season well because also in the
works was an away tour of South Africa later in the year. If we could seize our
moments and pull off victories, we would be back on track.
Sachin wasn’t available for the Caribbean Tests because of injury, so Rahul
dropped down to the No. 4 position and, after having been ignored for the two
previous Tests at home, I was slotted back in at No. 3 for the first Test in
St John’s, Antigua. The game of roulette continued unchecked.
I had what some might call a reasonable outing—29 and 31 in a drawn
game that we should have won—but I looked at it as a failure. It wasn’t only
because I set myself high standards. Each time I went out to bat, I felt I was
playing for my place in the side. I was too keyed up, too demanding of myself,
and it came as no surprise to even me that in the next game in Gros Islet, I was
dismissed without scoring.
The day before the Gros Islet Test, we were introduced to another of the
strange drills that were increasingly becoming commonplace. This one involved
transferring the body weight, stretching fully forward and committing to the
front foot totally, apparently to improve footwork. It was a mandatory session,
and at the end of it, Greg told us that this was the way to play when the ball was
pitched up, be it against fast bowlers or spinners. He was a stickler for batting
according to the ‘book’.
Viru told him he couldn’t do it.
‘It’s not that I don’t want to do it, Greg, but I can’t take a long stride to the
fast men, to Jerome Taylor or Pedro Collins. I would love to do it, and I would if
I could, but I just can’t.’
Greg retorted, ‘You are rigid, you are unwilling to change.’ By then, Viru
had scored runs all over the world against all attacks, and well, I rest my case.
That duck in St Lucia was a great lesson for me. We were batting first after
Rahul won the toss, and Viru and Wasim Jaffer got us off to a fantastic start.
They batted on beyond lunch while putting on 159, and I batted each ball with
them. I watched every single ball like a hawk, playing it in my mind because I
was so anxious to get out there and make a contribution. When my chance
eventually did come, I was moving as if I was already batting on 60 or 70—
ponderous, tired. I was mentally drained at having lived out every ball, and the
subconscious mind, of course, doesn’t realise the difference between virtual
action and real action.
With my body fatigued—I had ‘scored’ 60–70 without actually having
been on the field—and my mind jaded, my stint lasted a mere 10 deliveries. As I
walked back, I promised myself that I would never again play an innings from
the dressing room. After that fateful knock, I didn’t watch a lot of cricket while
waiting for my chance to bat. I listened to music, I napped a bit, but I did not sit
through the entirety of someone else’s innings. And it worked out quite well for
me.
I was convinced that I had blown my chances, and that I would be dropped
for the third Test in St Kitts. I had been in this situation before. After a couple of
failures, all the doubts would come surging back. So I went into a cocoon,
cutting myself off from the rest of the team and becoming a bit of a recluse. Not
knowing if I would be playing the next day or not, I closed my eyes and relived
my cricketing journey, like I had done in Sydney and on the car drive to Shirdi.
That seemed to help, because not only did I play the Test, I also got a
century. While I liked the runs I had got, I wasn’t happy with the manner in
which I got them. The burden of getting that ton, and the way I got there, was far
from ideal. It was a struggle all the way through, and I batted totally out of
character. I didn’t enjoy the innings one bit. In other circumstances, it would
have been branded a selfish innings and rightly so, but as it turned out, the team
needed a knock of that nature because we were battling to avoid a follow-on. A
little bit of the enjoyment had gone out of my game. I was now obsessed with
the outcome. That wasn’t like me, and I didn’t like this new, scoreboard-focused
Laxman.
We had dominated large pockets of the series and yet had nothing to show
for our efforts when we got to Kingston for the final game, having drawn all of
the previous ones. Sabina Park once carried the reputation of having the nastiest,
spiciest pitch in the Caribbean, but this one was a bit of a lottery, up and down in
nature right from the start. Rahul put on a wonderful exhibition in both innings,
batting as if on a belter, while the rest of us struggled. I had the best seat in the
ground on the first morning as he and I added 31 painstaking runs. His bat
looked broader than all of ours put together, his feet moved beautifully, and he
played the ball so late that he could make any adjustments as and when it
misbehaved, which was quite often.
Most grounds in the Caribbean were undergoing a makeover with the
World Cup a year away. Our makeshift dressing room at Sabina Park was square
of the playing surface, and Viru, Yuvi and I sat there watching Rahul’s magic. As
Collins let it rip, Rahul got his left foot fully forward and drove beautifully
through the covers. We were oohing and aahing when Greg surfaced out of
nowhere.
‘Now, guys, that is the way to bat, foot fully forward to the pitch of the
ball. Not the way all you guys bat.’
As out of the blue as that was, it took every bit of self-control for the three
of us to not burst out laughing. It would have been distressing had we allowed it
to be, but we chose to see the humour in that comment, if only to maintain our
sanity.
Rahul’s twin gems, Anil’s defiance with the bat in the first innings, Bhajji’s
five-for in the first and Anil’s six-for in the second drove us to a 49-run victory,
which we celebrated with gusto. A long drought in the Caribbean had been
broken in style and temporarily, the gloom lifted. We were back on the winning
track, and the team looked a happy bunch because that’s what victory does to
you. It didn’t mean all was well once more. For the time being, we chose to
forget the negatives and celebrate our success.
The 2007 World Cup was only a few months away, and between the end of the
Test series in the Caribbean and the 50-over extravaganza, we had just one more
Test outing lined up—in South Africa towards the end of the year. Rahul’s boys
geared up for the World Cup with a tri-nation tournament in Kuala Lumpur,
followed by the Champions Trophy at home. The results were mixed but the
core group was in place for the World Cup. Only the final preparations needed to
be put in place. Or so everyone believed, until the tour of South Africa, when
things unravelled quickly.
I had followed the fortunes of my friends and teammates with close
interest, though with my first-class season having started, I wasn’t exactly in
touch with them. Then, out of nowhere, in keeping with the trend at the time, I
was named the vice-captain of the Test team. The news had just about sunk in
when the selectors threw me another curveball. Some 16 months after I had last
played an ODI, I was asked to join the Indian team for the final match of the
series in South Africa.
Me? Really? That was my first thought when I got the call to head over to
Johannesburg, and from there to Centurion. What made the decision even more
baffling was that India had already lost the series, and the last match was largely
of academic interest. How, after so long in the wilderness, I had suddenly
become a one-day saviour, I couldn’t fathom. I still can’t, after all these years.
I reached Pretoria the day before the game, and joined the afternoon
training session. Maybe it was because the team had played badly, but I had
never seen a more disjointed dressing room. When the session started, it was
clear that different yardsticks for different people were still in vogue. One left-
handed batsman received throw-downs for almost half an hour, the other was
dismissed after the cursory one bucket of balls was gone through. Everyone was
on tenterhooks, and the mood was contagious; I felt an unseen weight pressing
down on me.
For all the time spent journeying from Hyderabad to Centurion, my batting
stint lasted exactly one ball, an away swinger from Shaun Pollock that I followed
to first slip. It was my last appearance in coloured clothing for the Indian team,
which I suspected even as I was making the long walk back to the pavilion, and
my score mirrored my debut—a nought.
Chastened, we headed to Potchefstroom for our only three-day game
before the Test series. Rahul had broken a finger midway through the one-day
series and sat out the game, so I was the designated captain. Sourav had been
recalled to the Test side after being dropped for the West Indies series, and that
was another baffling decision because it wasn’t as if, in the interim, he had
broken the door down with a string of big scores in domestic cricket. His return
was another knee-jerk reaction to our dismal display in the limited-overs games
in South Africa. But I believe justice was done because Sourav ought not to have
been dropped in the first place.
On match eve, the players got together for a team meeting, and everyone
was allowed his say. It was important to explode the air of melancholy and, as
the evening wore on, we shed our inhibitions and expressed our apprehensions,
fears, goals, dreams and desires. Collectively, we decided not to let Greg dictate
our moods. We were the guys in the team, we had to take responsibility for what
happened in the middle. There was no point nitpicking and finding fault with the
rest of the world. We would leave nothing to chance on the park. Everyone was
on the same page, and that showed as we overwhelmed the strong team put out
by the hosts.
The mood was upbeat as we got to Johannesburg for the first Test, our first
five-day match in five-and-a-half months. On a demanding pitch and against a
very good South African attack, I played decently in the first innings, but Sourav
was the star as he marked his comeback with an excellent half-century. Sourav
has always had a sense of occasion and, with the entire country watching and
backing him, he made a statement straightaway. That lifted our spirits, and
Sreesanth then got into the act with one of the finest spells of fast bowling I have
seen from an Indian quick.
I have always had a lot of time for Sreesanth the bowler. His excellent
wrist position allowed him to deliver the ball with the most upright of seams,
and he effortlessly swung the ball away from the right-handed batsmen, fairly
late at that. In Johannesburg, he landed the ball on a spot time after time, carving
through the South Africans with ridiculous ease. Standing at slip, I was delighted
to watch such a wonderful exhibition of bowling, and prepared for every ball to
nestle in my hands off the outside edge. Our 249 appeared a mountain as South
Africa were shot out for 84. Armed with a massive lead of 165, we fancied our
chances of a maiden Test win in the land of the Protea.
By stumps on the second evening, we had extended that lead to 309 but
had lost five wickets along the way. We still had a distinct edge, but we were
down to the last specialist pair and at 146 for 5, a fair amount of work lay ahead
of myself and MS the following morning. I had batted freely to reach 42, striking
the ball beautifully, and looked forward to a big one.
I must digress here just a bit to say that throughout my career, I was among
the last men to board the team bus, but I was never late. If we were to depart at
8.30 a.m., I would get in with five seconds to spare. It just worked out that way.
It wasn’t a routine or a superstition.
So it was on the third day, as Sreesanth and I came down the escalator at
Sandton Sun. We were some 15 steps away from the bus and, by my estimation,
there was at least a minute, if not more, to the official departure time. Imagine
our consternation when the bus peeled away from the parking bay and drove off,
leaving the two of us behind. For a second, I thought it was one of those
practical jokes you sometimes play to lighten the mood. But the bus didn’t stop,
and no heads popped out of the windows grinning wickedly. Sreesanth and I had
been abandoned, left to fend for ourselves. I was one of the overnight batsmen,
Sreesanth had yet to bat and clearly would have a big role to play with the ball.
I could feel the anger build inside me. Sreesanth was confused more than
anything else, but I was seething. We requested the concierge to find us a cab,
and made the four-kilometre trip from the hotel to the ground in silence. Peak-
hour traffic and the resultant snarls added to the darkness of my mood, and to
make matters worse, the security at the stadium wouldn’t allow us in because we
didn’t have any identification on us to prove that we were who we claimed we
were. After all, what sane person would expect a batsman about to resume his
innings to arrive at the ground in a cab?
Eventually, we were escorted to our dressing room and I blew my top. It
takes a lot to get me riled up, but this was it, and I had a royal go at Rahul and
Greg. I said I knew I was on time for the bus, but even if I was a few seconds
late, so what? What does common sense say? That you leave an overnight
batsman behind, or make sure that he is in a good frame of mind with a Test
match on the line? I asked Rahul how he had silently acquiesced. ‘How did you
allow this to happen?’ I half-screamed. Neither man had an answer. What could
they say, in any case?
Fortunately, by the time I crossed the line alongside MS, I managed to put
the episode out of my mind. MS and Anil were dismissed cheaply, which meant
the responsibility on my shoulders magnified. I have always enjoyed batting
with the bowlers—I don’t fancy the word tailenders—and this time, I had Zak
for company. Aware that each run scored was an extra run that he would have to
attack the South Africans with, Zak put his head down and batted beautifully.
Our partnership of 70 gave us an overall lead of 401, and the cushion that we
were so desperately looking for. I rate that 73 among my better knocks, for the
circumstances under which it was made and for the fact that it helped us secure
one of our more celebrated wins overseas.
Zak and Sreesanth were excellent once again, and Anil weighed in with
three wickets as we won handsomely on the fourth afternoon. Some might say,
against all odds. We celebrated wildly in the dressing room, pent up emotions
finding a release. We first turned our attention to the champagne that had been
brought in, pouring it on Rahul and on each other. Once we ran out of
champagne, we dived into the fridge and brought out bottles of Gatorade stacked
there, spraying that around. No one was spared, and no one—players, members
of the support staff or our local liaison officer—stayed away either. After
Gatorade, we hurled yoghurt, then someone brought a bucketful of water from
the rest room as the mayhem continued.
In the end, it all became very messy, I must confess, and we were rightly
slapped with a fine for causing damage to the ceiling and floor of the dressing
room. As we reached the hotel, we acknowledged that we had gone overboard,
but the celebration had been worth the fine!
As in the past, we went from the high of victory to the debilitating low of
defeat in the space of a week, well beaten in Durban. I made an unbeaten 50 in
the first innings as wickets tumbled around me and the South Africans dished
out the short stuff. I fought it out for four-and-a-half hours and kept out 156
deliveries, and felt reasonably happy when I walked back, only for Greg to
immediately accost me and tell me that I had batted too slowly. We had been
shot out for 240, I was one of only two half-centurions, I had come back
undefeated, and the coach was telling me that I had batted very slowly and
allowed the opposition bowlers to get on top of us. Good for morale, Greg!
More disappointment was in store in the final Test when we failed to build
on a handy first-innings advantage and ended up losing by five wickets. From 90
for two in the second innings, we were bowled out for 169, casually throwing
away a glorious chance to tighten the screws on South Africa. A tour that had
begun with so much promise had ended in familiar disappointment on foreign
shores.
That was to be my last experience of Greg Chappell the coach. When we
returned to India, there was a strong dose of one-day cricket with the World Cup
imminent, but there was every indication that a disaster was waiting to unfold.
The team was divided into two or three factions, and there was a serious trust
deficit. The coach had his favourites, who were well looked after, while the
others were left to fend for themselves. The team had disintegrated before our
eyes.
The World Cup was an event to forget. Some of the players suggested to
the board that they should go to the tournament without Greg, but the BCCI
would have none of it. We sent out one of the best ever Indian one-day teams,
and still didn’t advance beyond the first round. There were understandable
repercussions, though it wasn’t until Sachin put his foot down that Greg’s tenure
as coach came to an end.
 I couldn’t help but recall Blewett’s warning in Lashings as Greg announced
that he was stepping down. Greg’s entire stint had been cause for bitterness. He
was rigid and inflexible in his approach, and didn’t know how to run an
international team. He often seemed to forget that it was the players who played
the game and were the stars, not the coach.
When we went to Australia the following season, Wasim Jaffer—a huge
Greg Chappell fan—was watching videos of Greg’s batting and fielding on
YouTube. Up popped Guru Greg Documentary, Part 1. And then Part 2, through
to Part 6. From the day he arrived at the BCCI office on being appointed coach
to his last day in office, when he attended the presser in Port of Spain, everything
had been captured on tape, for posterity, as part of a commercial deal with ABC.
Including Greg’s synopsis before going to tell Sachin that he would have to bat
at No. 4 in the World Cup, and just before his final press conference, where he
spoke of having to bear the brunt of criticism over the team’s poor performance.
Greg Chappell arrived in India to a groundswell of goodwill and support.
He left the team in tatters, having played an influential part in the worst phase of
my playing career. Results on the field might suggest that his methods worked to
some extent, but those results had nothing to do with our coach.
 12
The Road to No. 1
(Part Four)

Six years had passed since our stated desire to become the best Test side in the
world, but we were no closer to realising our dream due to a combination of
factors. The gains until the last year of John’s tenure had long since disappeared,
and we were a team only in the loosest possible sense. The 2007 World Cup
debacle had incensed our fans; players’ effigies were burnt and their houses
stoned. While we weren’t quite at our lowest ebb, we needed huge doses of
positivity and an influx of good vibes to haul ourselves back on track.
Our first opportunity to do so came not long after the World Cup, when we
travelled to Bangladesh for a two-Test series. While efforts were underway to
button down our next coach, the BCCI was not rushing into things. Chastened by
the Greg Chappell experience, the board was determined to do its due diligence.
An SOS went out to Ravi Shastri to help the team during this difficult time and
as was typical, Ravi obliged.
While Ravi was named the cricket manager for the tour, the BCCI brought
on board Venkatesh Prasad as the bowling coach and Robin Singh as the fielding
coach. We had an all-Indian crew for the first time since 2000. Ravi was
characteristically upbeat, while Venky and Robin ran the practice sessions
meticulously and efficiently, like they would in England a little later in the year.
We were clearly too strong for Bangladesh, but then again, we were in a
no-win situation. No matter what had happened at the World Cup, we were
expected to beat Bangladesh, so from an outsider’s perspective, it was no big
deal. But for us as a team, it was not merely enough to get back to winning ways.
To start to gel as a unit once again was an important, imperative process. I found
myself on the bench through the two-Test series as we went in with five bowlers.
We defeated Bangladesh 1–0, after the first match ended in a rain-affected
draw. Each of our top four—Dinesh Karthik, Wasim Jaffer, Rahul and Sachin—
made hundreds in the second Test, and Zak led the bowling charge with seven
wickets for the match, facilitating a commanding innings win to restore
confidence within the squad. Our next red-ball challenge would be in England,
where we hadn’t won a series in 21 years. On our last tour there in 2002, we had
done well to square a four-Test series 1–1, and we were determined to improve
on that result. The wise and highly respected Chandu Borde accompanied us as
the cricket manager, with Venky and Robin assisting him in their new-found
capacities. The nets were run beautifully. Chandu sir kept an eagle eye on the
proceedings but lightened things up with his dry sense of humour. Team
meetings weren’t rambling affairs but crisp and to the point. Venky and Robin
did the heavy physical lifting, but Chandu sir was clearly in control, effortlessly
bridging the generation gap and showcasing awesome man-management
abilities. No one even thought about what had happened six months earlier.
Laughter and enjoyment made a welcome reappearance. We were all in a good
state of mind, helped by a very open environment of give-and-take that
resonated with each of us.
England were going to be a handful in their backyard, and we were soon
up against them in the first Test at Lord’s. On the final day, even as dark clouds
gathered above us, we found ourselves nine down despite a sterling defensive
display from MS Dhoni. In a nail-biting finish, MS and Sreesanth held on for
dear life to salvage a draw, aided by a huge slice of luck.
For long, we had held the view, not without basis, that Steve Bucknor had
it in for us. The Jamaican is a great entertainer and a lovely man, but his
decision-making often drove us up the wall. But that day, Steve emerged as our
best friend as he ruled Sree not out when everyone at the ground—and that
included our dressing room—believed he was plumb in front to Monty Panesar.
We took it as a sign that the cricketing gods were on our side. We saved the Test
as bad light stopped England’s march. That draw was as good as a win, because
in a three-Test series, especially away from home, it is almost impossible to
recover from going 0–1 down.
We had reverted to six batsmen, which meant I was back in action. I had a
decent Test, but nothing earth-shattering, and went to Nottingham not so much
desperate as eager to make a significant contribution. Zaheer bowled a
wonderful spell on the first day to pack England off, and we then opened up a
massive lead as five of us in the top six made half-centuries. Our lead was
closing in on 275 when Zak and I crossed paths—me on my way to the dressing
room after edging Chris Tremlett to the keeper, he on his way to try and extend
our advantage.
 I am not sure what England were trying to achieve, but in their collective
wisdom, they decided that it was all right to rile Zak up. Suddenly, as if out of
thin air, a few jelly beans surfaced near the batting crease. The implication was
that Zak had used illegal means to ‘make’ the ball in England’s first innings.
Now, Zak is a fairly easy-going and laidback guy, but if you poke him, he will
respond with ferocity. He was not happy about the message conveyed through
the jelly beans, and let the English slip cordon know exactly what he thought of
them.
Zak had spent the previous summer playing county cricket for Worcester, a
stint that was to shape his legacy as a left-arm paceman. Until then, he had
produced the occasional brilliant burst but was generally happy to go with the
flow. Post the successful Worcester sojourn, he was a changed bowler, not just
from the point of view of skill, but also from the way he approached his
bowling. He had figured out when to attack, and when to take the foot off the
throttle and string together maidens. He could also gauge the conditions well. If
they suited him, he went flat out, but if there was no assistance, he focused on
wonderful lines and impeccable lengths. He understood the importance of not
leaking runs when the conditions were loaded in favour of the batsmen and
nothing was happening off the surface. But the moment the clouds gathered, he
was at the batsmen’s throats. He was in total control of his bowling, and
fortunately for us, he was not ploughing a lone furrow.
RP Singh, the young left-arm quick from Uttar Pradesh, was also on top of
his game. He had taken his maiden five-for at Lord’s, and stepped up admirably
at Trent Bridge to play a fine second fiddle to Zak, so even though Sreesanth was
off the boil, there was no let-up in the pressure on England.
England had stirred the sleeping giant, and Zak produced his second
peachy spell of the Test in the second innings, a telling 5 for 75. With Kevin
Pietersen at the forefront, England batted much better, but every time they
seemed to be edging ahead, Zak pulled them back. RP and Anil dealt crucial
blows and we had only a small target to chase. We won comfortably with Rahul
and Sourav seeing us home. For the first time since 1986, we had taken the lead
in England and as we returned to London for the final Test at The Oval, we were
optimistic about a repeat of the scoreline 21 years earlier: 2–0.
After Rahul won a handy toss, all of us made attractive runs. I had raced to
51 when greed got the better of me. MS then entertained the fans with a bruising
90-odd full of muscular strokeplay. But even though five of the top seven topped
fifty and two got into the 90s, we were still searching for our first century-maker
of the series.
That elusive hundred came from an unexpected quarter. Anil is no mug
with the bat—he has five first-class hundreds—but few would have bet on him
being the only centurion for India in an overseas series win. Anil took a lot of
pride in his batting and nothing angered him more than throwing his wicket
away. He wasn’t going to do it here, and every single one of us in the dressing
room was praying that he got to three figures. His celebrations were predictably
over the top. I don’t recall him hailing a bowling achievement, not even his 10-
for at the Kotla, with the same enthusiasm. Anil is one of the toughest guys to
have played the game. For him to get as emotional as he did on achieving a
batting milestone that everyone, including perhaps himself, thought was beyond
him at that stage of his career showed what it meant to him. The inner child in
him found an outlet, and it led to much backslapping and sore hands in the hut.
Despite a lead in excess of 300, we chose to bat on, which wasn’t a very
popular decision with the media, but the flatness of the track became evident as
England comfortably held on for a draw after being set an impossible 500 for
victory. 2–0 would have been top stuff, but we were more than happy with 1–0,
with winning a big overseas series in tough conditions, and bringing back the
Pataudi Trophy. No. 1 no longer seemed out of reach.

I stayed back in England after the Test series even as Rahul and the boys were
engaged in the one-dayers against the English. I had scored a county contract
with Lancashire which, as it turned out, had a huge influence on my career.
When you are playing for the country, and especially if you happen to be
named VVS Laxman, you are always looking to score runs and retain your
position in the eleven. You are so obsessed with winning matches that
sometimes, the love for the game slips away unnoticed and you become almost
machine-like in your approach. I was dangerously close to that predicament until
Lancashire threw me a lifeline.
I enjoyed the experience of being an overseas pro and not having to worry
about my place in the team. There were no extraneous factors to contend with—
the whims of the selectors or the biases of the decision-makers. My entire stint
there revolved around cricket, and I enjoyed it no end. Lancashire had given me
a beautiful house, and Sailaja and Sarvajit came over to join me. The little fella
was just about eight months old, and to come back to gurgles and cuddles in the
evening was an experience like none other. Sailaja told me midway through my
county commitments that she had never seen me happier playing cricket than
during those seven weeks in Lancashire.
 In a throwback to 2003, when a vacation to the United States following the
disappointment of World Cup rejection rejuvenated me, this seven-week outing
with Lancashire revived my love for cricket. The enjoyment crept back into my
batting. Throughout your career, there are wake-up calls from time to time that
you need to heed. I was fortunate, whether by accident or design, that I did
precisely that, otherwise there might not have been much of a story to tell.
Post a family holiday to the US after the county stint, I returned home for
another demanding challenge—playing Pakistan in our own backyard towards
the end of 2007. The matches were coming thick and fast; we had an away tour
of Australia after the Pakistan series, followed by a three-Test series at home
against South Africa. All the big boys lay in wait, and the possibilities were at
once exciting and endless.
As a new-look team under MS was creating history at the inaugural World
T20 in South Africa, Rahul stunned us all by giving up the captaincy. I had no
inkling that he was planning to step down, though I could see that the first-round
elimination from the World Cup in the West Indies had taken its toll on him.
While we won the Test series, Rahul didn’t have a good time with the bat in
England, where he had otherwise enjoyed himself and made loads of runs.
Rahul the skipper was even more intense than Rahul the batsman. He took
everyone’s failures to heart, and had started to feel that the captaincy was a
burden, not a responsibility any longer. He told me much later that during the
final stages of his captaincy, he had lost the enjoyment that came with batting, as
had happened with Sachin when he was the skipper.
MS was made the full-time limited-overs captain, which was hardly a
surprise because he had showcased his leadership skills at the World T20, but the
selectors felt he should wait a little to be given charge of the Test team.
Therefore, almost by default, Anil was named the skipper, more than 17 years
after his India debut and with the sands of time fast running out for him.
The captaincy was mere official affirmation of Anil’s role within our setup.
Even when he was not the designated captain, Anil was always a leader within
the group. When I made my debut in 1996, he was vice-captain to Sachin. In the
intervening 11 years, Sourav, Rahul and Viru had led the Test side and Anil
seemed to have permanently lost out. When he was eventually made the skipper,
I was probably more delighted than he was.
Anil as a captain was precisely what you would expect him to be. His
communication was spot-on, and it was very clear what he wanted from the
team. He wanted Team India to play a certain way—fearlessly and with freedom.
He said he knew his appointment was short-term, but he didn’t look at himself as
merely warming the bench for MS. He urged us to express ourselves, but also be
disciplined and behave like a professional unit. It was quintessential Anil, and
we bought into it totally. He was a giant in the dressing room and never asked of
you what he wouldn’t do himself. The respect we had for him was immense, and
our delight at his elevation to the captaincy was genuine.
I received a fillip when Anil told me ahead of the first Test against Pakistan
at the Kotla to not worry about my position. He had seen how often I had been
shunted in and out of the team, and he put me at ease immediately. He and I had
a very good equation going and to have the captain’s confidence and backing
meant a great deal to me.
Chandu sir was replaced as the interim coach by Lalchand Rajput, who had
been present in the same capacity when MS lifted the World T20 title in
Johannesburg. By now, Venky and Robin had an excellent grip over things and
eased Lalu into the task. From the way the two of them handled things in
England, we realised that they felt we were senior enough and experienced
enough to run the team by ourselves. They made sure our preparations were
flawless, and provided us with an atmosphere full of fun and laughter.

A tour of Australia was imminent: four Test matches that would show us where
we stood as a travelling team, despite our successes over the previous 15 months
in the Caribbean and England. By an unspoken agreement, there was no mention
of our off-field travails of the previous two years. It was a fresh start, and with
successive series wins away from home under our belt, we had rediscovered our
mojo. But Anil couldn’t have asked for a more demanding foreign series in
which to debut as the captain. But first, a serious challenge awaited us on our
return to India—a series against Pakistan.
Even though we were playing Pakistan in a three-Test series for the fourth
time in as many years, there was no dimming of tension, no lowering of
expectations. The players got along with each other just fine, but none of us
could be immune to what we knew our fans demanded of us. Having said that, it
was probably the most low-key Indo–Pak series I was part of.
After my time with Lancashire, I was fresh and feeling good mentally. I
felt in total control. I was hitting the ball nicely, to areas where I wanted it to go.
We were in a slightly sticky spot in the first Test at the Kotla, before MS and I
stroked half-centuries to give us a vital lead. The bowlers shot out Pakistan for a
modest score the second time around and, with just over 200 needed for victory,
our top order dug in to complete a straightforward victory. I was very impressed
with how pressure-free we were. Anil’s reign had got off to the perfect start at
his favourite venue.
The two remaining Tests fizzled out into tall-scoring draws on flat
surfaces. There were plenty of runs to be had and we gorged ourselves. Wasim
Jaffer, Irfan Pathan, Yuvi and I made hundreds, but the man who towered head
and shoulders above us was Sourav.
From the time he had rejoined the Test team in Johannesburg in December
2006, Sourav was a batsman transformed. It was as if, being stripped of the
captaincy had lifted a huge burden off him. Having been dropped off the team
also seemed to have affected his cricket for the better somehow. He batted with a
lot more freedom and a lot less pressure, and you could see that he was both
relieved and content with himself. He felt more comfortable in the changing
room, and I am sure Anil had something to do with it. You knew with Anil that
he meant what he said, that he wouldn’t sugar-coat anything or say stuff to make
you feel better. If he told you that he was in your corner, he was. No two ways
about it.
Even in England, and especially in Nottingham, Sourav had batted
beautifully. Now back in India, not only was he on top of his game, he was also
enjoying being one of the boys again. Divested of the responsibilities of
captaincy and with plenty of time and energy to focus on his own game, he was
back to livening up the dressing room, cracking jokes and pulling someone or
the other’s leg.
All of this reflected in his batting. In the second Test, he made his only Test
century at his beloved Eden Gardens, and in the next game in Bangalore, he
registered his sole double hundred. We had been in trouble on the first morning,
the only time there had been some joy for the bowlers. I remember Yasir Arafat
getting the ball to go, and we lost four wickets in no time when Sourav and Yuvi
joined hands. Yuvi’s was a wonderful innings, especially given the situation we
were in. We were 61 for 4 when he strode out, and he fairly hammered the
bowling, though Sourav held his own as the two stylish left-handers entertained
the dressing room as well as their fans.
As the pitch became slower and slower, prising the opposition batsmen out
was proving impossible. The consummate battler and canny thinker that he is,
Anil nearly bowled us to victory as he turned to medium pace and picked up five
wickets in the second innings, but Pakistan held on for dear life to scramble to
safe shores. We would have loved to have a more impressive score line than 1–0,
but defeating a formidable Pakistan team by any margin anywhere in the world
was an achievement to savour.
And so, with a hat-trick of series wins to our credit, away we went to
Australia in December 2007. Lalu was still in charge as our cricket
manager/interim coach, with Venky and Robin as bowling and fielding coaches.
We felt we were ideally placed to score our first series win Down Under. 2003–
04 was an opportunity missed, and we didn’t want to leave anything to chance in
2007–08, in what could be the last Australian outing for some of us older
players.

We had just one practice game in Melbourne before the first Test, and even
though our preparations were hampered by rain, we weren’t unduly perturbed.
Our spirits received a further boost when we turned up for our first practice
session at the iconic MCG, ahead of the Boxing Day Test. The pitch was as
subcontinental as we could expect, and even though we lost the toss and saw
Phil Jaques and Matt Hayden put on a century opening stand, we fought back
well to bowl Australia out for 343.
But then, inexplicably, our batting went to pieces against the discipline of
the Australian bowlers. The slow surface went against us and apart from Sachin,
no one looked to have its measure. We conceded a huge lead, and Australia piled
on the runs and set us a target of nearly 500. We were shot out for less than 200
for the second time in the match. To be crushed by 337 runs was a massive blow
to our pride, but Anil was quick to point out that it was one bad match. The
result didn’t make us a bad team.
Somewhat chastened but also pumped up, we went into the New Year Test
at the SCG with a point to prove. The four days between the Tests had allowed
us to introspect and understand that the margin was not indicative of the
difference between the sides. We had played poorly, well below our potential.
Sydney offered us an immediate chance to redeem ourselves.
However, things went as pear-shaped as one could imagine. With RP
bowling exceptionally, we made deep inroads into the top order and had
Australia on the mat at 134 for 6. RP then induced a huge nick off Andrew
Symonds, which was gobbled up by MS, but to our astonishment, Bucknor ruled
him not out. It was a decision that was to play a major part in the outcome of the
game. It was also the first of a series of poor decisions we got while fielding and
batting.
Andrew went on to smash an unbeaten 162, and shared useful stands with
Brad Hogg and Brett Lee to haul Australia past the 450-mark. We also cashed in
on the very good batting conditions. In order to accommodate the in-form
Yuvraj, Rahul was forced to open the batting; Anil had fought for Viru’s
inclusion in the touring squad but couldn’t accommodate him in the eleven.
Rahul made a patient fifty, I scored a century, and Sachin held our innings
together.
We lost Wasim to the new ball, and had only eight on the board when I
joined Rahul in the middle, walking a bit gingerly.

Like on our previous tour, the lot of us had gone to Darling Harbour on New
Year’s Eve to enjoy the fireworks, but on our way back, we hadn’t been able to
secure transport. The hotel wasn’t far away and we didn’t have any choice as
such, so we had decided to walk back. I was a wearing a new pair of shoes, and
the inside of the shoe chafed the skin near the Achilles tendon on my right foot.
The skin peeled off and left a burning sensation. The next morning, a doctor had
covered the injury with a patch used for small first-degree burns.
Fielding for eight hours had made the pain worse. I gritted my teeth and
donned my game face, but my walk gave me away. Andrew Symonds charged in
from the covers and told his mates loudly enough for me to hear, ‘Look at the
way he is moving, it’s like a nail has been hammered into the foot.’ I agreed
inwardly. That was exactly how I felt.
Once I took guard, though, I forgot about the pain. I made a conscious
effort to keep my mind blank, and because I wasn’t able to run freely, I chose to
play my shots from the start. Brett Lee was quick, but Australia’s insistence on
attack opened up enough gaps for me to exploit. Because of my previous
successes at the SCG, I went in with confidence. That, and a quick outfield,
contributed to the succession of boundaries that flowed off my bat.
Rahul, at the other end, was not as fluent. He batted for a long time, but
never looked in control. It was as if the two of us were batting on different
surfaces, against different attacks. There was one phase when Rahul was
scoreless for an hour. When he finally got a single, the crowd rose to its feet and
mock-applauded him. Ever the sport, Rahul raised his bat to them with a
sheepish grin!
I wasn’t adversely affected by his struggles, taking on Mitchell Johnson
and Stuart Clark, though the shot I enjoyed the most came off Brett. He was
bowling really fast, and pitched a ball just a little short of good length. Because I
was seeing it so well and so quickly, I pulled him from my stance through mid-
on. Usually, the faster the bowler, the squarer the pull goes. I was delighted to
have hit him through mid-on; it told me that I was on top of my game.
Rahul was dismissed not long after I reached my hundred, but even before
he had sat down in the dressing room, I followed him out after a poor stroke.
Having prided myself on sticking to my game plan, I paid the penalty for being
overambitious. I wafted at Hogg away from my body and was caught at short
cover, a terrible end to one of my more dominating and fulfilling Test innings.
Sachin and Sourav added 108 after my fall but we suffered a middle-order
wobble and were in trouble at 345 for 7. With Bhajji getting stuck into the
Aussies, Sachin found another ally in our march towards the Australian total
when all hell broke loose in the post-lunch session on day three. There was
plenty of activity in the middle, and none of it involved bat or ball.
Symonds and Bhajji exchanged words, and Sachin stepped in to broker
peace. Matthew Hayden said his bit during the changeover at the end of the over,
and soon Ricky Ponting joined the discussion. Umpires Bucknor and Mark
Benson then got involved. Benson said something to Bhajji with his hand
covering his mouth to avoid the possibility of lip-reading. Bhajji vehemently
shook his head in denial. We were all bemused, not sure what was happening,
but certain that whatever it was, it wasn’t pleasant.
Not until Sachin and Bhajji came in at tea did we understand what had
transpired. Andrew had accused Bhajji of calling him a monkey (an
unacceptable racial slur in these parts), and Bhajji insisted that he had said
maaki, an expletive in Hindi. Our team manager Chetan Chauhan and Anil both
asked Bhajji exactly what he had said. Bhajji stuck to his stand and Sachin
backed him up, and that was good enough for us. But clearly, it wasn’t good
enough for the opposition or the authorities because Bhajji was charged with
breaching the Code of Conduct.
We tried our best to put this out of our minds as the Test resumed on the
fourth day, but our 69-run lead disappeared in no time as Hayden laid into us.
There was more disappointment in store as a slew of decisions went Australia’s
way again. We were more angry than dispirited. At one level, we also felt a
sense of persecution because we felt the odds were deliberately stacked against
us, that we were not being allowed to compete on an equal footing.
Australia set us a target of 333, declaring just before lunch on the final day.
We were never going to try to chase down the total, but felt reasonably secure.
But we hadn’t bargained for further unkind cuts from various quarters. Rahul
had batted with customary grit when Bucknor ruled him out caught behind. The
gap between bat and ball was so huge that you could have driven a truck through
it, but where everyone else saw the gap, Bucknor saw a nick.
Worse was to follow when Sourav was ruled out caught at second slip even
though Michael Clarke caught the ball on the bounce. Before the series, Anil and
Ricky had sat down and arrived at a gentleman’s agreement for these low
catches. They concurred that the batsman would take the fielder’s word for it. If
he said the catch was clean, the batsman would walk off and not bring the
umpires into play. In this case, Clarke had clearly taken the ball after it bounced,
yet both he and Ricky insisted that it was a clean catch. The umpire went by the
fielder and the captain’s word and ruled Sourav out. Subsequent replays showed
them in poor light.
We could and should still have saved the Test, as Anil led the way with his
typical battler’s attitude. But with less than 10 minutes to the end of the match,
we lost three wickets in Clarke’s only over to concede the game and play
ourselves out of the reckoning for a series win. As if that wasn’t bad enough,
after a hearing that continued into the wee hours of the morning, Mike Procter
slapped a three-Test ban on Bhajji. The accusers had no proof to back their
accusations, yet their word seemed to carry more weight than ours. It was
impossible to understand. We were all up in arms at this grave injustice. It wasn’t
just a ban on Bhajji, it was a question mark against our character and integrity as
a team.

