Three weeks before the highly anticipated cricket series was
set to commence, an act of calculated sabotage unfolded at Delhi’s historic
Ferozeshah Kotla Stadium. Approximately 25 supporters of the Shiv Sena, a
right-wing political party wielding significant influence in Maharashtra,
desecrated the pitch, effectively rendering it unplayable. This stadium,
originally designated as the venue for the first Test, became a symbol of the
fraught intersection between sport and politics.
Barely a fortnight later, another incendiary incident shook
Indian cricket. Vandals infiltrated the BCCI headquarters in Mumbai, wreaking
havoc on property that included the nation’s cherished 1983 World Cup trophy.
The desecration of this emblem of national pride evoked widespread anguish.
"I cried all night," lamented Kirti Azad, a member of that victorious
squad, his words underscoring the emotional toll of such an affront. The
fallout prompted officials to reshuffle the venues for the first and second
Tests, a logistical decision emblematic of the precariousness of the
situation.
Meanwhile, Shiv Sena leader Bal Thackeray, unrepentant and
resolute, boasted of dispatching party operatives to Chennai to assess the
security arrangements for the series. His rhetoric escalated ominously, with
threats of deploying suicide squads and even releasing venomous snakes onto the
field, a chilling metaphor for the venom coursing through the veins of
political dissent.
The tension reached a grim crescendo on January 24, just
four days before the match. The Times of India in Chennai reported the tragic
death of Palani, a 40-year-old autorickshaw driver who had self-immolated in
protest against Pakistan’s participation in the series. His sacrifice, though
extreme, laid bare the raw, visceral emotions the series had provoked among
certain sections of the populace.
As the match approached, the atmosphere in Chennai was
suffused with unease. Journalists found themselves barred from entering the
stadium until late on the eve of the game, a restriction emblematic of the
heightened security apparatus. Photographers operated under strict
surveillance, and parking zones around the stadium were subject to
unprecedented scrutiny. “For the first time, every car parked in the stadium
required a pass bearing the police commissioner’s seal,” recalled Keshav
Sriraman, a member of the Tamil Nadu Cricket Association’s executive committee.
Police officers stood vigil over the pitch, their unyielding presence a stark
reminder of the fragile line between celebration and chaos.
The Contest at
Chennai Begins
The opening day of the Test saw Pakistan electing to bat,
but their innings began on a precarious note, teetering at 91 for five. Amid
the ruins, Yousuf Youhana and Moin Khan staged a gritty counterattack, each
crafting resilient half-centuries that steadied the innings. Wasim Akram added
a defiant 38, his strokes marked by characteristic audacity, before Anil
Kumble, in a masterful display of precision and guile, dismantled the tail to
claim figures of six for 70.
India’s reply was buoyed by the debutant Sadagoppan Ramesh,
who, alongside VVS Laxman, stitched together a brisk opening stand of 48 on his
home ground. However, Wasim Akram, ever the wily campaigner, struck twice in
quick succession after the evening's break, dismissing both openers and tilting
the balance. Saqlain Mushtaq then began weaving his web, enticing Tendulkar
into an uncharacteristic misjudgment. Charging down the track, Tendulkar
mis-hit a looping delivery to backward point for a third-ball duck, an
anticlimactic dismissal that underscored Saqlain’s mastery.
Despite these setbacks, Rahul Dravid and Sourav Ganguly
anchored India’s innings with poise, guiding their team to a slender 16-run
lead. Yet, the spinners remained relentless. Shahid Afridi, better known for
his exploits in limited-overs cricket, showcased his versatility with the ball,
claiming the final three wickets with his leg-breaks, a precursor to his
heroics with the bat.
The third day belonged unequivocally to Afridi. Renowned for
his blistering 37-ball century in one-day cricket, he defied his reputation as
a mere dasher by constructing an innings of extraordinary discipline and flair.
Over five hours at the crease, Afridi compiled a majestic 141, laced with 21
boundaries and three towering sixes. His partnerships with Inzamam-ul-Haq and
Salim Malik seemed to place Pakistan in an unassailable position at 275 for
four.
