ICC Champions Trophy 2017: Indians produce a Beethovenesque show with the bat on a painting canvas to bully Bangladesh out

If Rohit Sharma were a painter, he would have made Da Vinci proud!

Sport and art share a similar ‘ending’, pun intended. At times, it becomes a little too obvious, when sport masquerades as art and pulls it off in style. And Thursday’s match, in the Champions Trophy semi-final was one such occasion. It was raining outside, in my city, the monsoons probably singing a prelude to what was going to be a painting, made in slow motion by three Indian batsmen.

They weren’t batting today. It was as if they were modelling for a photo shoot, on a bright sunny day in the park, far, far away, modelling with a languid, lazy elegance that blurs the line between sport and art.

No one knew what was coming and the pundits had pitched it as a tough contest. ‘Tough’ would have offended the Indian top-order as a half-coached student offends his mentor with silly scepticism. In a couple of hours, all scepticism was put to rest as India chased down 264 against Bangladesh, at Birmingham, in the semi-final of the 2017 Champions Trophy, with the same ease with which an old ice-cream vendor on a rickety cycle breaks into a smile at the sight of kids.

The second over of the chase, in pursuit of 264, offered a glimpse into what was about to come in the course of the second innings. Mustafizur, that man with rubber wrists capable of making the ball do strange, exotic things, gave Dhawan two balls outside off. One was punched through the covers off the back foot, the other was slashed terrifically through point. The opera had begun and the guests were settling in, when Rohit joined in the symphony, Mustafizur once again the victim, if poetry ever scarred someone.

Rohit caressed one through square, getting down on one knee, almost nudging the ball to roll away on the velvety grass. There was a straight drive too, the third four of the over, a straight drive that momentarily made a cricket-frenzied nation gasp in a collective sigh. That straight drive was a prayer to a god they had adored for decades, a straight drive that seemed to be way too lazy to be called a shot, way too beautiful to be called a cricket stroke. More a stroke of a brush on a green canvas.

There was a flick through midwicket later from Rohit’s bat, that rolled over for a four too. Rohit was almost a Shaolin warrior fasting, conserving his energy, while still doing the needful, because life had to go on, with an unerring brilliance that is.

Dhawan joins in, briefly and then Kohli takes over

Dhawan was beginning to flex his muscles before he gave away

A few brush strokes later, Shikhar Dhawan decided to contribute his range of colours to a canvas that was already sparkling. A gorgeous punch towards point. Nothing moved, not a blade of grass. Dhawan’s bat was swift like the practised executioner’s swing. Taskin Ahmed didn’t learn the lesson, didn’t see the signs. He pitched two short deliveries in contempt. But, contempt is never a big idea against the masters of swing, with the bat that is.

The first one was hooked with kindness. The second hook, a six, was out of disdain, Dhawan on one knee. For all we know, he was probably humming a Caribbean tune. For a brief moment, he could have been the southpaw version of Desmond Haynes. For a brief moment, cricket, that has seen everything there is to see, stirred, smiled and reminisced, nostalgically, of batsmen who conjured symphonies. But, we were just warming up, as Dhawan’s cool gave way, almost anti-climactically, to his skipper’s fire.

How could we have a painting complete without Kohli splashing colours, fiery colours - bright red, flashy green, sunset orange! Splash he did, and who was the victim again, who but Mustafizur. It was as if India had decided to make him empathise with the pain he had inflicted on them during his debut series. Two gorgeous cover drives later, Mustafizur, debilitated by injury, was left behind along with the memory of his golden day, shed by Indian batting, like Snakes slough their skins.

The first cover drive was beautiful. It was Kohli, dead-still head, straight bat, huge stride, balanced head. The second cover drive. It was godly. On the off-side, through the covers, first there is Kohli, then there is God. India still needed 126 runs at that point, but those gorgeous drives killed something in the Bangladesh team, a spark that rises out of the soul, the spark that you need in tough battles.

That spark had been toyed with by Rohit and Kohli for the next few overs. There weren’t too many bad deliveries. They were decent. It was just that Kohli and Rohit got a batting pitch that was as faithful as Romeo was to Juliet. And they dedicated an ode to that romance.

Rohit late-cut one off Rubel Hossain, with a surgical precision that is hard to define, playing late. Rubel might have wondered what he did wrong. Nothing. Except the fact that he was dressed in green, bad colour on the day to be in. Worse, if you had to run up and deliver the ball, the sidekick, the losing horse competing to make the winning horse feel better ahead of the big day.

Rohit brought up his century with a characteristic pull; oh, how he makes no attempt at disguising his hostility for the short ball. And there were drives, cuts and pulls.

Virat Kohli leans into another of his majestic cover drives

Kohli, meanwhile, became the fastest to 8000 ODI runs. Shane Warne on air thoughtfully remarked that Kohli’s class was flexing its muscle. The best batsman in the world, as Warne remarked, didn’t care for a century. India had so much time, he could have played maiden after maiden while crawling towards his century. But great men aim for great milestones and wanting to score a century was below Kohli’s class, almost like beating a dead snake. Rohit kept giving him the strike and he kept turning it back with singles.

Eventually, he finished it off, with a gorgeous cover-drive, four short of a century. It was almost an encore to a mesmerising performance. The audiences were stunned by the Beethovenesque batting. Three unbeaten knocks from Kohli, a fierce gladiator, who battled bad form at the beginning of the tournament to emerge as the champion he truly is. Rohit was on 123*, at the other end.

Years later, this match might be forgotten in the stat book. Just another semi-final when the Asian bully beat to a pulp, the new kid on the block daring to dream. Those who witnessed the match will have a tougher time forgetting how artistry in sports was redefined.

Dhawan painted minimalist art; Rohit muslin-kissed the ball that flew away in euphoria to do his bidding; Kohli scythed the gorgeous arcs of a super-assassin. Somewhere, a sport-romantic missed the eloquence of Harsha Bhogle, who would have probably sung odes to the afternoon batting’s lilting elegance. Sport often evokes the sublime; today it made me realise why a billion people and I are crazy about this game, this weird, lazy game, that offers enough leisure for artists to create something magically memorable, like no other game does!