More to get away from the madness of it all, we hit Bondi Beach in a bid to clear
our minds and decide on a future course of action. But the media wouldn’t spare
us. We were to travel to Canberra for a practice game between the second and
third Tests, and most of us had boarded the bus, which was parked on the road
just outside the hotel. Meanwhile, the team management and the BCCI were
involved in hectic discussions. So elaborate and delicate were the talks that we
remained in the bus for more than two-and-a-half hours, watching the recently
released movie Welcome, starring Nana Patekar, Anil Kapoor and Akshay
Kumar.
By the time the movie ended, a decision had been made—we would not be
travelling as per schedule to Canberra, and would stay put in Sydney until
further notice.
A lot of us were against the continuation of the tour, and I was among those
who insisted that we should go back to India, given the circumstances. My
contention was that the umpiring had been incompetent, possibly even biased,
because every call went against us, and that the ban on Bhajji was both unfair
and without basis.
 Eventually, though, better sense prevailed and we didn’t abandon the tour.
The BCCI would appeal the ban on Bhajji, and we would see out the tour, which
included two further Tests and a triangular series with Sri Lanka as the third
team. All this took time to sort out, so we didn’t reach Canberra until the evening
before the match.
After the team had useful practice in a game for which I was rested, we
reached Perth for the third Test. The Australians were gung-ho, because they felt
that the two Tests they had won had been played in ‘Indian’ conditions, and that
Perth would throw up as Australian a surface as you could expect. But we
weren’t slouching either. We wanted to go out and play for Bhajji, we wanted to
prove a point. We weren’t there to make up the numbers, and Anil reminded us
that Perth was our best chance to show Australia and the world what we were
made of.
We made a couple of crucial changes, with Viru coming into the eleven,
Rahul dropping down to No. 3 and me batting at No. 6. All of these moves
played a significant part in the end result. Viru made crucial, aggressive, tempo-
setting runs, Rahul looked at his most fluent, and I came up with another of my
second-innings fifties that gave us the cushion with which the bowlers could
attack Australia.
I did my reputation of getting the bowlers to bat above themselves no harm
by engaging in a 51-run stand with RP for the eighth wicket, which helped us
extend our lead beyond 400. This was on day three. The previous day, Gary
Kirsten had joined the team in a consultancy role. He had been appointed our
coach but wouldn’t take charge of the team until our next series at home,
interestingly against his country of birth. He had flown down from Cape Town to
meet up with us and get to know us better.
Several of us had played against Gary, and knew him as a steady,
unflappable, phlegmatic opening batsman who went about his business quietly.
He was a strong influence for the next three years, but the Perth experience was
largely about feeling each other out and him giving vital inputs during various
stages of the game. With 413 in the bank, our bowlers were excellent, with Irfan
in the forefront, and when RP nailed Shaun Tait, we all let out roars that I am
sure echoed across India. We had conquered Perth, where no Asian team had
won before. And we finally had an outlet for our pent-up emotions from the
Sydney episode.
Bhajji, who wasn’t playing the game, hustled down the stairs from the
dressing room, proudly holding aloft the tricolour, and we hoisted him on our
shoulders to dedicate the win to him. It’s one of those experiences that will stay
with me for life. We had exhibited our strength and character as a team. It would
have been easy for us to surrender meekly and seek refuge in excuses, but like
we had done in Kolkata in 2001, in Leeds in 2002 and in Johannesburg in 2006,
we dug deep to pull off the near impossible. Everyone had been driven, no one
had to say ‘Do it for Bhajji’, but every one of us had wanted to do it for our
mate, our friend, our brother.
The way the team rallied around Bhajji, and each other, was phenomenal.
Anil was awesome with his leadership on and off the field, handling the situation
with tact and diplomacy, fairly and transparently. He was exactly the leader we
needed at the time, and it was great to see the way he motivated the team. He
presented our case forcefully but politely, and made it amply clear that he would
always stand by Bhajji. The BCCI backed our stance and ensured that we could
concentrate on the cricket by assembling the best possible defence for him.
I have heard many people say that Australia should have handled the
Monkeygate issue differently, but that is not for me to comment on. All told, it
was an unsavoury incident. Thankfully, the appeals commissioner overturned the
ban on Bhajji and thus vindicated our stance. I felt that was as big a victory for
Indian cricket as the Perth win before it, and the tri-series triumph that was to
follow.
Before the appeal, there was one more Test to go, in Adelaide. We had
momentum on our side, but the flat Adelaide strip thwarted our designs. Viru
was back at his attacking best in the first innings, but having conceded a token
lead, we were in a little trouble on the final day. With Rahul also unable to
continue after breaking his finger, we needed someone to see the team through,
and Viru took that responsibility upon himself.
He made a superb 151, but what stood out for me was how out of character
that innings was. Between lunch and tea on day five, he hardly struck a ball in
anger. How often has Viru gone through a session without hitting a boundary?
When he was eventually dismissed, he had steered us to safety. I was happy for
him, especially because he had made no secret of his desperation to remain in
the Test team. The match-saving century was also his thanksgiving to Anil, who
had insisted on his selection even though he hadn’t figured in the long list of 24
probables.
We lost the series 1–2 when we all felt that we should have won it 2–1.
Cricket, however, doesn’t always pan out the way one expects it to. The Sydney
heartbreak and Monkeygate steeled our resolve, as evidenced not just by the
Perth win and the Adelaide draw, but also the stunning conquest of Australia in
the final of the tri-series, through a combination of established stars and exciting
young talent. I followed the tri-series on television and celebrated wildly when
we won the second final and MS lifted the trophy. The Australian tour was not
an unqualified success, but we had come out the better for it. Our quest for the
No. 1 status was gathering momentum.

Not long after the team under MS returned with the tri-series trophy in their
kitbag, it was time to pull out the flannels again. The gaps between Test series
allowed me to rest, but it was also a period of excitement and anticipation. I had
reconciled to being a Test ‘specialist’—I didn’t foresee another surprise, one-
match recall like in South Africa in 2006—and I was comfortable in my skin.
This time, the anticipation was tinged with a touch of apprehension. We
had a new coach, someone with no great credentials in that capacity. Several of
us had played against Gary, but we didn’t exactly have what you would call a
relationship. We knew and admired him as a gritty left-hander, an opening
batsman who put a huge price on his wicket and who brought the virtues of
good, old-fashioned Test match batting with him. But what kind of a coach
would he be? The scars from the days of Greg Chappell were still fresh, the
wounds still to heal. Would Gary be the balm?
We had a three-day camp in Chennai before the first Test, and the first
thing that struck me was how well prepared Gary was. He had brought with him
Paddy Upton, the strength and mental conditioning coach, and it was clear that
he and Paddy were a solid, unshakeable team who shared a strong bond. If we
were sceptical and wondered if Paddy would be to Gary what Ian Fraser was to
Greg, that thought disappeared in very quick time.
Gary, mainly, but also Paddy, spoke about their vision for the Indian team,
and what it was that they were looking for from us. It was an extension of the
feeling-out process that had started in Perth, and there was an immediate level of
comfort between Gary, who was not too far removed from our generation, and
the team. In the immediacy of Greg’s departure, we had had a host of Indian
cricket managers, who had all walked the extra mile to restore equilibrium to a
disturbed dressing room. Ravi had kicked off the process in Bangladesh, Chandu
sir had taken it to the next level in England, and Lalu had ramped it up thereafter.
During this period, Venky and Robin had been outstanding. A lot of the credit
must go to all these gentlemen, not so much for getting us back on track in terms
of results, but for making the team function in the way that it did.
Chennai in March was typically hot and humid, and South Africa kept us
on the park for more than a day and a half as they amassed nearly 550. Our reply
was magical. In our last Test, in Adelaide, Viru had shown that he could drop
anchor if the team so needed. Here, with his confidence buoyed, he went after
the bowling like only he could. Agreed, it was a flat surface, but the
circumstances made the knock even more special. The conditions were
physically draining, we had fielded for more than 150 overs, and there was
scoreboard pressure.
Fortunately, Viru had never been fazed by these things, ever. He smashed
Dale Steyn, Makhaya Ntini, Morne Morkel and Jacques Kallis to all parts of
Chepauk, unleashing an array of strokes that left us dumbfounded. As the ball
got older, it started to reverse a bit, but Viru was having an open net, treating his
fans to an extraordinary exhibition of ball-striking. He reached his second triple
hundred at better than a run a ball—hello!—and Rahul cruised in his wake to a
hundred of his own as he completed 10,000 Test runs. A run-fest and a
predictable draw, but we had reason to feel good about ourselves.
That was only until we started to bat in Ahmedabad. There was some
moisture on a slightly grassy surface, and we knew that the ball would do a bit in
the first session. We backed ourselves to see those two hours through and then
cash in, but our plans were blown away by Steyn, Ntini and Morkel, who
exploited the conditions to send us tumbling to 76 all out in just 20 overs. It was
an embarrassing batting display, and we had plenty of time to reflect on it as the
pitch flattened out as expected and South Africa made merry. Kallis and AB de
Villiers punished us and though we fought hard in the second knock, the damage
had already been done on the first morning.
Gary took this in silently, encouraging us all the while and willing to give
us the benefit of the doubt. We arrived in Kanpur with a proud home record on
the line, and a stand-in, first-time captain in MS after Anil was ruled out with a
groin injury. There was no Sachin either—he had missed the Ahmedabad rout
too, injured—and we had our work cut out on a turner. Sourav batted really well
in making 87 and I didn’t do too badly with a half-century. Either side of those,
Bhajji bagged wickets aplenty to help us square the series. A low-key end to an
international season that was as dramatic as they come, but as we all dispersed
for our first taste of the Indian Premier League (IPL), we were in a far better
place than 12 months earlier.

The first edition of the IPL, in 2008, was an exhilarating experience, the perfect
cocktail of cricket and entertainment. For us, it was a relief of sorts from the
high-pressure environment that was international cricket. It wasn’t that we didn’t
take the Twenty20 format seriously. It was just that the first year, especially, was
something like a carnival, and most of us relished the freedom of going out and
playing our strokes without inhibitions. The approach to the IPL changed within
a year. There was probably more pressure than even while playing for the
country because of the understandable demand for results from franchise owners
who pumped in huge amounts of money.
The advent of the IPL meant we were playing almost round the year, which
posed immense demands on body and mind for those who were regulars in both
the Test and ODI setups. MS took the bold and somewhat unprecedented step in
that era of sitting out the Test series that followed in Sri Lanka. It took guts
because he was putting his place on the line, but MS has always done things his
way and this was an early indication that he wasn’t afraid to buck the trend.
Sri Lanka wasn’t a great outing for various reasons. Even though the
conditions there aren’t very different from those in India, we have always found
Sri Lanka in their backyard a very difficult side to overcome. This time, we had
the added challenge of facing up to Ajantha Mendis, the mystery spinner who
had already destroyed us with a six-wicket burst in the final of the Asia Cup in
Karachi a month earlier. At that point, the consensus was that Dravid, Tendulkar,
Laxman and Ganguly, none of whom was in that Asia Cup squad, would handle
him easily. How wrong everyone was.
We had simply never encountered a bowler like Mendis. I had huge
problems reading him. I was playing him solely as an off-spinner because his
stock delivery was the off-break. His wicket-taking delivery, however, was the
leg-cutter, which didn’t bounce at all and left the right-hand batsman very
sharply. Since I played for the off-break, I was shaping more towards the on-side
and getting out in different ways. I was dismissed caught at mid-wicket on the
pull, I was stumped, I was caught behind, I was leg before.
It wasn’t just me. Apart from Viru and to some extent Gautam Gambhir,
the rest of us struggled to get a fix, and that was disappointing because the four
of us in the middle order were the more experienced ones. We saw a lot of
videos, identified his release points—things we do before any series when we
are confronted with a new bowler. We talked about Mendis at team meetings, we
discussed him in private conversations. He was effective because he was so
accurate, and the lengths he bowled did not allow us to rotate strike freely. I
could not pick his carrom ball either. I used to react off the pitch, but because the
ball was skidding through at pace, I found that I was always late on the shot.
Over time, we figured him out and even mastered him, but in that series, it was
definitely a huge challenge for us.
Mendis finished as the highest wicket-taker, ahead even of the great
Muttiah Muralitharan. Sri Lanka had a good attack with Chaminda Vaas and
Nuwan Kulasekara taking the new ball, but it was the spinners who tied us up in
knots in the first and third Tests.
Our struggles put Viru’s dominating double hundred in Galle in
perspective. We had been hammered by an innings in the first Test but in the
second, Viru took Mendis and the rest to the cleaners with a blistering 201. Out
of 329. Gautam weighed in with 56. Apart from them, I was the only one to
reach double figures (39). Both openers made half-centuries in our second
innings too, and then Bhajji and Anil took six wickets between them to bowl us
to a series-levelling win. We returned to Colombo for the decider and were well
beaten, with Mendis the destroyer-in-chief.
Ironically, it was because of an injury that I played my best knock of the
series, in the final innings of the tour. I twisted my ankle while fielding, and
could not go out to bat till we were five wickets down in the second innings. The
ankle was swollen and I needed a runner—allowed at that stage—and it was
with that sprained, swollen ankle that I played Mendis the best. When I was
injury free, I could stretch a lot and that was getting me into trouble because I
was often playing around my front pad. Because of the injury, I could get only a
short stretch in, which meant I was forced to play straight. Almost by accident, I
got a hang of Mendis and finished 61 not out, my only fifty in six innings, but
even I knew that it was too little, far too late.
This was also the series in which the review process was trialled for the
first time. It was called the Umpire Decision Review System, and we had a
horrendous experience all the way through. A majority of the reviews went
against us, and we couldn’t fathom how. I haven’t come across a spinner who
bowls straighter lines than Anil, but the predictive ball-tracking technology
somehow always showed the ball missing the stumps. Sri Lanka got loads of
reviews right, we got most of them wrong. Given that the ball-tracking
technology was not a system-generated mechanism, it was anything but
foolproof, or so we thought. We slowly began to lose faith in the system. That’s
one of the reasons why it took us eight more years to fully embrace the DRS, by
when we understood that it was in place to eliminate the truly bad decisions, the
howlers.
Maybe, as a team, we should have approached the process differently. We
didn’t discuss it much leading up to the series, and there was no strategy in
place. Generally, Anil went by his gut when he was bowling, and with the inputs
of the bowler and the wicketkeeper—it’s worth remembering that both Dinesh
Karthik and then Parthiv were filling in for MS—we decided whether to
challenge the umpire’s decision. As more and more reviews, particularly off his
bowling, went against us, Anil became distinctly unhappy with the system. He
wasn’t the only one. We had no trust in the process then. That we are now using
the DRS even in the IPL shows how far we have come since. Interestingly, it was
when Anil became the head coach of the national team that, finally, we
acknowledged the virtues of the DRS.
Our inglorious tryst with the DRS was topped only by our inability to get a
hang of Mendis. Predictably, back in India, questions started to be raised over
our places. Sachin was never going to be under scrutiny, but Rahul, Sourav and I
felt the pressure. We knew we had let the team down, and we felt the heat. While
we were confident we would bounce back, we were not sure if the selectors
shared that confidence.

Our next assignment was a four-Test series at home against Australia. Given
what had happened Down Under earlier in the year, we couldn’t wait for Ricky’s
team to arrive. The wounds were still fresh, and we wanted closure of sorts. We
warmed up for the series with the Irani Cup, against Ranji champions Delhi, in
Vadodara. It was like a dress rehearsal, almost the entire Indian team against a
strong Delhi side that included Viru, Gautam, a very young Virat Kohli, Ashish
Nehra and Ishant Sharma. Sourav was conspicuous by his non-selection to the
Rest of India squad, and I feared the worst for him.
However, he was there in the list of probables for the Australia series, and
we had a wonderful four-day camp in Bangalore that was half team-bonding,
half cricket.
The camp in Chennai before the South Africa series had been a business-
like affair. It was our first interaction with our new coach, and we had been a
little guarded because of our experience with his predecessor. Between March
and October, however, we had got to know Gary and Paddy better, and shed
most of our inhibitions.
Much of the attention at the Bangalore camp was on getting our roles right.
There wasn’t too much emphasis on fine-tuning our skills. We regrouped and
spelt out our vision for the next one year. Paddy tried to learn what made each
one of us tick, hoping to understand us and help us understand ourselves. He
handed out a questionnaire for us to fill. Among the questions were—How do
you react to criticism? What do you feel when someone praises you? Do you feel
the pressure when you are out in the middle?
The answers were supposed to indicate if we could motivate ourselves, or
needed an external nudge. The vast majority of us, it seemed, needed external
motivation—we tended to perform better if someone shook us up after a couple
of bad performances.
One of the highlights of the camp was a day out at a Manipal resort
organised by Anil, who was then their brand ambassador. We were divided into
three batches, and each team had to produce a 12-minute movie. Our group
included Rahul, Bhajji, Viru, Venky and Munaf Patel, and we enacted Singh Is
King. Sachin, MS and some of the others produced Sholay, while a majority of
the support staff performed Rock On!!
When I say produce a movie, I mean precisely that. Each group was given
three hours to write the script, film it, edit and come up with the final product.
Make-up artists, costumes and different kinds of wigs were at our disposal, we
had all the props required to make a film. Singh Is King had just hit the screens,
so we decided to adapt it and make a movie on Bhajji’s life. Rahul, ever happy in
the background, was our cameraman. Viru was dressed up as a girl and played an
obsessive fan of Bhajji.
Sachin enacted Amjad Khan’s character Gabbar Singh, while Ishant was
Basanti, and Sholay was a big hit, but Rock On was the highlight of the evening,
an unbelievably slick production by the support staff. Our masseur Ramesh
Mane, Mane kaka to all of us, was the showstopper while logistics manager
Russell Radhakrishnan wasn’t far behind with his acting and dancing skills.
At the end of it all, we had an awards night to match any other. The three
movies were shown on a giant screen one after the other. Anil had invited an
eminent and qualified jury to judge our performances. Viru walked away with
the Best Actress Award, and the Best Film went to Rock On. Mock protests and
staged walkouts expressing displeasure at the results rounded off an
unprecedented evening as we let our hair down and did something totally
different.
Paddy told us the next day that the idea behind the exercise was to get us
out of our comfort zone and challenge our thought processes. ‘Gary and I wanted
to get rid of the monotony and get your creative juices going,’ he said. We had a
lot of fun, but also learnt plenty about ourselves and each other. Most
importantly, we realised that being taken out of our comfort zone wasn’t
anywhere near as traumatic as we had feared.
Our minds, even if briefly, were freed of the tensions that had accompanied
us from Sri Lanka. Gary began to come into his own, comfortable in his
knowledge of his players and aware that he had won our respect with his
approach, work ethic and, most importantly, attitude. He was a behind-the-
scenes man who believed in leading by example. One of the things he stressed
was that when he was a player, there were several things that the coaches did
which he did not enjoy, and he would not put us through those experiences. Even
though he had no formal coaching experience, he was an excellent man-
manager. He had played more than 100 Tests and was a fantastic technician, but
he didn’t interfere with our techniques. Instead, he encouraged everyone to play
to their strengths.
Gary did not tell us what to do. He would talk to us about the different
ways of going about our business, and the potential outcome of each of those
paths. He would then give us the freedom to choose our path, but ask that we be
accountable for it. Subtly, he transferred the responsibility back on to the players
by empowering us. There was no compromise on preparation, but he didn’t ram
stuff down our throats. If, for instance, someone didn’t want to net on the eve of
the match, Gary was fine with that, so long as it didn’t impact his effort.
Gary focused on effort more than performance, on the process rather than
the result. He was a family man steeped in values such as honesty and integrity,
and that resonated with us. To him, there were no seniors or juniors. He treated
everyone the same, with respect but also with firmness if the occasion so
demanded. He cracked the whip when we slackened, and when we thought we
had reason to be on top of the world, he immediately brought us back to earth in
his understated, non-confrontational but extremely effective way.
He had wonderful support from Paddy, and even though we sadly lost
Robin and Venky during his tenure, we never felt that Gary was packing the
support staff with ‘his’ men. Over time, Gary went from being coach to friend
and confidant to many of us. We could talk to him as equals, just as we could
share our goals and visions and fears with Paddy without worrying about which
publication these might worm their way into.
Gary was also tough as nails. One of the things he and Anil stressed at that
camp before the Australia series was that we had to get under the skin of the
opposition. Australia were very good at dishing it out, but not so good when they
were at the receiving end. It was decided that Zak would go after Hayden at
every possible opportunity, and Bhajji would target his bunny, Ponting.
Whenever we could, we would do everything within limits to rattle them.
That’s why, after he and Bhajji put on a half-century stand in the first Test,
Zak famously said that if Australia couldn’t get him and Bhajji out, he couldn’t
see them taking 20 wickets and winning a Test match. Or when I,
uncharacteristically, said at the press conference after the Delhi Test that this
Australian team was different from previous ones in that their natural aggression
was missing.
Before the Bangalore Test, Sourav dropped a bombshell, announcing that
he would retire at the end of the series. That came out of the blue because he was
striking the ball well and still had a couple of good years left in him. But he felt
he had had enough of looking over his shoulder, of worrying about his place in
the team, of putting his fate in others’ hands, at that stage of his life. His last Test
was a month away, so the words didn’t sink in immediately, but there was a
sense of personal loss because we had almost grown up together as Test players.
We had agreed to disagree on issues, and I had been upset with his decisions
more than once, but that never came in the way of our friendship. To see him
ride away into the sunset would not be easy.
Bangalore saved and Mohali won on the back of a brilliant spell of reverse-
swing bowling by Zak, we went to Delhi for an eventful third Test. Mohali was
studded with individual milestones—Sachin went past Brian Lara’s record for
most Test runs, Amit Mishra took a five-for on debut, and MS won his second
Test as captain, after a groin injury had again kept Anil out.
I had a modest series, with a highest of 42 not out in three hits. I felt I was
playing well, but not getting the returns I deserved. Including the Sri Lanka
series, I had made just one half-century in nine innings, which was anything but
ideal for someone about to complete a dozen years in Test cricket. I made use of
the extra time from a four-day finish in Mohali to make a visit to Shirdi before
the Delhi Test.
Every time I returned from Shirdi, I was enveloped by a blanket of
calmness and reassurance. It helped too, that Zak, my great friend, gave me
throw-downs ahead of the Kotla Test and predicted a hundred for me. His
prediction wasn’t off the mark; I ended up getting a double! So did Gautam, with
whom I put up nearly 300. The little fella got physical with Shane Watson and
copped a one-Test ban, but what stood out for me was that while he did cross the
line, he wasn’t afraid of taking on someone much bigger than him. Gauti is one
of those feisty characters you would want to take alongside you to war; he gives
his all every single day.
After we amassed more than 600, Australia replied in kind through a
strong batting display. We were without Bhajji, out injured, and the slowness of
the track frustrated our spinners, though Viru bowled beautifully to take five
wickets. Anil split the webbing on his hand and immediately had a procedure. It
was typical of him to come back with the injury and grab a caught-and-bowled
to end the Australian first innings, but when I went to meet him in his room that
evening, I had a bad feeling.
His wife Chetana was by his side, and Anil looked really tired. He had
missed the previous Test due to a groin injury that was becoming increasingly
troublesome, and had been contemplating retirement for some time. The split
webbing would rule him out of the last Test in Nagpur, and our next series was
another month and a half away, so he had decided the time was right for him to
walk away from the sport he had served so wonderfully well for so long.
I knew that retirement was on the cards, but it was like a body blow.
Listening to him sitting there calmly and telling me that the next day would be
his last in Test cricket knocked the breath out of me. I couldn’t imagine an
Indian dressing room without Anil. Even as he told me that his body was not
responding anymore, I tried my best to persuade him to stay on. I urged him to
miss Nagpur but to think of retirement after the England series. He smiled at me
with finality. ‘I am done, Lax.’
He told the team of his decision in the dressing room the next day, and
there wasn’t a dry eye. Anil Kumble meant so much to so many people, but
nothing defined him better than ‘team man’. He bowled a few overs after a token
declaration on the final day, and when the match was called off, we took him on
a lap around his beloved Kotla. As news had spread that it was going to be the
great man’s last day in India whites, the crowds had flocked in to give their hero
a fitting farewell. My eyes welled up with pride and sadness as I saw how deeply
my friend had touched so many people.
I was the man of the match for my 200, but I would have swapped it for a
few more days alongside Anil in the dressing room. He is easily one of the
greatest competitors I have played with or against and inarguably the greatest
match-winner in Indian cricket. But slowly, reality started sinking in. No Anil.
And no Sourav after the next game. Two of my friends, two pillars of Indian
cricket, hanging up their boots. To be honest, it was a little scary.
That next game, in Nagpur, was my 100th Test. I was at once elated and
humbled. I had aspired to play at least one Test for India when I took the serious
plunge into cricket. And look where it had brought me. Never in my wildest
dreams had I thought 100. And yet, here it was. My parents, Sailaja, coaches and
friends from Hyderabad, who had been an integral part of my journey, were all
present to usher in the occasion, and I was determined to put on a show. There
was a huge clamour for a century in my 100th Test, and I wanted it too, badly, in
the first Test at the new VCA Stadium. As it turned out, I only made 64, but that
was all right because we won the Test. And the series.
It could so easily not have been, however. Even though we had an 86-run
lead, we were in a spot at 166 for 6, with MS, in his first Test as full-fledged
captain, and Bhajji in the middle. Another wicket then, and Australia were
looking at a target of less than 300. Brett Lee had bowled well all through the
innings and the 50-over-old ball was reversing. Everything was in place for Brett
to step in and land the killer punches, but Ponting strangely kept him out of the
attack.
Australia were behind the over rate and Ponting risked suspension if they
didn’t catch up. The fear of suspension took precedence over the prospect of
losing the series as Ponting bowled Mike Hussey and Michael Clarke to make up
for the slow over rate. We were astonished, but also grateful. MS and Bhajji
added 108 to take the game beyond Australia’s reach, and the spinners then took
over to bowl us to a commanding victory.
Towards the end of the Test, in one of those unfussy but wonderful
gestures so typical of him, MS handed over the captaincy to Sourav. It was a
sweet move, a sign of respect and appreciation for what Sourav had done for
Indian cricket, and MS immediately went up a few notches in our estimation.
Sourav handed the reins back after a couple of overs, and when the final wicket
fell, fittingly to Bhajji, the payback was complete. We didn’t look at it as
revenge. Instead, we felt justice had been done, finally, after nine months.
We celebrated joyfully at the end of the Test match, which had itself
seemed like one long celebration. At the end of the second day, the BCCI had
felicitated Anil and Sourav on their retirements, Sachin on scoring the most Test
runs and me on playing my 100th Test, a reasonably formal event full of
goodwill. The party at the hotel after the Test ended was anything but formal. We
were thrilled at having given a fitting farewell to Anil and Sourav. We would
miss them later. But for now, we decided to make the most of the moment, and
just enjoy having them in our midst. MS had asked Anil to accompany him to
receive the Border–Gavaskar Trophy, which was another fine gesture. After we
reached the hotel, we all let our hair down.
Everyone, including the teetotallers among us, had to have at least some
alcohol, it was decided. But who would bell the Anil cat? Who had the guts to
thrust a glass into his hand and get him to take a sip? That onerous responsibility
fell on my shoulders, and being the good sport that he is, Anil obliged with a
smile, which turned into a grimace the moment the liquid hit his tongue. I won’t
forget that look on his face. Ever.
Anil and Sourav had to climb on to a chair and give their retirement
speeches, which were both funny and emotional. I don’t remember much of what
was said. It wasn’t an occasion for talking but for feeling. A glorious era was
coming to an end in Indian cricket, but as always, a new dawn awaited.

Dhoni’s appointment as Anil’s successor came as no surprise—he had already

led the team in two Tests when Anil was injured. I must admit I thought it was a
left-field choice when he was named captain for the World T20 in 2007. That
team included Viru, who had already led in Tests, and the experienced Yuvi, but
the selectors saw a spark in MS and handed him the reins. The rest, of course, is
history.
MS taking over from Anil was a futuristic move. He was already the white-
ball skipper, and his elevation to Test captaincy was a natural progression.
I was extremely impressed with how MS approached the Test captaincy.
His maturity, balanced approach, game awareness and understanding of the
psyche of his teammates helped get the best out of everyone. What stood out was
the way he handled the senior players under him—Sachin, Rahul, Viru, Bhajji,
Zak and I. We were all leaders within the group. We were self-motivated and
took a lot of pride in our performance, and he enabled us. His man-management
was outstanding, his self-belief refreshingly reassuring. I never got the
impression that he was insecure or that he looked over his shoulder because
there were so many seniors in the team.
MS was non-interfering when it came to the established core group, but he
invited suggestions from all of us. Whether he took those suggestions on board
or not was not important. But he did hear everyone out before making his
decision. The buck stopped with him, but by involving us in the process, he sent
out a strong message of inclusiveness. If MS had been insecure and had not
sought us out, there was every possibility that we might have gone about our
business, not knowing if the skipper even wanted our inputs.
He didn’t believe in giving stirring speeches at team meetings. His
contention was that if you were good enough to be picked to play for the
country, you should know what to do. Whatever needed to be said to his team, he
said it on the field. Off the field, Gary handled the primary responsibilities—
making the right selection calls, providing a good team environment and
preparation.
Dhoni’s calmness and equanimity are legendary. He had seen nothing but
success until the tour of England in 2011. We had lost 4–0 in England and had
already lost the first three Tests in Australia by the end of that year, and were
heading for another whitewash. I was a mess, as were most of the guys, but MS
was unbelievably composed. Not once did he lash out, and at no stage did he
give the impression that he was frustrated or helpless. I asked him how he could
remain so unaffected by the results, especially in light of the angry and
humiliating reactions from all quarters. I prided myself on being level-headed,
but MS took it to another level when he said, ‘Lachi bhai, what is the point of
feeling dejected and depressed? All it will do is harm your performance even
more. We must identify the areas where we are lacking, and address them. That
is the only way forward.’
Sitting in the calm of one’s living room, his words seem obvious and
straightforward. But that MS could keep his wits about him and zero in on the
larger picture in the most trying circumstances was staggering. He didn’t become
a successful captain by accident. The more time I spent with him, the more I was
entranced by the simplicity of his thinking, and his attitude to the sport that has
made him the icon he is.
One of my abiding memories is of MS driving the team bus to the hotel in
Nagpur, during my 100th Test. I couldn’t believe my eyes—the captain of the
team driving us back from the ground! It was his first Test in charge after Anil’s
retirement, and he didn’t seem to have a care in the world. But he was like that,
playful and grounded.
Cricket was important to him, but it wasn’t the only thing in his life. When
he committed to playing, he did so without holding back, but when off the
ground, he had varied interests, and the wisdom to not let himself be ruled by
outcomes. I was a little envious of his attitude. I love the sport and mostly played
it for fun, but the longer you play, the more it can become a job. You are
engrossed in your performance, in the fortunes of the team, and the enjoyment
can ebb away from time to time. But MS never lost the joy, the playfulness. I
have never met anyone quite like him. His room was open to all when he first
came into the squad, and even during my last Test, by which time he was already
one of India’s most successful captains, he didn’t shut the door until it was time
for him to hit the bed.

We had England on the menu as our first Test opponents following the
retirement of Anil and Sourav, with an ODI series preceding the Test matches. I
was at home, watching the one-day team running rings around the Englishmen
and eagerly awaiting the birth of our second child, when the heinous Mumbai
terror attacks were unleashed on 26/11. We were in shock. None of us could
understand what drove people to take other peoples’ lives without compunction.
This was too close to home to not rattle and enrage every single Indian.
England justifiably abandoned the ODI series but to their great credit, they
returned for a two-Test series within a fortnight. They could easily have chosen
not to, and no one would have blamed them. I dread to imagine how much that
would have set us back, because we all know what happened in Pakistan when
the Sri Lankan team bus was attacked the following year. The England team was
playing in Cuttack when the Mumbai attacks took place, but had they opted to
stay back at home citing security fears, other teams might have followed suit and
we might have missed out on hosting international cricket for a long time. We
had reason to be grateful to Kevin Pietersen, to the English cricket board and to
the players for returning to India for the Test matches.
The Chennai win will remain one of my most emotionally charged
memories for obvious reasons. The match was supposed to have been held in
Mumbai, but circumstances forced the shift, and we wanted to do everything
possible to put a smile on the faces of our countrymen, if only for a moment.
England were having none of it, and they dominated the play for three-and-a-
half days, eventually setting us a target of 387 in around 120 overs. No team had
scored that many runs in the fourth innings to win a Test in India, but then, no
one else had Viru amidst them.
In an hour and a half, he emphatically overturned thoughts of scrambling
for a draw with a mesmeric assault on the unsuspecting Englishmen. Batting like
a man possessed, he thrashed 83 in just 68 deliveries so that when play began on
the final day, we needed only 256 with nine wickets standing. I don’t say ‘only’
flippantly. If not for Viru, we could easily have been looking at 325.
We lost a few early wickets on the final morning, but at no stage did we
think of anything other than victory. There was a sense of calm certainty in the
dressing room as Sachin and Yuvi went about the task. Yuvi batted as if in an
ODI, and Sachin’s eyes had that steely look that indicated no let-up. He, more
than anyone else, had been shaken up by the Mumbai attacks, and he wanted to
win it for the Mumbaikars, for all of India. He would have to be dismissed, he
wasn’t throwing it away.
MS, padded up to go in next, was the most relaxed amongst us. But like
him, we too had faith that Sachin and Yuvi would get the job done. We trusted
our colleagues, and they never panicked. When Sachin brought up his century
and the winning runs, Chepauk erupted. Sachin made a moving speech at the
presentation ceremony, his voice choking. For a while, India heralded the
stunning triumph and briefly put the Mumbai disaster to one side. As cricketers
and ambassadors, we were happy to have made a positive difference to our
countrymen, though victory in a Test match can hardly atone for the mindless
violence and the loss of hundreds of innocent lives. The post-match celebrations
were understandably muted.
Mohali was an unremarkable draw, but we had won another series in trying
circumstances. Given the pall of gloom that enveloped the nation, it was a low-
key face-off but in beating a strong England side on the back of walloping the
formidable Australians, we had taken a step closer to our mission. The next
challenge was three months away, in a country where we hadn’t won a series in
more than 30 years. New Zealand, here we come.

The limited-overs leg preceded the Test matches in New Zealand, and as it
turned out, was a sign of things to come. We lost the T20 series but won the
ODIs 3–1. Some of us Test specialists hadn’t played any cricket since the Duleep
Trophy in late January—the Test series started in the third week of March—so
the BCCI requested the New Zealand Cricket Board to accommodate us in some
of their state sides for one first-class game. I played for Otago against
Wellington, for whom Balaji played, in cold Dunedin, and the wind chill made it
an extremely uncomfortable four days.
I didn’t make a lot of runs but spent more than three hours at the crease in
two innings combined, which gave me a reasonable feel for the conditions. But I
hadn’t had a great series against England, and was reasonably subdued in the
first Test in Hamilton. Sachin played a fabulous knock, and the rest batted
around him as we stacked up a huge first-innings total and grabbed a handy lead.
By now, we expected to dominate the opposition, but also not slacken or take the
foot off the pedal. If the pacers had done the damage in the first innings, Bhajji
was too good for the Kiwis in the second innings, leaving us with a small total to
chase. We knocked off the runs in quick time, as I tasted a Test win on New
Zealand soil for the first time.
Our challenge as a team was to back up this victory with another solid
performance; the past had taught us valuable lessons. On a flat surface in Napier,
New Zealand amassed more than 600, thanks to a classy double hundred by the
likeable Jesse Ryder. We didn’t bat well at all, conceding a lead of more than 300
by gifting our wickets away. New Zealand asked us to follow-on in the final
session of day three. We needed to bat out of our skins for two days to preserve
our hard-earned lead.
I was happy with the way I had batted in the first innings, but not with how
I had got out and when I had got out. Manohar sir, my childhood coach, who had
since moved to New Zealand, had come down from Auckland to Napier to see
me bat. I was determined to celebrate his presence with a hundred, but having
reached 76, I played loosely outside off to the second new ball, to be caught in
the slips. I felt I owed Manohar sir a hundred, so I told myself that if I got a
chance in the second innings, I wouldn’t let him down a second time.
 Our second-innings fightback is one of the memories I will cherish. I will
also never forget how Viru, our captain for the game, was dismissed in the
second innings. Stumps on day three was less than 45 minutes away when
Daniel Vettori brought Jeetan Patel on. The off-spinner was to Viru what a red
flag is to a bull. He was itching to have a go, hit each ball for a six, totally
oblivious to the fact that we were trying to save the Test. He swung at Patel once
too often to be leg before for 22 off 21 balls, with four fours. When we needed to
bat nearly 200 overs to save the Test! In the dressing room, we didn’t know how
to react. Viru could be exasperating when he got out this way, but he had also
amassed runs with the same approach.
I had a long wait before going in to bat, early on the final morning. Both
Rahul and Sachin made half-centuries and ate up a lot of deliveries, but the real
star was Gautam, whom Viru famously called the Wall from the North of India at
the end of the game. The little man kept out everything New Zealand hurled at
him with unwavering focus. He didn’t care if the scoreboard came to a standstill,
he didn’t care if he remained scoreless for long periods. His only concern was
occupying the crease, and he did that with limitless patience and the
concentration of a Zen master.
We were still trailing by 60-odd when Sachin was dismissed on day five,
and I watched Gautam go about his business from the non-striker’s end for more
than three hours. Clearly, the string of recent good scores had lifted his
confidence to astronomical levels. Gautam was normally an attacking batsman.
However, given the situation, he put team before self, keeping out ball after ball,
offering a barn-door defence that New Zealand simply couldn’t break down. My
chest swelled with pride at the other end. Gauti was a true fighter, if ever there
was one.
Gautam and I put on nearly a hundred when finally, after a ten-and-a-half-
hour vigil, New Zealand saw the back of him. As he walked off to a warm
reception, I reflected on having witnessed one of the greatest overseas knocks by
an Indian batsman. Often, it is the big hundreds and the double tons that are
extolled. Gautam’s final tally was 137, but to me, it was as good as a double, if
not more. The record books show that he played for 643 minutes and faced 436
deliveries. Need I say more?
Once I realised that the game was safe, I played a few strokes and Yuvi lit
up the final session by peppering the fence. When we shook hands, I had made
my way to 124. I was glad to have made my coach happy, and even happier that
we had pulled off a great escape. The second innings had been an opportunity for
us to showcase our character in a tough situation, and we took pride in the way
we had fought it out. Before the second innings, Gary had asked us to put up a
fight, and not worry about the result. We had done exactly that.
We should have completed a 2–0 victory after dominating the Wellington
Test, but the rain halted our charge. These were the windiest conditions in which
I had played a game of cricket, and it was chilly, ice-cold wind. It was so cold
that my ears were aching, and I found myself donning a beanie while fielding.
Gauti rounded off the tour with a sparkling 167, off just 257 deliveries. What a
contrast to his stonewalling in Napier.
We came back from New Zealand with a first Test series win there since
1976. It was a heady feeling, and we felt that our goal wasn’t far away. In the
previous three years, we had won Test series in the Caribbean, England and now
New Zealand, and Test matches in Australia and South Africa. We knew the top
step of the podium was within reach, but there was a long break before our next
Test series. The excitement would have to be tempered for now, as the second
season of the IPL headed to South Africa. Our next Test match wasn’t for
another seven months.