But the game, like fate, can be capricious. After tea, the
narrative took a dramatic turn. Joshi’s dismissal of Malik triggered a collapse
of epic proportions. Venkatesh Prasad, in a spell of breathtaking precision,
tore through the lower order with five wickets in 18 balls, conceding not a
single run. His final figures of six for 33 stood as a career-best,
encapsulating a spell that transformed the match.
India faced a daunting target of 271, a total that loomed
large against the weight of history. Their highest successful fourth-innings
chase at home—a nervy 256 for eight against Australia in 1964-65—seemed an
eternity away. As the players departed the field, the air was thick with anticipation,
the outcome poised delicately between possibility and improbability.
Waqar Younis Strikes,
Sachin Tendulkar Stands Firm
As the shadows
lengthened late on the third evening, India found themselves at a precarious 6
for 2, chasing a daunting 271. The atmosphere in the stands was a volatile mix
of hope and apprehension when a helmeted Sachin Tendulkar emerged from the
pavilion. VVS Laxman, his brief stay at the crease cut short by a venomous
in-ducker from Waqar Younis, was still within earshot as Tendulkar strode to
the middle. The crowd, a sea of rising bodies and fervent voices, seemed to
channel a collective plea: “Score if you can, but for heaven’s sake, don’t get
out.”
The first two deliveries Tendulkar faced were dots, but they
carried a weight far beyond their numerical insignificance. Years later, he
would recount this moment in *Playing It My Way: My Autobiography*: "Waqar
welcomed me to the crease with a couple of bouncers and even walked up to me on
one occasion to say, 'Ball nazar aayi?' (Did you see the ball?) I didn't say a
thing, but my eye contact was enough to give him the message. I hardly moved,
and he was soon walking back to his bowling mark. I remember muttering to
myself, 'You are not bowling that quick, my friend.'”
The tension in the air was almost tangible, and when
Tendulkar finally opened his account with a well-judged two, the crowd exhaled
in unison, a brief respite from their collective anxiety. Four more dot balls
followed, each one steadying the nerves, until Tendulkar produced a moment of
sublime artistry. Facing Waqar, he unfurled a cover drive that seemed to
transcend the game itself. The movement was poetry in motion: the right leg
back and across, the left leg hovering momentarily above the ground, the bat
meeting the ball with a crisp, resonant crack. The red blur scorched the grass,
and as the left leg returned to the turf, Tendulkar completed the stroke with a
delicate sideways hop, a knight in shining armour prancing across the diagonal.Ball nazar aayi?
The shot elicited a spontaneous outpouring of admiration.
"What a shot," Harsha Bhogle exclaimed on commentary, his voice
tinged with awe, carrying the moment into millions of homes. It was a shot that
encapsulated not just technique but defiance, a declaration that the battle was
far from over.
As the day drew to a close, India stood at 40 for 2, still
231 runs adrift. The target loomed large, but with Tendulkar at the crease,
hope flickered, fragile yet persistent, like a candle resisting the wind.
The Thrilling Fourth
Day – Story of Drama, Heartbreak and Joy
On the warm morning of January 31, 1999, the MA Chidambaram
Stadium in Chennai stood as a cauldron of tension and anticipation. Half an
hour before the fourth day’s play, a police cordon encircled the pitch, a
fortress of security amid the fervent crowd. Among the spectators, a group
chanted provocatively in Hindi, *“Harega bhai harega, Pakistan harega”*—a
linguistic affront in Tamil Nadu, as pointed as the taunt itself. The air
carried a mix of salty breeze and the faint, pungent aroma from the nearby
Buckingham Canal, a reminder of the city's unique character. After 12 long
years, an Indo-Pak Test on Indian soil was poised to deliver high drama.
This was the ground where Sachin Tendulkar had orchestrated
symphonies with his bat. In 1993, he had dismantled England here; in 1998, he
had reduced Shane Warne to a spectator, slog-sweeping the leg-spinner’s
around-the-stumps delivery into the midwicket stands. Ian Chappell, then on
commentary, would later declare that shot a turning point in the series. Now,
playing his fifth Test against Pakistan and his first as a fully realized
batsman, Tendulkar had entered the fray with a mission.
