There are defeats, and then there are heartbreaks—the kind that linger long after the last ball has been bowled. In Bangalore, India’s aspirations of a historic series victory over Pakistan unravelled in the dying overs of an enthralling contest, leaving behind an empty feeling that resonated through the dressing room, the stands, and the nation beyond.
Sourav Ganguly stood on the precipice of history, poised to become the first Indian captain to clinch back-to-back Test series against Pakistan. Instead, he walked off to the cruellest of ovations—boos from a crowd that had expected glory but witnessed the collapse. For all the dominance India had displayed through the series, it was Pakistan who stood triumphant, their charged-up young brigade seizing a win that seemed improbable at the start of the day.
John Wright, India’s coach, voiced the silent anguish of millions:
"This was a series that got away."
For Pakistan, it was a resurrection. For India, it was a ghost that would haunt them for years.
The Toss That Changed Everything
For the first time in the series, luck smiled upon Inzamam-ul-Haq. The toss—so often an afterthought—proved pivotal. On a pitch that offered early ease and late treachery, Pakistan had the luxury of batting first.
But early jitters threatened to squander the advantage. Pakistan’s fifth different opening pair in five Tests barely lasted three overs. At 7 for 2, India’s bowlers had the scent of blood. Enter Younis Khan and Inzamam, a pair forged in experience and crisis.
Inzamam batted not just for runs, but for survival—his own as captain, and his team’s as a force to be reckoned with. At the other end, Younis Khan played the perfect anchor. They did not merely rebuild; they demolished India’s bowling resolve. From the wreckage of 7 for 2, they forged an astonishing stand of 331.
It was a partnership of contrasts. Younis, the straight man, accumulating with precision; Inzamam, the punchline master, peppering the boundary with effortless power. His 100th Test match became a personal landmark as he joined the elite club of centurions in milestone games—Colin Cowdrey, Gordon Greenidge, Javed Miandad, and Alec Stewart.
By the time Inzamam fell, Younis had shed his restraint, driving onwards to a monumental 267—his highest first-class score and the greatest by a visiting batsman on Indian soil. In a marathon of 504 deliveries, he struck 32 fours and a towering six off Harbhajan Singh, sprinting between the wickets as if untouched by the oppressive Bangalore heat.
For a man whose place had been uncertain at the start of the tour, Younis had now become Pakistan’s most indispensable batsman. His philosophy was simple:
"I have never played with fear. If I get dropped tomorrow, I will go and play cricket somewhere else, and continue to enjoy it."
It was the attitude of a man who knew that cricket, like life, offered no guarantees—only opportunities to seize.
Sehwag’s Roar and India’s Falter
If Younis had written an epic, Virender Sehwag responded with a rock anthem. The crowd, deflated by Pakistan’s dominance, erupted as he launched a breathtaking counterattack.
There was no half-measure in Sehwag’s approach—Kaneria was lifted into the stands twice, the boundaries flowed relentlessly, and in just 262 balls, he stormed to a double century, his second of the series. He crossed 3,000 Test runs in just 55 innings, an Indian record, and for a fleeting moment, India’s dream remained intact.
Yet, his brilliance was a lone star in an otherwise overcast sky. Support was patchy—Laxman reached fifty, but the rest faltered against Kaneria’s persistence. A 121-run lead handed Pakistan the edge.
And then, the storm returned.
Afridi’s Fire and a Chase That Crumbled
If Sehwag’s innings had been a defiance, Shahid Afridi’s was a declaration of war.
He strode to the crease on the fourth afternoon and, within minutes, turned the Test match on its head. In a whirlwind 34-ball stay, he bludgeoned 58 runs, reaching his fifty in just 26 deliveries—only two balls slower than Jacques Kallis’ all-time Test record.
His assault was brief but brutal. The Indian bowlers, already wearied, watched helplessly as the scoreboard rocketed forward. Then, just as suddenly as he had arrived, Afridi was gone. But the damage had been done.
Younis, now the orchestrator, guided Pakistan’s innings to a declaration at 382 ahead. The equation was set: India needed 358 on the final day at an asking rate of nearly four an over.
Hope flickered while Sehwag remained. India ticked along at 3.67 an over, and for a while, it seemed that something magical might unfold. But in a cruel twist, he was run out, and the wheels came off.
A team that boasted one of the most explosive middle orders in world cricket did not counterattack. Instead, they dug in—but all they managed to dig was a tunnel with no exit.
A Captain’s Fall and a Crowd’s Fury
As the tension mounted, Afridi returned—not with the bat, but with the ball. His golden arm dismissed Laxman and Tendulkar, the latter having just surpassed Sunil Gavaskar as India’s highest Test run-scorer.
And then came the moment that encapsulated an era’s end. Ganguly, a captain once defined by defiance, was bowled through the gate. His stunned expression—one of disbelief, resignation, and silent agony—mirrored a career at the crossroads.
By the final session, India had abandoned victory and clung desperately to survival. Anil Kumble, the warrior, held firm, but when Balaji misjudged a Kaneria delivery and padded up, the contest was over.
The boos rang out, not for Pakistan’s triumph, but for India’s surrender.
The Weight of Defeat and Pakistan’s Resurgence
For India, the series that had seemed theirs had slipped through their fingers. The crowd, once jubilant, stood in muted shock.
John Wright’s words hung in the air: "This was a series that got away."
For Pakistan, this was more than just a win—it was salvation. Inzamam, whose captaincy had been under siege, earned himself a momentary reprieve. Bob Woolmer, whose tenure had been marred by five losses in seven Tests, finally had his breakthrough.
The victory came at a cost—Inzamam’s overzealous appeal earned him a one-match suspension—but it hardly mattered. Pakistan had travelled to India as a team in transition and departed as a team reborn.
In the end, this was not just a Test match; it was a story of fate and fragility, of fire and failure, of a team that seized its moment and another that let it slip.
For Pakistan, a page had turned.
For India, a chapter had closed.
Thank You
Faisal Caesar
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