Friends, family and acquaintances have always teased me about, what they call, my school-girl crush. I do not have a crush on Rahul Dravid. I have never had one. What I have is a deep admiration – for the gentleman he has shown he is and for the epitome of sportsmanship he has emerged to be.
This isn’t going to be a tribute to the cricketer. What can I say that the stats and awards do not already underline; what can be written that hasn’t already been eloquently captured by authors, commentators and experts. Instead, this is just a heartfelt tribute to my favourite sportsperson, whose decade-old picture I still have stowed away in my wallet.
It might be a bit of a ramble, I’ll warn you of that.
It might be a bit of a ramble, I’ll warn you of that.
As I start to write this, it is the midst of IPL season. The Mumbai Indians have just ended their innings with a score of 202 in 20 overs – a score that the commentators have already declared a tough ask. My dad has teasingly nudged me asking me how Rajasthan Royals expect to maintain a run rate of 10 per over with Rahul Dravid opening. I show some bluster, quite unlike my idol; I look at the TV and throw some words of encouragement at my team, almost begging them to win, as the camera pans scenes of the dug-out, waiting for the start of the second innings, even as my brother scoffs at me. “Sulker,” he says and smirks.
He isn’t completely off the mark. I have cried while watching matches. I may cry later tonight, too. That possibility certainly can’t be ruled out, no matter how much lip service I give my family.
Or, I may do a mad, demented victory dance and shake the walls! Depending, of course on the outcome of the match.
Or, I may do a mad, demented victory dance and shake the walls! Depending, of course on the outcome of the match.
But even as I predict my emotional volatility, I can say with reasonable certainty that Rahul Dravid will be as composed as ever. Irrespective of the outcome of the match, win or lose, he will step out at the end, take responsibility, give due credit and commendation, acknowledge compliments and praise with an embarrassed laugh. He will take a bow with dignity and quiet pride.
One evening 17 years ago, I remember sitting down with my dad, as he watched the test match at Lord’s, which would introduce to the world two icons of the game. The match has been (and, probably always will be) remembered for Sourav Ganguly pounding his way to smashing century, scoring the highest runs by any batsman on his debut at the Mecca of cricket.
Later, as parents, housing society uncles and silly schoolgirls went gaga over Ganguly, I remember resolving that I would make the quiet gentleman with boyish good looks, who missed his debut century by only 5 runs, my "favourite cricketer"! And, this fact I reiterated in countless scrapbooks, writing his name in coloured inks and drawing little hearts around it.
A year after his debut, I begged my dad to gift me a poster of Rahul Dravid. I stuck it on the inside of my cupboard since my mother was adamant that she would preserve the walls from the horrors of cello-tape.
The poster has captured Rahul Dravid, with a shy, reluctant smile and a sweaty brow. (He did sweat a lot, didn't he?!) And, he has smiled at me ever since, never fading with time, quietly watching the contents of the cupboard evolve from crayons and ribbons to notebooks and novels. Now, the cupboard is home to torn pages from diaries chronicling my girlhood - scraps of paper that contain excited rants about Rahul Dravid's stellar performances, disappointed lines berating the times he failed to perform, silly rhymes worshipping him.
The poster has remained there, slightly worn at the edges, tearing slightly at the top, but still resolutely stuck to the wooden door. In many ways Rahul Dravid, the cricketer, is much like that poster - resolute, charming and a survivor, seldom showing-off and quietly smiling at detractors and fans alike.
There was something about the quiet young man, the way he came, did his job well and smiled on even as his flashier counterpart walked away with the headlines. For the first ever time, that year, I picked up a newspaper and flipped first to the sports page.
In hindsight, I can say with some confidence, that there was something about his countenance that inspired trust; that gave you this “Main hoon na” kind of reassuring vibe. Like the best-friend-underdog-hero who you’re rooting for to win the girl at the end of the movie. I’ve always been a sucker for that stereotype.
In hindsight, I can say with some confidence, that there was something about his countenance that inspired trust; that gave you this “Main hoon na” kind of reassuring vibe. Like the best-friend-underdog-hero who you’re rooting for to win the girl at the end of the movie. I’ve always been a sucker for that stereotype.
He did remain the classic Mr. Nice Guy, Mr. Dependable through his career, playing his classy, stylish, reassuring game under the shadow of many Indian and international super-stars. But, when adversity came as it inevitably does, the quintessential twist in the tale, he stood firm, earning and justifying his epithet. The Wall. As a batsman he was ridiculed for being slow (in winning situations, the same style was referred to as being dependable). He came under fire as vice-captain when his captain was mired in conspiracy, and again later as captain when his tactics were sometimes criticized to tatters, as a one-time icon player who was passed over by his team at an IPL auction, as a leader on whose watch teammates were accused and found guilty of corruption. However, his stoic silence, a refusal to fall prey to personal criticism or impassioned yet fluent outbursts in defense of the very spirit of the game have reinforced my quixotic ideals.
I have often joked that in hard times I ask myself “What would Rahul Dravid do?” That really wouldn’t be such a bad guiding principle to live by.
