The 1999 Kolkata Test: A Clash of Cricket, Controversy, and Chaos

Cricket has long been intertwined with history, politics, and the raw emotions of millions. Nowhere is this truer than in the enduring rivalry between India and Pakistan, where a single game can be both a sporting contest and a geopolitical flashpoint. The events of the Kolkata Test in February 1999, originally intended as the crowning fixture of a highly anticipated series, became a symbol of how sport can both unify and divide, enthral and enrage, captivate and combust.

It was a match that showcased Test cricket in all its dramatic beauty, breathtaking bowling spells, magnificent batting displays, and an ebb and flow that kept both players and spectators on edge. Yet, it was also a match overshadowed by controversy, marred by crowd unrest, and completed in an eerie, near-empty stadium that bore silent witness to the storm unfolding.

A Tour Precariously Balanced on the Edge of Politics

Even before a single ball had been bowled, the 1999 Pakistan tour of India teetered on uncertain ground. The political climate between the two nations was tense, as it often was, with cricket being wielded as both a bridge and a battleground. There were voices—some loud, some insidious—that sought to leverage the tour for nationalist posturing. Ultimately, after much diplomatic manoeuvring, the series was allowed to proceed, but only at the eleventh hour.

The Kolkata Test, initially scheduled as the third and final encounter of the series, was elevated to an even grander status—the inaugural match of the newly conceived Asian Test Championship. If anything, this only heightened the stakes.

The public, undeterred by the political undercurrents, responded with unbridled enthusiasm. Eden Gardens, a coliseum of cricketing passion, was packed to capacity. Over the first four days, 100,000 spectators flooded the stands—a record-breaking figure that eclipsed a six-decade-old milestone. Even on the final day, when India's hopes hanging by a thread, 65,000 loyalists remained, clinging to the belief that their team could script an improbable victory.

But as fate would have it, the battle that played out was not just between bat and ball, but also between raw passion and the very spirit of the game.

An Unraveling Masterpiece

For three days, the contest unfolded like a classic Test match, oscillating between domination and defiance.

India had dramatically seized the early momentum. On the first morning, Pakistan's innings tottered on the brink of collapse at a staggering 26 for 6. Javagal Srinath, a craftsman of seam and swing, was at his devastating best. But amidst the ruins, Moin Khan stood resilient. His counterattacking 70 ensured Pakistan reached 185—a total that still left them gasping but not entirely buried.

The crowd's hunger for an Indian masterclass was palpable, yet it was met with a gut-wrenching moment. Shoaib Akhtar, the Rawalpindi Express, came steaming in, and in an instant, the roar of expectation turned into a stunned silence. A searing yorker, a perfect symphony of speed and precision, rattled Sachin Tendulkar’s stumps first ball. The heartbeat of Indian cricket was gone without scoring. Eden Gardens, a cauldron of deafening support, was momentarily mute.

India eked out a narrow first-innings lead, and then came the counterpunch. In one of the greatest innings played on Indian soil, Saeed Anwar batted with an elegance that defied the carnage around him. He carried his bat for an unbeaten 188, a lone sentinel guiding Pakistan to 316. It was a statement of intent. India now needed 279 for victory—gettable, but by no means easy.

By the fourth afternoon, India seemed well on course. At 143 for 2, with Tendulkar at the crease, the script was aligning for a memorable triumph. And then, the match veered into the realm of the surreal.

The Run-Out That Ignited the Fire

Tendulkar, in full command, worked Wasim Akram to deep midwicket and set off for three runs. It was a routine moment, one among thousands in the game. But then, the extraordinary happened.

As he turned for the third, his path crossed that of Shoaib Akhtar, stationed near the stumps to field a potential return. Tendulkar, his eyes fixed on the ball, collided with Shoaib, momentarily losing balance. Even as he stretched towards the crease, the throw from the deep crashed into the stumps.

The moment hung in the air, pregnant with uncertainty. It was the first series officiated entirely by neutral umpires, and the decision was referred upstairs. After a long, agonizing delay, third umpire KT Francis ruled Tendulkar out.

