Even His Goodbye Refused a Draw

I was 13 when we started the BGT of 2014. We were travelling to Australia, MS missed the first Test in Adelaide, and Virat got to captain the side. That is the first Test match that’s still etched in my memory. I remember everything about those days. We had a class test on algebraic expressions in school, and I was glad it was finally over (I started fearing Math in 7th and 8th standard and only got over this fear by solving the Class 9 RD Sharma four times the next year). Winter breaks were about to begin, school homework had taken a back seat, the drop in temperature had started getting serious enough for us to put two quilts on the bed just in case someone needed to layer up at night, and my Amma had started preparations for her once-a-year sarso ka saag cooking event. In those days, we didn’t have any particular excitement when an overseas Test tour began. The results of those matches used to be foregone conclusions. But I was excited to see my Virat captain the Indian Test team. Unfortunately, I don’t quite remember when I started idolising him — I just know it was before his 183 against Pakistan in the Asia Cup in 2012, and even before that, his century against Bangladesh in the 2011 ODI World Cup.

The match started as expected. Clarke was at the fag end of his career, but he was still fighting. Warner had given Australia a quickfire start, Steve Smith was about to play perhaps the best Test series of his life, and the most dangerous of them all, Johnson, was breathing fire. We saw a good batting performance from India in their first innings; we showed some resilience thanks to Virat’s century and the support from Vijay and Rahane. Australia came back and posted a big target of 364 for India. Their plan was simple: don’t let India bat out on a Day 5 pitch with Lyon in their arsenal. The match was dusted — at least in the minds of all of us. All but one. India came out to bat with the intention to chase. Murali’s outstanding 99 gave us a glimmer of hope, but it was the intent with which Virat scored those 141 runs that almost made us believe we could win. Unfortunately, our middle order crumbled like dominoes at the other end (old habits die hard), and we lost by 48 runs. But no one was unhappy with this loss — because we refused to give up, or even take a draw. The bottom line for Captain Kohli was simple: winner takes all.

This marked a shift in the way the Indian Test team approached the game. Virat would go on to win a BGT on Australian soil as captain. He’d go on to lead India to the No. 1 Test side in the world. But while doing all of this, he became the constant in my life. Virat was playing as I left for school half-asleep, hair flattened on one side, talcum powder on my face, and he was still playing as I came back exhausted from the weight of the school bag I had carried the whole day. Maybe I felt sad at his retirement because humans do not like change — and not seeing him play with the Indian side will be a big change for me. Or maybe it’s because it’s finally sinking in that even I am getting old. Am I losing everything that I held so dearly in my childhood? Or is it because I had imagined his retirement would be much more different from how it actually happened?

After thinking for some time, I came to the conclusion that the only reason I cried — much more than I’d like to admit — yesterday, was because I am inexplicably attached to Virat. His countless match-winning innings may have something to do with it. His much-criticised rebellious attitude must have resonated with my own rebellious self, and of course, all his accolades contributed to this attachment too. But the biggest reason is that he was a close friend to me throughout my formative years — and an idol once I turned into a young adult. A friend because he seemed just like me when I was growing up (I was delusional as a kid too) — he was unusually cocky, and he wasn’t afraid to say what he was going to achieve. Famously, he told Alyssa Healy, while hanging out with the Australian women’s cricketers in 2008, “You better remember me. I’m going to be the next big thing in Indian cricket.” The next big thing, he sure became.

It’s said — at least among boys — that the people who teach you your first cuss words are the ones you stay friends with forever. If that’s the case, Virat will be my best friend forever. You see, the first time I learned how to flip a finger — and that it meant “something bad” — was during the 2011–12 BGT, when Virat flipped the finger to a packed SCG crowd while fielding at deep midwicket. In the months that followed, unregretfully, I gave my friends the finger over almost everything. But I also saw this young, arrogant, West Delhi boy with rough edges grow as I grew up. He went from telling someone to “go to Pakistan” (today’s ultra-right wing has nothing on that Virat) for criticising Indian players — to defending his premier fast bowler, Shami, against vicious trolls. He went from “Main pooja-path wala banda dikhta hoon kya?” (Do I look like someone who prays?) to someone who frequents Vrindavan and Krishna Das kirtans. And of course, he grew up to be a family man, a protective father of two — from an erratic young boyfriend. Virat’s character grew faster than his years, and he showed us how to do it too. How to give your idols their due, how to confess your love for your wife, and how to be protective of your juniors. (We all have a junior like Siraj under our wing, don’t we?) We learnt from him.

He made us believe that for every 2014 tour of England, there’s a 2018 tour of England. To say that I’ll miss Virat is an understatement. Cricket will be deprived of his cover drives in whites, his sledging from the slips, his offhand comments that would get picked up by stump mics and become national news by the evening, and his antics in the field. After his unannounced retirement from T20Is, and now the shocking retirement from Tests, one thing is obvious to me — he’ll take these final calls aggressively, with his heart on his sleeve. I cannot complain that he’s refusing to take a draw here — since that’s the Virat people fell in love with in Adelaide.

He kept many unspoken promises to me (and to us as a nation) — seizing a collapse, chasing the target on the board, being there till we cross the line, and not carrying on-field grudges off the field. I hope I keep all the unspoken promises I may have made to him too. I hope I show fearlessness when pushed against the wall. I hope I create a body of work people swear by. And I hope I give as much love and care to the people I love as he does. I hope I play the innings of my life as if I’m being captained by Virat — in whites.