Sourav Ganguly He turns 50 on 8 July. But the man who was baptized as the “Dada” that the country loves and looks up to, was only born at Lord’s in 1996, when this budding Englishman scored a scintillating century, fearless, aggressive and artistic. Had given. , As a longtime captain, Dada became the epitome of a single trait – enthusiasm and arrogance (not a particularly Bengali trait) mixed with sober analysis. Long before his retirement, as he went on to achieve one feat after another, he became the stuff that legends are made of. Sourav taking off his T-shirt in the Lord’s balcony in 2002, waving and twirling his bare body, is to me a perfect symbolic expression of postcolonial brutality and vigor. There is a lot written in it which extends beyond the cricket field.
Surprisingly, when I saw Sourav for the first time in 1991, I did not like him. It was a practice match in uncricketing, aggressive Canberra. He fielded in the deep, so that I could see him from a long distance. His body language was not encouraging. In fact, he looked a tad lazy, if not a little spoiled. I forgot him and no one reminded me.
Good five years have passed. Then, one day, as I was having tea with a Bangladeshi friend, his son came and announced with enthusiasm: “Do you know who is the best Indian batsman today? It is none other than our Sourav Ganguly.” I chose to read his accent as an expression of cross-border Bengali nationalism, which was not always forthcoming and rarely reciprocated. Not much to read about him is the Australian media’s brand of cosmopolitanism. However, his name kept coming back in casual weekend Bengali gatherings.
Finally he got a chance to see him in action again. India was touring Australia and I took a ticket for the match at the Gabba in Brisbane. Sourav’s innings didn’t last long, but it was enough for him to lob the ball beyond the rope several times. On one occasion, it was so high and fierce that I wondered if Cherry had actually reached my balcony a few hundred meters from the stadium. But what was more remarkable was the change in his personality: the teenage brat I thought I had seen, but a confident young man who was full of application and with a healthy dose of cricketing arrogance. .
I finally returned to Calcutta in 1998. Sourav was all over. The city zealously guarded him, always proud of his new possession, always worried, always offering improvements. Each of us became his alter-ego. Sachin got out once due to his carelessness of leaving the crease. This happened before also. A colleague in the office library immediately pointed to Bengal’s immortal feudal hangover, reminding me of the proverbial farmer who would rather starve than give up an inch of his land. By all indications, Bengalis are born social scientists and also cricket lovers. The two lines blended to make Sourav a true indicator of all that makes us sick and keeps us alive.
I suspect the recession started after the history-making victory over Australia in 2004. Sourav got used to getting himself out cheaply, almost committing suicide every now and then and making himself available for a fight with the ICC. But the drama had to wait until the Emperor Down Under took the reigns and decided to teach this local prince a lesson or two after the coronation. The rest is very difficult and is now history. As the man faltered even more, only the neutrality of happiness needed to facilitate the exit.
Sourav’s dismissal was on the plate for the media to chime in and fret. The then cricket-loving chief minister of Bengal consoled Nayak, leaving his sharp-tongued political stalwart to be read with apprehension. For the average Calcutta, this event clearly indicated another great betrayal of Bengal. There was nothing more to talk about than new episodes and new players in this unrelenting epic. The city turned away from its main passion – cricket.
The dimly lit streets looked more grim. There were no more clusters outside the show window of shops that were broadcasting a live match. We have all tried to face our new emptiness by denying that it has anything to do with Sourav being Bengali. The effects extended far beyond Bengal. Indeed, the event sparked a nationwide gloomy celebration that culminated in both the expansion itself and the announcement of its overabundance. On one of those depressing, depressing mornings, as I was running to my room at work, the receptionist looked at me and asked hopelessly: “What do you think our strategy should be now?” I was taken aback. I had seen them peek at the sports pages of various local language dailies, but they didn’t remember that they were talking to me beyond just functional. I realized the depth of his desperation that was not his alone. Thanks to Sourav, we all became collective personalities in a way.
Looking back, what seems most curious about the whole event is that once the much-prayed, much-conflicted withdrawal actually materialized, it no longer seemed like anything strange, almost inevitable. The 15 months long struggle vanished like thin pieces of ice and everything was business as usual. His healthy average in the World Cup and maintaining high scores including a century in the first Test after relegation seemed so natural. However, his flawless 239 in Bangalore in 2007 was of a different style. It was simply sublime.
In his triumphant return, he has become an eternal symbol of sheer resilience. I am not inclined to look at past injuries (even if they are real), but how it is always possible to work on oneself and rightfully claim lost honor. The ball that kisses the willow traveling up to the sky and falling from a nearby tree may or may not be forbidden. Apple of Indian cricket. But one thing is for sure: Sourav has achieved a permanent place in the history of the country and not just in cricket. No wonder the country never stops expecting more from Dada and no wonder he can excel in every responsibility that is assigned to him.
The author is a former Professor of Cultural Studies at the Center for Studies in Social Sciences, Calcutta (CSSSC).