The reaction was instantaneous, visceral. Boos cascaded down the stands. Chants of "cheat, cheat" reverberated around Eden Gardens. Bottles, plastic cups, and anything within reach were hurled onto the field. Shoaib Akhtar, now the villain in the crowd’s eyes, bore the brunt of the fury.

Play was suspended. As tensions boiled over, it took an appeal from Tendulkar himself, accompanied by ICC President Jagmohan Dalmiya, to pacify the crowd and resume the match. But the equilibrium had been shattered.

When play restarted, India collapsed in a daze. Rahul Dravid, the bedrock of the chase, fell almost immediately. Mohammad Azharuddin and Nayan Mongia followed in quick succession. By stumps, the hosts teetered at 214 for 6, still 65 runs adrift.

A Game Finished in Silence

The final morning promised drama, but what followed was pandemonium. When Sourav Ganguly perished to the ninth ball of the day, the crowd erupted in renewed fury.

Newspapers were set ablaze. Stones, fruit, and bottles rained down. The match halted again. This time, the authorities responded with force. Over the next three hours, police and security personnel cleared the stands, using lathis to drive out the 65,000 spectators. Elderly men, women, children—no one was spared the chaotic exodus.

When play resumed, Eden Gardens, once a pulsating fortress, was now a hollowed-out shell. A mere 200 people remained to watch the final rites. It took Pakistan just 10 balls to wrap up victory, but the atmosphere was unrecognizable. Where there should have been celebration or despair, there was only emptiness.

The Fallout: A Cricketing Tragedy

What should have been a celebration of Test cricket’s finest attributes had instead descended into farce. Dalmiya, initially dismissive of the disturbances, later condemned the events in strong terms, decrying the "unjustified and uncalled for" behaviour of the spectators.

For Pakistan, the triumph was bittersweet. Their captain, Wasim Akram, directed his ire at the Indian media, accusing them of fanning the flames of controversy. "You have said that Shoaib obstructed Sachin from making his ground and that I should have recalled him," he snapped. "Why should I? If a team collapses over one moment, that is our bonus."

For India, the fallout was even harsher. Azharuddin, weary and disillusioned, offered a quiet lament: "We are human beings. We can fail. But every time we cannot win."

Yet, perhaps the most tone-deaf remark came from Dalmiya himself, who, despite the chaos, tried to spin a triumphant conclusion:

"The game was finished, and cricket was the winner."

But was it?

If anything, the Kolkata Test of 1999 exposed the uneasy undercurrents beneath the game’s surface, the delicate balance between passion and provocation, adulation and anarchy. It was a match where the cricket was brilliant, the emotions volatile, and the end unsettling.

A Test match had been played. A spectacle had unfolded. And yet, in the silence of an emptied Eden Gardens, cricket had lost something.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar

Saeed Anwar: From Despair to Redemption at Eden Gardens

By 1999, Pakistan cricket was living in contradiction.

It possessed terrifying fast bowlers, mercurial match-winners, and artists with the bat. Yet it was also entering its most fragile moral and structural phase. The match-fixing scandal hovered like smog. Leadership changed frequently. Tactical clarity was inconsistent. Public trust wavered.

In that environment, individual brilliance often masked institutional instability.

Saeed Anwar represented the aesthetic counterpoint to chaos. Where Pakistan were volatile, he was composed. Where the team oscillated, he flowed. His batting was linear in a culture of turbulence.

But even linear beauty bends under pressure.

The Burden of Aura

Anwar did not enter the 1999 India series as merely another opener. He entered as Pakistan’s psychological advantage.

His 194 at Chennai in 1997 had done more than accumulate runs, it had altered perception. India’s bowlers saw elegance; Pakistan saw inevitability. Against India, Anwar averaged like a man playing a familiar opponent in familiar conditions. He understood the rhythms of their attack, the impatience of their spinners, the subtle overcorrection of their pacers.