But the wily Pakistanis, led by the indomitable Wasim Akram,
were not inclined to surrender. On the second day, Tendulkar’s attempt to
dominate Saqlain Mushtaq ended in ignominy—a mistimed loft off a doosra,
ballooning to backward point. Out for a third-ball duck, he left the stage under
a cloud of disappointment.
Day four brought another chapter of attrition. The crowd
roared as Wasim Akram unleashed a spell of artistry that seemed to transcend
the limitations of a subcontinental dust track. Against Rahul Dravid, the ball
danced to his command—seaming in, seaming out, as if choreographed. Akram had
trapped Dravid lbw earlier, only for the umpire to miss the pad-first contact.
Undeterred, he returned with a delivery that pitched on middle and clipped
off-stump, leaving Dravid bewildered. Years later, Dravid would reflect on this
moment in Sultan: A Memoir: “Wasim was a real inspiration for fast bowlers all
over the world, especially in the subcontinent. When he was bowling, you were
captivated. Easily one of the most skilful bowlers I have played against.”
The collapse continued. Mohammad Azharuddin misjudged a
straighter one from Saqlain and was trapped leg-before. Sourav Ganguly’s square
drive ricocheted off silly mid-off, bounced awkwardly on the pitch, and landed
in the wicketkeeper’s gloves—a bizarre double-pitch catch. Umpires Steve Dunne
and Ramaswamy deliberated briefly before sending Ganguly on his way, prompting
cries of “Ramaswamy down, Steve Dunne up up” from the stands. India were
reeling at five down, and the mood in the dressing room during lunch was
sombre.
Nayan Mongia, India’s wicketkeeper, recalled the silence and
a single technical insight that changed their approach: *“Saqlain Mushtaq had
created havoc in the first innings. Most of us hadn’t read his variations. But
Mohinder Amarnath had written that Saqlain’s ball from close to the stumps
would go away from the right-hander, while the one from wide of the crease
would turn in. Once we learned this, it became easier.”
Saqlain was at the zenith of his powers, his doosra a weapon
of deception. His first three Test wickets in India—Tendulkar, Azharuddin, and
Dravid—were scalps of the highest pedigree, each a master of spin, each undone
by his guile. Yet, his triumphs came amidst personal turmoil. His father’s
recent passing and a family tragedy had cast a shadow over his form. Questions
about his suitability for Tests loomed, but Saqlain found solace in Wasim
Akram’s camaraderie. “Wasim brings out the best in me,” he admitted.
After lunch, Saqlain and Wasim bowled in tandem, a
relentless assault on India’s hopes. Tendulkar, burdened by expectation, faced
the challenge with steely resolve. At the other end, Mongia battled his own
demons—a fever of 102 degrees, a saline drip, and injections to keep him on his
feet. “It was so hot, I was batting in a sweater!” he later recalled.
Meanwhile, Akram, battling groin pain, admitted to taking *“six to seven
painkillers” to keep going.
Tendulkar Conquers
Pain o Esaay and Epic
As the second session wore on, Sachin Tendulkar’s body began
betraying him. He frequently walked toward square leg, his movements laboured,
his hand instinctively clutching his lower back. Each over seemed an ordeal,
each delivery a test of will. By the time tea arrived, his condition had
worsened; his grimaces were no longer fleeting but etched into his expression.
Yet, India survived the session without losing a wicket, reducing the
target from 185 to 126.
In the dressing room, Tendulkar lay flat on a towel, cold
compresses covering him in a desperate attempt to lower his body temperature.
Cramping and exhaustion wracked his body, and the thought of batting for
another two hours seemed insurmountable. Meanwhile, the Pakistan dressing room was
steeped in tension. A Channel 4 documentary captured Wasim Akram sitting alone,
running his fingers through his hair, his usually unflappable demeanour showing
cracks. Someone muttered, *“Joh ho gaya woh ho gaya”* (Whatever has happened
has happened), a resigned acknowledgement of missed opportunities.