Wanting to make the most of the long gap between the end of the IPL and the
start of the domestic season, I returned to England for a second stint with
Lancashire. After a slow start, I gathered steam and ended the season with two
hundreds in the last two games, and four in all in 11 matches. By then, the
Lancastrians had taken me to heart as much as I had them, and it was an
enjoyable three and a half months at Old Trafford, not far from the iconic venue
of the same name where Manchester United played their home games in the
English Premier League.
That 2009–10 season, we were scheduled to play only five Tests—three at
home against Sri Lanka, followed by two in Bangladesh. We knew that if we
defeated Sri Lanka 2–0, we would ascend the throne. For the first time. We
would be the No. 1 Test team in the world. The summit was a couple of steps
away, and undoubtedly, those would be the toughest, most demanding steps.
Even without Gary’s constant urgings, we were experienced enough to
remain in the moment, and not take anything for granted. Any lingering
complacency was comprehensively exploded in Ahmedabad on the first morning
of the series against Sri Lanka, when Chanaka Welegedara, a somewhat
unheralded left-arm paceman, gobbled up our top order. In no time, we were 32
for 4, but we also had in our midst a master of such situations. Rahul batted
sensationally to make a massive hundred, Yuvi kept him company during the
stabilising phase and MS then tore into the Sri Lankans as we recovered to top
400. With the two Jayawardenes feasting on runs and giving Sri Lanka a lead of
over 300, we were forced to bat for the second time in three Tests to save the
match. Gautam, in the middle of the purplest of patches, struck another hundred,
and we rallied around him, while Sachin rounded things off with a century of his
own as the Test produced upwards of 1600 runs and only 21 wickets.
The flatness of the Ahmedabad surface had sucked the life out of the first
Test, and we now had to win both the remaining Tests for the 2–0 scoreline we
were after. To our consternation, a second batting beauty awaited us in the form
of the Kanpur pitch. Gauti, Viru and Rahul made attractive tons as we scored
heavily and quickly, at more than four an over. We thought we needed the time
to make inroads into a strong Sri Lankan batting line-up, until Sreesanth stepped
up and blew them away. It was his comeback to Test cricket after 18 months, but
he looked like he had never been away. He was quick, he got the ball to go a
long way, and made a mockery of the lack of assistance by sending Sri Lanka
crashing to a low first-innings score. Few Indian quicks have had such
remarkable control over wrist and seam positions, few have been blessed with
such raw, natural talent. Had things panned out differently, Sreesanth could have
gone on to become one of India’s most successful pacemen.
Once he picked up the five-for and MS promptly applied the follow-on, the
result was inevitable. Sri Lanka keeled over by an innings.
The Brabourne Stadium at the Cricket Club of India is a quaint venue,
forced to play second fiddle to the Wankhede after having been the most iconic
ground in Mumbai for a long time. With the Wankhede undergoing
redevelopment ahead of the 2011 World Cup, Test cricket returned to Brabourne
after thirty-six and a half years, and what a return it turned out to be!
With the ball coming on to the bat, the runs flowed, but there was also help
for the bowlers. Sri Lanka posted close to 400 early on day two, but what
followed was unbelievable. Viru let loose, and the Sri Lankans had nowhere to
hide. They had a strong attack—Welegedara, Murali, Nuwan Kulasekara and
Rangana Herath—but Viru took them apart with scant regard for reputation or
quality. I have seen all of Viru’s destructive innings, and this ranks up there with
the best.
By the end of the second day, we easily went past Sri Lanka’s tally, and
Viru moved to within 16 runs of becoming the first man to make three triple
hundreds in Test cricket. The crowds thronged the stadium on the third morning,
but disappointment was in store as he fell to Murali for 293. While the rest of the
world regretted the elusive seven runs, Viru revelled in having smashed 293. I
can’t think of another cricketer with his attitude, though he did promise that
evening never to heed Rahul’s advice again.
With stumps looming on the second day and Viru closing in on 300, Rahul
had told him to hold back a little, perhaps remembering how he had been
dismissed for 195 in the Boxing Day Test in 2003. ‘See off the evening, come
back fresh and get the job done tomorrow,’ was Rahul’s well-meaning advice. ‘I
should have just hit three sixes and got the job done,’ Viru laughed. ‘Not going
to listen to Rahul from now on!’
All through the series, I had batted fluently but without getting a hundred.
Before the last Test, I practised hitting the off-break over mid-on because I knew
that if Murali bowled a leg-stump line, my scoring options would otherwise be
restricted as I didn’t play the sweep a lot. I was in good flow, having reached a
third half-century of the series, when I tried to clear mid-on and holed out. I was
furious with myself for having thrown my wicket away for a second straight
match, and still cursing myself in the evening when Gary walked into the
dressing room.
‘Threw it away again, Gary,’ I whined.
I was expecting a similar response from him, because that’s what I had got
from coaches before. I braced for an explosion.
‘You have been practising that shot a lot and it was in your game plan,’
Gary said instead, calm as he always was. ‘You stuck to your game plan. The
execution was not perfect, but don’t beat yourself up over it.’
I was stunned. Similar dismissals had earned rebukes from past coaches,
who had lambasted what they had felt was a casual approach. Gary’s perspective
was totally different and refreshing. It was then, after more than 13 years of
international cricket, that I realised there was another, positive way of looking at
things.
The clouds of darkness that had gathered in my mind were further lifted
when MS blazed to a hundred. Pragyan Ojha made just five in a last-wicket
stand of 50-plus as MS rained sixes to effortlessly touch three figures and
immediately applied the declaration. The demoralised and dispirited Sri Lankans
ran into a pumped up Zak in the second dig and stood no chance. MS and Bhajji
combined to account for the last wicket, and even as Murali’s skier went up in
the air, all of us ran towards the stumps, ready to uproot them as souvenirs once
the catch was taken and the final wicket prised out.
The summit had been scaled, the pinnacle reached. We were the No. 1 Test
team in the world. It was surreal. There were huge smiles and big hugs over and
over again as we recognised that the pot of gold was not a mirage anymore. The
goal of 2001 had been achieved on 6 December 2009.
It occurred to me that eight and a half years between aspiring to be the best
in the world and finally getting there was a little too long. Given our exploits in
2001, I had thought we would scale the summit by 2007, at the latest. We had
missed our chances to win a series in Australia, twice, and also in South Africa.
With the potential we had as a team, we should have got to No. 1 much earlier.
But never mind, we were here, at long last, and that’s what mattered. Delight
was understandably tinged with relief.
Especially for someone who never played in a World Cup, this was as good
as it got. This was like lifting the World Cup in Test cricket. All right, so there
was no trophy to hold up and no photo-ops, but so what?
Now, there were new goals to set, new targets to achieve. We had to prove
to ourselves that we weren’t accidental No. 1s, that we deserved to be there, and
for long. We had the talent and the ability for it, and we had the resources that
could keep Indian cricket on top for a long time. I missed Anil and Sourav’s
presence in the dressing room, because they had been as integral to our
ascension as anyone else. But life has to go on, and we had reconciled to their
retirements. The game would not slow down for any individual. And we had to
move along too. ‘India—Test No. 1’ had a nice ring to it. This was not the end of
the journey, but we could allow ourselves a long pause and soak in the heady
emotion of being first among equals.
 13
Catching Them Cold

It is no coincidence that the most prolific catchers in international cricket fielded

in the slips for a large part of their careers. Almost every one of them was a
specialist batsman. There are the odd exceptions, like Ian Botham and Shane
Warne, but non-wicketkeepers with the most catches in Test cricket are Rahul
Dravid, Mahela Jayawardene, Jacques Kallis, Ricky Ponting and Mark Waugh.
Rahul tops the chart with 210 catches, many of them spectacular. He made
catching in the slips look so easy. It wasn’t that he, or the others, didn’t put down
any. Catches will be dropped, no matter what. The expert close-in catchers are
those that have a success rate in excess of 80 per cent. That comes through
practice, through intelligence, smartness and awareness.
One of the reasons for our successes overseas in the 2000s was our
improved close-in catching. Rahul and I formed a solid partnership in the slips as
well, he mostly at first slip and I at second, when the fast bowlers operated. For
the spinners, Rahul stood at slip while I moved to silly point. I have just two Test
wickets, and because I rarely bowled, I felt I owed the team a few catches. When
I walked away from the game, I had 135 Test catches—no other Indian player,
besides Rahul, has taken more catches as a fielder.
As the core of the 2000s took shape, we had a settled slip cordon, which
was particularly imperative when travelling overseas. Rahul at first, myself at
second, Viru at third and Anil at gully were a constant, unless Sachin fancied a
go in the slips, in which case he would field at the first-slip position and Rahul
would move to the third.
I stood at second slip for my school team and, as I worked my way up the
ranks, for all the sides I represented. I enjoyed being positioned there, a little
ahead of first slip, and willed the ball to come to me. One of the basic
requirements to be successful in the slip cordon is to want to catch the ball. If
you are afraid that it might come to you, you are better off fielding elsewhere.
Because I stood at second slip all through my career and developed a
familiarity with that position, it helped me identify cues and anticipate better
with the passage of time. As a second-slip fielder, I always watched the edge of
the bat. The wicketkeeper and the first slip generally tend to follow the path of
the ball from the time it leaves the bowler’s hand. As you move wider in the slip
cordon, your eyes are on the outside edge of the bat.
I got so accustomed to focusing on the edge that when, in a rare break from
norm, I stood at first slip for Lancashire—Stuart Law was the established
second-slipper—I veered from the accepted routine and continued to keep my
eyes trained on the outside edge. Taking my cue from the edge of the bat gave
me the best chance of knowing where the ball could go on contact. It is all about
muscle memory. Because I was training day in, day out, and because I had stood
at second slip for hours on end, I could make out where the nick would travel,
just by watching the way the batsman picked up the bat for a particular stroke.
Hashim Amla and Brian Lara were two batsmen who made life very
difficult for me in the slips. I could barely get a fix on their outside edge because
they both had high back lifts, and their bats came down in an arc from the skies
as they got into their strokes. The very quick downswing wasn’t easy to adjust
to. My head and eyes needed to be still, but the batsmen’s technique compelled
me to almost bob my head because the outside half of the bat kept moving
vertically. I tended to react a fraction of a second late when either of them was
batting. I needed to be more alert than when I had a much clearer line of sight.
With time, I learnt to make subtle adjustments depending on the angle the
bowler was delivering from. If a left-arm seamer was bowling from over the
stumps to a right-hand batsman, I stood a little wide. For a right-arm paceman
bowling over the wicket, I moved closer to the wicketkeeper. When playing in
India, I stood a little ahead of where I would overseas, because there is less pace
and bounce here compared to Australia or South Africa. But no matter how far
back from the stumps I stood, I made sure that a majority of the balls came at a
height between my knees and my waist.
The wicketkeeper sets the tone for how far back you stand from the
stumps. The rest of the slip cordon automatically falls into place. The first slip is
slightly behind the wicketkeeper, the second slip is at least a foot in front of the
first, and the third slip is a further foot ahead. This staggered arrangement
ensures that nobody’s line of sight is blocked, and that two fielders are in
position to go for the same catch.
As important as the distance behind the stumps is the spacing between the
slip fielders. Again, it is the wicketkeeper who decides how wide the first slip
should stand relative to him. From there on, it is for those in the slips to arrive at
distances of comfort and convenience. At school, we were told that the distance
between the two slip fielders must be one arm length. When Rahul and I stood
next to each other at slips in India, we maintained a six-foot-length distance
between his right foot and my left foot when a right-hander was on strike. We
extended that to an eight-foot length overseas; it gave us more time to track the
ball, and allow for pace and bounce.
While we covered these bases steeped in theory, there could be no
compromise on practice, and plenty of it. I fielded at forward short leg at the
start of my career, and later at silly point, to the spinners. When Rahul wanted a
break, I moved to slip. Anil and Bhajji were both quick, so I stood finer to them
compared to Murali Kartik or Pragyan Ojha, left-arm spinners for whom I
moved a little wider. You have to make subtle adjustments depending on the
angle the bowler was creating. You can’t take anything for granted.
It was at the Chennai camp in 2001, before the Australia series, that our
slip cordon took concrete shape. Rahul and I took at least 100 catches a day, but
not mechanically. We started the session taking catches with the new ball,
because it is very important for the hands to get used to the hardness of the ball
and the thickness of the seam. If you aren’t accustomed to these factors, there is
every chance that the ball will bounce off your palms.
We also practised with the brand of ball to be used for a particular series.
In India, it was the SG Test ball. In Australia, it was the Kookaburra, which had
a pronounced seam when new, but flattened out quickly. In England, it was first
the Reader and then the Duke ball. Ahead of each series, we practised with that
specific ball to make sure that when it was game-time, we weren’t found
wanting in preparation.
As we became more and more experienced, Rahul and I started wearing
gym gloves while training to protect our palms. By then, we had taken enough
catches for the gloves to not take away the feel for the ball. The practice sessions
in the later stages of our careers were designed to keep our reactions sharp. If
you prepare thoroughly and keep the standards at training high, then the catches
become a lot easier in the matches. Rahul and I challenged ourselves.
Sometimes, slip practice can become monotonous because there are not too
many variations. So we either stood very close to the guy giving catches, or
extended the width between us, trying to make things as difficult as possible
during our practice sessions.
It was Bobby Simpson who transformed Rahul and me from decent slip
catchers to very good ones, and piqued our interest with his emphasis on
technique. I had marvelled at Azzu bhai’s unbelievable hands and judgement at
slip, and was convinced that it was a gift from above, even though I had seen
first-hand how much time he spent honing his catching skills.
Simpson joined us on our tour of New Zealand in late 1998 as the batting
consultant. The former Australian captain had been a brilliant catcher during his
playing days. He was a master communicator, but he could also show us what he
was talking about. He introduced us to the Australian technique of slip catching,
where the weight is on the inside of each foot, near the arch. Because the knees
are almost collapsing inwards, the insides of the knees are closer. This allows the
body to move in either direction unhindered.
He also showed us the ideal position to ‘receive’ the ball: adjacent to the
body, the upper body pivoting on contact between the palms and the ball. There
was ‘give’ because we could flex our elbows. The more flexed the elbows, the
softer the palms. Hard palms are a certain recipe for the ball to pop out,
especially if it comes at pace.
Simpson saw potential in Rahul and me. He made our catching sessions
particularly arduous, putting us through a succession of difficult nicks. He
challenged us to take 10 catches in a row, which sounds easy but was far from it
because he was adept at giving catches, not one of them straightforward. It was a
great experience for the two of us because until then, while we had taken plenty
of catches every day while training, we had not been aware of the technique that
would give us the best chance of holding on to those catches. By the end of the
New Zealand tour, we were comfortably taking 10 catches in a row.
Sachin also helped hone our catching skills. His preferred weapon of
choice was a stump, which made anticipation difficult because you couldn’t
predict in which direction the ball would fly. You had to be focused every
fraction of every second, a routine that heightened our powers of concentration.
Slip catching in particular is as much about your mind as it is about
motivation, practice and technique. You might have fielded for 89 overs on a hot,
fruitless day with not a ball coming towards you, but that’s no excuse if you get
a chance in the final over and shell it because you weren’t mentally sharp. If you
are switched off or drained from having been too switched on, there is every
chance that you will drop that catch.
That doesn’t mean you must be switched on all the time, because to be on
high alert constantly for six hours is humanly impossible. One of the main
reasons why most successful slip fielders are batsmen is that they adopt similar
concentration-relaxation mechanisms.
As a batsman, you can’t afford to keep your eye on the ball at all times. It’s
just not possible to sustain levels of intensity for long periods if your mind is
obsessed with tracking the path of the ball every second. You must switch off
between balls so that you can keep yourself fresh. When batting, I would switch
off the moment the ball became ‘dead’, not thinking about what had happened or
what was likely to happen, just keeping my mind blank and free of
apprehension. A fast bowler takes between 15 and 20 seconds to walk back to
the top of his bowling mark. That’s the time I used to let my concentration drop
so that I had enough in reserve for the next ball. Once the bowler started to run
in, I shut everything else out. With time, I learnt to concentrate the hardest as he
loaded in his action, because you need peak concentration for no more than a
second or two. That’s exactly what slip catching demands, too. If you don’t time
that peak concentration properly, you will commit a mental error, that’s for sure.
Between balls, Rahul and I discussed a lot of different things, none of them
related to cricket. It was our private routine so that we could keep ourselves and
each other alert. Fortunately, we were on the same wavelength and could talk
about our families, our kids, the schools they went to, the books we were
reading. But as the bowler turned at the top of his run-up, the world around us
would cease to exist.
One of the many keys to catching is to stay low for as long as possible. I
would be upright when the bowler started his run-up, and it wasn’t until he was
three or four yards away from the bowling crease that I’d flex my knees and go
down. The longer the knee is weighted, the quicker the weight goes to the heels.
Once you are on your heels, balance and movement are adversely affected. I
learnt that by timing the flexing of the knees, I could give myself the maximum
time to keep my weight on the balls of my feet.
It is vitally important to get used to the background against which you are
viewing the ball. There are grounds where the ball is camouflaged against the
backdrop, making it virtually impossible to collect it till the last second. I tried to
counter this on practice day by standing where I would at second slip and
familiarising myself with the background. I found the Gabba, Eden Gardens and
the PCA Stadium in Mohali the most demanding grounds for a slip catcher. It
was very easy to lose sight of the ball if your mind wavered for the tiniest
fraction of a second. At these venues, I consciously willed myself to concentrate
that much harder.
I learnt the hard way that how you react when you drop a catch is as
significant as when you hold one. I knew that for all the practice and
concentration, for all the want and hunger, it is impossible to hold on to every
single catch. If you beat yourself up about a dropped catch, like I used to early in
my career, it is guaranteed that you will not be ready for the next chance that
comes your way because your mind is already preoccupied.
 No one goes in wanting to drop a catch, and every member of the team
knows that. While there is intense disappointment, and even recriminations,
when a chance is put down, it evaporates as quickly. I worked hard to put a
dropped catch behind me and prepared for the next one that might come. The
last thing you want to do is to compromise on what might happen because of
what has happened. The more you mope, the more you are setting yourself up
for another spill.
The catch that gave me the most satisfaction came in the Mumbai Test
against South Africa in March 2000. Lance Klusener was rallying South Africa
from a difficult position when he slashed at Srinath. As the ball flew off the
outside edge, my reflexes took over. I dived full length to my right, snaffling the
ball with my right hand in front of Rahul at first slip while still airborne. I had
watched the ball from the time it caught the outside edge to the moment it
nestled in my hand. I had already taken two catches in that innings at silly point
off Anil’s bowling, but this one remains my all-time favourite.
I enjoyed making runs, and I took pride in instilling confidence in the
lower-order batsmen and helping them realise their potential. But nothing gave
me greater joy than hanging on to a catch and ensuring that the hard work of the
bowler did not go in vain. The lot of the bowler is a thankless one. On flat tracks,
he runs in without complaint, plugging away over after over with the harsh sun
beating down. When he does eventually create a chance, you have to make it
count. I was happiest on a cricket field when I put a smile on the face of the
bowler. So long as he was my teammate!
 14
White-Ball Blues

Christchurch, 30 December 2002. The shrill insistence of my cell phone broke

the midnight silence that hung heavy in my hotel room. I looked at the
instrument with equal parts hope and trepidation. This was the moment of
reckoning.
We had arrived that afternoon after another humbling defeat on what had
become a nightmare tour of New Zealand. Beaten out of sight on damp, green
tracks in the Tests and humbled in the first two ODIs, the tour was hurtling from
one disaster to another. It was no consolation that like me, most other batsmen
too had failed miserably. None of them was on trial like I believed I was. And I
was quite sure the trial hadn’t gone well.
I eyed the phone suspiciously, and saw that it was my uncle calling from
Hyderabad. Was he calling to congratulate me? Or. . .
‘Bad luck,’ he said. ‘I thought you would be there.’
‘What. . . what are you talking about, Baba mama?’
‘Oh! You don’t know?’ He sounded incredulous.
‘Don’t know what?’
But I didn’t need him to tell me. The 15 had been announced for the World
Cup in South Africa two months away, and I wasn’t a part of the squad. I let the
phone slide from my hands, not in the mood for a conversation even with my
concerned, well-meaning uncle.
30 December had just given way to 31 December and the hope that every
new year brings should have invigorated me. Instead, I was at once numb with
disbelief and shaking with anger. It had happened again.
I went into shutdown mode. I tried to reason with myself—the decision
had been made, and I could do nothing about it. But this was no time for logic.
The small voice of reason was drowned out by the raging turmoil, and I tossed
and turned restlessly for the rest of the night. The tranquillity of sleep was
elusive as despondency grabbed me in its familiar, hurtful embrace.
Just a few hours ago, I had been out at dinner with some of my teammates,
among them our captain. Sourav had been unremarkably normal as we discussed
matters cricket and otherwise, then left to video-conference alongside John
Wright with the national selectors back in India to pick the World Cup 15. He
never hinted that my place was in jeopardy, and even though I had learnt to take
nothing for granted, I had interpreted that as a positive signal. Communication
wasn’t the strongest suit in Indian cricket in that era.
Having spent a sleepless night trying to digest the end of my World Cup
aspirations, I remained closeted in my room the following morning, skipping
breakfast. I was in no mood to interact with anyone. I thought I had done enough
to merit a place in the World Cup squad, but clearly, the men making the
decisions didn’t think so. That was fine, but I deserved an explanation. I
deserved to be told why I hadn’t been picked. My captain and my coach were in
the same hotel, a few hundred yards away. Yet, the first I came to know of my
axing was through a phone call from my uncle, several thousand miles away. I
would have laughed at the irony had I not been so upset.
We had an afternoon practice session at the AMI Stadium, and much as I
would have liked to skip it, I dragged myself out of my room and to the team
bus. Several of the players had already boarded it, but I deliberately avoided
their gaze. With headphones and sunglasses as my loyal companions, I plonked
myself on a seat. No one sat next to me during the drive to the ground. It was
only after we had settled into our dressing room that John came up to me and
asked me to come to a quiet corner. Without looking me in the eye, he mumbled,
‘You have not been picked for the World Cup.’
‘I know, John,’ I replied, my glasses hiding my emotions.
My teammates weren’t sure how to react. Neither Sourav, the captain, nor
Rahul, his deputy, felt the need to have a chat with me, and the rest kept a safe
distance. I knew they wanted to console me, but they also realised that it might
not be the best time. I had practically blanked everyone out. A million thoughts
were running through my mind, not one of them pleasant. I desperately didn’t
want to practise that day. But I did, because that was what had been drilled into
me—team before self. My heart was not in it, but I realised that it mattered to no
one but me.
I requested John to leave me out of the playing eleven the following day.
But Dinesh Mongia, the man who had replaced me in the squad for the World
Cup, wouldn’t be arriving in New Zealand until just before the fourth match, so I
had no option but to chin up and face the home bowlers on New Year’s Day of
2003. Unsurprisingly, it hardly went well. I was out for 10, we were shot out for
108, and New Zealand won by five wickets. I had to look up those numbers
because I have very little recollection of that day.

When I look back, I can see that my ODI career for India was a roller coaster of
several lows and occasional highs. I made my debut in April 1998 but it took me
three years to crack the 50-over code. Between 1998 and March 2001, I played
13 ODI matches and averaged a miserable 7.81. I wasn’t a one-day natural. I was
too keen to score quickly, and in my first half-dozen games, I batted at No. 5 and
6, when the field was spread out and boundary-hitting wasn’t easy. I was more a
timer of the ball than a muscler. The big shots weren’t my strength, and the
harder I tried to hit the ball, the more I struggled. I was at my most effective and
enterprising when the field restrictions were in place because I could find the
gaps and deal in boundaries. I wasn’t a great strike rotator to start with, and all of
that combined to hold me back in the one-day arena.
It didn’t help either that there was a big crowd at the top of the order,
which was where I slotted in naturally. Viru, Sachin and Sourav were all
specialist 50-over openers, so even the No. 3 slot was sealed in large part. It was
only in 2001, after the Test series against Australia, that I batted consistently at
No. 3. Whenever I got a longish run, I had the scores to back me up, but I was
always only a couple of failures away from the axe. Despite that, I had averaged
34.64 in my last 73 ODIs, which for a guy who allegedly couldn’t run quickly
between the wickets wasn’t too shabby.
I would be the first to acknowledge that I wasn’t the fastest man on the
park, or the most naturally athletic. I was what I consider a ‘safe’ fielder rather
than an electric one. I held most catches that came my way, I didn’t allow too
many balls to go past me in the infield, but I couldn’t hunt down balls like some
of my other teammates could.
I also agree that I wasn’t the quickest between the wickets. My body
structure and various knee and back injuries played their part, but those are not
excuses, merely an acceptance of the reality. If someone had told me, ‘Look
Laxman, we understand you want to play ODI cricket but these are the reasons
why you won’t be considered,’ I would have been fine with it. I may not have
concurred with their assessment, but at least I would have known their line of
thinking and perhaps ditched my one-day aspirations altogether. But different
captains, coaches and selection panels kept picking me and dropping me for no
apparent reason, and I found that hard to comprehend.
Post the Test series in 2001, I had a good run in the one-dayers against
Australia. Carrying my Test form into the 50-over format, I scored rapidly.
Knocks of 45, 51, 83 and 11 suggested consistency, but also showed that I
wasn’t making the most of my touch by the time we reached Goa for the decider
with the series all square at 2–2.
We were playing at the Jawaharlal Nehru Nehru Stadium in Margao, which
was essentially a football ground. The pitch was slow, the outfield heavy, and
there was no value for shots once the field restrictions were off after the first 15
overs. Australia’s semi-regular spinners, Andrew Symonds and Darren
Lehmann, thrived while Shane Warne went for plenty, but after receiving tap in
the Power Play overs, Glenn McGrath, Nathan Bracken and Ian Harvey with his
cutters and slower ones bounced back strongly.
Because the outfield slowed down the progress of the ball towards the
boundary, a lot of running between the wickets was required. It was the first
week of April, summer was not far away, and the heat and humidity were
oppressive. It was a challenge to my endurance and fitness. We had played three
Test matches and four ODIs in a month and a half, all very intense and draining.
The last match of the season had placed the most severe demands on my body
and mind, and it was satisfying to answer that test with my first ODI hundred. I
had big stands with Sourav and Rahul as I set about beating the heat with the
strength of my mind.
I dragged myself to the dressing room after being dismissed by Harvey in
the 44th over, and Andrew Leipus sprung into action. Disregarding my
protestations, the physio made me lie on big blocks of ice because my body
temperature had soared during the three hours in the middle and I was teetering
dangerously on the verge of a heatstroke. The ice blocks did the trick and I went
out to field as we tried to defend 265 for 6, perhaps a few light because we
hadn’t kicked on in the final few overs. We seemed in control when we had
Australia at 202 for 6, but the irrepressible Michael Bevan—who had by then
mastered the art of finishing chases—steered his team home with two overs to
spare.
The other striking memory from that time is of the chaos in Goa before and
during the game. My old pal Parth Satwalekar drove down to Goa along with his
principal and a couple of classmates from his dental college in Dharwad. We had
an emotional reunion over dinner the night before the match, and I organised
tickets for Parth and his group. When I caught up with him after the game, I was
stunned to learn that they hadn’t been allowed entry into the ground. Apparently,
fake tickets abounded and the same seats had been sold to two or three different
people. As if it wasn’t bad enough that they couldn’t enter the ground, the men
from Dharwad had only narrowly escaped a police lathi charge.
The day after the series was decided, the Indian and Australian teams flew
from Goa to Mumbai on the same chartered flight. It was a lovely few hours—
from the Goa airport to the time we went our separate ways on arrival in
Mumbai, Rahul and I were commandeered by Gilchrist, Hayden, Symonds and
Harvey. We discussed the tour and primarily the gripping Test series, which had
swung one way and then the other before we clinched it 2–1. After the
unyielding battles on the field, it was nice to part as friends. The Aussie men
were fascinated by the script that had played out during the Test matches, and
delighted at having been a part of history. They couldn’t talk enough about the
frenzied following for cricket they had been exposed to in the preceding six
weeks. That tour opened their eyes to cricket in India, and they were to return
again and again, magnetically pulled by the myriad charms of our country.
After a tri-series in Zimbabwe, we went to Sri Lanka in July 2001 for
another triangular series with New Zealand as the third team. We began the
tournament poorly, losing our first three games; I had tapered off after making
60 in the first match against the Kiwis.
For our fourth league match, against Sri Lanka, we were without Sourav,
who had been banned for one ODI by match referee Cammie Smith for dissent.
We had a strenuous training session at the R Premadasa Stadium with lots of
fielding drills. As I dived to stop the ball, I landed heavily on my right knee. I
didn’t need the shooting stabs of pain to tell me that it was a bad injury, but just
how bad it was became apparent after a few minutes.
As the pain escalated, the knee swelled like a balloon. I was in severe
discomfort, and Andrew rushed me for an MRI. He was good friends with Alex
Kountouris, the Sri Lankan team physio, who referred him to Dr David Young, a
Melbourne-based specialist who was a consultant to the Sri Lankan cricket
board, and fortuitously in Colombo at the time. Dr Young had one look at the
MRI and told us that I had chondromalacia in the right knee. That’s every bit as
grave as it sounds—a serious tear in the cartilage under the right knee cap. He
advised immediate corrective surgery.
Sachin was already out of the tournament following a sesamoid bone
injury in Zimbabwe. Because Sourav was serving out a suspension, because we
had lost our opening three matches and because we were in danger of being
eliminated, the think tank requested me to play through the pain. I wasn’t sure I
could stand the rigours of 100 overs, but as always, a chat with my father put
things in perspective. ‘Think of the soldiers who fight for the country despite
injury. This is nothing compared to that,’ he said. I couldn’t argue with that logic.
Dr Young wanted to perform a procedure to drain out some of the fluid, but
I shot him down. The extreme pain travelled from the left to the right side of the
knee at short intervals, sending shock waves through my body. In the end, the
good doctor convinced me to agree to a painkilling injection.
Our bowlers were brilliant in bowling out a strong Sri Lankan side for 183,
and I went out to play the third ball of the innings after Amay Khurasiya was
bowled by Chaminda Vaas. Viru and I put on 66 for the second wicket, after
which I was joined by Rahul, the captain in Sourav’s absence. There was no
scoreboard pressure and so we took our time. By the time Rahul was dismissed,
we needed just 33 runs in 13 overs, and got home easily. I was unbeaten on 87 as
we registered our first win. That result sparked our late charge to the final, which
we lost to Sri Lanka, and my 37 was the highest score for India in a
disappointing batting effort.
I left Colombo on 5 August, the day after the final, for Sydney and the
surgery that was now inevitable. When they opened up my knee, they found
substantial cartilage damage and had to scrape from behind the knee cap to fix
the problem. The surgeon admonished me for having played through the injury,
adding forcefully that I had aggravated it by ignoring medical advice.
Post surgery, I stayed on in Sydney to begin my rehabilitation with the
New South Wales team. Patrick Farhart, later the physio of the Indian side, was
the New South Wales physio at the time. I had already been ruled out of the Test
series in Sri Lanka, and was certain to miss the early stages of the tri-series in
South Africa in October where we were to play the hosts and Kenya. I wanted to
join the Indian one-day team during the later stages of that competition.
In my desperation to prove my fitness to the national selectors, I cut my
rehab short and returned to India. Patrick was insistent that I stay on for two
more weeks and complete the process, but I ignored his advice and flew back to
India to play in the Irani Cup against Baroda. This was to have permanent
ramifications.
By cutting my rehab short, I had compromised on the strengthening of the
supporting muscles in my knee. As a consequence, when I ran, I did so with a
limp. That became a muscle memory; because running with a limp had become
second nature, it remained my style of running for the rest of my career even
when I didn’t experience any pain. It gave the impression for the remaining 11
years that I always had a knee injury.
The moment I proved my fitness with a match-winning century for Rest of
India against Baroda in the Irani Cup, I was rushed to South Africa for the last
two matches of the tri-series, where I made 15 and 5, followed by 20s in two of
my three appearances at home against England. Then came Zimbabwe; after
half-centuries in the first two matches, I finished the series with 20, 13 and 16
(again run out), and was relegated to the bench when we toured the Caribbean in
the middle of 2002.

After the arrival of Adrian le Roux as our fitness trainer in 2002, I worked
specifically on increasing my speed across the turf and between the wickets. I
would never become an Usain Bolt, but I spared no effort in getting fitter and
faster. Both Adrian and John were happy with the progress I made. I felt I had
cracked the one-day batting puzzle which, coupled with my fitness and dietary
changes, made me an asset to the 50-over side.
I was included in the one-day squad, though, not surprisingly, I only played
one match—in Port of Spain, in June 2002, when we were bowled out in 25
overs. My next outing was a 32-over rain-hit game in England a month later, my
only appearance in our dream run to the NatWest title from which Yuvraj Singh
and Mohammad Kaif emerged as the stars of the future. I wondered why I had
been picked for a 32-over match if I hadn’t been good enough for 50-over
cricket. But personal disappointment disappeared as our young superstars chased
down 325 in the final against England. I knew that we were seeing the beginning
of something spectacular. Yuvraj was a star in the making and he would live up
to that billing in time to come. He was exciting and intrepid, powerful and
aggressive, a brilliant fielder and a more than handy bowler. He was probably
our first new-age, all-round limited-overs player, a free spirit who could change
the course of a match in a matter of minutes.
As had become a pattern by then, I played only two games during our
Champions Trophy campaign in Colombo in September and saw my World Cup
dreams fade into the distance. I was aware by then that I wasn’t the first choice
in the minds of several key decision-makers and was reconciled to missing out
on the World Cup until the West Indies series at home in November 2002
reignited my hopes.
I started the seven-match ODI series at No. 4, and worked my way up to
No. 3 after knocks of 47 and 99. I followed these up with two more half-
centuries and ended the series with 312 runs, the most by an Indian, at an
average of 52. I had scored briskly, I was the fittest I had been since I started
playing cricket, and I was also bowling off-spin regularly at nets so that I could
provide an additional bowling option if Sourav so desired. In a matter of one
month, from being on the fringes, I had become a front-runner for the World Cup
selection.

Except that things don’t always go the way you want them to. All it took to go
from almost automatic to unwanted were knocks of 9 and 20 in New Zealand,
where everyone else failed too. During the Napier game where we were batting
first, Viru came up to me and said, ‘Better get a fifty today.’ He had sensed, or
perhaps knew, that my place was on the line. I appreciated his advice, but I had
never played for selection and I wasn’t going to start now. I was dismissed for 20
trying to up the rate of scoring and, sure enough, the clanger fell the next day.
My contention was that if Dinesh Mongia was going to be playing the
World Cup, then why wasn’t he originally in the one-day squad in New Zealand?
It would have helped him and the team if he had a long run and some confidence
behind him going into the big tournament. Once Dinesh landed in New Zealand,
I begged the team management to let me return home. I was not needed
anymore; I didn’t get to bat in the nets, I was merely going through the motions.
My head was not screwed on right. I didn’t want to be in New Zealand, I didn’t
want to be in the dressing room. But I was told that was not an option, that I had
to stay on till the bitter end.
Rahul told me in Queenstown, the venue of the fourth ODI, that if I had
any questions about my omission, I could ask him. But what was there to ask?
John was desperate to have a chat, but I wasn’t interested. Every time he tried to
corner me, I found a way to get away from him. I didn’t want to lash out at him
because he was a wonderful guy, a terrific coach and a trusted friend. But I knew
that if we did sit down for a talk, there was no way I was not going to have a go
at him.
John was clearly disturbed and desperate to get through to me. I wouldn’t
budge, so on the final day of the tour in Auckland, he grabbed me by my wrist
and dragged me to his room.
As soon as he shut the door, John’s emotions got the better of him. ‘I am
very sorry about this, Lax,’ he told me, still holding on to me. ‘Right or wrong, I
was also party to this decision.’
I didn’t say a word. I gently prised his hand away from my arm and quietly
left the room. John had been a key part of my journey towards becoming a better
limited-overs player, towards becoming a better player, period. Before the home
series against Australia in 2001, he had guaranteed me ten Tests on the trot,
telling me not to allow insecurity to come in the way of expressing myself. He
had encouraged me at every step, he had approved of the progress I had been
making, he had seen first-hand the effort I had put in to improve my white-ball
skills.
So when he told me that he too had supported the decision to leave me out
—or bring Dinesh in, whichever way you put it—I felt terribly let down. If he
thought that for all my hard work, I still wasn’t good enough, he could have told
me directly. The relationship between a coach and a player has to be one of
complete, total trust. I was encouraged when he told me that I was doing the
right things and that he was happy with my development. To hear him say that
he hadn’t fought for my inclusion broke my heart.
After that one-sided conversation in John’s room, our relationship was not
the same for the remainder of his tenure.

I plunged into Ranji cricket on my return to Hyderabad but made a duck on my

first innings back, a sign of things to come. India A were to tour West Indies to
play in their domestic first-class competition and, in a cruel twist of fate, I was
named skipper of the side. I was hoping to be on the flight to South Africa to
play the World Cup. Instead, I was being banished to the Caribbean. I had made
up my mind to pull out when my father stepped in, like he only did when I was
severely conflicted. His advice was simple. ‘If this is how the selectors think you
should serve the country, then go. Don’t let your team or your teammates down.’
More out of respect for him than anything else, I reluctantly travelled to the
Caribbean, but I was in no state to turn it on. I made a pair in the first game
against Barbados, got another nought against Trinidad & Tobago, and had just
one half-century and six single-digit scores in those five matches. It was the
worst cricket tour of my life. The only solace was that the boys were doing
brilliantly in South Africa, scything their way through the World Cup draw. I
took great pride in our stirring run to the final and while I would have loved to
be a part of the journey, I was very happy for my friends and teammates. The
title was to prove elusive but we had mounted a strong campaign. I couldn’t let
my own troubled state cloud the wonderful performances by our side.
Within a month of the World Cup final, the Indian team was travelling to
Bangladesh for a three-nation tournament. Brijesh Patel had taken over as the
chairman of the selection panel ahead of the home series against West Indies the
previous year, and he called to check my availability for the tri-series. I flatly
told him not to consider me for selection.
I was done with cricket. I was going to call it a day before the next season
started. I didn’t think I could ever come to terms with the manner in which I had
been left out of the World Cup squad.