His 118 at Durban in 1998 against Allan Donald and Shaun Pollock demonstrated something deeper: adaptability under hostile conditions. This was not a subcontinental stylist surviving at home; this was a technician neutralising high pace abroad.

By late 1998, after accumulating heavily against Australia as well, he seemed to have crossed into that rare zone where form and self-belief reinforce one another. His public ambition of a triple century before the India series reflected that psychological surplus.

But sport punishes excess certainty.

When Timing Leaves

Anwar’s failures early in the series were not dramatic collapses; they were subtle dislocations.

The front foot planted half an inch short. The bat descending a fraction late. The balance shifting marginally toward the off side. For a batsman whose game relied on alignment rather than brute strength, these microscopic deviations were catastrophic.

Form is often discussed statistically. In reality, it is neurological rhythm. When that rhythm fractures, memory and instinct no longer synchronize.

At Eden Gardens, that fracture became public.

Eden Gardens: A National Amplifier

Few cricket grounds function as emotional amplifiers like Eden Gardens. India versus Pakistan here is not sport alone; it is layered memory, political echo, generational inheritance.

Pakistan’s 26 for six in the first ten overs of the first innings was not merely a collapse, it was symbolic surrender. The jeers directed at Javed Miandad were not about one innings; they were about a team under suspicion, a cricketing culture under scrutiny.

Anwar’s first-innings duck felt less like failure and more like confirmation that even Pakistan’s most stable pillar had cracked.

Yet the Test did not remain one-directional. Shoaib Akhtar’s double strike, Dravid and Tendulkar in successive deliveries, rebalanced not just the scoreboard but the psychological atmosphere. It reminded Pakistan that volatility could work both ways.

The match reopened.

The Edge That Fell Short

In the second innings, Anwar’s early life on two, Azharuddin dropping a regulation slip catch, became the hinge of narrative.

All great comeback innings require an accident of survival. What defines greatness is not the reprieve but what follows it.

The following morning revealed recalibration.

His head position was steadier. The initial trigger movement simplified. He allowed the ball to arrive rather than reaching for it. Instead of chasing fluency, he rebuilt it.

More than half his runs came behind square, a sign not of aggression but of control. The late cut, the glide, the deflection: these are strokes of a batsman trusting his hands again. Timing returned not as flamboyance, but as quiet authority.

Resistance in Isolation

His 115-run partnership with Mohammad Yousuf was structurally important, but psychologically, it was transitional. It allowed Anwar to shift from repair to command.

Anil Kumble, fresh from his ten-wicket miracle in Delhi, found neither bounce nor intimidation. Great batsmen do not necessarily attack champion bowlers; they deny them narrative. Anwar did precisely that.

Yet Pakistan’s collapse from 262 for three to 316 all out exposed a recurring theme of the era: individual peaks floating above collective instability. The middle order folded. The tail offered little.

Through it all, Anwar remained, unbeaten on 188.

Carrying one’s bat is statistically rare. In context, it was metaphorical. He carried not just the innings, but Pakistan’s credibility in that Test.

Sixty percent of the team’s total came from one blade.

Comparative Redemption

Subcontinental cricket offers its own canon of psychological resurrection.

VVS Laxman at Kolkata in 2001 redefined endurance through 281, overturning a series against Australia.

Sachin Tendulkar at Chennai in 1999 scored 136 against Pakistan in physical pain, transforming defeat into moral triumph.

Younis Khan at Bangalore in 2005 compiled 267, asserting Pakistan’s resilience abroad.

Anwar’s 188 belongs in that lineage, not because it altered the match result (India eventually won), but because it altered personal narrative.

Unlike Laxman’s epic, it did not reverse destiny. Unlike Tendulkar’s 136, it did not end in heartbreak. Unlike Younis’s 267, it did not rest on structural team stability.

It was solitary recovery.

Genius and the Razor’s Edge

In elite sport, brilliance is rarely uninterrupted. It is cyclical. The myth of constant dominance ignores the reality of oscillation.

