November 29th 2023.
One cannot be sure of most such things, but the one thing one can be sure of is that it happened. At some unknown and unrecognised point in time, a 30-something cricket romantic turned into a stoic spectator, unmoved and unmoored by the rising and falling fortunes of a team he had attached his sense of self and identity to.
Things one is sure of when it comes to loving the sport of cricket is that this same cynic, as a 10-year-old boy in 1996, bawled when his team lost in a sandpit at Eden Gardens; or a young teenager, a few years later, who had recently fallen in love with the high backlift of a swashbuckling cricketer of Najafgarh, could not help but hope that his idols would get one over the all-conquering mighty Aussies in 2003; or as a young engineering student he was running across the crowded roads of a nameless city in Madhya Pradesh shouting “India... India!” as if his heroes would hear him in Johannesburg; or even a graduate who’s all set to move to the US cherishing finally that dream of winning that elusive World Cup in 2011.
However, with age comes the ability to temper one’s emotions and view the world with serenity. That young man who had once bawled at the sandpit in Eden Gardens, had now given way to a mature man following the sport for the performances of all who play it across nation states and teams and how well they could execute their skills.
Yet, there is something beyond that — because however much one wants to deny it, much like how one can never forget the joy of hearing a random stranger in a random city far from home speak in the language of your parents, one can also never really give up the quiet joy and contentment of watching and living through their team win something.
One feels for these men, many of whom are now younger than you, who would probably never get another chance at making this happen for themselves and their team. Despite their exemplary skills and dedication to their art, there is no doubt that they deserved it as much as any Indian team ever has, yet they did not get it.
In some ways, it almost feels like if there is a god up there, a god who is not partisan or nationalist or of any religion but a god who cares for all equally, that god made sure that this moment was not converted into an act of propaganda by a regime that has the ability to inflict wounds and make helpless all those countless who do not agree to its vision of how this country should look like.
And so, in cosmic design, it makes perfect sense that India couldn't cross the line. And in the grand tapestry of existence, we leave Sisyphus at the base of the mountain! Always, one rediscovers one’s burden.
The burden of a thousand voices invoking Ram not in praise but to instil fear; the burden of myriad media personas, sports bureaucrats, advertisers, and former cricketers attempting to diminish those who came to compete and conquer; and finally, the weight of a man presuming that with his name etched on the stadium and his authority imprinted on the nation, a glorious moment of crowning awaits him once more.
Always, one rediscovers one’s burden. And yet, in its melancholy and absurdity, the world swallows all, whether celebrants of victory, mourners of defeat, or the monarchs who delude themselves into thinking their reign will endure.
In the end, it is the perfect reminder that nothing is permanent and if solace must be offered, let it be whispered that Sisyphus, despite his perpetual toil, wears a contented smile.
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