An instant calmness cloaked me once I had come to this massive decision. I

didn’t think I was being impulsive. I had had five months to ruminate on my
career, and I didn’t take the call lightly. I didn’t communicate my choice to either
my parents or my uncle, because I didn’t want them to be constantly in my ear.
Instead, I decided to go away to the US, to catch up with old buddies whose
interest in cricket was only as fans and well-wishers. It was time to unwind and
get the angst out of my system, then return home and tell the world.
The first fortnight of the vacation went swimmingly. Reminiscing about
school and the great times we had shared took my focus away from the recent
developments but gradually, I began to feel a certain emptiness. It took me a
couple of days to figure out what it was. I was already missing the daily routine
of waking up early, hitting the nets, of feeling ball on bat, of working out in the
gym, of ribbing and pranking in the dressing room. Relieved that I hadn’t made
an ass of myself by making my intention to retire public, I told myself, ‘Not
impulsive, eh, Laxman?’
Energised after time away from the game and with my hunger stoked, I
returned to India and got back into the cricketing groove. The 2003–04 domestic
season started with the Irani Cup game against Mumbai, a marquee contest that
the country’s top players used as a build-up to the Test series against New
Zealand. I had a poor first innings, scratching around for an hour and a half and
facing 53 deliveries in the Chennai heat to make just five. I also put Sachin down
and saw him pile on the runs. For all my resolve to put the past behind, the
gremlins had started to germinate when my uncle called me from Hyderabad.
‘Did I bat as poorly as I think I did?’
‘No, it was much worse than that. You don’t have to prove anything to
anyone. Remember, it’s vital to have fun. What’s the point otherwise?’
Those four crisp sentences woke me up. I wasn’t going to potter around or
look to score points. I appealed to the free spirit within me, and it responded in
the second knock when we were set 340 for victory. I joined Rahul at 123 for 3,
and we went on to dominate a strong Mumbai attack that included Zak, Ajit
Agarkar, Ramesh Powar and Sairaj Bahutule. We put on 168, and with victory
all but secured, I was dismissed for 99, a fluent knock that came off just 125
deliveries with 14 fours and a six. It was just the impetus I needed at the start of
the season, and that confidence drove me to a man-of-the-series performance
against New Zealand, though both Tests ended in draws.
In a tall-scoring first game on a batting beauty in Ahmedabad where top-
order batsmen from both teams helped themselves to big runs, I weighed in with
64 and 44. The crucial runs, however, came in Mohali in the second Test after
New Zealand amassed 630 for 6 declared. Viru made a controlled 130 and I
batted more than seven hours to remain unbeaten on 104, but we lost our last six
wickets for 60 runs and were forced to follow-on. Daryl Tuffey rocked us in the
second innings by dismissing Viru, Rahul and Sachin inside 13 overs. At 18 for
3 and with loads of time left, we faced a fight and I put my head down in Aakash
Chopra’s company and focused primarily on survival. Aakash and I added 110
but, more importantly, played out 280 deliveries. When the teams shook hands
on the draw, I had batted for 204 minutes and negotiated 183 balls in making 67
not out. I finished the series with 279 runs at an average of 139.50.
Probably because of the volume of runs, I was swiftly brought back for the
triangular series that followed, with Australia as the third cog. My game plan
was simple—bat with freedom and positive energy, and not focus on the
scoreboard or matters like selection that weren’t in my control. The runs came,
including a century on Deepavali night in Gwalior, against Australia, when
Sachin and I matched each other stroke for stroke. With locusts flying, a full
house blaring and a festive air pervading, I felt an exhilarating high. It was to be
the start of the best phase of my ODI career, lending weight to my belief that
whenever I got a long run, I seldom disappointed. The series ended on a bad
note, though, as I put down three catches in the final in Kolkata and Australia
won by 37 runs.
The highlight of my ODI career was a one-week phase in January 2004 in
the tri-series in Australia. We had drawn the Test series 1–1, I had gorged myself
on runs and was hitting the ball beautifully. Between 18 and 24 January, I struck
three hundreds in four matches—two against the Aussies, one against
Zimbabwe. These were not runs made in anger, they were not runs that had ‘take
this’ written all over them. I have always loved playing in Australia, on excellent
surfaces, in front of appreciative audiences. The value for shots encouraged me
to keep playing them, and the rewards followed immediately and plentifully. By
now, I had changed the number on the back of my shirt from 19 to 22. I had
picked 19 because one was my lucky number; 1+9 equalled 10. I switched to 22
because it was the birth date of Sailaja, whom I was soon to marry.
I made 16 in the first match against Australia in Melbourne, which we lost
by 18 runs, and followed it up with an unbeaten 13 against Zimbabwe in Hobart
during a straightforward chase. We had needed a little over 50 to win in 22 overs
when I walked in at No. 4; I had told myself that I must carry my wonderful
form from the Test series to the ODIs, so I would be better off playing out a few
balls quietly and spending time in the middle without any pressure.
The following morning, with my music for company, I went on an hour-
long jog around beautiful Hobart. From my early days, these jogs had cleared
my mind and strengthened my resolve, and it was no different this time around. I
found an inner peace, and a reassuring message—good times weren’t far away.
As I entered the hotel lobby, I was buoyant.
We reached Brisbane, only for Viru to pick up an injury at nets a day
before our third match. Sourav told me that I would open the batting with
Sachin, but I wasn’t sure it was the best idea.
I had my customary hit at nets before the match and, on my way back,
bumped into Sourav. ‘Dada, Sachin–Sourav is the most feared opening
combination in ODI cricket. I don’t think you are sending the right message by
batting at No. 4. You should open with Sachin.’
Sourav recognised the logic of this. He opened with Sachin and I was
slotted in at No. 3. The skipper was dismissed early, but Sachin put on an
exhibition. He tore into the Australian bowling and I sailed along unnoticed
until, in his 80s, Sachin felt a pain in his foot like he had in Zimbabwe in 2001.
Standing at the non-striker’s end, I feared the worst as I heard a ‘snap’ in his left
foot. Physical discomfort got the better of him, and he was dismissed for 86.
I tried to put that out of my mind. I was timing the ball well and, energised
by the Hobart jog, I didn’t look at the scoreboard. I wanted to be as proactive
and positive as possible, and the runs came easily as we came to the final over of
the innings, my hundred a couple of hits away.
My partner at the time was Rohan Gavaskar, who was making his debut.
Rohan was a bundle of nerves going into the last over because he felt the
pressure to bring me back on strike. He did so successfully and when Ian Harvey
ran in for the last ball, I needed one run for my first ODI century in Australia.
Even though I knew I was on 99, I wasn’t desperate. I was determined to meet
the challenge thrown at the start of the series by John Wright.
The coach had urged the set batsman to play through till the end of the
innings. Others could bat around him, those coming in could play their strokes,
and the batsman who had got his eye in could anchor the innings. ‘Can you guys
do it?’ John had asked, mock-taunting.
It was for that same meeting that John had invited Dean Jones, a wonderful
one-day batsman, to talk about the nuances of run-making in limited-overs
cricket. Deano was a brilliant Test batsman too—he braved dehydration and
bouts of nausea to make a double hundred in the tied Test in Chennai in 1986—
but it was his energy and nous in the one-day format that was truly captivating.
Deano enlightened us on the angles we could exploit while batting, how to
pace an innings, how hitting down the ground was the easiest and safest option.
It was a masterclass, a priceless education. Until then, for all my occasional
successes, I hadn’t found a method of getting runs in ODIs. Deano’s message
helped me work out a formula to score runs and hundreds in the 50-over format.
Harvey sauntered in and fortunately bowled a full toss, which I swung over
mid-wicket for four. Rohan was as relieved as I was delighted. My joy stemmed
from having achieved the batting goal—as the set batsman, I had stayed on till
the end. Additionally, I had made a hundred against Australia, on the pacy
Gabba strip. I enjoyed the way I had paced my innings and rotated strike. I had
done a lot of hard running, with just eight fours in my 103.
Despite Hayden’s 109, we cruised home by 19 runs with Balaji taking four
wickets and Rohan pulling off a sensational catch, diving to his right on his
follow through, to account for Symonds.
We stayed on in Brisbane for the next match where I only made 12, but
Rahul and Yuvi with the bat, and Sourav with the ball, made sure we kept our
winning streak going as Zimbabwe were beaten by 24 runs.
By the time we reached Sydney to take on Australia, it was clear that Viru
and Sachin wouldn’t be available for some time. That meant Sourav, Rahul or I
had to bat through the innings. I put my hand up, and was rewarded with one of
the most sensational ODI innings I have been witness to. Yuvi was in
tremendous touch. Standing at the non-striker’s end, I loved the cracking sound
his bat made as it connected with the ball. I distinctly remember a flat-batted
straight six off Harvey that smacked into the sightscreen and rebounded halfway
back to the bowler. It was a gob-smacking exhibition of power and timing. Our
hundreds were both in vain, however, as the Duckworth-Lewis Method bailed
Australia out after we had posted 296 for 4. They chased down the revised target
of 225 in a thrilling finish.
The circus now pitched tent in Adelaide and we were rudely jolted after
Sourav decided to bat. In 22 deliveries, Heath Streak and Andy Blignaut
destroyed the top order. Openers Sanjay Bangar and Parthiv Patel both went for
nought, and when Sourav was dismissed in the fourth over for one, we were
reeling at four for three. Rahul and I counterpunched without taking any risks.
The ball flew off my bat as I played aggressively. It was important for us to
regain momentum after the previous defeat to Australia, and despite the gravity
of the situation, Rahul and I, and then Rohan with his maiden half-century, lifted
us to 280 for 7. For the third time in a week, I walked back with a hundred to my
name—this one, 131 in 138 balls with 13 fours and a six, was as crucial as any
before.
Zimbabwe gave us a real fright after we made early inroads, with Stuart
Carlisle and Sean Ervine slamming hundreds and nearly taking them over the
line. I took a brilliant catch, diving to my left in the slips to dismiss Friend,
grabbing the ball with my left hand inches off the ground. Then, with Blignaut
threatening to take the game away from us in the last over, I charged in from
deep mid-wicket and flung myself forward to hold on to a second good catch.
The guys came charging in from all parts of the park as I grinned broadly. I
hadn’t been as happy after any of the three hundreds. The catch was a game
changer and we squeaked home by three runs.
I couldn’t sustain my batting form, though I did take four catches in our
next outing against Zimbabwe. We approached the best-of-three finals against
Australia with confidence, with Viru and Sachin back in the eleven, but were
swept aside—by seven wickets and 208 runs. Our run of losses towards the end
took some gloss off an otherwise successful tour.
I rounded off an ultra-productive six months with my fifth hundred of the
season, in the decider in Pakistan in March. Between the tours of Australia and
Pakistan, I had got married and rested up, but the knee started to act up in the
practice game in Lahore and I missed the first game in Karachi.
On my return, I mustered a mere 27 runs in the next three ODIs. All the
dismissals were similar. In each of those three innings, I was either bowled or
trapped leg before by the ball coming in. A technical problem had crept in
because my right knee was playing up. My left leg was going across, and as I
tried to move it back when the ball came in to avoid playing around it, the ball
was snaking through the gate or pinging me on my pads.
We had an optional session at the Gaddafi Stadium in Lahore a day before
the final ODI, with the series tied at 2–2. I told John that I wanted to sort out the
technical glitch, so I wanted as many net bowlers as he could muster. I requested
our video analyst Ramki to record my batting. Any one of the net bowlers could
have played for Pakistan, they were that quick and could swing the ball. I had an
hour-long batting stint. Every ten minutes, I went out to Ramki to see the
recording. I was closing my left shoulder, which was dragging my left leg across.
I struggled for the first half-hour, but as I started to work on my shoulder
position, I started hitting the ball a lot better.
Relaxed at having sorted out the issue, I was quickly into my stride,
determined to build on the 34-run start Viru and Sachin had given us. I
remembered again the batting goal we had set in Australia—the set batsman
must play till the end. I didn’t manage that, falling in the 46th over to Shoaib
Malik’s off-spin while looking for quick runs, but I had breezed to 107 off 104.
Fans Indian and Pakistani rose as one when I reached three figures, but it
was still only half the job done. It was a personal triumph for me, but the match
was still to be won and lost. Irfan Pathan and L Balaji, our young new-ball
bowlers, did the early damage and Sachin took an excellent catch at the
boundary to dismiss the dangerous Inzamam, decisively tilting the scales in our
favour. It brought a glorious season of ODI cricket to a close.

The only constant I had come to expect by now was change. Sure enough, I was
pushed down to No. 4 during our next assignment, in July 2004, at the Asia Cup
in Sri Lanka. Maybe five 100s in 18 innings hadn’t been enough, or perhaps
Sourav and John had decided that the skipper would bat ahead of me, at one-
drop. My old failings returned, as did the old routine of playing one game and
sitting out the next few. I didn’t have a great tour of England for the bilateral
three-match series and the Champions Trophy, but was recalled without reason
for one game against Pakistan the following March. That series was John’s last
assignment with the Indian team. Greg Chappell took charge for the next
tournament, a triangular series in Sri Lanka in July.
I’ve said this before, but when Greg came to India, he came with strong
ideas about where our cricket should be headed and who the personnel should
be. I clearly didn’t fit into his scheme of things. After two matches in Sri Lanka
in August 2005 where I made 22 and 7, I was dropped for the subsequent tri-
series in Zimbabwe with New Zealand as the third team. I would have been
happier had someone told me that the change of coaching guard had catalysed a
change in thinking and strategy. But I saw the writing on the wall, and reconciled
to the end of my 50-over career for India. I had Test cricket to focus on. I was
now an established and valuable member in the longer format, so that’s where I
had to channelise my energies.
Imagine my shock when, 16 months later, I received an SOS to join the
one-day team in South Africa for the last game of the five-match series in
November 2006. India had already conceded the series and there was little to be
achieved by rushing me there for what in effect was a game of just academic
interest. For some reason, the selectors wanted the vice-captain of the Test side
to join the ODI team for a game of little consequence. I played in Centurion the
day after I landed in Johannesburg. And I finished my one-day career the same
way I started it—with a duck. To me, that summed things up.
 15
My Best Partnership

‘One of these days, Laxman will return from an overseas tour and tell us, “This
is your daughter-in-law” ’, my father used to tell my mother, a broad grin on his
face. He knew that the chances of that happening were remote, but it was his
way of telling me that he and my mother would be happy with my choice of life
partner.
I have been painfully shy around girls from an early age. Having studied in
an all-boys school, I hadn’t met many girls. I was tongue-tied even around my
cousins. I was comfortable answering questions, but I couldn’t initiate
conversations on my own. And once cricket became my life, there was no time
for anything else—no parties, no movies, no girlfriend.
In my early-20s, for some reason, the number 28 had got stuck in my mind.
I thought it was the ideal age for me to be married. By 28, I figured, I would
have settled down as a cricketer, made a career for myself and be in a position to
make responsible decisions. I didn’t want to get married until I was convinced I
was mature enough and responsible enough as a human being. I also wanted to
be in a position where, apart from ensuring that my parents were comfortable, I
had the means to take care of my life partner.
We were an orthodox, conservative, middle-class family, though both my
parents were broad-minded and sagacious. While I was clear that my future life
partner should share the same values and ideals, there was no pressure from my
parents about what she should be like or where she should be from. Like they
gave me the freedom to choose cricket over medicine, they allowed me to make
the choice when it came to the most important partnership of my life. And,
through the blessings of the Almighty and all our well-wishers, my partnership
with Sailaja has been fulfilling and enriching.
 There is a perception that the life of an Indian cricketer is all glamour and
glitz. We are travelling most of the time, in Brisbane today and Bridgetown the
next. The attention from, and affection of, fans is overwhelming. We are put on a
pedestal and worshipped when we do well. We are seen with celebrities from
Bollywood, we meet ministers and politicians, we go to parties, and generally
seem to have a swell time. Which all happens, of course. But the hard work at
the gym and in the nets, the insecurities that failures bring—these remain
private.
Playing for the country and experiencing the highs that come from being in
the exalted position of an India cricketer convinced me that I would be most
comfortable with someone whose thinking matched mine. Amidst the hype and
the hoopla, I had managed to insulate myself in my own bubble. I wasn’t Page 3
material. If at all I did figure in the media, it was because of my cricket. A
majority of India’s cricketers have strong middle-class values and lead a simple
existence. Call me old-fashioned, but I was looking for much the same traits in
the woman I would spend the rest of my life with.
Not that I went looking, but I didn’t come across anyone I could relate to,
anyone I could fall in love with. Several years after having played for the
country, I would still steer clear of women, be it at family gatherings or official
functions. My introverted nature and the fact that I didn’t know how to build a
conversation contributed to that. Even today, I find it difficult to interact freely
with people I have just met, be it man or woman. That’s my nature, and I don’t
see that changing anytime soon.
By the summer of 2003, after the World Cup that I didn’t play, the process
of identifying a life partner began in right earnest. My father had just retired
from Nizam’s Institute of Medical Sciences. One evening, having ascertained
that there was no girl in my life, he proclaimed, ‘My mission for this summer is
to find a girl for Laxman.’ I was twenty-eight and a half, I had done fairly well
for myself, and was ready to move on to the next, most significant phase of my
life.
I am convinced that higher forces were at play in bringing Sailaja and me
together. One of my father’s patients ran a marriage bureau, and when he came
to know that Dr Shantaram was looking for a match for his son, he was happy to
get involved. Of all the files he showed my parents, there was only one that
caught their eye.
By then, I had moved into an apartment adjacent to my parents’ because I
needed space—physical space for all my cricketing paraphernalia. I used the
apartment only to sleep in when I was in Hyderabad. I didn’t even have an
operational kitchen. One evening, when I went across to my parents’ home for
dinner, I ran into my aunt and cousin, who were visiting them. Inevitably, talk
veered to my marriage and Poornima, my cousin, said she knew someone she
believed would be the perfect match for me. My mother asked to see her photo.
As destiny would have it, the photograph my father’s marriage-bureau
friend had sent across and the picture Poornima gave my mother were both of
the same person. Sailaja.

My father called up the number on Sailaja’s file and identified himself as

Dr Shantaram, not as VVS Laxman’s father. Sailaja’s aunt, Mrs Jayalakshmi,
answered the phone. Sailaja’s father, Ramatheerda Rao, was then the director of
the mines and geology department in the government of Andhra Pradesh, and
based in Guntur. His work involved a lot of travel, and whenever he went on
tour, he dropped Sailaja off at her aunt’s place in Hyderabad. Sailaja’s mother
had passed away in 2002, and her aunt had taken over the maternal
responsibilities.
After that telephonic chat, my parents went to Khairatabad to meet her aunt
and her father. Sailaja was also there. My parents returned home very happy. I
could see that they felt she was the one, but they didn’t force my hand. Before I
went to the United States to try and get the disappointment of being ignored for
the World Cup out of my system, I met Sailaja for the first time at her aunt’s
house.
I am fundamentally opposed to the practice of going to a girl’s house and
in effect judging her. How is that fair to anyone? But that was how it was with
arranged marriages—as it is now. We had a nice chat; I remember telling her that
the life of a cricketer was anything but a bed of roses. I also told her that the life
of an Indian cricketer’s wife would be even tougher. It came with many
attendant demands, necessitating plenty of sacrifices. A cricketer’s profession
wasn’t a normal, stable 9-to-5 job. It involved loads of practice and even more
travel, and that she should be prepared for the hurdles that lay ahead. I was keen
to put all my cards on the table so that she knew exactly what she would be
getting into, should she agree to marry me. By then, I had made up my mind to
walk away from cricket. But I hadn’t even told my parents yet, so I didn’t
discuss it with Sailaja either.
After that solitary meeting, I went away to the US for nearly a month and a
half. Since I had not broached the possibility of a future together, Sailaja’s folks
concluded that I wasn’t interested. Even so, during my time away, they did their
due diligence.
Sailaja’s family was as conservative and orthodox as ours, and many
parents from that background were reluctant to marry their daughters off to
cricketers, who were seen as playboys. They did some digging, and came to the
conclusion that I was the stable, steady sort. Her father cast his apprehensions
aside, Sailaja was to tell me later, only because I was the son of Dr Shantaram
and Dr Satyabhama. He was keen that she marry their son, who just happened to
be VVS Laxman. Upon my return from the US, it was decided that Sailaja and I
would get married, though I requested my parents to put off affixing a formal
seal on our relationship for at least a couple of months so that we could get to
know each other first.
Sailaja was only 22, and in the final year of her Master of Computer
Applications course. Little did I know when I first met her that hers had already
been a life of sacrifices, of putting family before self. She had been keen to
graduate in engineering, but cast her aspirations aside after her mother was
diagnosed with cancer. She had earned admission to a college far away from
Guntur, and she didn’t want to leave her ailing mother, so she opted to forego her
ambitions to take care of her.
A multitude of emotions ran through me when I heard this. She had been
only 20 when she made this defining choice. I admired her courage, conviction
and selflessness. It also spoke volumes for the values she and her older brother
Anantram had imbibed from their parents. Anantram is one of the most
intelligent and grounded people I have met. He topped his class at every level
and had been keen to become an engineer, but their mother had wanted him to
become a doctor and serve people, especially those in need who couldn’t afford
decent medical care. All this touched a chord in me. Their family was much like
ours, enveloped by love and compassion. She would be the daughter my parents
didn’t have. I would be a second son to her father.

There was a reason behind Sailaja opting to get married as early as she did. Her
family believed that if the marriage was arranged within a year of her mother’s
demise, it would be as if her mother was performing the kanyadaanam.
Sailaja and I met a few times after I got back from the US and before the
cricket season kicked in. We discovered that our likes and tastes were similar,
and we were on the same wavelength on most issues. We agreed that we would
get married on my return from the Australia tour in early 2004. February 15–16
was the first muhurtham available and that’s when I embarked on the best
innings of my life.
Sailaja was initially keen, after completing her MCA post marriage, to
pursue a career in software technology, but I requested her to travel with me
instead. I knew that she still carried the trauma of having lost her mother so early
in life. Theirs had been a tight-knit family, and even though Sailaja was brave
and tough on the outside, I sensed her anguish. I truly believed that if she
travelled with me and met the wives of other players, it would help her cope
better. Not that anything can compensate for the loss of a mother.
At various times, Sailaja has told me that she felt I was like a gift from her
mother. She was willing to do everything possible to ensure that my focus
remained on cricket. She has looked up to my mother as her mother, my father as
her father. To me, her father and brother are like my own. I zealously treasure the
synergy between the families, and between the two of us.
Even before I got married, I knew how difficult it was to be the wife of an
Indian cricketer. My colleagues’ wives had sacrificed so much and selflessly put
their spouses ahead of them. More than anything, it was the travel that was the
biggest challenge for them. They found themselves in foreign lands often and
with few friends. Their husbands were preoccupied with cricket for most part of
the day, and if it was a bad day at office, it translated into a not-so-happy
evening together. The demands on cricketers’ wives are unimaginable. The more
I have seen Sailaja and the wives of my friends in the Indian team cope with
these stresses, the more I have come to respect, admire and appreciate them.
Sailaja was interested in cricket long before we met, but when we
travelled, she gave the impression that she wasn’t deeply invested in the game.
When I got back to the hotel after a day’s play, cricket would never figure in our
discussions. She intuitively sensed my mood. Whenever I was down, either due
to non-selection or my own failures, she stood beside me like a rock, her support
unwavering, her belief unshakeable. She can be cheeky and has a great sense of
humour. She would drain my negativity away in no time, making sure that I was
always in a good mental space.
My life became her life. A firm believer in God, she had one constant
prayer—that I should do well, be successful and, more importantly, stay happy
and healthy. Whether by coincidence or design, we have very similar tastes when
it comes to food, or even movies. The only difference is that I love listening to a
lot of music, while she doesn’t. I have tried many times, in what I imagine are
subtle ways, to understand if she naturally likes what I do, or whether she
customises her likes to be in tune with mine. But she has deftly sidestepped all
such questions, which I suppose is an answer in itself.
 Till such time that I was an active cricketer, Sailaja maintained that she
would remain my second wife, playing second fiddle to cricket. I was grateful
that she respected my passion for my calling. I was equally relieved that she was
anything but insecure. She was sure about the kind of person I was. I wasn’t the
type to look for a good time when on tours, and she understood that. She had
confidence in me, and that gave me a real high.
What makes me particularly proud is that Sailaja has made a name for
herself. She is not merely a cricketer’s wife. The way she has managed to
undertake projects and pull them off successfully, working around the pressures
of being a cricketer’s wife, raise two loveable and naughty children, and be a
daughter and a daughter-in-law, staggers me. Her early experiences in life
toughened her up, but they didn’t pull her down or make her a cynic. I have
come across few people as mature, loving, caring and unflustered at such a
young age. No situation is too daunting for her, and there is nothing she can’t do
once she sets her mind to it.
After finishing her MCA, she completed a course in fashion design. She
became my unofficial manager, and then a mother for the first time on New
Year’s Day, in 2007. I was in Cape Town with the Indian team, ahead of the final
Test against South Africa, when Sarvajit was born. By then, my father-in-law
had sought a transfer to Hyderabad to be near us—he steadfastly refused to stay
with us—and found an apartment no more than a two-minute walk from where
we stayed. Traditionally, girls go to their parents’ house for delivery, and that’s
exactly what Sailaja did even though my parents were keen that she stay at our
place. During her pregnancy, she looked after not just herself, but also her father
and her brother. Sometimes, words aren’t enough to describe your emotions.
When it comes to Sailaja, that’s where I find myself.
Sarvajit has to be one of the youngest travellers anywhere. When he was
six months old, he and Sailaja flew out to join me in England where I was
playing county cricket. It was great to have them on tours. All the frustrations
and disappointment of a tough day on the park would dissipate the moment I
returned to my room to hold the little bundle of delight in my arms. Sailaja and I
had discussed having two children—when Achintya was born on 27 November
2008, our little family was complete.
At various times, when Sailaja had the opportunity to make a career of her
own, she voluntarily let it slide because she felt she had other responsibilities
that were more immediate and needed her attention. As a daughter, she gave up
the chance to become an engineer because she chose to tend to her mother. As a
wife, she put my needs ahead of hers. And as a mother, she has left no stone
unturned in making sure that Sarvajit and Achintya imbibe the same values that
Sailaja and I did from our parents. She is extremely intelligent and capable, and
could have made a success of anything she pursued. But it wasn’t until I retired
from cricket that she allowed herself what she calls the luxury of chasing her
dream.
I am extremely passionate about education, and one of my dreams is to set
up a sports school in Hyderabad. In sync with my vision, Sailaja started a
playschool in Hyderabad. She named it First Innings and she wants it to
mushroom into a chain. Because she is so driven and because she is such a
capable, hands-on administrator, I am sure it’s only a matter of time before that
happens. I wonder how many hours there are in Sailaja’s day, and am in awe of
how she multitasks so effortlessly. She is warm and giving, the rock around
which the lives of those close to her—me, our children, my parents, her father
and brother—revolve. She is the one even her older cousins look to for advice
and guidance, and she has time and a kind word for everyone.
I consider myself both blessed and fortunate that the two things that shape
a human being’s destiny—career and marriage—worked out so well. More than
one’s career, it is one’s life partner who determines the future. Sailaja is most
certainly my better half. I believe that is the greatest blessing the Almighty has
conferred on me. And I am certain that her late mother’s spirit has played a huge
role in this partnership too.
Sometimes I wonder what I would have done had the roles been reversed. I
look at Mary Kom and admire her husband for the manner in which he supported
her love for boxing and, through it, the country. What would I have done had
Sailaja chased her entrepreneurial dreams and suggested that I sacrifice my
cricket? Would I have agreed? Or would it have led to nasty confrontations and
lives divided? I am glad we didn’t have to find out.
 16
My Batting Mates

I consider myself extremely fortunate to have played alongside some of the

greatest batsmen in the history of the game. To spend upwards of a decade in the
same changing room as Sachin, Sourav, Rahul and Viru was exhilarating. I have
been a part of many triple-hundred stands with Rahul and Sachin, and it was a
pleasure to watch them go about their business from the best seat in the ground.
There was a reason why they were successful. Each of them prepared differently,
was wired differently, but none of them left anything to chance. For some,
batting was a release. For others, it was a cocoon of professionalism, as well as
comfort.

VIRENDER SEHWAG

First, a confession. I am an unabashed admirer of Viru. Actually, make that two

confessions. When I first saw him bat, I didn’t think he had it in him to be
consistently successful at the highest level.
I was exposed to the Viru school of batting in the late 1990s, just after he
had played for India Under-19. He was with the Indian Airlines team as a
‘stipend player’, and while I was impressed with his hitting ability in the start-
of-the-season tournaments in the south, what struck me was that he tried to
smash every ball out of the park. He didn’t seem to have a game plan and his
shot selection was all over the place, so he didn’t make too many big scores. He
also played under me in the India A side against Australia A in Los Angeles, but
again, there wasn’t much to write home about when it came to scores.
Towards the end of 1999, Venkatapathi Raju came back from Agartala,
raving about Viru. In a Duleep Trophy game against South Zone, Viru had
smashed a huge double hundred (274) and Venkat told me that he absolutely tore
the bowling apart. South had a very strong spin attack—Venkat himself, Sunil
Joshi, Aashish Kapoor (all internationals) and Kanwaljit Singh—and to take
them on like Viru did must have been quite something. He then made his ODI
debut against Pakistan in Mohali, batting at No. 7 and lasting just two balls
before Shoaib Akhtar got him. I gathered that he could play spin very well, but
was suspect against pace.
Viru’s unique talent expressed itself during the 2001 ODI series against
Australia. In the first match in Bangalore, he blasted 58, took three wickets with
his off-spin, and was the man of the match. He stubbed his finger on the ground
while fielding, but it wasn’t until we went to Pune for the next match and he had
an X-ray done that we came to know that he had sustained a fracture and had to
sit out the series.
The night before the Pune match, we had gone out for dinner—Viru, Zak
and I. Out of the blue, Viru told me, ‘Laxman bhai, you had a great opportunity
to make a triple hundred in the Kolkata Test, but unfortunately, you didn’t. Now
you wait and watch, I will become the first Indian to score 300 in Test cricket.’
My jaw dropped and I stared at him in astonishment. This guy had played
just four ODIs, wasn’t anywhere close to Test selection, and here he was,
making the most outrageous of claims. For a second, I thought he was joking,
but Viru was dead serious. To be honest, I didn’t know what to make of it.
A couple of months later, we went to Zimbabwe for a tri-series. Ashish
Nehra was my roomie, and since Viru often dropped by to meet his Delhi mate,
we spent a lot of time together and became a tight group—Ashish, Zak, Viru,
Sadagopan Ramesh, Hemang Badani and I. Viru didn’t have a great run and
began slowly in the next tournament, another tri-series in Sri Lanka. By then,
since Sachin wasn’t available, Sourav had pushed him up to open the batting.
After five failures, we all feared the worst until Viru let loose against New
Zealand, bringing up his maiden international hundred off just 69 deliveries. It
was to be the first of several Viru specials I was privileged to witness from close
quarters.
Our next assignment was a tri-series in South Africa before the Test
matches, and because he batted well and dominated the bowling, Sourav
believed he had the potential to be a match-winner in Test cricket too. That’s
how he came to debut in Bloemfontein, announcing his arrival with a
breathtaking century under tremendous pressure.
Until that century, made alongside his idol Sachin, Viru too had
apprehensions about his long-format game. But that century gave him the
confidence that he belonged in Test cricket. It transformed his mindset. It’s not
as if he changed his approach or his attitude. It’s just that he discovered the
belief that he could hold his own in Test cricket.
Viru is consistent in the way he thinks, and he always looked to play the
game in much the same way, irrespective of the situation, the conditions and the
quality of the opposition attack. It made for great spectacle. All of us have a
tendency to change our approach depending on touch, rhythm and form, in
addition to the above factors. For Viru, none of that made a difference.
Sometimes, because he lived by the sword, he also died by it, but that was a
compromise he was willing to make and it was a luxury Sourav and successive
captains allowed him. It wasn’t until later, towards the end of his career and
especially with his eyesight acting up, that his unique mindset led to his downfall
more often than it brought him success.
Despite his debut hundred, it was difficult to slot Viru into the middle
order, so Sourav and John Wright asked him to open the batting in the Tests on
our tour of England in the summer of 2002. Ahead of the first Test at Lord’s, we
played a practice game in Southampton, and it was during a cab ride that Viru
told me what the think tank had in mind for him. Falling back on my own past
experience, I told Viru not to agree to open. We had become good enough
friends for me to share with him my travails as a makeshift opener. I urged him
to wait for his chance in the middle order because I believed that would be the
most beneficial for him.
Viru patiently heard me out but then decided that he was alright with
opening in Tests. His contention was that he wanted to play Test matches, not sit
outside and watch and wait for things to unravel. ‘Whatever has to happen will
happen, VVS (I was no longer Laxman bhai),’ he told me philosophically. I am
glad he didn’t take my advice to heart.
In his very first innings as a Test opener, Viru made a blazing 84 at Lord’s.
Even at that early stage, a slight technical adjustment was obvious. While his
mindset was all about attacking and playing a free-flowing game, he also started
to play a lot straighter, especially at the start of the innings. There prevailed a
perception that Viru hardly thought about his game. I beg to differ. He
understood his game, he knew what his strengths and weaknesses were, and he
had a game plan that revolved around simplicity. If the ball was pitched in areas
where he wasn’t comfortable, he would look for a single. If it was in an area of
his strength, his first thought was a four or a six.
I believe that opening the innings gave Viru the opportunity to become a
more organised player, and therefore he was able to play all those brilliant
innings. There was a consistent pattern to the manner in which he scored. He
seldom pulled, but if the ball was short and wide, it would fly over point for six.
Early in the innings, if the ball was pitched up, he would only play in the V,
either over the infield or along the turf. And the moment the spinners came on,
the ball had to go, high in the air.
Because of his exceptional hand-eye coordination, Viru had the rare ability
to hit even a length ball along the ground without stretching a lot. He could also
hit the same ball for a six. I have seen the best of spinners appear clueless
against him—even the great Muttiah Muralitharan was at sixes and sevens when
Viru went after him in Galle in 2008, and at the CCI in 2009. As he grew more
and more confident, life became easier for us middle-order batsmen. Any Viru
innings of even reasonable substance deflated and demoralised the bowlers
because he hit even the good balls for fours and sixes.
Viru’s preparation was unlike anything the rest of us did. He kept things to
a bare minimum. I have never seen him over-prepare. He would bat in the nets,
take his quota of catches, and then retire to the dressing room—no extra throw-
downs, no additional knocking. He semi-mocked us: ‘You must play more balls
in the match, not at practice.’ You can’t argue with that logic, not when it worked
so often for him. He also loved daring the bowlers. In Multan in 2004, for
instance, before Saqlain Mushtaq ran in to bowl, Viru told him that he would hit
him over long-on for six, and went on to do precisely that. Or he would
challenge Shoaib Akhtar and pull it off. He was that confident of his abilities.
Having modelled his game on Sachin’s, Viru’s head position was also his
strength. Even though he didn’t use his feet as much as some of the others did,
because his head was so still, he could use his beautiful hands to hit through the
line of the ball. He had the special ability to play with the full face of the bat, but
also use his wrists to on-drive or cut the ball. Players of an earlier era have raved
about GR Viswanath sir’s cutting. I didn’t see GRV sir bat at his peak. But
anyone who fielded at point could vouch for how rapidly the ball travelled when
Viru cut it. It was not a conventional shot, where he got on top of the ball. Viru’s
cut was almost like a slice—along the ground or in the air, depending on where
the fielders were placed. Ahead of and after the matches, we all watched videos
to gauge the strength of the opposition bowlers and how we had got out to them.
All Viru had on his iPad were his fours and sixes, and he watched only those. He
was not obsessed with his technique, even though technically, he was as sound
as a batsman with two Test triples is bound to be. His philosophy was that it was
only the mind that could make you a success or a failure. He therefore put
pressure on the bowlers, played with their minds and came out on top more often
than not.
After the Multan triple hundred, he came up to me and laughed, ‘I told you
so, VVS.’ I couldn’t have been happier that my 281 had been surpassed. For a
country that had given the world so many great batsmen, not having a triple
centurion was an aberration. Viru set that record straight. It had taken him less
than three years to translate his prophecy into reality. I was curious to know
where he had got the confidence from to make that prediction in Pune. ‘In order
to get to a triple, you have to score very quickly, VVS,’ he explained, as if to a
child. ‘You need to play a lot of shots and get your runs very quickly. In this
Indian team, I didn’t see anyone else doing that.’ It was said not with arrogance,
but from an understanding of his game and inherent intelligence. He knew that
he had a better chance than anyone else of getting to 300 because of the nature of
his game, high-risk but also high-reward, as the records indicate.
Viru’s one-day record isn’t as glittering as his Test record, and I feel he
could and should have done better in white-ball cricket. He was so organised in
the longer version, respecting the opener’s slot, but when it came to 50-over
cricket, and later Twenty20 cricket, he felt he had the licence to go after the ball
right from the start. That led to his downfall because he wanted to hit every ball
out of the park. In Test matches, he respected the balls pitched in areas he wasn’t
comfortable with. That wasn’t the case in the limited-overs versions, which to
me will remain a bit of a surprise.
His carefree, almost careless, approach to one-day cricket used to frustrate
John no end. He repeatedly urged Viru to not throw his hand away after racing
into the 20s and 30s. In a tri-series game at The Oval against Sri Lanka in 2002,
Viru played a rash drive and was dismissed for 12. There was a commotion in
the dressing room on his return, and once things settled down, we learned that
John had grabbed him by the collar, pulled him to his feet and yelled that Viru
didn’t respect his words. Viru wanted to return home to India, but when he
calmed down, he realised that John had only his best interests at heart. That,
ironically, was the start of a beautiful relationship between the coach and his
principal destroyer, a relationship Viru was to replicate with Gary Kirsten when
the latter became our coach.
Apart from being a smart thinker, Viru was also a useful off-spinner. He
repeatedly got me out in local tournaments in Delhi, and rejoiced that VVS was
his ‘bunny’. He had the loop and the trajectory, the ball would naturally go
above the batsman’s eyeline and dip wickedly. He bowled less and less after he
picked up a shoulder injury, which was a bit of a shame because he was one of
the most dangerous off-spinners I have encountered.
Viru the person is pretty similar to Viru the batsman. He is honest and
upfront, and what you see of Viru is what you get from him. Even when he got
out to a poor shot, I didn’t see him come back and sulk in the dressing room. We
beat ourselves up if we were dismissed through a bad stroke, but Viru just took
his pads off and horsed around as usual. I once asked him if he didn’t feel bad at
having let himself and the team down. ‘Yes, I do,’ he replied. ‘As I am walking
back towards the dressing room, I think about the stroke, about the mistake I
made. I berate myself, tell myself that I won’t repeat the mistake. That’s it. Why
should I mope once I am in the dressing room? It will serve no purpose; instead,
it will most likely affect the others.’ I haven’t come across a single other person
who has a similar approach.
Blessed with the rare gift to laugh at himself, Viru was a livewire in the
changing room. He was always laughing and making others crack up, taking it
upon himself to keep the atmosphere light. He was an exceptional team man, but
often misunderstood because he was brutally honest and spoke the truth to your
face. He never spoke behind anyone’s back, and he doesn’t know what it means
to be diplomatic. That is both his strength and his weakness. Those who are
close to him understand where he is coming from. Others are quick to label him
arrogant and cocky. I know him as a warm-hearted and helpful person who
would do anything for his friends. He is one of my dear friends, someone whose
company I enjoy immensely.
In England in 2011, Viru came into the side only for the last two Tests. I
don’t know where he hunted it down, but on his comeback in Birmingham,
above his locker, hung a placard that read, ‘Don’t try to understand me, just love
me.’ Vintage Viru.

