South African spinner Simon Harmer in action. (EXPRESS PHOTO by Partha Paul)The whites of South Africa, dirtied and crumpled, glowed in a shade of gold under the pre-evening sunshine. On the same stage they renewed international cricket 34 years ago, they scripted one of the finest moments in their history. In a nervous contest on a stinker of a pitch, they upended the hosts by 30 runs to secure an unassailable lead.
The winning moments captured the meaning of the moment. Keshav Maharaj, who bagged the last two wickets in as many balls to bundle out India for 93, he sprinted like a man possessed, a man in a state of pure bliss. Then his eyes searched for Temba Bavuma, whose resolute and unbeaten 55 had propelled the dream and who devoured the steepling catch of Axar Patel, India’s last flicker of hope. Bavuma had a firm grip on his emotions. He just walked with a gratified smile, like a man who believed the victory was possible. Once South Africa set 124, he knew the destiny of his team was in their own hands. Just at the stroke of tea, they completed the last stanza of an extraordinary poem, washing the stadium in tears.
The dismantling of India was ruthless. The occasion did not overawe them; it didn’t faze them either. Every bowler enacted their role to perfection. Marco Jansen, with his height and bounce, consumed the openers. Simon Harmer wrecked the middle order and Keshav Maharaj wrapped up the lower order.
Temba Bavuma after scoring his half-century. (EXPRESS PHOTO by Partha Paul.)
In spirit, this was a T20 game stretched over two-and-a-half days, with the constant ebb and grapple and the devastating tension of a twenty-over game.
The first two balls of India’s pursuit of 124 revealed Yashasvi Jaiswal’s intentions. He slapped an airful of Kolkata air. The fourth ball, the beanpole Jansen pushed the length to force a tame jab and a nick. With the captain, Shubman Gill, already ruled out of the match, the start could not have been more calamitous. The ripple of applause when KL Rahul put India’s first run on the board was more out of relief than joy. But in his next over, Jansen stoked more anxiety among the audience by producing a lifter that climbed into Rahul and shook off his gloves to the wicketkeeper. The match sprang to life, and an awkward silence wrapped the stands just before lunch.
Runs trickled, often streakily. Washington Sundar and Dhruv Jurel steered India to lunch without further damage, but the shadows of a long and eventful day spread themselves out on the sprawling expanses of the Eden. They waited for leg-sidish balls. Hitting down the ground was risk-prone, so they waited for the ball at their body or the leg-side, or a hint of width. Post lunch, Washington and Jurel resisted and repelled the tantrums of the surface, but uneasiness swirled. Until the last run was scored, none could relax in their seat, none could smile or think freely. Fleeting relief turned into spontaneous agony when Jurel pulled deep into the hands of the square leg fielder. Under such grim circumstances, even ordinary events like a single or a defensive push, or a tight leave, were appreciated. Decibels soared when South Africa burned a review on Rishabh Pant. He injected more suspense. But Pant was restrained. Perhaps it was the pitch playing in his subconscious, or it could be the enhanced responsibility of leading without Gill, or the fear of crucifixion if he got out playing a reckless stroke. The strangled freedom manifested in a tame return catch to Harmer, jumping in the joy of ejecting India’s most potent match-winner.
The off-spinner posed the most innocuous queries. He is tall, coaxes bounces, generates immense spin, gets the ball over the eye-line, and foxes batsmen in the air. The double turn with the right arm helps him with his accuracy. He rarely offered width or strayed in line. He gives the ball a mighty rip with his large, inexhaustible digits, rubbery wrists, and Hercules-like shoulders. Four of his first nine overs were maidens; the lone boundary he conceded came from his lone blemish of the spell. In his over-alacrity to fire a quicker and fuller ball at Ravindra Jadeja, he strayed in line.
But Jadeja counterpunched, not in the conventional sense of blind yahoo-ing, but more thoughtful foiling of South Africa’s plans. Digging trenches was an unrewarding choice, because the ball with his name swirled. He galloped to 18, before a near yorker-length ball from Harmer deceived him. Harmer’s yeoman virtues of pinging the ball on the off-stump or thereabouts stood vindicated. At the other end, Washington waged a lone battle. He trusted his forward defensive, stretching his long legs and crouching his upper body almost to the level of the ground to defend stoutly. Deflections, glides, and nurdles fetched him runs. He struck only two fours in the first 91 balls he faced. The first was a thick edge, the second a refined flick. But in the 91st ball, he found his kryptonite, edging part-time tweaker Aiden Markram to the first slip. His euphoric celebration echoed in the loud quietness of the stadium. Down to 72 for 6, the spectators could sense the whip of doom.
Ravindra Jadeja in action. (AP photo)
The crowd lingered, hoping for the impossible, another miracle to embellish its grand folklore. But second by second, hope waned. Soon departed Kuldeep Yadav, defeated by Harmer’s unwavering precision. Years of toil on unhelpful English pitches have acquainted him with the craft of pounding the ball at one spot. Here, he had the pitch smiling welcomingly at him, too. Axar’s blows reinstated hope, but Maharaj nipped out a mini-masterpiece in the making and took them closer to the shores of victory.
South Africa had steeled itself for the moment. They have had an eye on this tour since the last one finished, and came into it talking about the need to adapt to momentum on the field, how to go with it, and keep their composure to eventually start moving it back the other way. Then, across two days and two sessions, at Eden, the match was parcelled up in lovely wrapping paper. And they glowed in the golden sunshine of Eden.
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