Anwar’s Eden Gardens innings illustrates a subtler form of greatness: the capacity to reconstruct identity under public scrutiny.

From the hubris of pre-series ambition to the humiliation of a first-innings duck; from near-dismissal at slip to carrying his bat through chaos, his journey across that single Test traced the entire psychological spectrum of a batsman’s existence.

Eden Gardens did not merely witness 188 runs - It witnessed a master negotiating doubt, and choosing not collapse, but craft.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

The Dawn of a New Storm: Shoaib Akhtar’s Arrival on the Grand Stage

The year 1998 did not merely mark a season in Pakistan cricket; it marked a recalibration of identity.

For nearly a decade, Pakistan’s fast-bowling mythology had revolved around two initials: W & W. Wasim Akram and Waqar Younis were not just strike bowlers, they were a doctrine. Reverse swing weaponized. Yorkers perfected. New-ball hostility institutionalized. Together, they defined Pakistan’s cricketing self-image in the 1990s: aggressive, unpredictable, lethal.

By 1998, however, time had begun its quiet erosion.

Wasim’s body bore the memory of relentless workloads. Injuries interrupted rhythm; off-field controversies blurred authority. Waqar, once the destroyer-in-chief of the early 1990s, no longer operated at unbroken high voltage. His pace had dipped marginally, but at elite level, marginal decline becomes visible vulnerability. The yorker that once found toes unerringly now occasionally drifted. The aura remained—but aura without execution is fragile currency.

Pakistan stood at a crossroads familiar to sporting dynasties: how long does loyalty outweigh renewal?

Wasim’s Return and the Burden of Decision

When Wasim Akram reclaimed the captaincy from Aamir Sohail in late 1998, he inherited more than tactical responsibility. He inherited transition.

The impending tour of India amplified the stakes. India–Pakistan cricket is never isolated from politics; it is layered with memory and nationalism. For the first time, Indian crowds would witness the fabled “Two Ws” operating together on Indian soil, confronting the era’s defining batsman, Sachin Tendulkar.

Wasim responded like a craftsman rediscovering sharpness. His angles were clever, his wrist position immaculate, his control of reverse swing theatrical yet precise. He bowled like a leader reasserting relevance.

Waqar struggled.

Apart from one spirited burst in Chennai, his spells lacked sustained menace. The ball did not hurry batsmen as it once had. The intimidation factor, so central to his early career, felt diluted. Against a technically disciplined Indian lineup, slight imprecision was punished.

Pakistan’s dilemma sharpened: sentiment versus ruthlessness.

The Dropping of a Legend

By the time the teams arrived in Kolkata for the inaugural Asian Test Championship match, Wasim faced a decision that would define the moment.

Dropping Waqar Younis was not merely a selection call. It was symbolic rupture. Few fast bowlers had shaped Pakistan’s cricketing imagination like him. Yet Pakistan’s cricket culture, for all its emotional volatility, has historically been unsentimental in pursuit of advantage.

Waqar was left out.

In his place emerged a name spoken more in whispers than headlines: Shoaib Akhtar.

The Wild Card

Shoaib was not a finished product. He was velocity personified.

Within domestic circuits and Pakistan A tours, stories preceded him: curfew breaches, restless nights abroad, club cricket in Ireland punctuated by Dublin slang and pub folklore. He was a maverick temperament housed inside a sprinter’s body.

But beneath the theatrics lay something elemental, extreme pace.

In Durban earlier in 1998, he had produced a spell that dismantled South Africa and hinted at international consequence. Comparisons with Allan Donald were inevitable. Wasim himself acknowledged the distinction bluntly: Waqar, at his peak, matched the pace, but Shoaib’s bouncer was quicker.

Raw pace changes geometry. It shortens reaction time. It destabilizes technique. It creates doubt before skill intervenes.

At Eden Gardens, doubt would arrive at 150 kilometres per hour.

Eden Gardens: Theatre and Tremor

Kolkata’s Eden Gardens is less stadium than amphitheatre. Ninety thousand voices do not watch; they judge.