RAHUL DRAVID

My first interaction with Rahul was when I was 16 and we were playing in the
South Zone Under-19 tournament. Rahul had already started to make a name for
himself in the junior circuit. He was two years my senior, and I was curious to
see what made him tick.
My memories of that game are vivid. Wearing an India shirt, which I later
came to know had been gifted to him by Roger Binny, Rahul made a brilliant
hundred at the Chinnaswamy Stadium. My first impression was that he was very
studious, but also classy and stylish. From that game on, I became a big fan of
Rahul. He was clearly the best batsman at that level, but there was no arrogance,
no starry airs about him. Even as I was caught up in my journey, I followed his
scores through the newspapers and felt happy by association every time he made
a good score.
Rahul and I played a lot of domestic cricket together for South Zone in the
Duleep Trophy. Since we were slotted next to each other, we batted as a pair
quite often and had several big stands in first-class cricket before replicating
those partnerships in the international arena. What I remember from our Duleep
Trophy days in the 1994–95 season was that he was so obsessed with playing for
India that even some of us juniors felt that if he didn’t break through soon
enough, he could lose it mentally. He was always a very intense person, and he
would write down his scores on the back of his bat. I found that a little worrying.
The more time I spent with him, the more I came to admire Rahul. His
work ethic was exemplary, and from our first day together in a dressing room to
the last, I never saw him taking shortcuts as far as preparation was concerned. It
remained his top priority till his final day as a cricketer, and as he matured, he
paid even more attention to it, if that were possible. It was something he took a
lot of pride in.
When I say preparation, it isn’t limited to just one thing. He also paid a
great deal of attention to his fitness. Rahul seemed to think that for him to
succeed, the only route was to put in hours and hours of practice—on his batting,
his fitness, his fielding.
Only those who were physically present when he hit the nets have any
inkling of how much effort he put into his cricket. He rarely spoke about the
time spent at practice, but when I went to the Chinnaswamy Stadium during the
off-season, the bowlers who bowled to him at nets talked about how he was in
the ground from dawn to dusk. If there was anyone who used the NCA in
Bengaluru to the fullest, it was Rahul. He knew what his strengths were. Equally
importantly, he was aware of the areas that needed work, and he was honest with
himself about these.
Every time I met him after a break, I could see that he had worked on what
he perceived were his weaknesses, be it fitness or batting. Rahul wasn’t shy of
seeking professional help with regard to his fitness, but he didn’t follow routines
blindly. His approach was structured. He tried to understand the programmes the
trainers chalked out for him, he asked questions, and once he bought into their
line of thought, he devoted himself to the routine. Only when you are convinced
that something will benefit you can you truly improve.
Rahul was an old-school batsman who focused a lot on technique. The
more balls he played at nets, the more he developed his muscle memory. But he
was seldom satisfied. He wanted to be known as an all-round batsman, and if he
felt he had technical issues, he worked zealously to correct them. He was never
hesitant to try out new strokes and expand his repertoire. He sought out people
he trusted to ask them what he could do to get better. It was this constant desire
to learn and become better that set him apart. Rahul was a top-order batsman but
he couldn’t bat higher than number four or five in the one-day side because of
the presence of Viru, Sachin and Sourav. He batted in a position not natural to
him, in a format not necessarily suited to his style, yet he concluded his career as
one of the best finishers. I don’t think I can pay him a bigger compliment.
But above all, the one area where I believe Rahul put in a lot of work was
in mental fitness. He was a master of visualisation, and from 2000 onwards, he
used that as well as long hours of practice to work on his one-day cricket. From
the start, he appeared most suited to the longer format, and doubts were raised
about his one-day batting. But through unstinting practice, visualisation and a
strong will, he enhanced his limited-overs batting and established himself as one
of the key members of the Indian 50-over side.
Visualisation is a combination of the conscious and the subconscious. The
things we do, we usually do at a conscious level. Rahul used visualisation to
ensure that everything he did registered at a subconscious level because when
the subconscious takes over during a match, your reactions become quicker and
your instincts sharper. A day before the match, he would sit behind the stumps
and embrace the ground. As I discovered more about his routine and its benefits,
I too used the visualisation technique to my advantage.
At practice, we sometimes worked on a particular shot. After I played the
shot over and over again, I closed my eyes and went into a relaxed, peaceful
state. The images of that specific stroke would run through my mind. The power
of the mind is such that it doesn’t distinguish between imagining something and
actually doing it. The best results come when you physically play a stroke, then
mentally register what you did, and how you did it. Visualisation is most
effective when your mind is calm and blank. Sitting pitch-side the day before a
game, I would play out the entire innings in my mind. I imagined the noise of the
crowd, the feel of the dressing room. I pictured walking out and taking guard,
then settling into my stance. I thought of Glenn McGrath running in and bowling
a bouncer that I swayed out of the way of. I imagined pulling the same ball in
front of mid-wicket for four once I had got my eye in. More than once, events
played out in an extraordinarily similar fashion the following day.
Rahul once told me that very early in his career, he worked out that for him
to score runs, he had to play a lot of balls. He felt he didn’t have enough shots,
which came as a massive shock, because to me, he had all the shots in the book
and he played them too.
In a lot of ways, Rahul and I are very similar to each other—in our
approach to batting, in our family backgrounds, in the way we think. We were
among the last generation of batsmen who played not for runs but for time. Our
games revolved around batting session by session and playing to the merit of the
ball. Rahul put a huge price on his wicket. No matter how many runs he had
made, if he was disappointed at a particular mode of dismissal, he would do a lot
of shadow practice, he would net and face throw-downs to ensure he didn’t
repeat the mistake. In that sense, he was a perfectionist, though he was smart
enough to make sure he didn’t lose sight of the bigger picture in his quest for
perfection.
I haven’t seen a more committed and complete team man than Rahul. He
would do anything for the need or betterment of the team. He would agree to
keep wicket, or field at short leg even if his preferred close-in position was first
slip. He was very accommodating, sometimes too much so. He wasn’t a big fan
of keeping wicket but he knew that he had to do so for the sake of balance in the
team leading up to the 2003 World Cup. Not only did he accept the role, but he
also worked hard on his glove work and brought value to the team. He opened
the batting and scored runs in tough conditions in Test cricket, and
uncomplainingly dropped down to No. 6 if the captain so demanded. And he did
all this without fuss, never making it look like he was doing anyone a favour.
Rahul didn’t believe in showing emotion on the park. He used to look up to
Steve Waugh, or Tugga, as the Aussie was known—we sometimes ribbed him by
calling him Junior Tugga—and wanted to conduct himself like Steve did. His
take was that if you displayed emotion, people might label you soft, not tough
enough mentally. Whether through conscious effort or naturally, Rahul
invariably kept a tight lid on the field.
While he took great pride in his own performances, nothing delighted him
more than the team’s victory. After we won the Adelaide Test in 2003, he just
would not change out of his whites or take off the dirty cap he had worn while
striking the winning run. The match had concluded late in the afternoon, but till
well into the night, he walked around with a big smile on his face, still in his
whites. It was one of the few occasions when he really let go.
We spent a lot of time standing next to each other in the slips, and I
marvelled at his wonderful catching skills. When a catch can come to you at any
stage of the day, it is important to be able to concentrate for long periods of time
—you must focus at the right time, but also be able to relax. Through practice
more than anything else, this became almost second nature to Rahul. He was
skilled, undoubtedly, but the way he was able to control his mind made him even
better as a slipper.
We talked a lot while standing in the slips, but very little of it pertained to
what was happening in front of us. Both of us realised that it was essential to
lighten up between deliveries, so we engaged in some delightful non-cricketing
conversations. We both read a lot and listened to motivational talks, so there was
a ready common ground. As we grew older and our families grew, our
conversations shifted to our children—about school, vacations and holidays. If
we did talk cricket at all, it was about the domestic stage, about upcoming talent,
about the fortunes of our respective state sides, but never about the current
match.
Talk flowed easily because mentally, we were in sync on many issues.
Rahul had got married a few months before I did, and I took tips from him on
how to organise my wedding, the reception, how to inform the media, whom to
invite. Once again, I was amazed at how meticulous and systematic he was.
Rahul the person is exactly like Rahul the batsman.
When we batted, however, strange as it might sound, we hardly had any
conversations. I knew what he was thinking, he knew what I was thinking, and
that is a pretty special bond. We never tried to interfere in the other’s approach.
That was our strength as a pair, but we definitely enjoyed feeding off each
other’s energy. I felt a level of comfort, a sense of security when I batted
alongside Rahul. I don’t know why, but there was this bubble of calmness when
Rahul was my partner. Maybe I was afraid that the bubble would burst if we
spoke a lot between overs.
As a person, Rahul is very simple. He took his parents’ philosophy—
simple living, high thinking—to heart. He is not very flamboyant, and has never
craved materialistic things. He wasn’t obsessed with designer clothes, branded
watches, fancy sunglasses or flashy cars. These things didn’t matter to him at all.
What mattered was achieving his goals. Rahul overachieved by being committed
to his craft. He is a true role model. When you are committed and work towards
improving yourself in every aspect and make all the sacrifices so that you are
better than the best, then you can achieve more than your ability might suggest. I
put his achievements in ODIs and the way he approached his T20 cricket
entirely down to his single-minded quest for excellence.
As captain, Rahul enjoyed a lot of success in both formats. We enjoyed
Test series wins in England and West Indies, we won a Test match in South
Africa for the first time, and we won a record 16 ODI matches in a row, chasing.
He was very aggressive, and insisted on effort above anything else, though with
time, the cares of captaincy wore him down.
I did hear from those in the ODI setup then that he liked to follow a set,
rigid pattern, and wanted players to heed it too. I understand each captain will
have his own game plan, but Rahul was probably more unyielding in that regard.
Rahul was so introverted that I sometimes wondered if even his wife Vijeta
or his parents knew what was going on in his mind, although, post retirement, he
has loosened up and seems to be enjoying his time as a coach, particularly with
the India Under-19 team. He was reserved when he met new people, but once he
got to know them, he would open up and chat quite easily. Having equipped
himself with an abundance of knowledge in various disciplines, Rahul is one of
the most rounded, eloquent cricketers I have met.

SACHIN TENDULKAR

At an age when I was battling desperately to establish myself at the domestic

age-group level, Sachin was playing against the best in the world in international
cricket, not just holding his own but also stamping his authority. The novelty of a
curly-haired, baby-faced teen quickly made way for awe as he handled
unfamiliar pace in alien conditions like the champion he was. With his deeds, he
became an inspiration to every young Indian cricketer. It was no different in my
case.
When Sachin was taking on Pakistan in his maiden series, I was playing
for the South Zone Under-15 side. I was also playing in Hyderabad with
Ensconce CC, captained by Arshad Ayub. During one of our net sessions,
Arshad bhai asked us about our goals for the season. I said I wanted to play for
Hyderabad Under-16. Arshad bhai told me, ‘There is this 16-year-old kid who
has just made his Test debut against Pakistan. He has made runs against Imran
Khan, Wasim Akram and Waqar Younis. Don’t you think your targets should be
a little higher?’
Arshad bhai’s words told me how much faith he had in my abilities, but
they were also intended to shake me up, and they did. I was hooked to Sachin.
What I loved was his free spirit, be it in his batting or bowling. After a tour to
New Zealand in 1994, he came to Cuddapah to play an exhibition match, and it
was my first ‘live’ sighting of the genius. I didn’t figure in the eleven, so I
watched with astonishment as he smashed the bowlers out of the park with
ridiculous ease. He was so fearless that it took your breath away.
My first taste of the mayhem Sachin could wreak was during a Wills
Trophy match in Rajkot in late 1995. For the first three overs, he struggled
against our Hyderabad new-ball attack of NP Singh and Vishnuvardhan because
they were just too slow for him. But he quickly adjusted to the lack of pace and
then took them apart, racing to his century by the 16th over. That was also the
first time I spoke to him—rather, he spoke to me. Venkatapathi Raju dragged me
over and introduced me to Sachin. When he told me that he had been following
my progress—I had just completed a successful Under-19 series against
Australia and England—I couldn’t believe my ears. Sachin had established
himself as a youth icon. For him to keep tabs on a relatively unknown domestic
player was huge for me.
I was still in awe of him when I was picked for the Australia Test in 1996.
It was his first Test as captain and he must have had so many things on his mind,
yet he went out of his way to make me feel comfortable and relaxed. The longer
I shared a dressing room with him, the more I understood how much pride he
took in representing the country. He had the tricolour glued to his coffin, and
when he put on the India colours, it was as if he grew 10 feet tall. He was
thinking excellence and greatness, and he was well on his way to getting there.
With his deeds, Sachin set a stirring example. His fearlessness wasn’t
restricted to going out and taking on the bowlers. He was also desperate to take
on responsibility in challenging situations. He craved pressure. He almost
snatched the ball from Azzu bhai in the last over of the Hero Cup semi-final
against South Africa in 1993 when South Africa needed only six to win. That
showcased his mental strength. It is one thing to have talent; managing the
pressure is another matter altogether. It can do funny things to even the most
experienced player. Sachin enjoyed tough situations, they brought the best out of
him. Watching him, I learnt that if I shied away from challenges, I would never
be a success at the highest level.
He was blessed with great balance, and that is what batting is all about. I
never saw his head falling away. It was so still, his weight distribution so good,
and his bat came down from the back-lift like a pendulum—like we were taught
by our coaches. I haven’t come across anyone else who understood the game, the
bowling and the mind of a bowler, any bowler, like Sachin did. Depending on
the conditions and the bowlers, he had the ability to make minor changes to his
technique and approach without compromising on the basics.
The one instance that stands out for me came early in my career, during the
Cape Town Test against South Africa on the 1996–97 tour. Allan Donald was at
his fiery best, and the Newlands strip had a lot of pace as well as carry. Until that
innings, Sachin used to have his bat behind his right foot in his stance. But
during throw-downs before the start of our innings, he started to place the bat
between his feet. I was knocking by his side, and was stunned at how easily he
adapted to that adjustment. Obviously, it wasn’t only at the nets that he was
comfortable with the new stance, because he went out and hammered the
bowling to the tune of 169 extraordinary runs. Because of his balance, he could
try out new things and keep fine-tuning his game. He was god-gifted, no doubt
about that, but he didn’t take the gift for granted. I have seen him work harder
than most people to hone that gift with unmatched commitment.
I have briefly alluded to Sachin’s ability to read the mind of a bowler. As a
batsman, you want to be in the correct position before the ball comes to you.
That’s why it is said that great batsmen have a fraction of a second more to play
the ball. You basically pick up the line and length earlier than most, and wait for
the ball to come to you to play the shot. But Sachin was one step ahead of even
that. Most of us reacted after the ball left the bowler’s hand. But with Sachin,
there was the pre-emptive strike. All of us mortals would look for cues from how
the bowler was running in, what his wrist position was, how he was loading. But
this guy almost instinctively knew what was coming his way even before the
bowler started to load. You might call it guesswork or intuition, I prefer pre-
emption. And nine times out of ten, he would be correct. That’s why he was
ready with the shot much before anyone else, and that’s why he toyed with even
the best bowlers.
With the passage of time, through a combination of maturity and a growing
hunger for runs, Sachin remodelled his game to become more risk-free. In the
early stages of his career, he played several special knocks but didn’t score as
many hundreds as he could have. His idol was Sir Viv Richards, whom bowlers
feared. Sachin had that same attitude—smash and demoralise the bowlers, never
mind the situation. But, by my estimation, maybe from 2000 onwards, after our
tour of Australia, he wasn’t as consistently explosive as he had been earlier.
The cares and challenges of captaincy during his second stint brought
about a change in Sachin’s thinking. He must have realised that for the team to
succeed on a regular basis, it was imperative that he make hundreds at the very
least. Gradually, he had to make further compromises to his aggressive outlook
as his body began to rebel, but as he morphed from a fearless destroyer to a more
controlled accumulator, he lost none of his flair.
The one thing that amazed me throughout the length of his career was how
he handled the burden of expectations from the entire country. For almost 25
years, the fans felt that India stood a chance as long as Sachin was batting, and
that once he was dismissed, the team would lose. I can’t imagine what it was like
to have to carry that pressure for so long. Fortunately, there was no such pressure
from within the setup, at least from 2001 onwards, with the rest of his middle-
order colleagues already at least four years old in Test cricket.
After that Australia series in 1999–2000 when we were routed 3–0 and he
was often fighting a solitary battle, Sachin seemed to have made up his mind that
while he was at his attractive best playing free-flowing knocks, the team would
only benefit when he scored heavily. His determination to score big runs became
more and more apparent as he turned to meditation, and focused on
concentration and breathing exercises. With the passage of time and the injuries
that ravaged his body, the way he approached the game changed. Instead of the
attacking Tendulkar of earlier days, he became a bit more restrained. There was
more grinding and grafting, but his voracious appetite never left him. That’s why
he finished with a hundred centuries. His hunger to score in every match, his
desire to win games for his team, no matter which side or what grade of cricket,
was apparent till the very end.
As much as it may appear that way, Sachin is not a freak of nature.
Talented he is, but his sincerity, his preparation and commitment to the game
were second to none. When he burst forth as a teenager, I have been told, he
used to have a lot of fun in the nets. He would bat without a care in the world,
taking on the best bowlers in the team and smashing them around. With time, his
preparation became very precise and meaningful. The transition at the nets from
playful to meticulous was incredible, and I watched transfixed. He batted in the
nets the way he wanted to in a match—get behind the ball, account for reverse
swing, identify which boundaries to target. If we were playing England, say, he
would practise to neutralise James Anderson, to compensate for swing and play
the cover drive. And then, come match day, he would replicate the shots in the
game that he had practised and perfected in the nets.
It took me a long time to get to know Sachin. By nature, I am reserved and
introverted, and I was convinced Sachin was a step too high for me. I was
hesitant to initiate any conversation with him, but I was always a good listener
and picked up plenty of cues just being around him. I have also been part of
several huge partnerships with him, but the one I treasure the most is our 104-
run stand in Sharjah against Australia in 1998, in what is called the Desert Storm
match.
That April evening, and two nights later on his twenty-fifth birthday,
Sachin was at his most destructive in one-day cricket. He has played several
blistering knocks before and since, but there was a ruthlessness to his batting on
those two nights that I haven’t seen at any other time, even though he was
nursing a terribly painful right elbow. Our last league game of the Coca Cola
Cup was against the Aussies, and while we could afford to lose, we had to meet
a run-rate requirement to move past New Zealand into the final. Australia
amassed 284 for 7, a huge total 20 years ago. We were wobbling at 138 for 4
with only 21 overs left when I joined him. We had batted for about half an hour
when a dust storm swept through the ground and play was halted.
I eased into the cool of the dressing room but Sachin chose to stay outside
despite the humidity. He listened to music on his yellow sports Walkman,
shutting out everything else around him. He had two broad choices when it came
to music—fast-paced stuff when he wanted to charge himself up, and soothing
songs if his mind was in turmoil and he was looking for calm. That evening,
with the beats thumping in his ears, he was like a warrior ready for battle.
When play resumed, we had to cross the magic figure of 237 to reach the
final, and 94 in 15 overs to win the match. Sachin took it upon himself to take us
home because he believed he had the ability to do it. Standing at the non-
striker’s end, I felt that my presence didn’t even register with him. He tore into
the Australians with towering straight sixes but the shot of the night was a cut
drive off Shane Warne, front foot plonked down the pitch. There was a bit of
grip in the surface, Warne was at his peak and getting the ball to drift, and he had
a man at cover and another manning the fence. Sachin hit the ball with such
ferocity that no one moved as it zinged into the advertising board.
During our partnership, he was keen to hog most of the strike and let loose
a verbal volley when I was late in responding for a second run. I was new to the
team and nervously approached him at the end of the over, expecting a ‘Don’t
worry, I didn’t mean it’ from him. But he looked in the zone, perhaps not even
aware that he had screamed at me. It was only after the match that he told me he
had got carried away and had shouted in the heat of the moment.
As his innings progressed, I saw how helpless the Aussies looked. They
were then the masters of the cricket world, but they had no clue how to stop the
bleeding. I saw awe and a little fear in their eyes. I believe that Sachin is God’s
child, born to play cricket. The dust storm that night was the transference of the
force of the Almighty to him. Australia had two storms to contend with, and they
could conquer neither.
While we had highly qualified coaches, Sachin was the one I relied on
when I had problems with my batting. However, it was only after the Australia
tour of 1999–2000 that the ice was broken and I began to feel more comfortable
around him.
Sachin talks technique and mindset like almost no one else I know. When
we got to know each other well, our non-cricketing discussions veered to
religion and family values. He loved talking about his parents, his upbringing—
we had several long and meaningful chats, the memory of which I still cherish.
My first exposure to the inner world of Sachin was in the summer of 2001.
Bhajji and I had been signed up by Sporting Frontiers, a player-management
firm, and since we were in Mumbai, Sachin invited us home for dinner. After an
event to formally announce our association with the firm at the Cricket Club of
India, I had to travel to Colaba for a photo shoot and an interview with a
magazine. From there, I was to go over to Sachin’s Bandra residence.
The photo shoot was an extended affair and was done only by 8.00 p.m. I
thought I would reach his house by 9.00 p.m., but the traffic was crazy and it
took me more than two and a half hours to get to his place. I called him thrice to
apologise for the delay. I was embarrassed that I had made the great Sachin
Tendulkar wait for so long.
When I got there just before 11.00 p.m., I realised that dinner hadn’t been
served. Sachin, Bhajji and Anjali were waiting for me. I was touched and
apologetic, but there was not a trace of annoyance or displeasure on either
Sachin’s or Anjali’s face. Sachin showed me around his home, took me to meet
his lovely mother despite the late hour, and it was only then that we sat down to
dinner. Anjali herself heated up the food and served us, before joining us for
dinner.
It was then that I realised why Sachin was as grounded as he was. He had a
great support system around him. He loved talking about his parents and the
values he had picked up from them. Like them, Anjali too treated him like a
regular guy as she played the perfect host. And Sachin never behaved like a
prima donna. Given the position he was in, he could so easily have got carried
away, but he always conducted himself with dignity and poise.
Circumstances forced Sachin to grow up very quickly. Even as a teenager,
it was difficult for him to lead a normal life because of the constant scrutiny and
the massive following he attracted. But with close friends in an indoor setting, he
can be quite a riot. He loves being a practical joker even today, and enjoys
having a playful laugh at a friend’s expense. He takes a keen interest in most
sports, and whenever we had a TT table in our team room, he would spend every
free minute playing ping-pong. Even there, he hated losing, so the competition
would become very intense.
I wouldn’t have imagined that someone so obsessed with cricket could be
so well versed in cars, watches and music. Sachin is not merely interested in
these, but is greatly knowledgeable too. We share a similar taste in Hindi music,
but I must say that heavy metal, which he so adores, isn’t my cup of tea.
For me, Sachin is a hero-turned-friend-hero, a man of many firsts but
essentially a simple soul. I am touched at the kind of respect he has continued to
give Ramakant Achrekar sir, his coach during his earlier days. I admire Sachin
Tendulkar the cricketer, but I am privileged to be friends with Sachin Tendulkar
the person.
SOURAV GANGULY

Before I got into the Indian dressing room in 1996, I knew little about Sourav
beyond the obvious. We had travelled to Sharjah the previous year under Vikram
Rathour as part of the India A team, and he had got a hundred for East Zone
against South Zone in the Duleep Trophy. In the subsequent Deodhar Trophy
game in Lucknow, he had dismissed me, clean bowled. That was the extent of
our relationship. I was aware that there was much hype around Sourav, him
being from Kolkata and all. That he had gone to Australia in 1991–92 as part of
the one-day team. But back then, we had no rapport to speak of.
It was only after I broke into the Indian Test team that I had my first real
conversation with him. He was quiet and soft-spoken, but you could see that the
two hundreds in his first two Tests in England had also made him a very
confident young man.
While Sourav was a very good Test batsman, he was extraordinary in
white-ball cricket. It was almost as if he was competing with Sachin for the tag
of the best one-day batsman in the world. He started off as a middle-order
batsman in 50-over cricket but it was when he was pushed up the order to open
the batting that he began to make people sit up and take notice. It was
unbelievable how rapidly he transformed his game. In a short span of time, he
became one of the most dangerous batsmen in world cricket, and his partnership
with Sachin at the top of the order was lethal.
To see him match Sachin stroke for stroke in one-day cricket was an
absolute treat. Sachin had several more years of experience than Sourav, but
theirs was an alliance of equals. When Sourav first burst into the public’s
consciousness with his twin hundreds in Test cricket in England, he was
essentially a touch player who relied on timing. He had the unique gift of
caressing the ball through the off-side, with even defensive pushes thudding into
the boundary boards. But as he started opening the batting in one-day cricket, he
worked on his power game as well.
He figured out how to use the field restrictions to his advantage, how to
clear the infield with ridiculous ease. He always played the high percentage
shots, generally hitting the ball in the air in the V, but he also started to use the
crease exceedingly well. Against the spinners, his hitting ability was second to
none, and he cleared any ground with effortless ease. Sourav’s strength was his
mind. He knew which bowler to target, and whom to play out with minimal risk.
Those traits are important if you are to be a successful limited-overs cricketer; I
haven’t seen anyone develop and improve more rapidly in one-day cricket than
Sourav.
 In Test cricket, once he dropped down from No. 3 to 5 and 6, the hundreds
weren’t as readily forthcoming. I can understand the situation because I have
also played a lot at No. 5 and 6; I believe that if Sourav had got more
opportunities up the order, he could have scored many more centuries. He was
brilliant on the off-side, he was excellent against the spinners, and he was street-
smart as well as intelligent. As his career progressed and teams had more access
to information about him, he began to think the opposition would target him with
bouncers, and that made him compromise on his footwork.
The responsibility of captaincy seems to have affected his free-flowing
batting in both formats. Also, the entire Greg Chappell saga affected his batting
as well. To me, the best of Sourav came between 1996 and 2000, and then
towards the end of his career, from late 2006 till his retirement in November
2008.
While Sourav will always, rightly, be hailed as a great one-day batsman, he
played some significant and important hands in Test cricket, especially overseas
where, contrary to popular belief, he actually enjoyed the ball coming on to the
bat. I watched most of his 144 against Australia at the Gabba in 2003 from the
non-striker’s end, and was struck by both, his command over the bowling and his
determination to make a statement in the first Test of the series.
A fiercely proud competitor, Sourav wanted to be known as the best
batsman to come out of India, and he worked very hard towards that. His off-
side game is the best I have seen till date, though he was a little restricted on the
on-side, especially when the bowlers targeted his ribcage. Word gets around fast
in international cricket, and all the teams started to bowl short at his body to try
and tie him down. In ODIs, Sourav was able to counter that by moving across
his stumps or backing away and crashing the ball square on the off-side. Test
cricket required more patience, so he bided his time and waited for the ball to be
bowled in his areas of strength.
Apart from the Gabba hundred, his Test innings that stand out for me are
the brilliant century at Headingley in 2002 when he ditched conventional
wisdom and opted to bat first, and the double hundred against Pakistan in late
2007 when we were under pressure on a track that was slow but played a little up
and down. When he put his mind to it, Sourav could guts it out and never take a
backward step. However, I think he needed a challenge to rouse himself into
action, because the cares of captaincy were otherwise making too many demands
on his time and energy. A somewhat complicated and complex human being,
Sourav was galvanised by the need to prove a point, which explains his stirring
late run in Test cricket after being dropped from the side.
For me, the legacy Sourav has left behind is as one of the most successful
and exceptional leaders in world cricket. He was so passionate about the team
doing well that at times, he compromised on his own batting. I feel fortunate to
have played under him and he was one of my favourite captains.
When Sourav and John came together in 2000, they had a big task on their
hands. The team was in the throes of transition, and the match-fixing episode
had disillusioned the fans. The qualities Sourav displayed in that difficult period
were exemplary and worthy of emulation by any leader. He transformed the
mindset of the Indian cricketer. It wasn’t just about numbers and results
anymore. He wanted to erase the fear of failure from the minds of the players.
When he saw a spark in younger players, the confidence he gave them was
inspiring. He allowed them to play freely, play their natural game, and not worry
about their positions. He was constantly in their ear, making them feel a hundred
feet tall, and it is no coincidence that a plethora of future match-winners—Zak,
Bhajji, Kaif, Yuvi, Nehra and, to some extent, Irfan—were all nurtured by
Sourav.
The way Sourav thought about the game was very different from what I
had been exposed to. Ahead of Australia’s tour of India in 2001, we were unsure
about our spin options, with Anil out with a shoulder injury. I was leading India
A against the Australians in a three-day game in Nagpur. Standing at slip, I was
astounded at how much bounce Bhajji was getting off the strip, and the pace at
which he was bowling. He was in complete command of his craft, and I was
convinced that he should be a part of the Test team.
At lunch on the first day, Sourav called me to get a sense of how the
spinners—Bhajji, Rahul Sanghvi and WD Balaji Rao—had done. I told him that
even though Rahul had got a lot of wickets, Bhajji was bowling the best. He
straightaway told me to not bowl Bhajji after that so as to not expose him to the
Australians. Of the 160-plus overs the Aussies batted in that game, Bhajji
bowled only 40. He was to bowl a lot more in the Test series that followed, a
series in which he picked up 32 wickets and was one of the primary reasons for
our dream come-from-behind triumph.
Conviction and courage were Sourav’s strengths as a captain. He wasn’t
impressed by numbers. Once he identified that special something in a player, he
backed him to a fault. Others might have performed better, but Sourav was gifted
at sussing out the X factor, and his intuition seldom let him down. The way he
stuck his neck out was commendable. Indian cricket owes a great deal to his
vision and his second-to-none attitude for where it finds itself today.
I was standing next to him on the Lord’s balcony when he whipped off his
T-shirt after we won the NatWest final. At the time, I thought it wasn’t the right
thing to do. Sourav has since regretted his reaction, but the more I have thought
of it since that evening in 2002, the more convinced I am that he made the right
statement. Andrew Flintoff had done something similar at the Wankhede
Stadium earlier that year after England drew the ODI series in India 3–3. Sourav
was basically telling the English that if they could do it in Mumbai, we could do
it at Lord’s. And why not?
The message his shirt-waving intended to convey, to his team as much as
to the world, was that we were second to none. That was something exciting for
the team, and we all bought into his urgings at team meetings to go out and
express ourselves instead of playing timid, fearful cricket.
Sourav was forever one of the boys, even when he was the captain.
Sometimes leaders can become a little aloof and conversations come to a halt
when the skipper walks into a crowded room. But Sourav’s arrival only added to
the cacophony. He was inclusive. He sought suggestions from everyone and if he
found merit in the ideas of even the newest member, he wasn’t afraid to
implement them. The youngest member of the squad could pull his leg without
any compunctions or fear of repercussions.
Like Viru, Sourav is also a vastly misunderstood person. Especially in
Lancashire, where he had played county cricket before I went there in 2007, he
was perceived as lazy and laidback; they said he didn’t work hard enough. I
disagree. Sourav didn’t make a song and dance of it, but I have seen how hard he
worked, on his fitness and his batting. No matter how gifted you are, history is
proof that you can’t be successful if you don’t polish your gifts.
I have heard people call him arrogant, and that too is anything but true.
Yes, he has a mind of his own, and he is not conservative. If an idea takes root in
his mind, he will follow it through, with or without support. I’ve got to know
Sourav extremely well over the last two decades, and he continues to surprise me
with his goals, his lateral thinking, and his vision for Indian cricket.
Sourav loves having people around him; he grew up in a large house in a
big joint family, which instilled in him several qualities that continue to stand
him in good stead. You get used to the noise, you understand that there will be
several viewpoints, you realise that you have to be accommodating and not
expect things to always pan out the way you want them to. But you also know
that if you are convinced about something, you must follow it through. Sourav
was a batsman supreme, but in my book, he will always be a leader first.
 17
Of Laughter and Loneliness

Glamour is the word most often associated with being an India cricketer. A life
of fame and money, glitz and bling, attention and adulation. It’s a journey that is
the envy of many, and it’s a journey all of us are grateful for. But, of course,
there is more to being a professional sportsperson, and especially a cricketer in
our country, than just these things.
Whether we like it or not, we are looked up to as role models. We are not
only expected to be on top of our game but also on our best behaviour, and the
two don’t always go together in the heat of battle. Having said that, we have
always been mindful of the fact that we are ambassadors of our great country,
and therefore need to conduct ourselves in a manner befitting that status.
When things go well and you enjoy your own as well as the team’s
performance, everything seems well worth it—the early days of uncertainty and
anxiety, the long months spent away from family, living out of a suitcase,
grappling with pressure and loneliness. But when things don’t pan out, like they
didn’t in the early stages of my career, you begin to question the process and
your own worth. Fortunately, blessed with a strong support system at home and
my own spiritual beliefs from which I derived considerable strength and
comfort, I was able to overcome nagging self-doubts to find a second, then third
and fourth wind.

As kids, when you knock a football around or hurl a cricket ball with strength
and skill, you are doing no more than your neighbour, your classmate, your
friend might be doing. It is only when you aspire to become a professional
cricketer, like in my case, that the challenges begin to surface. By the time you
approach your teens, you dream of taking up the sport as a career, and all you see
are the possibilities, not the roadblocks. That is the beauty of being young. As
they say in cricketing parlance, you only look at the gaps, not the fielders.
That’s not the reality, of course. For every 10,000 kids aspiring to play for
the country, only a dozen or so make it beyond the school level. The road to
higher grades of the sport is fraught with plenty of hurdles—stiff competition
from peers, pressure from parents to put education above sport, lack of
commitment and innate fire. I have played with and against so many talented and
hard-working cricketers during my formative years, but for one reason or the
other, they couldn’t make the next step up. That can be dispiriting; it’s the
toughest part of this game.
The positive, however, is that even if you are unable to play for the
country, if you continue to play the game with passion, it will make you a better
person. It will prepare you for the challenges of life, it will offer you the
opportunity to build your character. If you give yourself the chance, so will
cricket. I have seen some talented colleagues messing up their entire life at a
very young age because they were so emotionally involved in the outcome that
when the dice didn’t roll their way, they didn’t know what to fall back on. That’s
where education plays a big role. Sport and academics can and must go side by
side. One discipline helps you do better in the other. Especially if sport ceases to
be a career option, education will be your valued ally all through your life.
Once you go through the grind and eventually do succeed in playing for
the country, the feeling of entitlement is exploded very quickly. Making it to the
Indian team might appear to be the end of an arduous journey when, in actual
fact, it is just the beginning of a road less travelled. Every series is like an
examination that you are ill-prepared for—there is no syllabus, no study
material.
There is so much competition till you establish yourself, that until you are
a certainty in the team, you feel the need to keep proving—to yourself, to your
mates, to the people who trusted and picked you, to your family and fans—that
you belong at that level. And then creeps in the danger of losing the very thing
you started playing the game for: the sheer pleasure of it. You tend to forget why
you picked up the bat in the first place.
Once you do prove yourself over a period of time, the expectations from
others start to grow and you feel the need to live up to them. Fortunately, I
realised reasonably early that it was important to only think about the things that
I could control and that helped me play with a freer mind.
In so many obvious and not-so-obvious ways, 2000 was the year when Indian
cricket turned the corner. The beginning of the year was tempestuous with the
match-fixing scandal. By the end of the year, we had a new captain, a new crop
of players and importantly, our first overseas coach, who came without any
baggage and with cricket as his only agenda.
Prior to John Wright taking charge, the life of a first-class cricketer in India
hung by a slender thread. If you made loads of domestic runs, you might get a
chance to play against a visiting side. It was your chance to impress, and you
knew that if you didn’t succeed in that game, all the success that had preceded
that failure counted for nothing. You had to go back to ground zero and start
afresh, stack up performances and hope for another shot at a visiting side, hope
that the next time, you would be able to shake off the pressure to perform, and
actually deliver the goods. I was lucky that I made runs against touring sides, but
there were a lot of other players who made tons of domestic runs but were
quickly put out to pasture after one isolated failure against an overseas team in a
warm-up encounter.
Once John came in and found his feet, he and the selectors arrived at a pool
of 30 players or so, all of whom were in contention for a place in the Indian side.
Your fate was no longer dictated by one poor outing. There were back-ups for all
skill sets, and each of the 30 felt that he was wanted. Until John and the
formation of the central pool, there was so much insecurity among the fringe
players that failure was almost guaranteed before an ‘important’ game. Having a
pool of 30 freed us up and took away a lot of the negativity.
Also, until John arrived, communication had been a no-no in Indian
cricket. It is especially essential to let young players know where they stand. If
the selectors, coaches and senior players don’t interact with a newcomer, he
comes under tremendous mental pressure, not knowing what his role in the side
is. In my early days, that was an issue. Till I played for India, I was a regular in
first-class cricket for various sides. Once I broke through into the India team, I
was in for a couple of matches, then out. I didn’t know where I needed to
improve, what I needed to work on, how I could become a better and more
valued player. It ate me up so much that my roommates complained that I
mumbled angrily in my sleep.
Clearly, I wasn’t alone in reacting like this. That’s why, as we grew older
and fell into the ‘senior’ category, Sachin, Anil, Viru, Zak and I made a
conscious effort to ensure that newcomers were made to feel comfortable.
Sachin was brilliant in that regard. He knew that the youngsters were in awe of
him and reluctant to approach him, so he took the first step towards breaking the
ice. I have seen how youngsters reacted when Sachin sought them out and spoke
to them. Suddenly, their confidence levels increased, they immediately felt at
ease, and they could concentrate on their cricket without worrying about treading
on toes or ruffling feathers in the changing room. Again, that was missing in my
first four years with the Indian side.
Things are different now, of course, and that is where the IPL has played a
massive part. Young players are exposed to superstars of the game for at least
two months every year, sharing a dressing room, watching them prepare,
understanding their mindset, asking questions and readying themselves for what
lies ahead. The turnaround in the attitude of the young Indian cricketer is one of
the biggest positives to have emanated from the IPL.

