In an era when T20 cricket thrives on adrenaline and brute force, the bat has become a bludgeon rather than a brush. The game increasingly celebrates raw power over finesse, driven by a lust for quick runs and dramatic moments. Batsmanship has evolved into a spectacle of violent stroke play, where elegance is a rare commodity. Yet, amid this rush, a few craftsmen, like Hashim Amla and Kumar Sangakkara, have kept alive the fading tradition of artistry. For over a decade, one man stood as a lone painter on the canvas of Test cricket — Vangipurapu Venkata Sai Laxman, whose magic lay not in power but in touch, timing, and grace.
Laxman’s bat didn’t strike the ball; it caressed it. The game, for him, wasn’t a battlefield of brute muscle but a delicate dance of rhythm and precision. Watching him was like witnessing an artist at work, each stroke a deliberate and precise brush on the white and green expanse. It was art for those who had the patience to look deeper—where beauty lay not just in boundaries but in the subtle angles, the gentle rolls of the wrists, and the silken glances past square leg. Laxman’s presence offered comfort; with him at the crease, even the most tense Indian dressing room could breathe easy.
Test Cricket's Twin Pillars: Laxman and Dravid
India's emergence as a formidable force in Test cricket is deeply entwined with the exploits of two warriors — Rahul Dravid and VVS Laxman. Dravid was the wall, the unyielding structure upon which India built its defence. Laxman, on the other hand, was the architect who adorned that wall with poetry. Together, they formed a symbiotic relationship—Ram and Laxman—a duet that turned several impossible situations into triumphs. While Dravid’s grit held the line, it was Laxman’s creativity that breathed life into those victories, with Australia often at the receiving end of their combined artistry.
Yet Laxman was more than just an artist; he was a crisis manager of the highest order. He thrived in adversity, his finest innings coming when hope was fading, the scoreboard wobbling and the dressing room weighed down by silence. No task was more daunting than marshalling the tail-enders under pressure. Many a gifted batsman has faltered in such situations, but Laxman excelled in it. His ability to inspire and guide the lower order was unmatched — a skill few possess. In this, he found kinship with another master of crisis: Inzamam-ul-Haq.
The Greatest Hits: 281 and Beyond
Laxman’s 281 at Kolkata against Australia will forever be etched in cricketing folklore, not merely for its sheer brilliance but for the way it turned the course of a series and Indian cricket’s self-belief. It was an innings that was epic in both scale and impact, the stuff of legends. Yet, to the true connoisseur, Laxman’s 96 in Durban holds a place of equal reverence. That knock played on a minefield of a pitch against a ruthless South African attack, epitomized his essence. In a game where his teammates struggled, Laxman seemed to exist on another plane, wielding his bat like a wand, conjuring a total that gave India a fighting chance.
These innings weren’t merely about runs but lessons in temperament and composure. Laxman’s presence on the field was like a lighthouse for his team—a signal that no matter how stormy the waters, he would guide them to safety. His calm, unhurried demeanour amidst chaos was a reassurance in itself, an attribute increasingly rare in today’s cricket.
The Unsung Hero
Despite his heroics, Laxman was never revered with the fervour that accompanied the likes of Tendulkar or Dhoni. He was neither a ‘God’ nor a commercial icon. His greatness lay in the fact that he didn’t need the spotlight. He preferred to let his bat talk, quietly dismantling the opposition with a blend of class and cunning. In a way, his artistry was an act of rebellion against the growing obsession with speed and aggression. He didn’t merely score runs; he *composed* them—each innings a narrative, each shot a stanza in a poem that only the purists could fully appreciate.
And yet, his mastery was undeniable. Even the prophets of doom who questioned his place in the team found themselves silenced by the elegance with which he rescued India from the jaws of defeat. Over time, sceptics became admirers, compelled to bow before the sheer artistry of a man who turned calamity into triumph with a flick of his wrists.
Farewell to an Era
With Laxman’s retirement, cricket loses more than just a player; it loses a part of its soul. The game, in its current form, is unlikely to produce another like him. The world without Laxman is a world without the mulberry leaf that, through time and patience, transforms into silk. His departure leaves a void that no power-hitter can fill, for Laxman represented something deeper—a reminder that cricket is as much about artistry as it is about winning.
Goodbye, VVS Laxman. You leave behind not just memories but masterpieces. The stadiums will no longer resonate with the sweet fragrance of your strokes, and cricket will feel a little less colourful without your magical wrists. Yet, in every cover drive and flick to fine leg, your spirit endures—a legacy not just of runs, but of elegance, grace, and quiet brilliance.
Thank You
Faisal Caesar
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