When Time Stood Still
Cricket, like life, is full of moments that defy logic,
rewrite history, and blur the line between reality and myth. Some victories are
celebrated; others become legends. And then there are those rare, almost
mystical performances—etched so deeply into the sport’s fabric that they
transcend mere statistics, becoming folklore.
In 2001, at Eden Gardens, Rahul Dravid and VVS Laxman
performed what seemed like a once-in-a-lifetime act of defiance, dragging India
from the jaws of defeat to an impossible victory against an Australian
juggernaut. The world watched in awe, believing they had witnessed an anomaly,
a cricketing miracle never to be repeated.
But sport, in its poetic unpredictability, sometimes loops
back on itself. Two and a half years later, at the Adelaide Oval, fate demanded
an encore. And when India once again stood at the edge of ruin, it was Dravid
and Laxman who walked out—two familiar figures, two warriors of
resistance—ready to pull off the impossible once more.
This is the story of how time stood still, how déjà vu gripped the Australians, and how two men turned resurrection into an art form—again.
Kolkata, 2001: The Miracle That Changed Indian
Cricket
For the
uninitiated, the events of March 2001 stand as one of the greatest comebacks in
the history of Test cricket. At the Eden Gardens, India, forced to follow on,
teetered on the brink of an innings defeat against an Australian side that had
steamrolled opponents with ruthless efficiency. With 16 consecutive Test wins
behind them, Steve Waugh’s men were seemingly invincible.
Then,
something extraordinary happened.
Dravid and
Laxman, batting as though their very souls were forged in defiance, stitched
together a monumental 376-run partnership. Laxman, whose artistry with the bat
bordered on the ethereal, conjured a masterful 281—an innings that still
remains the gold standard of fourth-innings rearguards. Dravid, ever the
craftsman, contributed 180, a knock built on resilience and sheer willpower.
Together, they wrenched the match away from Australia’s grasp, scripting one of
the greatest turnarounds in cricketing history.
Such
miracles are meant to be rare, singular occurrences—etched in folklore and
never to be repeated.
Adelaide, 2003: A Challenge in the Lion’s Den
Yet, two
and a half years later, in the unforgiving land of Australia, destiny demanded
an encore. The stage was the Adelaide Oval, the second Test of India’s 2003-04
tour. The opposition was no less formidable, even if it bore the scars of
Kolkata.
Australia,
led by an imperious Ricky Ponting, had piled on 556 runs, with the skipper
himself crafting a breathtaking 242. India, in response, suffered an early
collapse. At 85 for 4, their most celebrated batting stars—Virender Sehwag,
Sachin Tendulkar, and Sourav Ganguly—had all fallen in quick succession. The
visitors were staring down the abyss.
And once
again, the responsibility of resurrection fell upon Dravid and Laxman.
This time,
the roles were slightly altered. Dravid, now India’s No. 3, carried the burden
of setting the tone, while Laxman, at No. 6, remained the flamboyant executor
of impossible strokes. What followed was a spectacle of grit and grace, a
masterclass in revival under adversity.
A Different Symphony, but the Same Familiar
Notes
If Kolkata
had been about survival before the revival, Adelaide was about counterattack laced
with patience.
Dravid,
usually the guardian of orthodoxy, played with a touch of aggression. His
footwork was decisive, his stroke-making more expansive than usual. Any
delivery that strayed in length was met with a precise cut, a commanding pull,
or a calculated drive. There was an air of adventure in his batting, yet his
foundation remained unwavering discipline.
Laxman,
meanwhile, was at his elegant best. His wrists worked their magic, caressing
the ball to the boundary with that signature nonchalance. His balance was
immaculate, his shot selection instinctive yet audacious. The fielders, much
like the spectators, watched in helpless admiration as he sculpted yet another
masterpiece.
By the end
of the third day, they had added 95 runs, keeping the embers of hope alive.
Australia, despite all their experience, must have felt a shiver down their
spine.
The
following morning, they continued from where they had left off, batting as if
time had folded upon itself and taken them back to 2001. The eerie familiarity
of their partnership began to weigh upon the Australians.
There was,
however, one significant difference. Unlike the near-flawless vigil at Eden Gardens,
Laxman was granted two reprieves in Adelaide. But even those required the
brilliance of Ricky Ponting—one of the finest fielders of his time—to get
anywhere near the ball.
Dravid, on
the other hand, made just one misjudgment all day—a mistimed hook that
top-edged for six, ironically bringing up his first and only century in
Australia.
The
numbers, once again, told a compelling tale. In Kolkata, they had faced 104.1
overs, amassing 376 runs. Here, they put on 303 in 93.5 overs. The magic was no
less potent, even if the figures were marginally different.
Laxman’s
dismissal for 148—attempting an extravagant slash off Andy Bichel—brought their
stand to an end just before Tea. But by then, India had climbed from the depths
of despair to a position of near-parity at 388 for 5.
Dravid,
however, was far from finished. With unrelenting determination, he carried on,
finally falling as the last man out for a majestic 233. His innings had taken
India to 523—just 33 runs behind Australia’s formidable first-innings
total.
A New Architect of Destruction: The Day of the
Bombay Duck
The
psychological scars of Kolkata ran deep, and as Australia walked out to bat
again, they seemed to be fighting more than just the Indian bowling attack—they
were battling the ghosts of Eden.
It was Ajit
Agarkar, an unlikely hero, who turned the match on its head. In a spell of
incisive swing bowling, he scythed through the Australian batting order,
claiming 6 for 41. Damien Martyn and Steve Waugh were lured into false strokes
by Sachin Tendulkar’s leg-spin, and just like that, the hosts had been bowled
out for 196.
Suddenly,
India needed just 230 to win—a target that was tantalizing yet tricky on a
wearing fourth-innings pitch.
Dravid’s Final Act: A Victory Sealed in Stone
If Dravid’s
first innings had been about resurrection, his second was about closure. He
remained unbeaten on 72, guiding India to a famous four-wicket victory—perhaps
not as dramatic as Kolkata, but just as defining.
The
celebrations were subdued, the triumph measured in the quiet satisfaction of a
job done with precision. Dravid, ever the embodiment of humility, merely raised
his bat and walked off, knowing that he had inscribed his name into cricketing
folklore once again.
The Legacy of Twin Epics
While the
Kolkata miracle had altered the course of Indian cricket, Adelaide reaffirmed
that it was no fluke. It proved that India could rise, not just in the comfort
of their own conditions, but in the lion’s den itself.
It also
immortalized the legacy of Rahul Dravid and VVS Laxman. Their names, forever
entwined in cricket’s most fabled partnerships, had now been etched into
history twice over.
Lightning
may not be meant to strike twice. Miracles may not be destined for repetition.
But cricket, in its poetic unpredictability, has its own way of bending time,
reviving echoes of past glories. And on that unforgettable day in Adelaide,
Dravid and Laxman proved that legends, unlike miracles, have no expiration
date.
Thank You
Faisal Caesar
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