Azhar Mahmood later reflected on that moment: “We had so
much respect for Sachin. Watching him play Saqlain and Wasim with such ease
that day was unbelievable. Reverse swing, bounce, turn—everything was in our
favour. And yet, he got a hundred.”
The third over after tea brought Tendulkar’s response.
Saqlain Mushtaq, bowling with his trademark drift and guile, delivered the
first ball. Tendulkar pulled it to midwicket for four. The next ball was paddle-swept
for another boundary. Sunil Gavaskar, on commentary, couldn’t contain his
admiration: “Even as he played that shot, my fellow commentator [Ramiz Raja]
had his hands up in applause.”*
Then came a moment of fortune. Tendulkar charged Saqlain,
misjudging the length of a doosra, and got a bottom edge that ballooned toward
Moin Khan. The wicketkeeper had three opportunities—catch, stump, or silence
the crowd with a lullaby—but he fluffed them all. Saqlain, already
mid-celebration, froze in disbelief and slumped to the ground. Moin stood
motionless, hands on hips, a vice-captain bereft of words. Yet, Akram clapped
immediately, a gesture of encouragement and reassurance.
Two balls later, Tendulkar paddle-swept Saqlain for another
four, followed by a cross-batted smack to the boundary. Sixteen runs off the
over. The target now stood at 103.
Pakistan opted for the new ball with 95 runs still required.
Tendulkar’s back had “all but given up,” but he and Nayan Mongia decided to
take calculated risks. Mongia, a former opener, felt more comfortable against
the hardness of the new ball than the treachery of reverse swing. The next five
overs yielded 33 runs. Tendulkar was all elegance, driving straight and through
the covers. Mongia played the aggressor, whipping and chipping over the
infield. A bouncer from Akram flew over both Mongia and Moin to the boundary,
while Saqlain’s flighted delivery was dispatched over midwicket.
“The thing with that Pakistan team,” Mahmood later said, “was
that we always had options. Wasim and Waqar were masters of the new ball and
reverse swing, and Saqlain could bowl with both. With such a lethal attack, you
always had hope.”
Hope flickered to life when Mongia slogged Akram across the
line. The top edge spiralled toward the covers, the ball seemingly suspended in
time as the crowd screamed in vain. Waqar Younis steadied himself and completed
the catch, silencing the stands.
Sunil Joshi walked into a cacophony of nerves, greeted by
Tendulkar’s anguished admission: “Jo, mera back is getting stiffer and
stiffer. I can’t take it anymore. I’m going to swing.” Joshi reassured him: “You just stay here. I’ll score.” True to his word, Joshi took on Saqlain,
lofting him for six over long-on.“I always felt I could read Saqlain,” Joshi
later said.
But Tendulkar’s body was breaking down. Every movement was
agony, every shot a crescendo of pain. Desperation overtook calculation. Facing
Saqlain, he attempted to hit a doosra over mid-off. The ball bounced more than
expected, taking the leading edge and soaring skyward.
Akram, standing at mid-off, steadied himself under the
skier. On commentary, Harsha Bhogle captured the moment with poetic finality: “Oh dear… he’s got the leading edge… man’s under it… it’s taken… what have we
got here… Sachin Tendulkar’s knocked on the door… it’s still closed…”
As Akram clasped the catch, the door indeed remained shut.
Tendulkar’s heroic innings, one of defiance and grit, had ended. For Pakistan,
the game was once again theirs to lose.
India Collapse,
Pakistan Win
The silence was fleeting. In moments, the Chennai crowd rose
in unison, not in despair but in reverence, to honour a monumental innings.
Tendulkar had fallen, but as the poet Balakumar once wrote, the Chepauk
faithful laid out a bed of cotton for their fallen hero.
Before departing the stage, with India still 17 runs adrift,
Tendulkar turned to his partner with a parting message, a blend of hope and
expectation: *“Jo, match finish kar ke aana”* (Jo, finish the match and come
back). Sunil Joshi, now entrusted with the task, stood alongside three fellow
Karnataka players, ready to script the final act.
"I told Anil, avanu thirugsalla [he won’t turn it].