On the first evening, Shoaib offered a preview, removing VVS Laxman with a searing inswinger that hinted at late movement and higher gears. It was a warning shot, not yet the earthquake.

The earthquake arrived the following afternoon.

India, steady at 147 for two, appeared in control. Rahul Dravid and Sadagoppan Ramesh were methodical, reducing Pakistan’s modest 185 to manageable arithmetic. Drinks were taken. Rhythm paused.

Session breaks often reset neurological tempo. Wasim sensed the moment and turned to volatility.

Shoaib ran in.

The first delivery to Dravid was full, angling in before tailing viciously. Dravid, a technician of rare calibration, brought his bat down, but pace defeats perfection when it arrives half a fraction early. Leg stump uprooted.

The sound was abrupt. The crowd inhaled.

Next ball: Tendulkar.

In India, Tendulkar’s walk to the crease is ceremonial. The stadium rose in collective affirmation. He adjusted his guard, composed, contained.

Shoaib did not reduce his stride.

The ball was full again, but this time reversing late, almost insolently. Tendulkar shaped to drive, trusting length. The ball curved inward at the last possible instant. Middle stump lay displaced.

For a moment, Eden Gardens fell into disbelieving silence.

Two deliveries. Two pillars.

It was not just a double strike; it was symbolic dethronement. The established order breached by velocity.

Hostility as Statement

The theatre did not end there. When captain Mohammad Azharuddin arrived, Shoaib’s response was primal, a steep bouncer crashing into the helmet. This was not swing artistry; this was intimidation.

By spell’s end, his figures read 4 for 71. Yet statistics understate seismic effect.

He had done something rare: shifted psychological balance within minutes. India’s dominance had evaporated. Pakistan’s belief reawakened. The crowd’s certainty fractured.

The Changing of Pace

In the stands sat Waqar Younis, architect of toe-crushing yorkers, pioneer of reverse swing carnage. He had once been the future disrupting elders.

Now he witnessed his own succession.

Transitions in sport are rarely ceremonial. They are abrupt, sometimes brutal. At Eden Gardens, Pakistan’s fast-bowling lineage pivoted from craft refined to force unleashed.

Shoaib Akhtar was not the polished strategist Wasim was. He was not yet the clinical destroyer Waqar had been. He was volatility, ambition, speed without ceiling.

His career would oscillate, brilliance intertwined with controversy, injury, disciplinary questions. But that afternoon in Kolkata distilled his essence: when rhythm aligned with aggression, he was unplayable.

Beyond the Spell

The dropping of Waqar was not an indictment of greatness past. It was acknowledgment of time’s inevitability.

Pakistan cricket, historically allergic to gradual transition, prefers rupture. It discards gently declining giants and gambles on raw extremes. Sometimes recklessly. Occasionally prophetically.

In Kolkata, the gamble paid.

Cricket had not simply discovered a fast bowler. It had rediscovered fear.

And Pakistan, standing between fading legend and untested velocity, had chosen the storm.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

Anil Kumble’s Historic Ten-Wicket Haul: A Masterclass in Leg-Spin

Cricket is a game of moments, fleeting yet eternal, etched in history by acts of brilliance that defy probability. On February 7, 1999, at the Feroz Shah Kotla in Delhi, Anil Kumble orchestrated one such moment, inscribing his name alongside England’s Jim Laker as only the second bowler to claim all ten wickets in a Test innings. His figures of 10 for 74 in Pakistan’s second innings were the stuff of legend, a testament to relentless accuracy, unwavering resolve, and the intricate artistry of leg-spin bowling. 

This was more than just a personal milestone; it was a victory of immense significance for India. Not since the 1979-80 series had India triumphed over Pakistan in a Test match, and the win in Delhi allowed them to square the series. Yet, despite the broader context, it was Kumble’s spellbinding performance that dominated the narrative, transforming a routine Test match into an immortal chapter of cricketing folklore. 