The early part of my cricketing journey belonged in an entirely different era

compared to how things are now. It was a time when awareness—of diet and
nutrition, of fitness and communication—had yet to seep into our system.
Technology had yet to revolutionalise the world. It wasn’t like we missed
anything, because there was nothing to miss, but what is commonplace now was
unheard of then. Like Skype, for instance. Or FaceTime.
In my days as a bachelor, travelling was the best off-field part of playing
cricket. The first trip away from Hyderabad was a reality check, an eye-opener.
In India, a majority of us are pampered and looked after by our parents. Unless
you are in a hostel, all your needs are taken care of, you seldom have to do
things by yourself. Cricket taught me at an early age how to take care of myself.
The fallbacks are limited. Agreed, the team manager handles the logistics, but
unlike at home, there are a lot of decisions that you need to make on your own.
You become independent because there is no other option. If you didn’t look
after yourself, no one else will. Travelling teaches you how to handle success
and failure. It is part of character-building.
Once you start playing for the country, you are constantly on the road, be it
within India or overseas. You are a nomad, with no stability in your life. All you
see are different cities, hotels, airlines, grounds. It is play-travel-play, constantly
eating out, experimenting with different cuisines and cooking styles. It becomes
important to adjust to new environments rapidly, and that was a challenge for me
because I was a vegetarian and my options were very limited during my early
days with the Indian team.
 I distinctly remember the Caribbean tour of 1997 when we arrived in
Kingston for the final Test. As I flipped through the menu in our hotel, I found
practically nothing that I could eat. I called up room service and asked for a
vegetable sandwich. It came a half-hour later, with a thick slab of meat adorning
it. There was no point in getting worked up because in Jamaica at the time, I was
probably a novelty—a vegetarian. So I went down to the kitchen, talked to the
chef and explained what I wanted, as best as I could. When it finally came, it
tasted so good that the drama preceding its arrival was well worth it.
Things understandably got better with time and food ceased to be a
problem. On our 2003–04 tour of Australia, I remember, Irfan Pathan was
always on the lookout for Indian food. I urged him to try out other cuisines, and
Irfan did eventually step out of his comfort zone. I had come to understand by
then that if you are fussy about what you will and won’t eat, it could become a
huge problem. I remain a vegetarian, but from only eating sandwiches when I
started travelling overseas, I graduated to pasta and other vegetarian options.
I focus on food so much because I remember falling into unhealthy habits
without realising it. If no Indian food was available, I used to just eat a pizza
because that was the only other vegetarian choice. You made do with what you
could, without being aware of the finer nuances of diet and nutrition, and your
fitness levels were impacted adversely. In those days in India, our exposure was
restricted to Indian and possibly, Chinese food. Unlike now, there was no Italian
or Thai cuisine to gorge on. After a hard day’s work on the field, you want to
have a nutritious meal, which wasn’t forthcoming. But how can that be an
excuse for non-performance? ‘I couldn’t eat properly last night, so I couldn’t
concentrate on my batting today.’ ‘Oh yes? Then sit at home and eat all you
want.’
We knew nothing about gluten-free diets, or of the importance of carbs and
proteins. There was no exposure to supplements, and a lack of knowledge of the
value of, say, soya and tofu as vegetarian protein options. It wasn’t until I started
to talk to players from the opposition that I became alive to the world of
possibilities when it came to fitness, diet and nutrition. That’s why I am
convinced that the results we produced as a team in those early days were all
entirely down to our skills. The western teams, to use the term loosely, were a lot
more scientific in their approach even then. We, by contrast, relied on our basic
skill sets until John’s entry.
Travelling overseas is a double-edged sword, and it takes on different hues at
various stages of your career as well as your life. As a newcomer, it is exciting
and exhilarating. You see new places and make new friends, some of them for
life. But as you get older, and become a husband and then a father, things
gradually get tougher.
That’s where a strong family support system is invaluable. I am blessed to
have what I do. Even when Sailaja and the kids didn’t travel with me, I knew
they were safe and comfortable, and that lifted a load off my shoulders. Not all
my teammates had that luxury, and I have seen how some of them struggled to
balance their professional and personal lives. Even when we were at home
between matches, we ended up spending at least five-six hours at practice, and
were visitors in our own homes. In the pre-Skype era, whenever we guys met
after a break, we would ask each other, ‘Did your kid recognise you when you
went home?’ It was a running joke, but believe me, it wasn’t that funny.
The scary part of travelling is when you are not doing well personally, and
the team is struggling too. The mood is sombre, and you don’t know who to turn
to for some comfort. How do you share your concerns, your worst fears, your
constant nightmares? And with whom? Your roommate is pretty much in the
same boat, so how do you cope? You feel very, very lonely. In India, no matter
which city you are playing in, you have lots of friends. You don’t play so often
in England or Australia or South Africa, but even if you do have friends there,
they are hesitant to come and meet you because they know you are feeling low,
and they are not sure how you will receive them.
It becomes imperative then, to cultivate friendships abroad as well, with
those who can help you get away from a negative emotional space and take your
mind off cricket. I was fortunate that when Sailaja travelled with me, she never
discussed cricket when I got back from the ground. Gradually, I realised that
though cricket is important, it is not the only thing. But when you are single, you
end up spending time around your teammates in the evenings too, and it
becomes impossible to not reflect on the day’s play. For comfort and words of
wisdom, where do you go?
Again, I am referring to a time when there was no Internet. Our per diems
weren’t sufficient for us to make expensive international calls back home—I
remember writing letters to my father from South Africa in 1996–97—and in the
darkest moments, I felt like someone was squeezing my heart tightly. It was then
that I missed my family and friends the most. A deep, dark, long tunnel used to
stare at me, without even a flicker of light in sight. And especially when the
silent treatment was on from the team management, I had to fight through it on
my own.
 I remember spending several sleepless nights, anxious and tense and
nervous and wondering what the future held. Or whether there was a future at
all. I dreaded going back to domestic cricket because there was a huge gap
between being an India player and a domestic player, from the practice facilities
and the grounds on which we played, to the hotels in which we stayed, the
manner in which we travelled and the attention that we got. At that time, the
only opportunity to make a career out of cricket was by playing for the country.
There was no professional help to turn to when it came to mental conditioning.
You had to work things out, address your own problems, rejuvenate yourself,
and start performing. The more I reflect on that, the more I admire players like
Kapil paaji and Sunny bhai, who had little to fall back on in terms of expertise in
coaching, fitness, rehab, or nutrition. They didn’t have trainers or physios, and
yet, in the unforgiving world of international cricket and against better equipped
sides, they remained outstanding for so long.
The key to doing well overseas, I have always believed, is to embrace the
local culture, to familiarise yourself with the place, the people, the traditions. Go
out and distract yourself, improve your knowledge, broaden your horizons, and
be open-minded. As a team, we were happy to go on outings together. In New
Zealand, it was the skywalk in Auckland, or rafting. In Zimbabwe, we walked
with the tigers and visited Victoria Falls. We surfed on the lovely Caribbean sea.
It exposed us to new challenges and adventures we might never have embarked
on had we not been part of the Indian cricket team.
Until they came to India in 2001 under Steve Waugh, Australia carried a
siege mentality with them, not to mention hundreds of cans of baked beans and
the like. They kept to themselves, they didn’t go out and mingle, and it reflected
in their performances. Steve changed that thinking, and as the Aussies got
around a bit and began to understand India and our people better, they played
better cricket here. That is no coincidence.
I am happy that for the modern player, things have changed so
dramatically. Technological advancements have made communicating with
family back home so much easier. There is access to better facilities in every
aspect. But as welcome as these developments are, none of them guarantee
performance. In that regard, nothing has changed, and nothing will.

At various stages of your career, just like in life, the aspirations and therefore the
hurdles to overcome are different in both character and magnitude. Your dreams
are initially modest—break into the school team, score runs. Gradually, as you
move up the ladder, you retrain your sights. The India cap becomes all-
consuming, and once you achieve that, you want to justify having that honour
conferred on you. Then, you want to contribute meaningfully, so that the team
benefits from your presence.
Once you have established yourself, you must live up to your own
expectations and those of your team. That’s what matters. I am not belittling
what the outside world wants of you, but as I said before, it is impossible to live
up to what everyone asks of you. You want to perform at your best every time
you are on the field, but that is humanly impossible. There will be times when
you are laid low by injury. I firmly believe that physical injury first takes root in
the mind. When the mind experiences a burnout, the body becomes more
susceptible to injuries.
I remember three distinct phases when I grappled with bouts of negativity
that threatened to tear me apart. Following the first round in 2000—when I was
dropped midway through the home series against South Africa, which made me
wonder if it was worth going through all this—the second time was after the
non-selection for the 2003 World Cup, when I almost called it a day. The blues
returned for a third time in 2007 and there was no discernible reason for it,
except that I was being weighed down by the pressure—possibly self-inflicted—
of having to go out and prove myself day after day.
I was lucky that I had the opportunity to rediscover myself, to find my
mojo again. I also believe that the spiritual quotient in my life helped me no end.
There are well-documented stories of sportspersons going into depression. Every
professional sportsperson, indeed every individual, goes through these periods
when nothing seems to matter anymore, when you find yourself in a sea of
darkness, waves of anguish washing over you, over and over again.
Perhaps it was the stigma of being labelled weak that prevented us from
discussing this even amongst ourselves. Perhaps the absence of a professional
support structure for mental conditioning forced us to deal with it on our own.
We had to appeal to our inner strength, and I can’t shake off the thought that
somehow, we Indians are blessed with that extra strength to cope with such dark
periods. Most of the players I played alongside were religious and that probably
also helped with mental rehabilitation. I don’t know if I was depressed in 2000.
Or 2003. Or 2007. I am not sure what word I should use to describe my state of
mind. All I know is that it was deeply frustrating, a constant inner battle that, by
the grace of God, I was able to overcome again and again.
It doesn’t help, of course, that you are trying to lead a private life in full
public glare. Everything happens in front of others, every little event is
scrutinised and discussed and dissected. Of course, everybody goes through
periods of self-doubt and uncertainty, but privately, without being exposed in
front of the world like public figures are. As cricketers, our lives are an open
book. You cannot be your normal self at most times when in public spaces. You
have to be the perfect person, so much so that some of us are almost forced to
become actors. There is an image affixed to you, and you have to live up to that
image, whether it’s the real you or not. I have come across cricketers who are so
different behind closed doors from what they are in public that it’s like they have
split personalities.
As I sat down to write this, I remembered something Venkatapathi Raju
once recounted to me. By then, Venks was a household name in India, not just an
international cricketer but also someone much loved because of his engaging,
outgoing nature and his ability to make friends in a jiffy. He told me that once,
when he was flying with the Indian team, a Bollywood star sought him out
during the flight and hugged him because there were 200 people watching. But
when he met the same star in private forums, he didn’t so much as receive a
hello. I suppose split personalities aren’t exclusive to cricketers.

Through ups and mainly through steep downs, during success and failure,
occasionally a cloud of indescribable sorrow would descend upon me, and I am
fairly certain something similar happened with many of my teammates too. We
all found ways to confront it, deal with it, get it out of the way, without ever
discussing it with each other. As sportspersons representing our country at the
highest level, we were meant to be mentally tough. We were not supposed to
have these negative emotions or, if we did, not show or share them, because they
were considered signs of weakness.
You feel an urge, at this time especially, to prove yourself, to prove
yourself right. When you are swamped by self-doubt or weighed down for no
apparent reason and you somehow manage to thwart it with performances, then
it’s all hunky-dory. But if you court repeated failure during this period, you are
bound to give up at some point. Luckily for me, I was successful in my first few
attempts at redemption, otherwise who knows what might have been.
Whenever I was dropped, I have had people come up to me at airports and
restaurants and tell me, ‘Bad luck, I am sure you will bounce back.’ And others
insisting, ‘You deserved to be dropped because these were your scores.’ Initially,
I was taken aback. We are not taught how to deal with these intangibles. As a
result, some players go from being afraid of failure to being afraid of success.
When you start to stack up a few performances, people expect you to be
successful, but there is no guarantee that you will do well all the time, I know of
many players who avoided playing matches because they didn’t want to be
branded a failure. Their logic—if you don’t play, you can’t fail.
Ultimately, it all boils down to the love and passion you have for the game,
how much you enjoy playing it, and the pride you take in achieving your goals.
Sachin used to say that the only place where he could have lots of fun without
any hindrance was when he was out there in the middle. As paradoxical as that
might sound, he felt that no one could disturb him or intrude on his space when
he was batting or fielding. It was the only time he could be himself.

I have always been open to experimentation in a continued effort to become a

better cricketer and a better human being. When I wasn’t in a great place
mentally in the summer of 1999, my uncle—an HR professional—suggested that
I undergo a three-day course in Neuro Linguistic Programming (NLP) in
Mumbai. Eager for any straws, I clutched at this one desperately and came away
with greater clarity.
One of the exercises involved a group of seven people shouting repeatedly
and loudly into my ears by way of positive reinforcement. I wanted a triple
hundred in first-class cricket against my name, and that was the message—‘I
will score a triple hundred’—the group drilled into me for five minutes at a
stretch. That had plenty to do, I am convinced, with my 167 in Sydney and 353
in Bengaluru against Karnataka in the Ranji Trophy semi-final, both within the
next 10 months.
An NLP practitioner in Hyderabad once approached me with an offer of
help. I took him at face value, and shared my fears and doubts with him. To my
disappointment and no little anger, I discovered that in seminars and other public
platforms, he revealed details of our confidential discussions as an endorsement
of his abilities.
I had similar experiences later, with noted mental conditioners and
counsellors, so I decided that the best way out was to work out things by myself.
For technical inputs to help my batting, I still interacted with various coaches.
Even if they claimed to have sorted out Laxman’s problems, that was fine
because the idea was to improve my game. But when it came to matters of the
mind, I became my own coach.
 Apart from NLP, I read plenty of motivational books. I benefitted vastly
from Tony Robbins’ Awaken the Giant Within, a book I recommend for every
aspiring sportsperson. Actually, for every professional. I hunted down his videos
and practised the various visualisation techniques he advocated. I used
visualisation as a helpful tool. I also enjoyed listening to my father deconstruct
situations. Every chat with him gave me greater clarity and insight.
Most importantly, I gained a lot of strength and succour from my
spirituality, and the support of my family. I drew strength from my daily morning
prayers, from the Gita, and from being a devout follower of Shirdi Sai Baba and
Satya Sai Baba. Even today, when I am grappling with a dilemma, I randomly
open Sai Satcharita, which chronicles the life-story of Shirdi Sai Baba, and I
find the answer to my problem on that exact page I have opened. I consider that
a huge blessing from God.
 18
The T20 Roller Coaster

It comes as a surprise even to me that I was among the first Indians to play 20-
over cricket. Not in the shape and form it has taken today, but 20-over cricket
nevertheless, and more than two decades ago at that.
My first T20 experience was in 1995, when I was with Hanging Heaton in
the Bradford league in Yorkshire. Our 50-over club games were on Saturdays, so
on Wednesdays, we would play 20-over matches, which started at 6 in the
evening. It wasn’t a slam-bang affair, and no one tried to hit the cover off the
ball. Since it was something of a midweek hit-out, we treated it as a practice
outing for the big game at the weekend. Generally, the top three or four would
bat out the entire 20 overs, and not worry too much about what the score read at
the end of 120 deliveries. Not quite the ideal start to my T20 career, admittedly.
The T20 revolution started in the early 2000s, but it wasn’t until the IPL
arrived with its heady mix of cricket and entertainment, of Bollywood and high-
profile industrialist owners, that it grabbed the consciousness of the Indian fan.
And, as it turned out, the IPL made its debut against the perfect backdrop.
India were reluctant practitioners of the 20-over game. Prior to the
inaugural World T20 in South Africa in 2007, we had played just one
international fixture. The attitude to the format at that time was evident from the
team that went to South Africa; it had very few experienced names. Several
established players had opted out. Rahul, who was our Test and ODI captain
then, along with Sachin and Sourav, skipped the event to enjoy a little break
before the season to follow, and India sent out a youngish team under MS.
For the first time since Kapil paaji’s squad went to England in 1983 for the
World Cup, an Indian team was competing in a global cricket tournament
without the massive weight of expectations. Given that Indian fans hadn’t been
exposed to the format beyond the rebel Indian Cricket League (ICL), they didn’t
know what to expect. And since all the top guns were missing, they certainly
didn’t expect the team to go all the way. How wrong everyone was.
That first World T20 became an unqualified success globally, and the
Indian team’s searing run meant there was massive and immediate interest across
our cricket-crazed country. The spectacle that South Africa threw up was
riveting, made even more attractive by Yuvi’s six sixes in an over, by the bowl-
out win against Pakistan in the league phase, and by the five-run win, also
against Pakistan, in a gripping finale.
It is more than likely that the IPL would have grown into the behemoth it is
today, no matter what happened in South Africa. That India came out of nowhere
and stunned everyone with their title triumph hastened the process. Before our
World Cup win in 1983, India was primarily a Test nation. Our focus was on
Test cricket, with the 50-over game being a bit of an afterthought. Kapil paaji’s
team were 66-to-1 outsiders going into the World Cup, but after they felled the
mighty West Indies in the final, they catalysed a change in India’s approach to
the limited-overs game. India had been a modest one-day side till then, but
galvanised by the World Cup triumph, we began to do consistently well in the
one-day format. Our glorious run to the World Championship of Cricket title in
Australia in 1985 reinforced our status as one-day giants.
The World T20 win in South Africa was the equivalent of the World Cup
win of 1983 in terms of creating an awareness and a buzz. The IPL was a win-
win even before it started. India had won the World T20 just seven months
before the IPL commenced, and the excitement spilled over, especially as the
best players in the world were coming together on one platform. Distinguished
cricketers from different countries would occupy the same space in a franchise
dressing room, and best buddies from the same nation would square off against
each other with no quarter asked and none given.
It was akin to Kerry Packer’s World Series Cricket (WSC) in the 1970s,
but with a massive difference. The IPL had the blessings of the administration,
unlike the WSC, and brought together the crème de la crème from across the
globe as well as young and promising Indian talent on an unexpectedly high-
eyeball platform on which to perform and impress.
But nothing, not even the World T20, had prepared India for the IPL. The
glamour quotient, especially in the first few years when cricket was not the only
headline act, was unimaginably high. The lights, the singing and dancing, the
buzz and electricity, all appealed to a wider audience, beyond the traditional
cricket followers. Suddenly, families had a new way to enjoy their evenings,
other than visiting parks and beaches and movie halls. It was three hours of
unfettered entertainment with results guaranteed, and inevitably, newer fans got
hooked to the game. To keep them involved and interested, there was a lot of
other action around the cricket. Even early into Season 1, you knew that the IPL
had surpassed the wildest of expectations and was here to stay.

Even as MS and his team were turning the world upside down in South Africa,
the IPL was announced with grand fanfare in Mumbai in September 2007.
Several of the franchises had ‘icon’ players who came from the cities that had
won the right to field teams. Sachin was the icon player for Mumbai Indians,
Sourav for Kolkata Knight Riders, Viru for Delhi Daredevils, Rahul for Royal
Challengers Bangalore, Yuvi for Kings XI Punjab. Chennai Super Kings and
Rajasthan Royals didn’t have icon players but made spectacular acquisitions in
MS and Shane Warne respectively. My franchise was Deccan Chargers, based
out of Hyderabad.
I passed up on the icon player status because that meant receiving 15 per
cent more than what the franchise paid for its most expensive player. I thought
that the money could be used for two purposes—to augment the auction purse,
and for the development of cricket at the grassroots level in Hyderabad. I had
captained India A and had been the vice-captain of the Test team the previous
year, but I hadn’t ever led a team full of international superstars. Naturally, I was
very, very upbeat about the IPL. As the captain, I was looking forward to
creating an impression, to getting the best out of top players from around the
world, most of whom I had only played against.
The owners of our team ran a successful English newspaper, Deccan
Chronicle, an iconic and indigenous Hyderabad product. They were not too
clued into cricket, and had appointed Shishir Hattangadi, the former Mumbai
player, and Vijay Mohanraj, the former Hyderabad opener, as directors of cricket
to oversee operations. After I came back from the tour of Australia in late
January 2008, Shishir and ‘Tony’ sir took me to a meeting with Mr T Venkattram
Reddy.
I came away impressed with the vision he had for Hyderabad cricket as a
whole, not just for Deccan Chargers in the IPL. Our aims and goals were in sync,
and he entrusted the responsibility of running the franchise to me.
I was involved in all matters cricketing, from getting Robin Singh on board
as coach to identifying the physio, the trainer, and other members of the support
staff, to working out the number of sets of match and practice clothing each
member required. I was also deeply involved in the process of identifying
players we should target at the auction, even though I wasn’t physically a part of
the auction myself as I wasn’t an icon player. That was to prove both a good
thing and not such a good thing.
We procured the services of several big names in world cricket—Adam
Gilchrist, Andrew Symonds, Shahid Afridi and Chaminda Vaas, among others—
but were caught unawares when it came to keeping in touch with the rapidly
changing rules, which understandably were a work in progress. We suffered
most when it came to uncapped players.
Initially, we were told that we could only pick players from our respective
catchment areas, and ours was restricted to Hyderabad, Andhra and Orissa. As
the tournament neared, the rules were constantly revised. I am not sure how
clued in our CEO, J Krishnan, was, while we were playing the Test series against
South Africa at home. By the time I came to know that uncapped players from
beyond the original catchment areas could be approached, the damage had been
done because some of the franchises had already snapped up the big domestic
names. Thus, even though we had a strong overseas group and a pretty good
crop of capped Indian players, we lost the opportunity of picking up some top
uncapped names. Which, in turn, meant we were overly dependent on our
foreign stars, who had experience of the format, and had fewer Indian players to
bank on.
Despite this, I was optimistic of our chances. However, my first experience
of the IPL wasn’t to be a memorable one.

My season ended after six games, and at a time when I was beginning to get a
hang of the demands of the T20 format. We lost five of those matches, though
four of them went down to the last over. After a poor start as a batsman, I found
my bearings when I pushed myself up to open the innings. I made 37 not out as
Gilly smashed a century in our rout of Mumbai Indians, then contributed 48 and
52 in the next two matches. It was during the course of my first T20 half-century,
against Royal Challengers Bangalore, that I sustained an injury that was to
terminate not just my season but also my honeymoon period with the franchise.
I was early into the pull against Dale Steyn, and was pinged on my right
hand. Even as I carried on, I knew that something was seriously wrong. An X-
ray the following day confirmed my worst fears—I had sustained a fracture, and
my season was over.
 If I had picked up the injury while playing for India or for Hyderabad, I
would have spent the recuperation period at home. That’s exactly what I told our
owners, but they felt that as the designated captain, I should travel with the team
even if I couldn’t play. The idea appealed to me at the time, and I was a part of
the team for the remaining eight games while Gilly took over as captain.
Franchise cricket runs differently from international or first-class cricket.
In the latter, once the captain is injured, the new skipper is entirely in charge;
that’s how it has always been. The captain of an IPL franchise, as I was to realise
later, was a more powerful and hands-on individual, but having had no prior
taste of this, I transferred all leadership responsibilities to Gilly. I didn’t want to
interfere in his decision-making because he was responsible for the results he
produced and I had no intention of leading by proxy. In hindsight, that’s
something I could have done differently. The owners had all along interacted
only with me, and since they had allocated decision-making responsibilities to
me, they were under the impression that it was I and not Gilly who was running
the show. In IPL 2008, Deccan Chargers ended up at the bottom of the table with
just two wins—one under me, the other under Gilly—from 14 games. I should
have been firm and continued to take responsibility by controlling the reins
instead of passing them fully over to Gilly, but international cricket had not
prepared me for that possibility. Things might still have panned out the same
way, I understand, but at least I wouldn’t die wondering.
Very early in the piece, it became apparent that most of the franchise
owners didn’t entirely understand what it took to run a cricket team. Apart from
Chennai Super Kings and Rajasthan Royals, the other owners had very little
knowledge of the intricacies of the sport. India Cements, the Chennai team
owners, had had teams playing in the TNCA league for a long time and knew
what running a cricket team entailed. Rajasthan Royals’ Manoj Badale knew the
game and stepped back once he had handed over charge to Warne, not interfering
in cricketing matters. Since most of the other owners weren’t well versed with
the game, cricket invariably came second to the glamour associated with the IPL.
They took pride in the fact that they ‘owned’ celebrity players.
Also, in the early years, there was a massive focus on after-parties, which
the players were mandated to attend. I was definitely not comfortable with that
idea. Every team had plenty of youngsters, and it was natural that they got
excited about and distracted by the parties. I made my apprehensions clear to the
owners and the CEO more than once. Almost two months of constant partying
was not going to do any favours to the younger players in particular, but my
appeals fell on deaf ears.
I watched from the sidelines as the team stumbled from one defeat to
another. I felt desperate and helpless. There was no attempt to build a team
culture, which is so important for winning matches and tournaments. The season
couldn’t end soon enough, and as the last ball was bowled, the sense of
disappointment deepened. We had some wonderfully talented individuals, but as
a team we were poor on strategy and, I should concede, leadership.
It came as no surprise to me when, a few months later, I got a call from the
Chargers management informing me that they had decided to hand over
captaincy duties to Gilly. I had seen the writing on the wall. I was disappointed
only because I’d had grand ambitions of winning the tournament for the
franchise, which was why I had given away the icon status. But nothing had
gone right for us, and I personally didn’t succeed in making the owners
understand how a cricket team should be run.

As we approached IPL 2009 in South Africa, I was coming off a very good
international season, and confident of extending my run in the 20-over game as
well. However, I made a poor start with just 19 runs from the first four innings—
one of them at No. 5—and was promptly dropped. Recalled for one more game,
I was dismissed without scoring, and dropped permanently thereafter. To be
honest, I am not sure why I was brought back in the first place. We were to play
CSK in East London, and at the team meeting the previous night, I was told that
I wouldn’t be playing. Those of us not in the eleven would generally hit the gym
on match day, so I had a two-hour stint at the gym, went back to my room and
was sleeping when I was woken up by a phone call informing me that I would be
playing that evening. I told the team management that I was in no position to
play, having exhausted myself at the gym, but they insisted that I should be in
the team. The result was predictably disastrous.
By then, Darren Lehmann had come on board as coach with a fresh set of
ideas, and Gilly was captaining the team very well. We had lost early momentum
but the team environment was good, and that’s how we were able to bounce back
and go all the way to the title.
I was happy to share my experiences with the youngsters in the team and
help them out wherever I felt they needed assistance. I didn’t mope about being
left out. I did my best to remain positive and respond to the requirements of the
team, but there were roadblocks along the way. It was as if the representatives of
the owners were deliberately trying to undermine me. My young family was
travelling with me—Achintya was just five months old—but more often than
not, they wouldn’t be booked on the same flight. Sailaja and the kids were made
to wait at the airport for long periods before the designated car arrived to pick
them up. These might seem like trivial issues, but they work on your mind
constantly.
But every cloud has a silver lining. The Chargers experience was a
valuable learning for me in terms of what you should not do in franchise cricket.
That has helped me immeasurably in my current stint as mentor with Sunrisers
Hyderabad. The owners at Chargers, and I suspect several others, were result-
oriented rather than process-driven. They were successful in their own fields,
and felt that, having invested heavily in the players, the results had to follow
instantaneously and automatically. Cricket doesn’t work that way, as everyone
knows.
Much has been said of my T20 batting, and I can’t disagree with most of it.
However, and I am sure this will come as a surprise to many, I have a good T20
record for Lancashire. Alright, so I only played three matches for them, but I
made 159 runs at an acceptable strike rate of 132.50. That stint was just a month
after IPL 2009 ended. In Lancashire, I knew that as the overseas pro, I would get
my chances and felt secure. In the IPL, apart from the first season where I was
the captain and played six games in a row before getting injured, I didn’t play
longer than four matches on the trot.
In those early days of 20-over cricket, a lot of us ‘touch’ players—Rahul,
Sachin, Jacques Kallis included—took time to adjust to the demands of this
version. I started off every season playing my natural game, but when I was
dropped and then recalled, I veered from my strengths and tried to impress
others by adopting a style totally alien to me. I tried cute shots, I tried to hit the
ball hard, and that was definitely not my natural game. That’s what happened
with me early in my one-day career too. I tried to bat like AB de Villiers when I
should have tried to bat like Virat Kohli, if you get what I am saying. I ditched
the game that had helped me reach where I had, and paid the ultimate penalty.
My game was such that I had the best chance of being successful if I batted
in the top three. If I had to come in in the tenth over, say, I would struggle. I was
a timer of the cricket ball and when the field restrictions were in place, it was all
about finding the gaps and picking up the boundaries. The harder the cricket
ball, the more the opportunities for me to score quickly.
Until recently, I hadn’t paid much attention to ‘timing’, although it was a
word I had grown up with. It wasn’t until someone recently asked me to define
timing that I got down to analysing it.
The way I see it, timing is how the ball flows off your bat. The masters of
timing are able to strike the ball from the sweet part of the bat more often than
not because they ‘see’ the ball a fraction of a second earlier than the rest. Picking
up the length stems from the cues the batsman garners—the way the bowler is
running in and the position of his wrist at delivery. The sooner you pick up the
length, the more time you have to play your shots—by more time, I am still only
talking fractions of a second.
There is a subtle correlation between time to play your shots and timing.
The latter effectively means imparting maximum power to your strokes without
trying to hit the ball too hard. One of the clichés used for touch players is, ‘He
hardly hit a shot in anger.’ That is as close to the perfect definition of timing as
possible.
Can you work on timing? Absolutely. Again, like most things in cricket, it
stems from muscle memory. Your timing is at its best when your head, torso,
hands and feet are in perfect sync and balance biomechanically. If even one of
those elements is out of kilter, your timing automatically suffers. You can hit the
ball as hard as you like, and it will barely trickle off the square. That’s especially
evident on slow pitches, when your muscle memory works against you if it
doesn’t make allowances for the lack of pace on the ball.
The synchronicity between the four key body parts is not a happy accident,
it is a happy action. It comes through hours of practice. There will be days when
you strike the ball beautifully, when you merely lay bat to ball and it races away.
Those are the days you need to dissect carefully from a biomechanical
perspective. Identify the position of the head, the torso, the hands and the feet.
And replicate it in training so often that, from a deliberate and conscious effort,
it becomes second nature. When you optimise biomechanics, the bat becomes an
extension of the arms, the rhythm is mellifluous, the impact stunning. I enjoyed
the feeling of the bat making contact with the ball, and the ball flying away
faster than it arrived, even though all I appeared to have done was merely touch
it.
But whenever I felt the need to establish myself in the IPL, I tried to do
something different. I should have stuck to my game and played my shots along
the ground, piercing the infield. Instead, I tried to become a power player. I
started to step out to fast bowlers, I tried to make room and hit over the off-side.
I looked to hit sixes, which was hardly my calling card. In trying to smash the
ball, I was losing my shape. I was not getting myself into good positions to play
proper shots. My desperation was to prove my undoing. That is something I try
to impress upon players I work with these days. I use my example of what not to
do when the going gets tough.
The biggest change as far as the IPL is concerned is that it is now cricket
first and frills later. Equally importantly, having been involved with the
tournament for more than a decade, I can assert that the owners are a lot more
knowledgeable today. They know how the game is played, how a team needs to
be built, and vitally, how to infuse confidence in the ranks when the team is not
doing well. They understand that cricket doesn’t work like business, and the
biggest names need not translate into trophies and titles. They have started to
trust the professionals they have employed to deliver the goods and stay away
from interfering in the day-to-day running of the team, including picking the
playing eleven, as they used to in the early days.
It is also great to see the evolution of the format. Initially, it was construed
as a batsman’s game, and the hard-hitting, ball-bashing batsman at that. But the
quality of batsmanship has improved to the extent that it isn’t just the
unorthodox or uber-creative batsmen who have thrived. Virat, Kane Williamson
and KL Rahul are the best examples of how, if you trust your game and are
aware of your strengths, you can be successful without resorting to superficially
attractive shots or throwing the coaching manual out of the window.
But the change that gives me the maximum pleasure is the impact of the
bowlers in general, and the spinners in particular. The T20 game was supposed
to sound the death knell for the spin bowler. But the spinners have developed so
much and introduced so many variations that they have established themselves
as the ultimate match-winners.
There is also a strong emphasis on data and analytics, on understanding
patterns and preparing accordingly. T20 cricket has come a long way from what
a lot of us perceived it to be. Now, much thought and planning goes into various
aspects—the auction, diet, training, fitness, how to recover from the constant
travel, how to stay fresh and focused despite the unending hustle and bustle. I am
fortunate that, as mentor of Sunrisers Hyderabad, I am in a position to watch
these developments from close quarters, and to guard players from falling into
the same abyss as I had in trying times. There will always be sceptics, but as far
as I am concerned, the IPL’s role in the continued evolution of Indian cricket
cannot be exaggerated.
 19
Mr Comeback Man

In my late teens, as the battle between the dream of becoming an international

cricketer and the goal of being a doctor intensified, I made a pact with myself. If
I did go on to play for the country and if I was good enough to keep playing, I
would be a cricketer till the age of 35. I would then retire, complete my MBBS
and become a doctor. If things panned out as planned, I would be able to fulfil
both my passions.
I turned 35 in November 2009, but I put off a decision on retirement
because I had hardly played international cricket for the first four years and
believed I still had plenty to offer. We had a packed year of Test cricket to look
forward to in 2010—a tour of Bangladesh, followed by South Africa at home,
Sri Lanka away, Australia in our own backyard, and then South Africa away in
December for a three-match series.
The year started disappointingly when I split the webbing in my left hand
while taking a catch at slip off Ishant’s bowling in the first Test in Chittagong in
January. It was the first time I had sustained an injury of this nature, and despite
physio Nitin Patel’s advice, I wanted to play in the second game in Dhaka. I was
trying to bat through the stiches and the pain when Sachin came up at practice in
Dhaka the day before the Test and said, ‘A split webbing isn’t a small injury, I’ve
endured it. I understand you are keen to play, but be smart and don’t take a risk.
The webbing could split again, and you have to be ready for the series against
South Africa.’ Nitin had tried to convey the same message but I was adamant
until Sachin pointed out the pitfalls of putting myself at risk.
I returned to Hyderabad, disappointed but also determined to use the time
to work on my fitness before the Tests against South Africa in February. The
doctor had told me I would be fine in 10 days, and I did feel better when I joined
the team in Nagpur in early February for the first Test. I had eased into batting
with throw-downs back in Hyderabad, but during the first practice session in
Nagpur, I felt severe jarring and discomfort when I played the fast bowlers. I was
losing my grip because I had no strength in my top hand; Gary Kirsten told me I
would be better off sitting out the Test because of the presence of the pacy Dale
Steyn and Morne Morkel in the South African attack. Rahul was also out of the
series, having fractured his jaw in the Dhaka Test while batting, so we had two
debutants in Nagpur—S Badrinath and Wriddhiman Saha. Originally, Rohit
Sharma had been scheduled to make his debut, but he twisted his ankle while
playing soccer in the warm-up on the morning of the Test, so Saha was drafted in
at the last minute.
We were overrun by Steyn, who put on a memorable exhibition of reverse
swing. Viru scored a hundred in the first innings and Sachin scored a century in
the second, but Steyn fired us out with 10 wickets for the match, playing the lead
role in South Africa’s innings win. I watched helplessly from the sidelines,
though I took heart from the improvement in my condition. By the third day of
the Test, I was pain-free and looking forward to the second and final game,
which we had to win to retain our No. 1 ranking.
By a happy coincidence, the match was in Kolkata, where the team and I
had had many delightful outings. However, we were in for a rude shock as
Alviro Petersen, on debut, and Hashim Amla put on more than 200 for the
second wicket after Graeme Smith won the toss. South Africa were on course for
400-plus when Zak struck decisive blows after tea. From 218 for one, they were
shot out for 296. It was an incredible effort from our bowlers on a good batting
strip.
The most difficult batting periods in Kolkata are first thing in the morning,
when the early start allows the quicker bowlers to exploit the moisture in the air,
and late in the evening, when the breeze wafts in. Viru got us off to a feverish
start, and even though we lost two wickets in quick time, he and Sachin made
their second hundreds of the series and took the South Africans apart. However,
with stumps half an hour away on the second evening, we suffered a mini
collapse. The two centurions were followed back to the pavilion by Badrinath,
who was beaten and bowled by a massive reverse swinger from Steyn.
I truly felt for Badri. He had waited a long time to play Test cricket and had
done well on debut with a half-ton, playing the reversing ball with confidence
and assurance. However, this time around, he had no chance. The light was
fading rapidly, and he was very early in his innings. I suspect he had problems
sighting the ball. I don’t think it was the pace and swing as much as the light that
did him in. To counter the reversing ball at a pace one doesn’t get to play often
would have been difficult at the best of times. In poor light, it was next to
impossible. Unfortunately, that was his last Test innings.
Amit Mishra, the nightwatchman, and I saw off a tense eight deliveries to
stumps, and Mishy held his own on the third morning when South Africa made a
tactical blunder. Despite the huge amounts of reverse that Steyn, Morkel, Wayne
Parnell and Jacques Kallis were getting, Smith opted for the harder second new
ball, against which batting was far easier. Mishy frustrated South Africa for
nearly an hour, and then MS bustled in, all aggression. He was in the best batting
form of his life, and he ripped the attack to shreds while I was content to keep
ticking over. As we pressed the accelerator in the quest for quick runs before the
declaration, MS smashed Parnell flat over cover. The ball thudded into the fence,
one-bounce, before the sweeper had time to react. Had the ball gone straight to
him, it could have done serious damage.
When MS declared, we had put on 259. He was unbeaten on 132, I had
reached 143, our total was 643, and the lead 347. We had more than two days to
force victory, draw the series and maintain our top ranking, all of which seemed
a formality.
The elements almost ruined our plans. Less than 35 overs of play was
possible on day four due to a combination of rain and bad light so that going into
the final day, we still required seven wickets with the unflappable Amla going
strong. He continued to defy us for 500 minutes in making 123 not out, but was
running out of support. More than an hour and a quarter remained when Morkel,
the last man, joined Amla, and we were already thinking of the celebrations, but
then started one of the most gripping passages of play in a year full of drama and
tension.
Morkel was solid in defence, Amla typically unmoved, and we were
beginning to feel that victory was slipping away. We were still only one ball
away from our desired goal, but each defensive stroke added to our frustration.
Amid the edginess around him, MS was as calm as ever, directing the
proceedings with confidence, and Bhajji responded by trapping Morkel in front
for his fifth wicket of the innings. South Africa were no more than an over and a
half away from safety, but our desperation carried the day in the end.
A century in my first game back from injury was a personal milestone, and
the victory a more satisfying outcome. But by the end of the game, I was
completely drained. I had no energy, even though I had only played two Tests in
two and a half months, and was happy to be returning to Hyderabad. I remember
telling Sachin, ‘Hats off to you. You have already played four Tests this year,
and now you are part of the one-day series too. I salute your endurance and your
hunger.’ A few days later, in Gwalior, Sachin became the first Indian to score a
double hundred in ODIs. It was a great way to wind down our international
season.

