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.
Being a Sangakkara-fanatic wouldn’t stop one from declaring
admiration for the other.
After all, who could look away when the stylist walks into
the middle—to save another game and restore a fragmented pride of a nation? No
cricket-lover will be able to resist the trend-setter; modernity meeting the
gospels in the cricket bibles; few drops of good old wine in a bottle that gets
renewed every now and then.
With almost unmatchable figures like his, one would wonder
whether it was too early for him to call it a day. Yet, time, for us, takes the
shape that we desire the most. And he would have seen it in the form of a cosy
home, cuddling a bundle of joy; who will one day become his future. Not because
he loves cricket any lesser—after living all the yesterdays serving as an
ambassador—more diligently than those appointed by the Ministry itself—it is
time to look beyond the curtains of today,
to know what the future holds.
Though often being mentioned in the same sentence with
Sangakkara, Mahela’s 18-year tenure, as opposed to his buddy’s 15-year stint,
goes to show that he has seen more cricket; played more strokes and saved more
games for the country.
It is not his overwhelming charisma that draws people to
him. It is his silence; his timely articulation; the simplicity of his word
that everyone understands as opposed to his buddy’s sophisticated phrase that
often makes people run in search of a dictionary. J
when he sheds his trademark-Mahela smile, that arises from a
deep corner, carrying with it a courage, a softness and resilience that he has
been synonymous with, a nation knows that, this time around, things are going
to be alright for them.
It is not his array of strokes that will leave a lasting
impression in the fan when he rests his weather-beaten cap. Not even his dedicated
gatekeeping at the slip position—for the many catches he has held on to and the
few he has dropped. It is the assurance that his presence in the field gives
that, even on a muddy day, his boys can come clean!
When he walks into the middle at two-down, there is a whole
nation that marches behind him, hangs on to every single that comes from his
bat and swears by his luck to turn the game in its favour . No newspaper would
tear him nor would any fan hate-tweet him out when he goes through bad
patches. Perhaps this is the reason why people go easy on him, knowing that,
when Time picks him as the last resort, he will always rise to the occasion.
And that is the magnitude of respect and trust he has
earned; something a lover would envy and a leader will crave for—but never
wins.
The duo will have the most fascinating biographies ever to
have written in the history of cricket. One a happy story of a child prodigy
and the other, despite the chapters of victory, underlined with a deep rooted
sense of sadness refusing to heal—the tragedy of losing the soul-keeper, friend
and brother—who would have even outsmarted him.
In 2003 during Sri Lanka’s tour of South Africa, when the
visitors were struggling to save, what is left of their grace, Mahela was
batting despite a bothersome cramp, which made him limp to and fro. After
tolerating enough of the home side’s bowling insults, Mahela decided to go at
Shaun Pollock and his daunting tempter. He drove him off the boundary line
twice back to back- and the next thing he knew—his head gear being given a
violent shake by Pollock himself. It would have taken a few seconds for his
buddy to cross the distance, to safely pull him out of Pollock’s grasp and get
into the middle of it.
It would be only a guess whether they remembered the
incident when they tortured South Africa at the SSC in their legendary 600 plus
partnership. The plaque at the SSC, his home ground, immortalizing the duet of their historic
stroke play, has made it a temple of inspiration for those who follow in their
footsteps. Perhaps, a combined biography will be the second book, a book-hating
cricket-lover would read after Shehan Karunatilake’s Chinaman. At least this
time, the book will be about real cricketers, in every sense.
Murali in his retirement speech said, one should retire when
everyone asks you why, instead of when; and it is no surprise that Mahela’s
action signifies it; for he is the one before the eleventh man belonging to
that rare breed.
This is an island that sleeps after midnight and wakes up
before the dawn when our heroes are out in the field, no matter in which corner
of the world. This is a story that two-world cup defeats, a thirty-year war, a
tsunami, deadly terror attack in Lahore and a terrorist air raid could not stop.
And, this is Mahela Jayewardene’s story.
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