The Setup: A Battle on a Treacherous Pitch 

The match itself unfolded on a pitch scarred by past events, vandalism by fundamentalists a month earlier had necessitated hasty repairs, leaving the surface unpredictable. Batting was a challenge, but India made the most of their first use of the wicket, posting 252 in their first innings, aided by Pakistan’s generosity in the field, four crucial catches went down, three of them reprieving India's top scorers. Kumble had already sensed the pitch's potential, teasing out hints of grip and turn that would later fuel his historic rampage. 

Pakistan’s reply was modest, a mere 172, with Kumble already exerting his influence. But India’s second innings ensured the visitors were left with a near-impossible target of 420. Opener Sadagoppan Ramesh’s composed 96 and a crucial 100-run stand between Sourav Ganguly and Javagal Srinath allowed India to stretch their lead significantly. Wasim Akram briefly stole the limelight by surpassing Imran Khan’s record of 362 Test wickets for Pakistan, but his milestone was soon eclipsed by the looming storm that was Kumble. 

The Collapse: Kumble’s Spell of a Lifetime 

Pakistan, needing only a draw to win the series, had started with promise. Saeed Anwar and Shahid Afridi negotiated the early overs effectively, guiding Pakistan to 101 without loss. The chase, however, was never a realistic prospect; survival was the goal. But survival, on this day, was an impossible dream. 

Kumble had bowled six wicketless overs in the morning, operating from the Football Stand End. It was after lunch, from the Pavilion End, that the magic began. 

Afridi was the first to go, caught behind attempting a hesitant dab outside off-stump. His reluctance to depart was evident, lingering in protest at what he deemed an erroneous decision by home umpire Jayaprakash. But there was no reprieve, and Pakistan’s collapse had begun. 

Ijaz Ahmed followed immediately, trapping lbw on the front foot. Inzamam-ul-Haq averted the hat-trick but soon succumbed, dragging an inside edge onto his stumps. In quick succession, Mohammad Yousuf (lbw), Moin Khan (caught low in the slips), and Anwar (bat-pad at short leg) perished, reducing Pakistan to a dire 128 for six. In the span of 44 balls, Kumble had taken six wickets for just 15 runs. It was at this moment that he dared to believe in the improbable, taking all ten wickets in an innings. 

The dream, however, encountered resistance. Salim Malik and Wasim Akram held firm, stitching together a 58-run partnership that threatened to deny Kumble his place in history. But patience and persistence are the virtues of a great leg-spinner, and Kumble had both in abundance. 

The breakthrough came after tea. Malik, attempting a pull, misjudged the bounce and lost his stumps. Mushtaq Ahmed fended a rising delivery to gully. Saqlain Mushtaq was pinned lbw next ball, leaving just one wicket between Kumble and Eternity. 

Azharuddin, India’s captain, sensed history in the making and privately instructed Srinath to avoid taking a wicket, ensuring Kumble had every chance to claim the final scalp. The script played out perfectly. Wasim Akram, having defied India for 90 minutes, finally succumbed, top-edging a short-leg catch to VVS Laxman. The moment had arrived. Kumble, arms aloft, was swarmed by his teammates and carried off the field, the hero of an unforgettable day. 

Reflections: A Legacy Cemented 

Kumble, ever the humble statesman, downplayed his achievement. "No one dreams of taking ten wickets in an innings, because you can't," he admitted. Yet, he had done the impossible, executing his craft with precision on a deteriorating surface. He acknowledged the conditions had aided his cause, the variable bounce made pulling and cutting treacherous, but ultimately, it was his skill and consistency that had overwhelmed Pakistan’s batting. 

Even as Kumble basked in the adulation, another figure in the stands bore witness to a rare déjà vu. Richard Stokes, an English businessman, had seen Jim Laker claim all ten wickets at Old Trafford in 1956. Fate had conspired to gift him another slice of cricketing history, this time on his birthday. 