After the third edition of the IPL, we made the short hop to Sri Lanka where, for
one reason or the other, success had proved elusive. We would beat the same Sri
Lankan side comfortably in India, but when we went there, despite our
familiarity with the conditions, we invariably came second best. We were
determined to correct that anomaly, but familiar trouble lay in store in the first
Test.
Before the start of the three-match series, Muttiah Muralitharan announced
that he would retire at the end of the Galle Test. Sri Lankan cricket’s greatest
match-winner was ending his run, and all the attention was justifiably centred on
him. He needed eight victims to become the first bowler to reach a whopping
800 Test wickets, and seemed on course for that milestone when he spun a mean
web in the first innings with 5 for 63, forcing us to follow-on the fourth day.
We were in a pickle at 197 for 7, still nearly 50 away from avoiding an
innings defeat with the entire final day left, when I struck up a good partnership
with Abhimanyu Mithun, in his first Test series. For an hour, Mithun kept Sri
Lanka at bay until Lasith Malinga had his number. Then, Ishant helped me
extend our miniscule advantage. We were a long way from safety, but if we
could hang in there, who knew? We batted through to lunch and a little beyond,
and with each passing minute, Murali was getting more and more agitated. He
was perched on 799 Test wickets, and he was as dismayed as I was—but for
entirely different reasons—when I was run out for 69. After I cooled down in the
dressing room, I found myself joining my teammates in silently rooting for
Murali. Ishant and Pragyan Ojha were in defiant mode, and we wanted them to
carry on for as long as possible. The only concession we made was that if one of
them did get out, it should be to Murali, the champion off-spinner. It would have
been a travesty of justice had he been left stranded on 799. As it turned out,
Murali induced an edge from Ojha, which was expertly held at slip by Mahela
Jayawardene. I have great respect for Murali, a close friend and an excellent
ambassador both for his country and the game, and I was thrilled that he was
going out on a high, even though the bitter taste of impending defeat lingered.
The loss, and especially the manner of my second-innings dismissal,
rankled during the winding four-hour drive from Galle to Colombo. We hadn’t
played like the best Test side in the world. We had every intention of correcting
our poor record in Sri Lanka, but we were not playing well enough to achieve
that objective. And my back spasms were beginning to flare up. I was anything
but upbeat.
The early exchanges during the second Test in Colombo did little to lift my
mood. Sri Lanka won the toss on a shirtfront at the SSC ground and piled on the
runs. We weren’t quite the walking wounded, but Yuvi was struggling with his
knee, Gautam had a groin problem, and Viru and I were battling back issues.
However, Viru showed no effects of injury as he blazed to 99 after Sri Lanka had
declared at 642 for 4. Sachin produced an excellent double century and Suresh
Raina celebrated his debut with a beautiful hundred, grabbing his chance with
both hands. We came away from the Test with the better of the exchanges, but
Sri Lanka still led 1–0 with one match to go.
During the course of the series, Malinga had spoken to Gauti about
Dr Eliyantha White, a spiritual healer who many called the ‘Miracle Doctor’.
Sachin had flown out before the final of the IPL that year to meet Dr White, and
made a miraculous recovery from an injury, in time for the Mumbai Indians’ title
clash against Chennai Super Kings. Nitin had specifically asked us not to seek
treatment from Dr White, but given his reputation and the possibility of a pain-
free existence, Viru, Gauti, Yuvi and I went to see him the evening the SSC Test
ended.
Dr White gave me a liquid concoction, and asked me to meet him the
following day, which was three days before the final Test. Even though I
couldn’t sleep a wink that night because of the medicine, I decided to visit him
again the next day and he repeated the second dose of three, leading to another
sleepless night. The final dose the next day produced a third straight night of no
sleep, accompanied by a massively elevated heart rate and profuse, relentless
sweating. When I came down for breakfast the morning before the match, I was
severely disoriented; during practice, I didn’t have the energy to even put my
pads on. I looked around me, and found Viru, Gauti and Yuvi in a similarly
dishevelled, spent state.
We laughed weakly at our predicament, but those smiles disappeared when
Sachin strode up and gave us a piece of his mind. He knew we had no business
visiting the doctor—apparently, sleeplessness, palpitations, sweating,
disorientation and drowsiness were expected side-effects for the first 72 hours—
and had a go at us for disregarding the physio’s instructions. Suitably chastened,
I tried to bat at the nets. As always, MS sent down a flurry of bouncers, and I
pulled instinctively. My reactions were slow and I could easily have been struck
on the face. ‘What a mess we have made of this situation,’ I told Viru. ‘I don’t
know how I will get through the Test.’
 I did have a great evening leading up to the Test, fortified by an excellent
home-made meal. Several days ago, I had accepted an invitation from Rajen
Udeshi, a Sri Lankan cricket official, who is a passionate cricket lover and
follower of Indian cricket, to dine with him and his family in Colombo. He is a
dear friend to many Indian cricketers and a gracious, willing host with a ready
smile. Even though I wasn’t at my best, I didn’t want to break my word and I
ended up having a wonderful time. His wife Sonal was a brilliant cook and the
kids smart, so the evening went by quickly and I temporarily forgot my
discomfort.
MS lost the toss the following day at the P Sara Oval and Sri Lanka chose
to bat. By mid-morning, I was back to normal, but by stumps, the back spasms
returned with a vengeance. I remember hearing a ‘click’ as I tweaked my back
while fielding at mid-wicket, but I made a half-century as we took a slender lead
in the first innings. There was plenty of time left in the game on a quick-scoring
ground to force a result, and we had Sri Lanka on the ropes at 125 for 8 in their
second knock before Ajantha Mendis, my old nemesis, and Thilan Samaraweera
rallied them to 267.
That left us needing 257 to square the series, challenging but achievable
given that it was still a good batting surface and time was not a factor. But Suraj
Randiv, the off-spinner, worked our top order over and by stumps on day four,
we were on the back foot at 53 for 3, with Murali Vijay, Viru and Rahul
dismissed.
I was forced to walk in some 20 minutes after play began on the final
morning when Ishant became Randiv’s fourth victim. At 62 for 4, we required a
further 195, and even though Suresh and MS were still to come, our hopes
hinged on a substantial partnership between Sachin and me. By then, my back
had become rock-hard, the soft muscles around the bulging disc hardening to
form a natural protective covering. I could barely move, and told Sachin that I
needed a runner. He was, however, insistent that I should bat without a runner.
‘We don’t want any scope for miscommunication, Lachi,’ he said. ‘Forget about
the runner, just bear the pain and continue batting.’
I could hardly disagree with him, and somehow gritted my teeth and went
through to lunch, every movement sending a stabbing pain through my body. At
lunch, I told Viru that I couldn’t see myself continuing without a runner. I also
told him that Sachin felt that a third pair of legs would impact our rhythm. Viru
laughed and skipped away, but when we walked back to resume our chase, he
accompanied us as my runner. He had managed to convince Sachin that I was in
no position to run, but I am sure Sachin wasn’t amused at being dismissed
almost immediately afterwards. He had had unpleasant experiences with runners
in the past, and his worst fears came true again.
While Sachin and I had added 109, we were still 87 short of the target.
Suresh, fresh off the hundred on debut and 62 in the first innings, played his
shots freely. In a bid to unsettle me, Malinga decided to test me with a slew of
bumpers. My back didn’t allow me to duck or sway out of the way, so I stood
and pulled him through mid-wicket repeatedly. Boundaries flowed from both
ends and the Sri Lankans looked stunned. They were clearly missing Murali,
who had performed the twin roles of run-denier and wicket-taker for so long, and
were ill-equipped to slip into the defensive once we got on top. Those 87 runs
came off a mere 102 deliveries when we were under pressure. It was a brilliant
finish to the Test and the series. I came back unconquered on 103, my first
hundred in Sri Lanka, but most crucially, a century in a winning cause.

While the limited-overs specialists stayed back for the one-day series that
followed, I returned to Hyderabad hoping to find a permanent solution to my
back problems. Between the P Sara Test and our next Test engagement, against
Australia in Mohali in October, I had two months at my disposal. However, I had
to wait for Nitin to return from Sri Lanka before I could go to the NCA in
Bengaluru. Nitin accompanied me for an MRI, after which he suggested that I
travel to London to meet two spine specialists. I had to wait ten days for my visa,
and by the time I landed in London, five weeks had passed since I last played
cricket.
The two doctors in London offered contrasting opinions. One of them
wanted me to take an injection, the other was against it. Nitin, who was with the
Mumbai Indians in South Africa for the Champions League, left the decision to
me, but I wasn’t qualified enough to make the call. In the end, I chose not to take
the shot, returning home after 10 days of core strengthening and rehabilitation.
I wasn’t in a good frame of mind when we reassembled in Mohali ahead of
the first Test against Australia. My back was still troublesome, and I went into a
spasm again on the first day of the match when the Aussies were batting. I was
furious at the nonchalance with which the team management had approached my
injury. I told Gary that I was disappointed there wasn’t a better injury-
management system in place in a team that prided itself on professionalism and
on being the best in the world, not just on the field but also off it. The doctors in
London had asked me for my exercise chart, and I was surprised to hear them
both agree that 80 per cent of the exercises recommended by the team’s trainer
were detrimental to my back. They also told me that I had aggravated the injury
by batting in the second innings at the P Sara Oval. The rotation for the back
because of the pulls against Malinga had contributed to the worsening of the
injury. I was dangerously close to blowing my top as Gary heard me out
patiently.
Having let off steam, I settled for batting at No. 10 in a Test match—for the
only time—in the first innings. Our top order had done enough to get us to
within 23 of Australia’s 428, and when our bowling group packed them off for
192, we were on track for a comfortable win. We needed only 216, and even
though I was all but unavailable, a line-up of Gauti, Viru, Rahul, Sachin, Suresh
and MS was more than capable of scaling that total down.
Ben Hilfenhaus didn’t believe that. He wrecked the top order on the fourth
evening, and we collapsed to 48 for 4 with four overs left. Zak went in as the
nightwatchman—I couldn’t bat higher than No. 7 because I had not fielded for
the entire Australian second innings—when Gary asked if I would go in at the
fall of the next wicket. Despite my obvious handicap, I readily agreed.
‘Anything for the team, Gary,’ I told him. Gary’s logic was that there was no
point in my going to bat at No. 9 or No. 10. The team would be better served by
my batting at No. 7 with a couple of good batsmen to follow, and I was more
than happy to do that.
With the help of my teammates, I padded up and waited nervously, praying
for Sachin and Zak to see the day through. They did, and as soon as stumps were
drawn, I asked Gary to rustle up some net bowlers. Sreesanth also joined them,
but I could barely move a muscle. The pain was unbearable, and I gave up the
exercise after ten minutes, hoping a good night’s rest would do the trick.
Not a chance. I didn’t sleep the entire night even though by then, the cot
had been thrown out of the room and I lay flat on my back on the hard floor.
More than once, it occurred to me that my going out to bat in this condition
made no sense. The following morning, I rang my father. As always, he
reminded me of the hardships our soldiers encounter on the borders—their pain
and discomfort, the long months away from their families, the huge sacrifices for
our safety. He urged me to overlook my body’s protestations and use the power
of the mind to blank everything out. Even though conversations of this nature
had become part of a programmed routine between father and son, everything he
said went straight to my heart and I was all pumped up.
Zak didn’t last long on the final day. This time, Sachin had no objection to
Suresh walking out with me as my runner. He knew how poorly I was, and he
did his best to keep my spirits up. I knew that I was selling him short. We were
five down with the target 140 away, and Sachin needed to focus on his own
batting. Instead, he had to assume the extra responsibility of looking after me.
Again, I was reminded of what a wonderful team player he was.
We put together a little stand and brought the target down to under 100
when Doug Bollinger dismissed Sachin. Dragging himself off the ground, he
looked imploringly at me. He said nothing. Nothing needed to be said.
MS and Bhajji fell in the next 15 minutes, and we were 124 for 8, 92 shy.
The writing was on the wall when the gangly Ishant arrived in the middle to a
rowdy reception from the buoyant Aussies. He wasn’t fully fit either, having
taken a painkilling injection for his knee. ‘Laxman bhai, kya karenge (what can
we do)?’ he asked in his squeaky voice. I chuckled and replied, ‘Match tho gaya,
lekin hum ladenge (the match is out of our hands, but we shall fight). Let them
get us out, we will not give our wickets away. You play your game, I will play
mine.’
That was good enough for Ishant. He kept his end of the bargain and I
mine. Between overs, Suresh kept saying, ‘Come on Laxman bhai, come on
Ishant, we can do this.’ Brick by tenuous brick, we rebuilt the chase. We didn’t
think of 216, or how many more we needed to get there. We kept the good balls
out, rotated strike and made gentle progress. As our stand crossed 30, worry
lines began to crease Ricky Ponting’s forehead. Australia switched to all-out
attack, and that’s precisely what we wanted. As the field moved in, I put a few
balls away to the boundary, and so did Ishant. I could see the panic building
within the Australian ranks as our alliance ticked past the 50-run mark.
‘Ab kya karenge, Laxman bhai (what shall we do now)?’ Ishant asked as
we punched gloves. ‘Abhi tak jo kiya, wahi karenge (we will continue to do
whatever we have done till now),’ I told him. It was important to not think about
the result, to not try to do anything differently. As a tailender, with the target
tantalisingly close, the temptation to go for a big stroke can be huge. I didn’t
want Ishant to fall into that trap. To his credit, he continued to display the same
solidity for 106 minutes until Hilfenhaus got him leg before, for a magnificent
31.
We had inexplicably, unexpectedly, put on 81, but when last man Ojha
came out, a further 11 were needed. My first task was to do to Ojha what Sachin
had done to me—put him at ease, make him feel comfortable and relaxed. I
knew the pressure he was under. After my partnership with Ishant, he didn’t
want to be the one who let the team down.
By then, Mitchell Johnson was back in the attack and bowling with
extreme hostility. I wanted to take as much of the strike against Johnson as
possible, so deep into every over at the other end, I was looking for a single. Off
the fifth ball of Hilfenhaus’ over, with six required, I drove to the right of mid-
off and screamed for a single. Ojha heard me shout ‘one’, but when he looked
up, I hadn’t moved an inch. He had forgotten that Suresh was running for me,
and stood rooted to his crease. My back was hurting badly but I was determined
to face Johnson, and seeing Ojha not responding to my call, I lost my cool on the
field for the first time in my career. I let rip at poor Ojha as my emotions got the
better of me, and an expletive or two escaped my lips. By the end of the over, I
calmed down and apologised profusely to my partner, who had the onerous task
of batting out a full over from Johnson.
‘Koi baat nahin (don’t worry),’ I told him. Ojha looked at me, perplexed
and disbelieving. Six balls from Johnson beckoned. He was quivering.
I thought the game was over off the second ball of that over when Johnson
struck Ojha’s pads dead in front of the stumps. The Australians believed it was
out too, and were so caught up appealing that they ignored the ball that had
trickled to point. Miraculously, Billy Bowden turned the appeal down, and Ojha
thought he could sneak a single. As Suresh screamed at him to get back into his
crease, Steve Smith charged in and flung the ball at the stumps at the striker’s
end. Had the ball hit, Ojha would have been a goner; instead, the miss proved
costly as the ball sped over the turf for four. Two more now, just two more.
Those winning runs came two deliveries later, leg-byes again, as the ball
flew to fine leg off Ojha’s pads. Suresh had already completed two, while Ojha
ran back to the danger end like the wind for the second run. From square-leg, I
was willing him to make his ground. Like my teammates in the dressing room,
like all the Indian fans at the ground and watching on television. When he slid
his bat in, I forgot the pain and threw my hands up. Suresh charged in from the
bowler’s end, and Ojha joined us in a hug of ecstasy. Soon, the rest of the team
tumbled on to the ground, making a beeline for the three heroes.
By now, I had worked out a formula for batting under pressure. It involved
acceptance and understanding, to start with. There was no point in being over-
positive. Once I understood what the problem was, I could come up with a
solution. It was important not to panic.
My solution was to break the end goal into smaller targets. When we
achieved little milestones, the bigger objective automatically took care of itself.
For this, I had to be in sync with my partner, so the communication had to be
straightforward and clear.
I also had to accept that while there was pressure, I would follow my
routine. If you lose patience, you are bound to make mistakes. If you remain
patient for long periods, the opposition will try something different. That’s when
you must cash in, but without ever becoming complacent because there is still a
job to be done. This is not a formula that comes with an always-win guarantee,
but it worked for me more often than not.
While we savoured the get-out-of-jail one-wicket win, there was another
Test to be played in four days’ time, in Bengaluru. I flew home to meet Sanjog
Mathur, a senior at school and now a spine surgeon in the US, who was back in
Hyderabad on a holiday. Sanjog administered a cortisone injection and when I
reached Bengaluru, I didn’t feel any pain. I didn’t feel anything. My back had
gone numb, there was no sensation at all.
I had a trouble-free stint at the nets the evening before the game—a fitness
test—but I was on the horns of a dilemma. I wasn’t confident that my back
would survive the rigours of five days. It hadn’t during my two previous Tests,
but I had been able to get runners because I had hurt my back during play. Here,
if I carried an injury into the Test, I wouldn’t get a runner while batting, and the
team wouldn’t get a substitute fielder either. To play Australia with 11 men was
no easy task. To take them on with 10 was little short of self-destructive.
Whenever I grappled with an issue of this nature, I turned to Sachin or Anil
for advice. Anil was no longer around, of course, so I told Sachin I wasn’t sure
what to do. ‘Don’t play,’ he said, drawing from his experience of having received
such injections previously. ‘It may work for the duration of the game, or it may
not.’ I ruled myself out of the game, Cheteshwar Pujara made his Test debut, and
made an instant impact with a sparkling 72 in the second innings on being
promoted to No. 3. We won by seven wickets, the series was secured 2–0, and
we had now won three Tests on the trot.

Before this series against Australia, I had told my family that I would love to
retire in early 2012, after beating Australia in Australia. No Indian team had won
a Test series Down Under, and I firmly believed that we had the resources to
correct that record. The path was clear—win the Test series in Australia, retire,
appear for the entrance exam, go on to become a doctor.
But now, I wasn’t so sure. The back had become a major issue, and each
day, I feared the worst. Was this the end of the road? Was this how I was fated to
part ways with the love of my life?
It wasn’t, evidently, though the next attempt to fix the back wasn’t without
some attendant drama.
Nitin recommended a visit to Munich to seek out Dr Hans-Wilhelm
Muller-Wohlfahrt, the club doctor at Bayern Munich FC who had successfully
treated a host of celebrated footballers, cricketers, golfers and rugby players. He
was also the German national football team doctor, hence it was impossible to
get an immediate appointment. The BCCI tried their best, but the earliest
appointment they managed was in January 2011. Between October and January,
we had a home series against New Zealand and a tour of South Africa, so the
January appointment wasn’t a great development.
Sachin was having issues with his knee at the time, and had managed to
snag an immediate appointment with Dr Muller-Wohlfahrt through his contacts
in Adidas, who were also sponsors of Bayern Munich. When he learnt from
Nitin about my situation, he rang me from Mumbai and asked me to go to
Munich in his place. ‘I think it’s important you go. I know how bad your back
is,’ he insisted. ‘My knee injury won’t prevent me from playing, but if you don’t
get your back sorted, we know what will happen.’
I was staggered. He had worked his contacts and managed to find a slot for
himself, but he was selflessly willing to give it away for my sake. I wouldn’t
have any of it, and flatly refused. ‘Your appointment, you must go, Sach,’ I said.
He then tried to get Anjali to convince me, but I made it clear that I wouldn’t
take his place. Exasperated, Sachin said, ‘Enough of this. You come with me,
let’s see what happens. Let’s at least make the effort.’
Grateful for his magnanimity, I joined him in Munich, only to run into a
stern receptionist who was incensed that I had dared to land up unannounced.
For the first two days, I accompanied Sachin to Dr Muller-Wohlfahrt’s clinic,
and came back without meeting the doctor. Gradually, Sachin convinced him that
I needed his services very badly. Slowly, the doctor’s defences melted, and he
finally saw me on the third day.
An MRI revealed extensive damage to my disc and facet joints, and the
good doctor was surprised that a deformity at birth had not expressed itself for so
many years.
My spinal canal was very narrow, he explained, which was the genesis of
my travails. It was an irreversible process, he added, before proclaiming gravely,
‘If my treatment doesn’t work, you must stop playing. Immediately.’
It was a rude jolt. I tried to explain to him what cricket meant to me. After
hearing me out patiently, he told me, ‘If the treatment doesn’t work and you
continue playing, there is a good chance that you will be paralysed for life. I
understand that you are deeply committed to the sport, but it is important at this
stage to look beyond it. There is a whole life outside of cricket, and unless you
are healthy, you will not get to experience that life.’
I broke down, visions of life in a wheelchair racing through my mind.
Fortunately, Sachin was around with the right words and a comforting arm
around my shoulder. By the time we decided to start treatment, I had regained
my equilibrium. Dr Muller-Wohlfahrt would do his best, and I would play it by
the ear, not thinking about whether the treatment would work.
The procedure involved 10 injections a day on my back for six days in a
row. It was as painful as the spasms while batting, but I didn’t mind it one bit
because its objective was to help me extend my career. Through Dr Muller-
Wohlfahrt’s diligence, the Almighty’s blessings and the prayers of my well-
wishers, the treatment worked and the pain became a lot more manageable. I was
now in a position to chase my dream of a series win in Australia.
That was still some distance away, and of course, I could have quit any
time. I never played the game for milestones, averages and numbers. I didn’t
have any individual targets in mind, but I was fixated on being a part of the team
that won a Test series in Australia. Before the Australia tour of late 2011, we had
an away series in England in the summer. There would be no better way to go
out than being a part of victorious teams in both those countries.
First up, though, were New Zealand—always feisty, always competitive,
always punching above their weight. Dr Muller-Wohlfahrt’s grim warning meant
that, despite the relative success of the treatment, I was living on borrowed time
as a professional sportsperson, and I wanted to make the most of it. The team’s
success and my contributions to its victories remained the paramount objective,
but I was also on the lookout for more hundreds.
I was surprised at how well I hit the ball when I joined the team in
Ahmedabad for the first Test against the Kiwis. On a track that offered the
bowlers no joy, the game seemed headed for a dull stalemate after both sides
topped 400 in their respective first innings when Chris Martin blew it wide open.
Swinging the new cherry with devastating effect, he left us gasping at 15 for 5,
only 43 ahead. My formula for batting under pressure would be tested again.
MS and I had a bit of a partnership, but the real star was Bhajji. As far
back as in 2002, I remember telling him in England that if he paid more attention
to his batting, he could produce big scores with regularity. Bhajji packed a
punch, was blessed with timing and a good defence, and he brought out all those
traits now, first to defend, and then play with freedom. When he walked out, I
told him, ‘Hang in for now but don’t be defensive, play your natural game.’ For
the first few overs, neither of us played many strokes but as we dug in and the
ball got older, batting became a lot easier. Bhajji began to express himself and I
cruised into the ’90s when I got a terrible decision from Steve Davis. I played so
far away from my body to a delivery well outside off that the only way the ball
from Daniel Vettori could have struck my pad was off the inside edge. Steve
failed to spot the massive deflection and packed me off for 91. It took all my
self-control to maintain my calm till I entered the dressing room, where I could
vent my anger and frustration. It was a horrendous decision, compounded by Zak
being adjudged leg before to another inside edge off the very next ball. However,
with Bhajji bringing up a well deserved maiden ton, we got away with a
comfortable draw.
Personally, I was pleased to have survived physically unscathed. My back
had held up well, and I hadn’t left the field even once for attention. However, I
had a new routine to follow. Every morning, I went to the physio for 30 minutes
of prehab and rehab to release the back, which became a constant for the rest of
my career. When we went to the ground, I had a set of warm-up drills separate
from the rest of the team, and the physio worked on my back for 10 minutes at
each interval, and at the close of play.
The second match was in Hyderabad, a special event for me because I had
never played a Test in the city of my birth. To play for the country in my
hometown with my family, coaches and friends watching was a dream come
true, and I wanted to celebrate the occasion with a hundred as my obsession with
three figures continued to mount. I had reached 74 when, off the first ball after
tea on day three, I missed a flick against Martin and was plumb in front. Bhajji
made a second hundred in a row—he had started thinking like a batsman—and
celebrated without inhibition and we entertained hopes of victory after taking a
122-run lead.
That was when Brendon McCullum took charge. Brendon had given up the
wicketkeeping gloves to concentrate on his batting in his new role as opener, and
made the most of the flat deck—some of my mates called it a road—to pulverise
our bowling. He blasted his way to 225 to deflate my belated homecoming
somewhat, meaning that the series was 0–0 going into Nagpur, where Rahul
made a spectacular 191 to set up our innings win. We would have loved a more
convincing scoreline than 1–0 ahead of our visit to South Africa, but we had
form and confidence on our side as we eyed a maiden series triumph there.

The Tests against New Zealand were followed by a five-match ODI series, but
the BCCI rested a host of limited-overs regulars so that we could travel to South
Africa to practise at Gary’s academy in Cape Town. In the past, we had taken
time to hit our straps, so the idea was to get used to the conditions in South
Africa by the time of the first Test in Centurion. In the gap between the Nagpur
Test and our departure to South Africa, I went to the NCA for continued
strengthening of my back. To my dismay, the spasms returned again, and I had to
put off my travel to Cape Town while the rest of the boys went ahead.
I had been working hard on countering the craft of Dale Steyn, so I
probably batted a little more than I should have, which led to the spasms. After
plenty of attention from Ashish Kaushik, the new physio at the NCA, I flew out
to South Africa four days behind schedule and linked up with the guys in Cape
Town, where I batted indoors a lot with Gary and Paul Close, the national team
physio, keeping a close watch.
Centurion was a complete disaster. We lost Zak to injury the day before the
match and had to bat in unimaginably challenging conditions. We were skittled
for 136. Jacques Kallis replied with a classy 201 not out, his first Test double
hundred, to stretch South Africa’s lead to 474, and a massive defeat loomed. I
was bowled for 7 in the first innings by a beautiful out swinger from Steyn, and
in the second innings was caught for 8 playing an extravagant drive that I edged
to gully. But Sachin and MS battled hard to delay the inevitable. Batting with
supreme authority, Sachin made an astonishing 50th Test century. He was 37
years old and had been playing for the country for 21 years, and yet the desire
remained undiminished. It was both exhilarating and humbling. After all these
years, and despite the presence of other quality batsmen, we continued to depend
heavily on his heroics. I didn’t think it was fair that he alone should carry the
burden even at this late stage of his career.
The team was scheduled to spend a couple of days in Sun City, but wary of
potential damage to the back from the travel, I opted to stay back in
Johannesburg. Taking a cue from me, Sachin, Viru, Zak, Bhajji and a couple of
others too skipped Sun City. Our friend in Johannesburg, Kiran, organised nets
for us and we had a fruitful couple of days. I remember whining to Zak, ‘Why
should Sachin alone have to get runs all the time? Why can’t I contribute more to
the team?’
When we arrived at Kingsmead for the second Test in Durban, with Zak
now available for selection, the pitch evoked mixed emotions. While we had our
most potent bowling attack to choose from, the conditions were entirely against
the batsmen. We recognised that this was our best opportunity to square the
series, provided the batsmen knuckled down and ground it out. South Africa
were a strong outfit, but the Centurion blowout wasn’t a true reflection of our
abilities.
Graeme Smith stuck us in and Steyn was virtually unplayable on an
overcast morning, with the ball darting around off the pitch. My determination to
make a meaningful score manifested itself in a positive approach, and the ball
flew off my bat as I raced into the 30s in quick time, inclusive of a pulled six off
Steyn. I remember that stroke like it was yesterday. After all, I only have five
sixes in Test cricket.
I was just beginning to feel comfortable when I pulled Steyn again, from
outside off, wide of mid-on. Lonwabo Tsotsobe, the big fast bowler, bounded to
his right and put in a dive to snaffle the ball inches from the turf. I was stunned, I
couldn’t believe my luck. Once again, a freak dismissal had packed me off when
I was comfortably set on a demanding track with a bit of grip and lateral
movement, as well as help for the spinners.
We scrambled to 205, probably par for the course, but a refreshed Zak and
Bhajji turned it on to open up a 74-run lead. Zak bowled with the fire befitting
his status as the leader of the pack and showed how much we had missed him in
Centurion, but he wasn’t done yet. With Morkel in the lead role, South Africa
worked through our batting, and we were 148 for 7 when Zak strode out, all
purpose. Our lead was a handy 222 but definitely not decisive. Zak kept me
company during a stand of 70, while I played positively. Given the conditions
and the batting at our disposal, I realised there was no point pottering around.
Zak and Ishant fell in quick succession and I was in the 90s at the fall of
the ninth wicket. I had faith in Sreesanth, but I also wanted a hundred. When I
spotted a short, wide ball from Steyn, my eyes lit up and I went for a full-
blooded cut. All I managed was a nick that nestled safely in Mark Boucher’s
gloves. Another hundred missed, but I would have taken that 96 any day. It came
on a demanding track against a top-class attack, and no other batsman from
either side had touched even 40. More importantly, it boosted our lead to 302.
Zak and Sreesanth were brilliant in the second innings, the latter producing a
snorter to account for Kallis and make possible one of the memorable
photographs of the tour—the batsman airborne, his head arched back, the bat
thrust in front of his face in self-defence.
The 87-run win helped us square the series, with the decider to follow in
Cape Town. For the fourth time in five months and seven Tests, I had delivered
when we had our backs to the wall. For the third time, I had played a key part in
our victory. The man of the match award was particularly fulfilling. As I cradled
the trophy in my hands, Zak whispered, ‘Happy now?’ My back survived the
thumps from my friends, and Gary couldn’t stop smiling. He had labelled me
Mr Comeback Man. He was a big fan of Michael Bevan, the Australian batsman
who could pull off ODI victories from out of nowhere, a miracle worker if there
was one. As we savoured our success at Kingsmead, Gary told me, ‘You are the
Michael Bevan of Test cricket.’
Cape Town, and an almost subcontinental surface, gave us an outstanding
chance to secure the series, but we were thwarted by the genius of Kallis.
Sachin’s battle with Steyn in our first innings was an electric passage of play—
champion batsman against ferocious paceman, immovable object against
irresistible force. Steyn bowled his heart out and had everyone’s measure, but
Sachin didn’t budge. He kept the good ones out, latched on to the rare bad ones
and conjured up an awesome 146. It was his 51st Test ton. It would also be his
last.
We had South Africa on the mat at 130 for 6 in the second innings, their
lead just 132, and probably got a little ahead of ourselves. I was just coming to
terms with another freak dismissal—run out at the bowler’s end, backing up, as a
Sachin pull off Paul Harris was deflected by the bowler on to the stumps—when
Kallis put on a masterclass. He was batting with a broken rib, and grimaced in
pain every time Bhajji made him stretch, but his resolve was unshakeable. The
ball was turning square, and Kallis understood that he had to do something to put
Bhajji off his rhythm. Out came the reverse sweep, immediately backed up by
the conventional one, and by the time we wisened up, the horse had bolted.
Kallis made his second century of the game and the third of the series, and
Boucher rediscovered his touch as the seventh-wicket pair put on 103. Gradually,
they transferred the pressure on to us, forcing us to negotiate a tricky final day to
escape with a draw. Gautam made a gritty 64 despite being struck on the elbow
early in his innings by Morkel, and I was 32 not out when the match was called
off.
It was an opportunity lost for us to create history in South Africa, and I was
not too happy at having finished the series without a hundred despite batting
well. But we took pride in having bounced back from the Centurion thrashing.
The night the Cape Town Test ended, we headed to Gary’s home for dinner, one
happy family that had grown in size with the arrival of the one-day
reinforcements. Sachin, Zak, Viru, Yuvi, Nehra and I stayed back long after the
others had left. At 2 a.m., we were pleading with Gary’s wife Deborah to allow
him to stay on as our coach for one more year. Gary had told us that he would be
leaving after the World Cup in three months’ time, but we had a tough year of
Test cricket ahead with tours to England and Australia. He had created a good
team environment, each of us was comfortable in our roles, and we wanted
continuity.
Deborah heard us out patiently, but as she outlined the pressures of raising
a young family on her own, I knew that I had played my last Test with Gary as
coach. It had been a great ride, made possible by a wonderful human being who
is now a good friend. Life had to go on.
 20
The Beginning of the End

