Rahul Dravid-England love story

Rahul Dravid

In the early 00’s, Rahul Dravid supporters could be segregated into two categories: One was full of good-natured fastidious boys who tucked in their shirts and wouldn’t say ‘boo’ to a goose. The other was a bunch of cricket fanatics who just didn’t want to follow the trend of worshipping the Demigod at No.4 and, after Dada, Laxman and Sehwag were taken up briefly, had turned to Dravid for their time in the sun.

I was a Rahul Dravid fan long before it was a cult virtue. I would stick my left elbow out and tap the dirt hard every time I faced my neighbour who hurled a tennis ball at 40 kmph in a 10-over game. Mates admonished me for letting the ball go to the keeper even then; I thought that it was cool.

And so, like any other teenage boy who loved wearing a sweaty-shirt with a hanky around his neck simply because Dravid made it look good, I am of the opinion that he played his best cricket in the Old Blighty.

Most people in this world have what I call as ‘imagery triggers’. Nothing more than fancy jargon coined by yours truly to describe those words or images that we associate with certain people with alarming surety. In fact, after several years of immaculate precision and analysis of his autograph, fashion sense, and his favourite heroine (he does have one), I have reached that non compose mantis state of ridiculous idolising that we all know with different heroes.

I have come to the conclusion that the man can be fairly accurately described by the dissection of his very name. His first name, Rahul, is a symbolic portrayal of the fun-loving, boyish nature that makes him so loveable. His surname, Dravid, is as solid and stoic as he is, almost a hallmark of the introverted, tough-as-nails character that men of yesteryears would have loved. Just writing his name out makes you feel good about life. It is almost as if he was destined to be named Rahul Dravid.

If I had to list out a few things that spring to mind when I think of the Bangalore Gent, they’d be: Kent, tie, 2011, Britannia, defence, Steve Waugh, Multan, and so on. But there is one particular scenario that I loved about cricket, and that’s Rahul Dravid walking in at No.3 for India, in England. Against the swinging ball, it seemed like his back lift had the perfect arc. His feet went where the ball would end up, as opposed to where it was pitching. His head was still as a statue, hands light as that of a man holding a fragile item in a Swarovski store. Watching him delighted me as much as it frustrated bowlers who wanted to give up the game and settle down in Bristol, or something. ??He could be the ultimate anglophile cricketer: he has a liking for the giant lawn that is Lord’s as much as it enjoys his presence there, he enjoyed the warm quietness that engulfs grounds the ground, the nod of acceptance that the men there gave him in the form of standing ovations, and the occasional heckle.

He speaks impeccable English, shakes hands with the opponents almost as if he is genuinely thanking them for having had the opportunity to play a game of cricket. His asking for the umpire for his guard is, by itself, an act of deference. He could be himself in England, and not be awkwardly praised for it. He did, however, get his share of respect. In fact, Dravid’s life is a life of a good human being who played a game called cricket, scored 10,000 runs in both forms of the game, was loved and respected by one and all, and walked into retirement like a monk who’s moved on.

The beauty about Dravid’s game is that I cannot make up my mind about which music would suit him better in a tribute video on YouTube. I’ve heard everything from Eminem to Ludovico Eiunadi on his footages, and I find either to be slightly amiss on a few levels. And then, I realised the perfect way to watch him bat: listen to the English crowd. The muffled applause every time he played a leg glance endorsed by the MCC itself, topped only by the commentary of Boycott or Bumble as he bats for forty six weeks without losing his wicket and then gets admitted for a serious case of induced dehydration.

I saw an advert on the telly the other day during an IPL game, where I decided to take a sip of Sprite every time I saw a forward defence. Two sips and 17346 Yes Bank Maximums later, I saw the advert again; I got down to writing this piece at once.

The advert? India’s tour of England, in the summer of 2014.

I miss Rahul Dravid.