At a night, the Lankans will never forget, in Dhaka under
the floodlights, two buddies in their sweat-sodden shirts hugged each other;
probably for the four hundredth time. They were as thrilled as two school boys
after winning a much-hyped about big match. They would have walked many grounds
before, fist-punched and patted each other for a thousandth time; after every
boundary, half a ton and a double ton scored between them.
Long before that night, they would have realized that this
duet will one day come to an end—with no secrets of the game between them, they
would have even scripted and disputed as to who would make the exit first; and
whom to follow.
