Behind fearlessness is usually a clear mind. A mind intent
on keeping things simple. A mind unhindered by the weight of tradition, protocol
or what went before. A mind that could come up with its own religion and a
sense of what is right or not. Sehwag’s game betrayed his possession of such a mind
– tranquil, strong and brutal. The body then became a mere instrument. The hand-eye coordination, the fluid strokeplay and the marauding batsmanship simply flowed forth. Natural. Destined.
Opening, so we were told, was a fine art. An elite
profession strictly earmarked for the products of textbooks to pursue. Temperament,
the willingness to see off the shine and guarding the wicket were minimum
virtues expected of any aspirant. And into this altar Sehwag bludgeoned his way
and broke down all traditions. To put it simply, he played street cricket at the
highest level wearing whites and a floppy hat. And he did this right from his
debut till the very end. Against the best bowlers. And on pitches of all
varieties. There was no slowing down, adapting, changing gears or accumulating.
See ball, hit ball.
That he paid little attention to the context of the game perhaps
let him play his natural game. And this is exactly why watching his innings
unfold was possibly the reason behind my first grey hairs. A waft outside the offstump
produced the same grin as did a clean straight drive down the ground. An upper
cut over third man? This was the first man whose score in the nineties made me
a wreck half way across the globe. Thankfully, though his nineties were plenty, they were all short lived.
Muddling through numbers to understand his legacy would be futile.
His impact lies entwined in the intangibles. Opposing captains delaying their declarations. Bowlers finding their plans in shatters. Opponents redefining a
safe target after every over. Necessitating unorthodox field placements. Captains ringing in bowling changes with a prayer. Runs
per minute would be a better measure for his batting gave his bowling colleagues
not only more runs but also additional time. And above all, shrugging off the label of a "Sachin clone" to create a name for his own.
Viv Richards is perhaps the only man that merits comparison
with Sehwag. Viv “The King” was unmistakably a showman. His game was as sublime
as it was arrogant. The famous “stagger” betrayed a nonchalance. And the gum
chewing oozed irreverence. His persona was perhaps as feared as was his violent
strokeplay. Whereas with Sehwag, there was only the earnestness of a workman. Nothing
more, nothing less. In the hands of Viv, the bat was a sword while in Sehwag’s
it was more an axe.
His methods may have made purists squirm. There were
whispers about technique, foot work and weaknesses against the short ball. But his
career bears testimony to his genius. Sehwag changed the job description of a
test opener and left his stamp on the game to be truly counted among the best
to have played the sport. And, although unsung, he truly did it his way.
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With Sehwag's retirement (and Zaheer's), an era in Indian cricket comes to an end. For they are the last two players that were, how do I put this...older than me. From now on, whenever I watch the
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