V V S Laxman: The supreme touch artist, whose cricket

epitomised the grace and elegance of Hyderabad

by Rupen Ghosh on Wednesday, August 22, 2012 at 10:42am
As VVS Laxman, the gentle giant, the mesmerizing wizard of the
willow, all of wrist and elegance, the man with classy and silken
cover drives, square cuts and leg glances and pulls with effortless
ease and all the timings in the world, bid farewell to international
cricket, one was transposed to another world, perhaps gone by, of
another era, of old Hyderabad, which had a delightfully unhurried
and unobtrusive air to it. Laxmans game reminded us of the
charm of the city where once, time was, perhaps, of less
consequence, to be savoured and enjoyed at will, not wasted or
squandered in a maddening frenzy. At one time, there would be
no mad scramble in the city of rushing to reach somewhere, of
aspiring to reach the dizzying heights of success, of an unsatiated
mind. Cricket in the city resembled this old world elegance, of
style and class, of politeness and simplicity, and as Harsha
Bhogle, a Hyderbadi himself and cricketer of no mean repute,
once said, describing the most important qualities of the batsmen
the city produced, 'of the inability to be calculating and devious.'
In its present hi-tech, cyberabad avatar, the city may be
unrecognizable from its not so distant past of a genteelness and
elegant charm, so amply reflected in the game of cricket.
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In the present era of slam-bang variant of the game, these

qualities would be frowned upon and termed as being lazy or
laidback or too contented or easily satisfied as the game
represents all sound and fury, of no quarter asked and none
given, of feverish activity, of the restless energy of the youth, with
no time perhaps to introspect or ponder over or strategize over
the finer nuances of the game or to take a pause for bigger and
more decisive battles ahead. The purists may lament that if
cricket were to only resemble other frenzied sport like, say, rugby,
it would become a paler version of baseball, and that would be a
tragedy, at least to those who would like to retain some of the
pristine qualities that at one time made cricket a gentlemans
game, a thinking mans game. As cricket turns increasingly
commercial and market driven, with vice-like grip of the corporate
world and as the changing contours and dynamics of the game,
resemble and mirror the rapidly evolving society and the fast
transforming lifestyles and preferences of the growing middle
class in sync with the ever-growing technological frontiers, the
sociological dimension of cricket presents us with a fascinating
study. One is thus reminded of the iconic and famous question
asked by CLR James in his book Beyond a Boundary, of, what do
they know of cricket, who only cricket know? This was James
response to the original Rudyard Kiplings quote of What do they
know of England who only England know? CLR James was a
progressive intellectual from Trinidad, a Shakespearean scholar,
cricket commentator, critic and a writer of fiction. His book was a
social commentary on cricket, a privileged insight into West Indian
culture, a severe examination of the colonial condition, of the
larger dimension the game played in the race relations and class
character of the colonial society. The book went beyond the
concrete details of the game into broader historical and
philosophical issues. James presented the game of cricket as a
metaphor for the larger social questions, as a metaphor for the
uncertainties of life and hence the celebrated poser. In much the
same way, the city of Hyderabad represented the languid and
unhurried nature of the game and from the batting style of an
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Abbas Ali Baig, a Salim Durrani, a dashing, flamboyant ML

Jaisimha, an Azhar and the last of the classical purists, a Very Very
Special Laxman, the galaxy of cricketing greats, one could discern
the effortless charm and grace of the lifestyle the city provided.
Laxmans stroke making was of pure class, of pristine beauty, of
grace and majesty and watching him in full flow was a real
delight, reminding of us silken practitioners of this rare art, a few
from his city like Azhar and M L Jaisimha, and others like G R
Viswanath, David Gower, Alvin Kallicharan, of Kanhai. He turned
batting into a fine art and like art, he was a bit unpredictable and
vulnerable too. Laxman, much like a Hyderabadi, was polite,
unassuming, graceful, self-effacing in an era of twenty four hours
hoopla and unremitting media glare. Obviously, he did not attract
too many sponsors and his exit from the scene did not receive the
kind of attention or maddening adulation, which, perhaps, his
other more celebrated colleagues would have got. Laxmans
demeanour and low-profile, unassuming persona, however,
betrayed a lot of steel within, of determination to succeed and
rescue India under extremely challenging circumstances. His big
scores and staying power at the crease, his rescuing the team on
countless occasions on foreign soil, under great stress and against
quality opposition, was antithetical to a man who appeared
unhurried and unpretentious, a trifle laidback, but who was
otherwise focused and determined to last longer, to play a lone
battle, like a last man standing, of a burning deck kind of a
player. Who can forget his stupendous and magnificent knock of
281, match winning of course, against the Aussies at Eden
Gardens, that marked him out as a very very special Laxman,
when defying all odds, when everything was lost with India having
conceded a follow-on, he stunned the then world champions? A
little before, Laxman had conjured up another magic with a
majestic 167 against the same Aussies at Sydney, of dazzling
strokeplay, reminding us of the great Victor Trumper. Again, who
can forget, for example, his fantastic, stroke-filled 96 on a bouncy,
fiery Durban, when India had been reduced to 148 for 7, when
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Laxman teaming up with the tailenders, brought up a memorable,

stunning win? How can we ignore his 148 against Austraila at
Adelaide, or his 73 at Mohali when with the stoic last man,
Laxman launched a remarkable counter-attack, shocking the
Aussies and finally helped India to win? Amazingly, most of his tall
scores that helped India either win or save the day, were on days
when his team was in desperate trouble and when all hopes were
lost, and therein lies his greatness of turning up as a savior, of
battling against adversity. And the man who partnered him on
most occasions was the Wall Dravid, technically the soundest
batsman India has produced in contemporary times. They have all
now become part of the folklore, of cricketing legend.
Some likened the sheer luminosity of Laxmans batting to the
beauty of a poetry, to the symphony of a Mozart or a Beethoven,
to the graceful strokes of a painter, almost epiphany, and the city
of Hyderabad, his muse. It was not that he did not fail, that he did
not disappoint; rather, many a time he flattered to deceive.
Unable to cement his position in the team, he played too far down
and had mostly the tail enders as company. At the start of his
international career, he had to open the innings when his natural
position was in the middle-order; naturally, he struggled and lost
his place. On many occasions, this class batsman was simply
ignored, and what a pity that he never played in the world cup.
But, not for once, did Laxman protest in public or opened his
heart to the media or lamented the shoddy treatment meted out
to him. Such was the grace, politeness and decency of this gentle
Hyderabadi. Anything else would have been a sacrilege for him!