Are Indian cricket’s dark days over?

There was an unforgettable time called infancy, when our first stammering words were celebrated, when our fumbling and tumbling attempts evoked such pride in the eyes of onlookers. People rushed to our aid to wipe our silly tears and fears, lending a hand without reservation. There was no sense of hypocrisy in any experience or expression. Indeed, life then was literally a dessert gifted on a silver plate even as the world seemed like a savoury paradise.

Until the tireless clock ticked on till we were introduced to a phenomenon called success. Pretty soon, success was a desire we were obliged to habituate with great pride, for surroundings forced us to believe that this was the single defining attribute of a legend.

But somewhere amidst this obsession for spotlight, we began to ignore the might of darkness and power of freedom. In pursuit of a tricky fame upon the throne, we belittled the statuesque sentry guarding the door. It was a despicable psychology that soon plagued even our sport, and soon we were celebrating triumphs over relations, compiling stats rather than shaking hands, counting money at the mercy of meetings, and seeking victory over visitors.

Silly as it seems, humanity’s evolution began to be measured in piling progress, even if it’s at the expense of burying the heart!

In this backdrop, the story of Indian cricket was a reminder that perhaps the key to Indian failure was verily our success. For close to three decades after that glorious epochal day of ’83, the Indian follower hasn’t been distracted by any virtuous desire. Night and day, they’ve swarmed the stadia and passionately followed their heroes, hoping to relive the hangover experience of their past generation.

It took a while, a pretty long one at that, to recreate the moment. We went closer than imagined in ’03 only to be denied at the final yard. With each passing attempt, the situation got worse and our desire tipped into desperation. In a way, the ’11 World Cup triumph was the complete experience for in a long while, finally a host was gifted the luxury of drowning live in its success. Besides, it was the nation’s favourite legend’s final appearance in team colours in the World Cup, achieving his 28 years’ lifelong dream on his home ground. For once, it was such a pleasure to see Him in tears!

But alas, in this new found purple era capping the decade of Indian achievement in cricket starting from 2001, we failed in the art of coping with success.

In the hour of our wealthiest celebration on that night of ’11, wiser counsel stressed the need to invest afresh. A tough sacrifice seemed imminent but our emotional bond only got stronger. In hindsight, it was rather merely an obsession for success, at the cost of wiping our own tears. For it’s a tricky moment in every man’s life. An awkward moment when the artist gets lost in his finest art, a musician stands mesmerised with his magical melody, a sculptor turns still in grandeur of his most magnificent mirage crafted. A perplexing moment of risk, when one gets sandwiched between an unforgettable past and the possibility of a greater future. The inconvenient moment of realization when one needs to let go something immortal to find mortal ambrosia.

We took a while to learn. 2 years later, after many paling whitewashes abroad and humiliations under our own roof, this morning, we finally saw light and it seems, even if it’s too premature to celebrate, that our darkest days are over.

It was a fine win over a depleted yet respected opposition in favourable conditions. But more than a mere statistical entry into the victory column per se, it was the ingredients of the tale that were heartening.

The questioned captain produced his finest performance, equalling a captaincy record, capturing 21st win of his career. Ashwin got back to doing what he is reputed for. Harbhajan returned albeit noiseless to prove that spin wasn’t history yet in its birthplace. Kohli played with penchant to prove his burdening responsibility was motivating. And finally Sachin returned to his second home to prove his promising final innings of the career was just beginning.

Celebrating this magical moment, let’s not hope history repeats itself, given that we saw the English rise from the same position, a very short while ago.

Either ways, the only reason we succeeded was that we began to play with the nonchalant freedom of an innocent child. We set out to take risk as challenge and learnt to acknowledge and smile at failure, accepting our falls as a means to learn how to rise. We finally learnt to just play! There wasn’t a more illustrious metaphor of this childish renaissance as with the 39 year old legend smashing the first two balls over the fence.

It was a deafening proclamation in sedate grace from a resurgent hungry team that this promising dawn would lead to a memorable day ahead.

I for one at least, believe that our darkest days are safely tucked into the coffin!