Saqlain is only bowling doosras. I’ll take the scoring chances; you just play
out Wasim,” Joshi later recalled.
But fate had other plans. Anil Kumble, playing for the
team’s hopes, misjudged a Wasim Akram delivery that straightened after
pitching. The umpire’s finger went up, and Kumble was gone for 1 off 5
balls.
When Javagal Srinath joined Joshi at the crease, the
strategy shifted again. “We thought Srinath could chance his arm against
Saqlain,” Joshi recounted. “I told him: anything pitched up, swing. If it’s
short, just block it. I’d take the single and give him the strike.”
Yet the pressure mounted. In his attempt to steer India
closer, Joshi miscued a shot, offering a simple return catch to Saqlain. He
walked back for 8 off 20 balls, his disappointment palpable. “That dismissal
still haunts me,” he admitted years later. “I wanted to be there at the end. I
wanted to finish it.”
In the stands, disbelief turned to resignation. The
once-roaring crowd now sat in stunned silence, as though watching a car
hurtling downhill, its brakes long gone. The wreckage was inevitable; the only
question was how soon.
“The moment Sachin got out, you could feel the air shift,”
said Venkitasubban, a spectator. “The fielders seemed revitalized as if
victory was now a certainty.” Saqlain Mushtaq emboldened, zipped through his
overs, each delivery tightening the noose. At the other end, Akram surged in,
his strides longer, his pace sharper, the aura of inevitability growing with
each ball.
For those in the crowd, memories of Bridgetown 1997
resurfaced unbidden. Then, too, India had been tantalizingly close, chasing 120
only to crumble for 81. The parallels were inescapable. The narrative of
collapse had taken hold.
Srinath, playing with a heavy burden, succumbed to Saqlain, and bowled for 1 off 8 deliveries.
The scoreboard told the cruel story: Tendulkar out at 254.
India all out for 258.
As the Pakistan players celebrated, the Chennai crowd, ever
gracious, rose once more. This time, the applause was for the game itself—a
contest of skill, grit, and unrelenting drama that had left them breathless,
even in heartbreak.
The Aftermath
The crowd at Chepauk, initially struck silent by the cruel
twist of fate, rose to its feet in unison. Their applause was not wild or
frenetic, but steady, deliberate, and heartfelt—a collective gesture of respect
for a contest that transcended rivalry. Sensing the moment, the Pakistan team
began a victory lap, acknowledging the grace of their hosts. For anyone
familiar with the emotional and often volatile world of India-Pakistan cricket,
it was a profoundly moving scene, a testament to the shared humanity beneath
the fierce competition.
VVS Laxman, reflecting on that day in his autobiography,
wrote: “I saw Sachin weep like a child [...] None of us knew how to console
him.”
Tendulkar himself would later confess, “My world seemed to collapse
around me [...] I just couldn’t hold back the tears. It was the only time I
refused to go out and accept the Man of the Match award. [BCCI president] Raj
Singh Dungarpur tried to persuade me, but I told him I was in no state,
physically or mentally.”
In the Pakistani dressing room, joy erupted without
restraint. High-pitched cheers and celebratory cries filled the air, mingled
with moments of quiet prayer and reflection. Some players knelt in gratitude,
their emotions as raw and intense as the game itself.
Wasim Akram, speaking to Channel 4 years later, summed up
the sentiment succinctly: “We needed one wicket. We needed Sachin’s wicket.” That dismissal, a moment of triumph for Pakistan, had turned the tide
irrevocably in their favour.
The celebrations extended well beyond the field. That
evening, the team visited a mosque to offer thanks, followed by a celebratory
cake at the hotel. The national anthem was sung with pride, its verses echoing
their sense of unity and achievement. Some players ventured out for a quiet
meal, their smiles now relaxed, their shoulders lighter.
The next day, life began to return to its ordinary rhythms.
Saqlain Mushtaq, the architect of India’s collapse, was seen strolling through
the streets of Chennai, shopping for a sari for his wife—a poignant reminder
that even in the most intense rivalries, human moments endure.
Thank You
Faisal Caesar