2 April 2011. As MS held the World Cup aloft at the Wankhede, I felt pride
swell through me. We had ended a 28-year wait and were champions again. It
was fitting that the captain delivered the winning blow, a towering six over long-
on that sealed the final against Sri Lanka. I was long done with ODI cricket, but
I had lived the World Cup experience during my spell at the NCA, and felt I had
made the journey with my friends.
It was the best going-away gift for Gary, who had announced—despite our
exhortations—that the World Cup would be his last assignment with the Indian
team. India now held the Test No. 1 ranking and the World Cup simultaneously,
just returns for the love our numerous fans had showered on us all these years.
The fourth season of the IPL, which started a week after the World Cup
final, was my final tilt at the 20-over game, with a new franchise—Kochi
Tuskers Kerala—but I was already bracing for the tour of the Caribbean, in mid-
June. Sachin had opted out to spend time with his family, while Gautam, Viru
and Yuvi were missing because of injury. That left Rahul and me as the only
specialist batsmen with experience, alongside MS.
We had a new coach in Duncan Fletcher, the former Zimbabwe captain.
Duncan’s reputation preceded him. He had been the England coach for eight
years, between 1999 and 2007, and was in charge when England defeated
Australia at home in the 2005 Ashes. Gary had recommended Duncan to the
BCCI, and I looked forward to a new chapter in Indian cricket. While we would
miss Gary, we all knew what was required of us, and I was confident of a
seamless transition from the Gary Kirsten era to one under Duncan Fletcher.
It was essential for Rahul and me to lead the way, and while I didn’t have a
great first Test on a slow track at Sabina Park in Kingston, Rahul held our
challenge together. He put on an exhibition in the second innings with a
characteristically industrious 112, easily the difference between the sides. The
bowlers defended a target of 326 with ease as we cruised to a 63-run win. As we
moved to Barbados, I felt I owed the team runs, and plenty of them. As though
in response to that thought, we were presented with a surface that made severe
demands on our courage and conviction.
Fidel Edwards was getting the ball to fly off a length, bowling really
quickly with a slingy action that made life very difficult. We were 38 for 4 in no
time until Suresh helped me add 117 for the fifth wicket. Once I got through
Edwards’ hostility, I began to enjoy myself. My 85 out of a team total of 201 was
studded with boundaries and I followed it up with 87 in the second innings, an
equally dominant hand. I was delighted at how well I was striking the ball, but I
was also disappointed that I had thrown away two 100s in four days. The
weather prevented us from translating our command over the game into a
victory, while more rain, a slow surface, and a ball that became very soft very
quickly stymied our victory charge in the final Test in Roseau.
My tryst with annoyingly unusual dismissals continued in Roseau when I
was stumped off Shivnarine Chanderpaul, who pitched his leg-spinners so wide
of the off stump that I couldn’t have reached them with a barge pole. I let one
such ball spin by without even looking at it, then took a couple of steps down the
track to do some ‘gardening’. Carlton Baugh whipped off the bails and claimed
the stumping, and the umpire ruled me out. I contended that the ball was dead,
but the umpire ruled it to be still in play. I had made a third consecutive half-ton,
but the hundred remained a step too far. We ought to have swept the series 3–0
but the weather in Bridgetown and Roseau played spoilsport. 1–0 wasn’t shabby
though, all told, and we approached the next stop with our confidence high. We
had won our previous series in England, and we saw no reason why we couldn’t
back that up.
The euphoria of the World Cup triumph, and our convincing performances
in the Caribbean despite missing several key batsmen, contributed to that belief.
We had talent, experience and form in our corner and were in a good mental
space as, after a warm-up game in Taunton, we headed to Lord’s for the first
Test. We had had many noteworthy successes at the Mecca of cricket. A warm
glow enveloped me in the days leading up to the first Test. Excitement and
anticipation jostled with each other as the big day dawned.
Zak had missed the West Indies tour, but showed no signs of rust after MS
put England in. In excellent rhythm, he got rid of Alastair Cook inside the first
hour, and dismissed Andrew Strauss soon after lunch. Then came the first in a
series of terrible mishaps that contributed to our disastrous campaign.
 Halfway through his fourteenth over, Zak pulled up short, clutching his
hamstring. I felt a shiver run through me. I realised that my buddy was in
trouble, but I didn’t imagine then that his tour would be over. I prayed it was a
niggle and no more, but as it turned out, the injury was a lot more serious. MS’s
decision to ask England to bat was based around Zak leading our pace attack.
But a little over two hours into the match, we were a specialist bowler short, and
not just any bowler—the star of our triumph in England four years earlier, the
man who was both the strike bowler and an excellent guide to the younger
quicks in our ranks.
Losing our premier bowler less than halfway through the first day was a
massive blow. It meant that we had only three full-fledged bowlers—even MS
was forced to shed his wicketkeeping pads as he sent down eight overs of brisk
medium pace—and England gratefully seized the opening. Kevin Pietersen
lashed a blazing double hundred and hauled England well past 450. Praveen
Kumar and Ishant stuck to their guns, but even though the former got five on his
Lord’s debut, neither of them was as penetrative as Zak would have been. There
was little help for Bhajji, all of which played into England’s hands.
Our spirit had been bent by Zak’s injury, and when we conceded a 188-run
deficit, it was truly broken. Only Rahul stood tall with a polished 103. It was the
precursor to what was to follow. All series long, Rahul batted superbly, waging a
lone battle whether as opener or at his preferred No. 3 position. All series long,
the rest of the batting unit let him down.
Rahul made three 100s in that four-Test series, each of them a gem of the
highest quality. He enjoyed batting in England, and that counted for a lot. His
feet moved beautifully and decisively, his shot selection was perfect, and
patience was in any case second nature to him. He was forced to open in five of
the eight innings, and responded brilliantly, despite the long hours spent in the
field. I marvelled at his physical endurance and mental strength. He was like
Casabianca, standing bravely on the burning deck while the rest around him
floundered. I felt ashamed that I wasn’t doing more to help him.
My numbers in England aren’t the most flattering. In 11 Tests and 19
innings, I scored 586 runs at an average of 34.47—11.50 runs per innings below
my career average—and had a highest of 74. Statistics seldom lie, but I never
felt out of place in England during my three Test tours. There was no discernible
pattern to my dismissals apart from a bias to the pull that could even hint at a
technical weakness. I have eight scores between 40 and 74, and four more
between 22 and 39; I have been dismissed in single digits a mere four times, one
of those when we were pressing for quick runs and a declaration at Headingley
in 2002.
 The key to batting in England is to let the ball come to you, to not reach for
it or get into your stroke early. Also, because the conditions can fluctuate so
much during the course of the day, you never feel ‘in’. When you get to 30
anywhere else in the world, you are well settled, you know what to expect, and
you can then start to dominate, if your game is like mine. But in England, things
can change in an instant when the clouds gather. You have to guard against
mental errors and, unfortunately, I didn’t do that consistently enough.
The toughest batting phase in England—and everywhere else, for that
matter—is the first few deliveries, and I negotiated that early period successfully
15 times out of 19. If anything, I was pulled down by my inability to build on
those starts. The way I look at it, I got myself out a majority of the times rather
than being dismissed by the bowler, and that’s not something I am proud of.
Because of the slow pitches, you have to play late, wait for the ball to come to
you. But I would often get into positions early, and that got me into trouble. I
have been out caught on the pull nearly half a dozen times in England because I
was in position early. Had the ball come on quicker, I would have been able to
roll my wrists and keep it down. Because the bounce was spongy and it didn’t
rush on, I ended up playing it in the air numerous times. Like I said, silly mental
errors that cost me dear. I should have chosen my strokes with greater
circumspection—I had the perfect template in front of me in the form of Rahul
—but I didn’t.
In 2011, I was out to the pull twice, and twice I was a victim of James
Anderson’s brilliance as he made a mess of my stumps. Anderson was one of the
most devastating bowlers in English conditions. He had this habit of going wide
of the crease, and the angle from which he delivered the ball as well as his wrist
position indicated that the ball would keep coming in to me. However, as if
driven by some invisible force, it straightened on pitching, which meant I ended
up playing inside the line. It was quality bowling.
We tried to regroup from the hammering at Lord’s, and quickly made our
intentions clear by lopping off the English top after MS chose to field first for a
second straight game, in Nottingham. Sreesanth had come in for Zak, and he,
Praveen and Ishant took three wickets apiece. Even though England recovered
from 117 for 7 to 221, we had reason to be optimistic.
Viru was supposed to join the squad only from the third Test on, which
meant that for the first two Tests, we had just two specialist openers—Gautam
and Abhinav Mukund, on his first tour of England. Gauti had to sit out the
second Test because of an injury, which forced Rahul to start the game as an
opener. I didn’t think it was fair to our former captain but as ever, Rahul didn’t
complain. Abhinav fell to the first ball of our first innings late on the first
evening, and I joined Rahul with an hour left. It was easily the most challenging
one hour I have batted in Test cricket. It was a cold evening, overcast and
gloomy, and Anderson and Stuart Broad were on top of their game. Every ball
was a searing examination, and we had to be on full alert to ward off danger. By
the time we returned, unconquered, after 15 testing overs, I was on my last
reserves of mental strength. Stumps couldn’t have been more opportune.
The next morning, I played my strokes freely to get to 54. I consider this
one of my best Test innings for the manner in which I compiled the runs—I gave
the previous evening to the on-song bowlers, and got on top the following day
when conditions eased marginally. I feathered a faint edge to the keeper off Tim
Bresnan while defending off the back foot. Rahul showed how to make a good
thing count with a second hundred of the series. Yuvi chipped in with 62 as we
led by 67.
Our tryst with misery, however, was far from over. Any thoughts we may
have had of forcing England into defensive mode disappeared when Bhajji left
the field early in their second essay with a pulled abdominal muscle. We had lost
a second experienced bowler in the middle of a Test, and with only three regular
bowlers, we looked flat and dispirited. England made merry with Ian Bell in the
forefront, and confronted us with a target of nearly 500, and we capitulated to
158 all out and a massive defeat, by 319 runs. Our confidence was shot, we were
in shock. We had come to England aspiring to win the series, and we had been
properly schooled. Predictably, we went further downhill from there, losing the
remaining two Tests by an innings each. It was embarrassing, humiliating,
devastating. True, the bowling had been handicapped by the injuries to Zak and
Bhajji, but the batting group had no excuse. With the honourable exception of
the admirable Rahul, we had all come a cropper. It was not a pleasant realisation.
It was the first test of Duncan’s man-management skills. He was as new to
us as we were to him; several of the players had been absent from the Caribbean
series, hampering the getting-to-know-each-other process. To his credit, he ran a
tight ship but kept the environment light and healthy. There were no
recriminations, no finger-pointing. We knew that collectively, we had allowed
ourselves to be outplayed. Fessing up didn’t alter the result, but at least we were
not looking for outs.
Predictably, tongues started wagging in India, not without justification.
There was anger and outrage among the fans because of the way we had
surrendered—not just the Test series, but also the No. 1 ranking that had been
ours for 20 months. When West Indies came over in November, we found
ourselves, not for the first time, in a no-win situation. We were playing at home,
and were expected to win. Anything else would be catastrophic.
 I was carrying a lot of baggage from both the personal and the collective
failure in England, and was low on confidence going into the first Test at the
Kotla. That must have reflected in my body language, because after I was
dismissed for one in the first innings, Krishnamachari Srikkanth called me over
to his room. Cheeka sir was the chairman of selectors and we shared a great
bond emanating from our shared spiritual outlook. His message was simple. ‘Put
the past behind you. All it can do is weigh you down. You are a better person
and a better batsman than that, go on and don’t hold back.’
Once again, a reminder of the basics worked wonders. We faced a tricky
chase of 276, and made serene progress. I played without inhibition for the first
time in three Tests, and remained unbeaten on 58 as we raced home by five
wickets. Cheeka sir had pushed the right buttons, the runs had returned and my
mind was at peace.
Happily, the second Test was at Eden and I enjoyed myself while putting
on a second double-hundred stand at the venue with MS. I made 176, a fluent
compilation, and the bowlers took over to complete an innings win and give us a
winning 2–0 lead. The meltdown in England was not forgotten, but we had
shown resilience against a reasonably well-stocked opponent, even if it was in
our comfort zone.
The series was to wind down at the Wankhede, and ahead of that match,
Duncan spoke to Rahul and me. He wanted to blood new talent in the dead
rubber with an eye on the future. I told him that I didn’t want to miss a Test
match. I didn’t know how much cricket I had left in me, and I was just coming
off a big hundred. If I was fit and available, there was no way I was sitting out a
Test match—the only format Rahul and I were playing for the country.
Duncan relented, and I was privileged to be part of one of the most
thrilling draws in Test history. West Indies dominated the first innings but we
recovered strongly, and when the final ball was bowled, the scores were level.
We had been set 243 for victory, and we finished on 242 for nine in a game
where R Ashwin showcased his all-round credentials. He made his maiden
century in our first innings, and returned 9 for 190 with his off-spin. To see him
stack up the numbers he has with the ball since then has been anything but a
surprise.
Like we had the previous year to South Africa, the Test specialists travelled
to Australia in December, a good 10 days ahead of the rest of the squad, of
whom several were engaged in the limited-overs matches against the West
Indians. For many of us—Sachin, Rahul, Viru, Zak and me—it would be our last
tour Down Under. I couldn’t see any one of us being around in three years’ time,
not even the ageless, tireless, peerless Sachin. It was now or never, our final tilt
at history in a land where, for all our heroics, a Test series victory had remained
out of reach.
As a team, we eyed redemption in our first away outing since the England
whitewash. I was keyed up, wanting to contribute to the team and create history.
Given that I had also made up my mind to retire at the end of what I was
confident would be a successful campaign, I had already set myself up for failure
by putting undue pressure on myself.
Sailaja had travelled with me to Australia, and before the start of the first
Test in Melbourne, she told me that I looked tense and nervous, which was very
out of character for me. She knew that I was working myself up into a state, and
told me to go and enjoy myself, like I invariably did in Australia. I knew she was
right, and I tried to shake off the nerves, but they had taken a vice-like grip over
me. I didn’t start the series well, and as one failure led to another, I continued to
sell myself short. Once the self-imposed pressure mounted, the runs dried up. I
had a poor series, the team had a bad run and we were put in our place by a
strong, but by no means invincible, Australian side.
As the series spiralled from bad to worse, my mood mirrored the darkness
in our camp. Sailaja had returned home and I had gone into my shell,
tremendously upset with myself for not having done anything worthwhile to
arrest our slide. By the time of the final Test in Adelaide, my confidence was
sub-zero. It was easily one of the lowest points of my career. Long before
Adelaide, the reality had sunk in that there would be no series win in Australia
on my CV. After the Adelaide defeat, Sailaja called me from India, but such was
my state of mind that I repeatedly ignored those calls. I was wallowing in self-
pity, and as her calls went unanswered, she started to panic. She called up Vijeta,
who in turn spoke to Rahul. At one in the morning, Rahul knocked on my door
along with Sachin and Zak. They had witnessed first-hand how much I had been
impacted by the events of the past month and a half, and they spent two hours
trying to console and reinvigorate me. I was in a slightly better place when my
friends departed for their rooms, and reconciled to the truth of another series
defeat in Australia, which hurt even more than my personal failures.
I had briefly flirted with retirement after the second Test in Perth, by which
time we were 0–2 down in the four-match showdown. There was not even a
mathematical chance of winning the series, and as that thought continued to
germinate, I was tempted to call it a day. But I also knew that it was emotion
more than anything else that was driving me. I chose to take a step back,
deciding that that was not the right time to do anything dramatic. However, the
contours of an inner conflict were beginning to take shape. The real battle was
just about to begin.
 21
Going Out on My Terms

By the time we returned to India, retirement seemed imminent. It was only a

question of when I would publicly announce my decision. I went to discuss the
modalities with my uncle, but he immediately shot the idea down.
‘As a cricketer, you have always played for and with pride. Your pride has
been severely dented by the last two overseas tours, but England and Australia
are touring India this winter, and I think that is a sign,’ he said. ‘You should play
those two series and do what you have always done—bounce back from
setbacks. You can’t do that by retiring and sitting at home. You can only atone
for hurt pride on the field. You have the chance to make amends almost
immediately; you should play those two series and then retire.’
That made sense to me. Having never set individual goals such as playing
X number of matches or scoring Y number of Test runs, my aspirations were
more about being part of winning teams. I decided to channel my energies over
the next year to being the best I could be so that the team could erase the bitter
memories of our English and Australian misadventures.
Because I went unsold in the IPL auction, a long off-season beckoned
during the summer of 2012. Our next assignment was against New Zealand in
August, four months away, and I decided to use the unexpected downtime to
work on my body. I went to the NCA in Bengaluru and had a frank chat with
Ashish Kaushik, the physio at the academy. I told him that this was going to be
my final year in cricket and I wanted to be the fittest I could be. Until then, I
hadn’t found the time to work exclusively on my fitness, because of a packed
international calendar and my recurring back issues.
Ashish was brilliant. Along with Sudarshan Sood, the trainer, he oversaw
my training and fitness routines. I spent the better part of those four months at
the NCA, working harder than I ever had. I put my cricket kit in cold storage,
focusing more on fitness and less on skills. For the first three months, I didn’t
hold a bat. Everything revolved around strengthening my back and the turning
point was the introduction of Pilates, which I had never tried before. On Ashish’s
insistence, the first month’s regimen was primarily focused on Pilates, followed
by a heavy load of exercises to strengthen the legs, the upper back and the
glutes. This was supplemented by plenty of running. Gradually, the mix of
Pilates, conditioning, strength training and running made me stronger and leaner.
When I picked up a bat after the three-month break, I felt incredibly good.
From 2010, I had had to change my stance and find a different posture, to
counter the back spasms. That meant I had to crouch a lot more than I liked.
After the NCA stint, I gingerly went back to a more upright stance, and found to
my delight that I was pain-free. I struck the ball beautifully and felt good about
my cricket. Zak, who was also at the NCA and who bowled plenty at me, was
astonished at how brilliantly I was moving and hitting the ball. It felt good to be
vindicated by a close friend and a top pro who didn’t mess around at the nets.
Through all this, in one little compartment of the brain, the internal battle
continued to rage. Should I continue to play through the coming home season
that included ten Tests? Or was this the right time to go? Eventually, after much
soul-searching, I made peace with myself—play the entire season, beat England
and then Australia, and ride off into the sunset.

When I returned to Hyderabad after that deal with myself, I couldn’t wait for the
cricket to start. After a long time, I played an HCA league match. The century
was pleasing, but largely because I was moving easily, without pain and,
increasingly, without the fear of pain. As I ramped up my preparations for the
first of ten Tests, against New Zealand in my hometown, I travelled with the
Hyderabad team for the annual KSCA tournament. Our first match was against
the hosts in Mysore. The final twist in the tale was to unfold there.
After the opening day against Karnataka, our head coach Sunil Joshi and
fielding coach Noel David joined me for dinner in my hotel room. Noel picked
up the crisp, unread copy of that day’s The Times of India lying near my door—
the advent of the Internet had weaned me off newspapers—and spread it on the
dining table. As sportspersons, we are habituated to reading the paper back to
front, so Noel opened out the second- and third-last pages.
My good friend P Gopichand had returned from the London Olympics just
the previous day with his ward Saina Nehwal, who had won the bronze medal.
The left page was devoted to my two fellow Hyderabadis. There was a huge
photo of them in an open jeep on their way from the airport to Gopi’s academy,
and I was happy to see the coverage they were getting in the media. As my eyes
skirted to the right, I saw my name in the headline of a column. I began reading
it.
The columnist had written of the dilemma confronting the selectors ahead
of the Test series against New Zealand. Should they rest me so that they could
try out the youngsters—Rahul had announced his retirement from Test cricket—
and bring me back for the England series, or should they pick me because I had
been short of international runs the previous season and therefore needed an
opportunity to regain my confidence? By the time I came to the end of the
article, the festering battle within me had resumed.
However, that didn’t prevent me from concentrating on my cricket. I went
on to get a big hundred against a good Karnataka attack, somehow maintaining
my focus despite the mental turmoil. Immediately after the match, I drove down
to the NCA and continued to work on my fitness. I also confided in Zak that I
was confused and indecisive. Was I doing the right thing by Indian cricket in
wanting to continue to play for one more season? Or was I depriving a youngster
of the opportunity to find his feet in Test cricket in familiar conditions?
Zak pointed out that I was fit and pain-free, and that I was batting well.
That Virat and Pujara had already broken in, so there had already been an
infusion of young blood. ‘Don’t overthink it,’ he cautioned. For reaffirmation, I
then went to Ashish, and he immediately dismissed all talk of retirement. He
reminded me of the work we had put in for four months on the trot, of how I had
managed to improve my fitness and laid my back problems to rest. ‘Don’t even
think about it,’ he said. Everything they were telling me made sense. But
something continued to gnaw at me.
Despite speculation in the media and elsewhere, I was named in the squad
for the two New Zealand Tests, in Hyderabad and Bangalore. The closer we got
to the first Test, the more intense my inner battle became. I was still following
my cricketing and fitness drills with diligence, but there was this constant
question of what was right and what was not.
On the one hand, there was the exciting prospect of getting our own back
against England and Australia. To be honest, the New Zealand matches didn’t
even register. It was all about using them to prepare as well as possible for the
two big series to follow in the winter. The wounds from our drubbings in those
two lands were still fresh, and nothing less than twin victories could heal them.
On the other hand, there was the pressure of my own values and ideals.
Throughout my career, I had put the team’s interests above mine. In my heart of
hearts, I began to believe that the time was ripe for me to step aside. That would
give an inexperienced batsman 10 Tests at home to establish himself before India
embarked on a succession of overseas tours, to South Africa, New Zealand,
England and Australia.
The more I thought about it, the more strongly I felt that missing these last
10 Test matches would not affect me in any way. I was satisfied with how my
career had panned out, and I didn’t feel the need to prove anything, least of all to
myself. My only motivation for wanting to continue was to redress the wrongs of
England and Australia, contribute to the team and go out on a high. But I also
realised that if I didn’t retire now, and the Indian team went to South Africa and
lost badly, and my replacement didn’t score runs, I would never be able to
forgive myself. I had first-hand experience of how difficult playing overseas
early in one’s career could be when I toured South Africa in late 1996. I didn’t
want to impose that hardship on another young man. In many ways, it was a
selfish decision to retire. It was more about what would make me happier. At the
same time, I didn’t want my selfish and personal aspirations, contradictory as
that might sound, to stymie the progress of a newcomer. The dilemma was eating
away at my innards.
With the Test match less than a week away, decision time was imminent.
My uncle insisted that I would be silly to announce my retirement now. My
parents said that since I had already been named in the team and given the
chance, I should continue to serve the country. My coaches were against my
retirement, as was my good friend Parth. Sailaja encouraged me to do whatever I
thought was best. Torn between the two options, I dashed to Chennai to meet
Krishnamachari Srikkanth, and he said I must play the New Zealand series, no
matter what. I had gone to Chennai seeking clarity. I came back even more
confused.
I thought my vacillation had come to an end when, on returning to
Hyderabad, I decided that since I had already been picked for the two New
Zealand Tests, I would retire after the second game in Bangalore. That ought to
have lifted the load, but I found no joy or succour. I called up Dr MV Sridhar,
then secretary of the Hyderabad Cricket Association, and told him that I was
considering having a press conference the following day, one day before the
Indian squad was to assemble in Hyderabad for the Test match. I didn’t want my
presser to be a distraction for the team, and wanted it over and done with before
MS and the boys landed.
When I spoke to Doc, I was clear that I hadn’t made up my mind about
whether I would go ahead with the press conference, let alone what I was going
to say. I was keen that should the event happen, it must be at the Gymkhana
Grounds in Secunderabad, a venue very dear to me. I also told Shivlal Yadav that
I wanted him at the press meet, should it take place. I made the same request of
my coaches.
Predictably, the media came to know that something was brewing and my
phone kept ringing, unanswered, late into the night. It was well past midnight
when I had final discussions with a couple of close friends, before settling into
sleep.

When I woke up the following morning, it was with a sense of absolute clarity.
The press meet was on, and I would retire with immediate effect. No sentimental
farewell Test in Hyderabad, no final hurrah in front of family and friends.
I broke the news to Sailaja, called up my parents, coaches, friends and
teammates to inform them of the imminent retirement. Sachin was at the NCA,
and tried to convince me to defer the press conference. I had seldom disregarded
Sachin’s advice, but I respectfully told him that this time, I could not honour his
sentiments. I told him repeatedly during our hour-long conversation that my
mind was made up. That if I couldn’t commit myself 100 per cent—and I knew
that I couldn’t—I didn’t see any point in playing. In any case, the New Zealand
series had not been on my radar.
I left for the Rajiv Gandhi International Stadium in Uppal—Doc, who had
informed the media of the impending event, had insisted that it would be a better
venue given the rains in the city—with Sailaja, the kids and my parents for my
final public appearance as an active India player. We parked our car behind the
South pavilion and walked across the ground to the North pavilion, where the
media had assembled in large numbers. As we were walking in, I informed
Sridhar, Shiv bhai and Venkatapathi Raju that I was going to retire immediately.
They tried to talk me out of it and insisted that I should at least play in
Hyderabad. As their words fell on deaf ears, Raju called up Javagal Srinath and
handed him the phone. Sri gave me a bollocking as was typical, but I was an
immovable object, by then totally firm and decisive.
After I informed the media of my decision to retire as of that day, the
questions flowed.
‘Have you informed your teammates?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you spoken to Dhoni, what did he have to say?’
 ‘Everyone knows how difficult it is to reach Dhoni,’ I joked.
Little did I realise that this would trigger the first and only controversy of
my cricketing career.
I had tried contacting MS, but his number had changed after the Australia
tour. I had informed the board officials, the chairman of selectors and all my
teammates, and I knew MS would understand when I met him in person in
Hyderabad and explained why I could not inform him beforehand. But I had
unwittingly provided fodder to the media, who started to speculate that I had
retired in a huff because MS and I had differences, that there was a rift between
us. It wasn’t funny at the time, but one of the headlines the following day read,
‘VVS, retired hurt.’

That was just the beginning of a nerve-wracking week. Once the team assembled
in Hyderabad, the guys that I generally hung out with in the evenings on tour—
Sachin, Zak, Viru and Gautam—asked me to come over to the team hotel. I
knew the media would be there and my presence might set off a fresh wave of
speculation. So I asked them to come home for dinner instead.
We had just moved into our new home, but work on it was far from
finished. There was scaffolding on the stairs, the lawn was not ready. My initial
plan had been to invite the entire team for dinner, but because the house wasn’t
ready, I settled for the four guys with whom I usually spent the most time.
Again, and I say this with respect, I was astonished by the perseverance of
the media. Throughout my career, I had had an excellent relationship with media
persons who, like the players, spent long months away from their families,
chasing stories and interviews, exclusives and scoops. We had a healthy respect
for each other, and I appreciated the hardships they put up with in distant lands
with the many challenges of communication and transmission of stories and
video feeds. They just don’t give up, and it came as no surprise to me to learn
that they had gathered in large numbers outside the gate to our community while
my friends were at dinner.
I wasn’t, however, prepared for the speculation that I had invited the entire
team home—except MS. Not having experienced anything of this nature
previously, I was aghast. Throughout my career, I had steered clear of
controversy. But on my retirement, one controversy after another was taking
shape. Because all this was happening in our backyard, my parents were a little
disturbed, and my father suggested that I call up MS and clear the air, even
though there was nothing to clear.
I waited for the end of the Test and then went to the hotel to thank every
teammate and member of the support staff individually. When I met MS, he took
one look at me and burst out laughing. ‘Laxman bhai, you are not used to all
these controversies, but I am. Don’t take this to heart. We all know that
sometimes, facts need not come in the way of a good story.’ I was once again
struck by his maturity, his simplicity, and how easily he had put me at ease. We
had a good laugh, and I quickly called up my father to inform him that he could
stop worrying. Even today, despite repeated denials, people tell me—not ask, but
tell—that I retired because of MS. I have learnt not to be affected by it anymore.

After a wonderful night’s sleep, when I woke up for the first time as a former
India cricketer, I felt lighter. I told Sailaja that I was feeling good about my
decision. Once again, I had listened to my inner voice, and it had not let me
down. All my life, my actions had been dictated by this voice, but in conjunction
with suggestions from those closest to me. This time, with greater maturity, I had
gone entirely by it, disregarding advice from even my father. It was as if my
inner voice had passed on God’s message to me. It was important for me that I
woke up the morning following that momentous day—18 August 2012—
convinced that I had made the right call. I was happy with the decision then, and
after all these years, I remain happy with it. The only thing I didn’t expect was
the week-long speculation and the unsavoury, baseless interpretations. It took the
meaning out of my decision, but I chose not to dwell too much on something
over which I had little control.
Often, sportspersons overstay their welcome because they are not prepared
for a life beyond sport. Because you are so emotionally attached to your love,
which in my case was cricket, you don’t want to leave it at all. But all good
things must come to an end. As an elite athlete, you always feel that your best is
yet to come. It’s tough to take that call, about when to retire. I was a few months
shy of 38 when I walked away from international cricket, but as clichéd as it
might sound, I firmly believe that age is nothing more than a number.
I have been told that I didn’t score in England and Australia because age
had caught up with me. That’s rubbish. I failed in Australia not because of my
age, but because of a technical problem that had crept in unnoticed. My head
was dropping too much, so I was getting my front foot too far across, often
having to play around it. I didn’t know where my off stump was, because I had
lost sight of the basics. This, together with the fact that I was not batting with the
enjoyment and freedom that are crucial for performing well, resulted in a string
of low scores in Australia. It had nothing to do with not picking the ball early, or
reacting to it late.
I didn’t retire because of extraneous forces and I wasn’t pushed into
retirement. Yes, the article in The Times of India was the trigger, but that wasn’t
the reason for my retirement. Throughout my career, I have received praise and
criticism from various quarters. I was initially affected by what people thought
of me, but with the passage of time, that stopped being a factor. I came to the
conclusion that ultimately, you must do what is right by you, by your team and
by your country. And, to this day, I know that I won the internal battle by making
the right choice.
The contentment the morning after retirement came from three things. One,
that I had made the right decision, keeping in mind my own values. The decision
was more for myself than to please others. Two, that till the last day I played the
game, I had given it all I had. And three, that I had been strong enough to make
the right decision.

While I had retired from international cricket, I planned to see out the rest of the
year playing for Hyderabad. One of my few unfulfilled wishes had yet to be seen
through—to win the Ranji Trophy for Hyderabad. I wanted to play the season,
do my best to drive the team, and also use the time to help out the youngsters.
That didn’t go to plan either. I made a half-century in the first match
against Punjab, but we lost by an innings. In the next game, against Madhya
Pradesh, I scored 120 but we still ended up conceding the lead. While the results
were a let-down, what was more alarming was that during my hundred at Uppal,
the back spasms made an unwelcome reappearance. Since I was no longer a
BCCI-contracted player, the NCA was a no-no, so I turned to the physio of the
Hyderabad team for relief, with little effect. My back became hard as a rock, and
the pain was excruciating. Sailaja was constantly on my case, asking me to
explore the NCA option, and when I called up (BCCI president) Srinivasan sir,
he was kind enough to accede to my request.
I returned to the NCA and spent four weeks in rehab. By the time I was
free of pain, our season was over. Hyderabad had failed to qualify beyond the
first stage. My playing career had come to an end. Just like that.
It was not the fairy-tale ending that cricketers dream of, but to me it was a
fairy-tale ending nonetheless, because I had stepped down on my own terms. It
was an absolute honour and a rare privilege to have played for our country, for
so long and with the blessings and support of so many. As a sportsperson, you
will have both fulfilled and unfulfilled goals at the end of your career. So long as
you are convinced that you gave your best day after day and did not look for
shortcuts, you can allow yourself a pat on the back. If you brood over what did
not happen, it will ruin the rest of your life.

It is important to remember how the journey unfolded rather than just what
happened at its end. Whatever I am now is solely because of cricket. It has
always been more than just a job or a profession. Whatever we do, we need to do
it with total and complete devotion.
However fanciful it might sound, I still wanted to go back to studying. I
wanted to get my MBBS degree, complete my master’s and follow in the
footsteps of my parents. I knew I would be in my mid-40s before I could start
practising, but I was fine with that. I sat down with Sailaja and my parents to
discuss the future, when I ran into unexpected opposition. Sailaja pointed out
that during my playing days, the kids in particular had had to make many
sacrifices and spend time away from their father. If I pursued a degree in
medicine, she said, it would mean another five years of commitment on my part,
which wasn’t fair to the kids. Before I could react, my parents jumped in and
backed Sailaja. They wanted me to be a good father, to spend more time with the
children, to be with them every step of the way as they grew into adolescence.
Sailaja had asked very little of me in our nine years of marriage. How could I
say no to her now?
I did, however, want to remain linked with cricket. As a former India
player, various avenues were available, but it was important to discover what
could motivate me. I wanted to work out what would make me wake up with a
smile in the morning and look forward to the day ahead. I didn’t want to do
something just for the sake of doing it.
In the first year after retirement, I dabbled in a lot of enterprises while
trying to understand what appealed to me the most. I dived into television
commentary and writing columns, I took up coaching, I opened an academy.
Each of them had its own appeal, and I enjoyed each role. All along, the driving
forces in my life had been education and cricket. Through these new
engagements, I found a way to fuel my second innings.
 Being in the media helps me analyse the game from a neutral standpoint
and share my thoughts with viewers. I have enjoyed my stints with the legends
of yesteryear and been amazed at their insights into the game. I have taken those
learnings into coaching and mentoring.
I run my own academy in Hyderabad with the objective of providing good
infrastructure and programmes that will help kids get better at their game. The
academy has three branches in different parts of Hyderabad so that aspiring
players don’t end up spending too much time commuting in the increasingly
heavy traffic. I am also a batting consultant with the Cricket Association of
Bengal.
Dearest to me is the mentorship of the Sunrisers Hyderabad franchise. To
be part of a team environment, to share my experiences with players from
different parts of the world and to watch them improve is fulfilling. It’s a
wonderful franchise to be a part of, with a deliberate emphasis on strong core
values, team spirit and camaraderie. I have drawn on my career—the good and
the not-so-good—and tried to provide an atmosphere of inclusiveness.
Fortunately, Tom Moody (the head coach), Muttiah Muralitharan (the bowling
coach) and I are on the same wavelength, and because our thinking is similar, the
five-year association has been hugely satisfying.
At Sunrisers, we place a lot of emphasis on the team culture, and at
auctions, we choose players who are likely to fit in. We assiduously avoid a
superstar culture and make each player feel important and wanted. We pick
players who we think will put personal aspirations aside if they come in the way
of team goals, and I am delighted that we have got an overwhelming majority of
the selections right. We might have won the title only once, but we take a lot of
pride in the way we have played the game—with respect for cricket and our
opponents, with aggression and positivity, flair and flamboyance, but also with
common sense and intelligence.
Along the way, we have had our fair share of challenges, none more
immediate and daunting than the last-minute loss of David Warner through
suspension just before IPL 2018. We bestowed the leadership responsibility on
Kane Williamson, and he rallied the troops beautifully. The transition was
smooth because even though Kane hadn’t been a regular member of the eleven
previously, he had always been an important member of our squad and had the
respect of his colleagues. I am proud of the campaign we ran in making it to the
final, a reaffirmation that if you do the right things, the results will automatically
follow.
My ultimate dream is to manage a school that will cater to the socio-
economically underprivileged. I was blessed to receive high-quality education in
my formative years, which was the foundation for my success. Education and
cricket together helped me overcome many an obstacle, and I am a firm believer
that for kids to be successful in any endeavour, there can be no compromise on
all-round development. With my parents’ blessings and the grace of the
Almighty, I hope to translate my dream into reality.
As a small beginning, we started the VVS Foundation, which is Sailaja’s
initiative. She is a philanthropist and supported the education of several
economically deprived kids during my playing days. Once I called it a day, she
felt we should approach the process in a more systematic way, which is how the
Foundation came about. We support 92 children from the time they enter seventh
grade to when they complete their graduation, but not merely financially. We
want to be the bridge between these children and their goals, and we don’t want
them to be short-changed because their parents aren’t financially equipped.
We have an academic audit every quarter to understand their problems and
then put corrective measures in place. Sailaja and I meet the kids twice every
month, and we try to provide them with all the tools required to boost their
confidence, to improve their communication skills and to rid them of stage
fright. We also look after their health, with two mandated medical check-ups a
year. It’s just a drop in the ocean, but it is a drop nevertheless that I hope to
convert into a trickle, and then a flood.
We have also instituted a sports scholarship in my uncle’s name, the Baba
Krishna Mohan Scholarship, which has till date been conferred on seven kids
with talent and passion for cricket. We conducted selection trials in three districts
in Telangana, and my friends who have played in the Ranji Trophy compiled an
initial shortlist of 78. I then watched these kids play to identify the seven that I
thought had the most potential and needed the scholarship the most.
For the last two years, we have been financially supporting 30 students at
IITs in different parts of the country. They receive the Satyaram Scholarship,
named after my parents—Dr Satyabhama and Dr Shantaram. Whatever I am
today, it’s entirely because of them. This is my humble way of saying thanks to
my amma and nana.
 Acknowledgements

I would like to thank all those who worked with me to give substance and shape
to this book.
First, my uncle, who encouraged me to start writing and then read every
draft and offered suggestions for its improvement.
Sailaja and my kids Sarvajit and Achintya, who patiently walked the
journey with me.
Kaushik, who transformed my thoughts into a structured narrative and
coaxed old memories and facts from my cricketing life, over the many months
we worked together on the book.
The Hindu and Suman Chattopadhyay, for permission to reproduce some
of the photographs that enliven the book.
My editor VK Karthika and her colleagues at Westland, for their
commitment and care.
And finally, all my friends, fans and cricket lovers, who have been my
support through both difficult and easy times.
 About the Authors
VVS LAXMAN
is a former Indian cricketer and currently a cricket commentator and mentor to
the IPL team Sunrisers Hyderabad. He received the Arjuna Award in 2002,the
Padma Shri in 2011 and was named one of Wisden’s five Cricketers of the Year
in 2002. He lives in Hyderabad with his family.

R KAUSHIK
has been a cricket writer for over a quarter of a century. Since starting his career
with Newstime in Hyderabad, he has worked with Deccan Herald and Wisden
India, and has reported on more than 100 Test matches. His association with
VVS Laxman dates back to 1990.
With my grandparents, parents and my elder brother Ramakrishna, when I was three years old.
The Under-11 Little Flower High School team with our physical education instructor Jayaprakash sir in
1984–85. I am seated second from the left.
The Hyderabad Under-13 team, which played in the South Zone tournament in Vijayawada. I am among
those standing, third from the right.
With my maternal uncle Baba Krishna Mohan, who was my cricketing guide and mentor. This was before
The Oval Test during the 2011 tour of England.
My childhood coaches: (from the left) John Manoj sir, Anil Mittal sir, V Manohar sir and P Jyothi Prasad
sir. We met in Hyderabad to celebrate my 281 at Eden Gardens.
John sir and Ashok Singh sir remained my pillars of strength even after I started playing regularly for India.
My stint with Pudsey Congs in the Bradford League in 1996 was a major turning point. Phil Carrick, to my
right, played an important role in my development as a cricketer and a human being.
Training with Mohammad Azharuddin in Wellington in 1998. I was privileged to receive my Test cap from
him.
This cover drive off Brett Lee was one of the several strokes that took me to my first Test hundred—167
against Australia at the SCG in January 2000.
I was both relieved and delighted as I acknowledged the cheers for my maiden Test ton at Sydney in
January 2000.
The scoreboard tells the story as I get past Sunil Gavaskar’s then Indian record of 236*. In a little over three
years, Viru would leave me behind. Records are meant to be broken.
Rahul Dravid, my comrade-in-arms during the epic stand, was a consummate team man who did everything
that was asked of him.
The cover drive, getting down low to the spinners, was one of the more productive shots during my 281.
The pull was one of my favourite strokes, and Australia gave me plenty of opportunities to play it at Eden
Gardens.
Australian Glenn McGrath’s dismissal that signalled our sensational triumph in Kolkata in 2001 set off a
round of celebratory hugs.
Happy to be with Sourav Ganguly, who set the tone for our 2003–04 campaign in Australia with a sparkling
144 in Brisbane.
Rahul and I reprised Eden with another triple-hundred stand at the Adelaide Oval in 2003 to fashion a
satisfying four-wicket win.
In a remarkable exhibition of restraint, Sachin Tendulkar cut out the cover drive from his game that day as
he cruised to 241* at the SCG. I was privileged to be his partner during an alliance of 353.
Anil, Sachin, Rahul, Sourav and I at Lord’s in 2007. It was our last time together at the ‘home of cricket’ as
India Test players.
Getting Anil Kumble to shake a leg at a party in Nagpur to celebrate his and Sourav’s careers is one of my
greatest off-field accomplishments. No wonder Viru, Sachin and Rahul can’t believe their eyes!
My best friend, my soulmate. I look a little overwhelmed, while Sailaja is all poise at our wedding
reception.
I was a little miffed at getting a new roommate ahead of the Eden Test in 2001. Little did I know that it
would be the start of a wonderful friendship with Zaheer Khan.
Viru wasn’t an entertainer only with the bat. Here he is, regaling me with one of his million stories.
MS came as a breath of fresh air, with a brilliant cricketing brain and an uncluttered mind. We savour our
first Test win in South Africa, at the Bullring in Johannesburg in 2006.
Close-in catching must be immaculate to complement excellent spinners like Anil and Bhajji. I enjoyed this
leg-slip catch to get rid of South Africa’s Hashim Amla at Eden in 2004.
Another smart grab to my left, at the WACA in Perth in 2012. Australia’s Shaun Marsh was one of Umesh
Yadav’s five victims that day.
Celebrating a dramatic win at Chepauk in 2001 to secure the Border–Gavaskar Trophy after a tense final
match.
The 2004 tour of Pakistan was memorable all the way through. To secure our first series win across the
border was momentous.
A draw at The Oval was enough for us to clinch our first Test series in England in 21 years as we lifted the
Pataudi Trophy in 2007.
Pragyan Ojha and Suresh Raina were my allies during the extraordinary conquest of Australia in Mohali in
2010.
Even as I track the progress of the ball, I celebrate my maiden ODI hundred against Australia—103* in
Brisbane in 2004.
John Wright arrived as India’s first foreign coach and quickly became a part of our daily life. I soon got
used to his quirks and eccentricities and missed him when he moved on.
Gary Kirsten didn’t rule with an iron fist. He allowed players to make their own choices, but married liberty
with accountability and drove us to the No. 1 ranking in Test cricket.
We had plenty of fun off the field, as can be seen from the excited faces during this jet-ski ride on the 2002–
03 tour of New Zealand.
A visit to the Wagah border to watch the lowering of the flags was one of the highlights of our tour of
Pakistan in 2004.
Receiving the Padma Shri in 2011 from the President of India Smt Pratibha Patil will remain one of my
proudest moments.
I doted on my maternal grandmother. To her, and everyone else at home, I was just another member of our
family, not an India cricketer.
Walking away from international cricket wasn’t an easy decision, but my close-knit family softened the
blow with their presence in Uppal that August evening in 2012.