 For Indian cricket, the match was more than just a victory; it was a symbol of resilience, a reminder of the magic the sport can produce. And for Kumble, it was the defining moment of a career that would ultimately cement his place among the greatest spinners the game has ever known.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar 

Clash of the Titans: India vs. Pakistan, Chennai 1999 - Pakistan Script Dramatic Victory, Tendulkar's Heroics Fail

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

 

Wasim Akram vs, Rahul Dravid 1999: The Poetry of a Ball in Chennai

It was early 1999—January, perhaps February—a time when South Asia was embroiled in the high drama of Vajpayee and Sharif’s ill-fated romance, their hesitant gestures towards peace framed by a history of blood and boundary. The first Test series between India and Pakistan in a decade unfolded in a climate thick with expectation and tension. In Mumbai, the usual Sena-brand vandalism was reported; in Chennai, a grotesque provocation—a pig’s head placed in some strategic location—spoke volumes of the charged atmosphere in which a Pakistani bowler would make his mark in India. This was cricket, but also more than cricket. It was an encounter richer in political subtext than the routine narratives of an Australian bowler sending down his first delivery in England.

A Test in the Balance

The story of Pakistan in Chennai was one of defiance, collapse, resilience, and genius. Their batting faltered, then found its footing through the unlikeliest of protagonists—Shahid Afridi, a whirlwind in whites, who played an innings of rare substance. But it was the mastery of Saqlain Mushtaq, the world’s preeminent off-spinner at the time, that turned the tide. India, set a target of 272 in the fourth innings, seemed poised to script their own epic.

Waqar Younis struck first, finding a momentary revival in a longer run-up, but soon enough, rhythm began to elude him. In contrast, his partner Wasim Akram was operating at the zenith of his bowling powers. Wasim was the captain, a statesman of fast bowling, a figure of cinematic intensity before time softened him with glasses and a genial smile. In those days, he carried himself like a hero from the 1970s—brooding, electric with purpose. A bad call from the umpire could ignite him: a teapot stance, a sharp turn towards square leg, a muttered curse, a glare at the pitch, perhaps a shouted command at a fielder. Then, determination would take over, and he would return to his mark, ready to correct the perceived injustice with a single, devastating delivery.

The Spell and the Silence

It was the afternoon session, and Wasim was locked in battle with Rahul Dravid—The Wall, the technician, the thinker. The ball was talking on the dry Chennai surface, Wasim making it murmur secrets into Dravid’s ears. He swung them in late, teasing, sharp, just short of full. One of those deliveries rapped Dravid on the pads—a close call, possibly missing both leg and off, or maybe just fortunate enough to escape.

Then came the next ball, a moment of artistry so pure it belonged more to mythology than sport. It started swinging down the leg side, an innocuous movement, then, as if defying logic, it changed course—veering in the opposite direction, eight inches perhaps, a perfect figure of eight, a ball rebelling against its own trajectory. Dravid, normally the master of late adjustments, was outthought, outflanked. His bat was a fraction slow, a fraction misplaced. The ball kissed the tip-most, outer bail, dislodging it with a delicate hiss, an almost poetic caress.

For a moment, Chennai was stunned into silence. The weight of history, of rivalry, of political undercurrents, momentarily vanished. There was only the sound of Pakistani joy, Wasim’s teammates engulfing him in celebration, their voices piercing the air thick with disbelief.

The Epilogue of a Classic

Hours later, the match reached its crescendo—Sachin Tendulkar, battling pain and destiny, played what many would call his greatest innings. And yet, despite his genius, despite his near-singular will, Pakistan triumphed. In the end, Wasim led his men on a lap of honour, not of conquest, but of mutual respect. Chennai, its initial silence transformed into an ovation, acknowledged greatness without prejudice.

A great Test match is not just a contest; it is a cultural milestone, an event that reveals something fundamental about those who play and watch. The red ribbon arc of Dravid’s dislodged bail was more than a dismissal—it was an expression of staggering skill and precision, a fleeting moment of poetry in motion. It was neither a fragile peace nor war by other means; it was cricket in its most exalted form, a story left to us to interpret, cherish, and remember.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar