Spin and Shadows: Bedi’s Finest Hour Amidst Calcutta’s Fury

On a dim, sullen winter’s day in Calcutta, as smoke curled above the Eden Gardens and tempers flickered like exposed fuses, Bishan Singh Bedi etched his name into cricketing history. His best figures in Test cricket — 7 for 98 — were not accompanied by celebration, but by collapsing wickets, chaos in the stands, and the haunting echoes of street violence. In this match, cricket became not a game, but a theatre of societal tension — every delivery, a defiance against disorder.

From the outset, the series against Australia in 1969-70 had the feel of a cursed epic. The first Test was transplanted from riot-hit Ahmedabad to the relatively placid setting of Bombay. Yet even in Bombay, calm was elusive. The Brabourne Stadium witnessed its own descent into anarchy, with stands aflame, missiles raining, and fielders arming themselves with stumps as improvised shields. The following Tests in Kanpur and Delhi, remarkably subdued by comparison, offered momentary reprieve — India drawing level at Delhi behind the elegant spin of Bedi and EAS Prasanna. And then came Calcutta.

The city in 1969 was already in a slow churn of fury. Floods in neighbouring East Pakistan had displaced thousands, and refugees poured into West Bengal. In response, the state’s political underbelly grew volatile. Maoist-inspired Naxalite movements clashed violently with the establishment, and civil unrest simmered just beneath the surface. Eden Gardens, the cricketing cauldron of the East, became a crucible not just for sport, but for social friction.

A Match Under Siege

The visiting Australians arrived not merely as athletes, but as inadvertent symbols of Western military intervention. A rumour — entirely false, yet stubbornly persistent — had cast Doug Walters as a Vietnam War veteran. For a city steeped in leftist ideology, this was enough. Protesters massed outside the team hotel, shouting slogans and hurling stones. A pre-match practice session was abandoned when 20,000 agitated fans poured into the stadium just to glimpse the Australians.

 Amidst this volatile climate, the match began with Australia winning the toss and inserting India on a green-tinged, moist surface — a decision that would prove prophetic. Graham McKenzie exploited the conditions ruthlessly, slicing through a brittle Indian lineup. Only Gundappa Viswanath displayed resistance on a gloomy day shortened by bad light. By stumps, India were 176 for 7; by the following morning, all out for 212, thanks largely to Eknath Solkar’s lower-order defiance.

But the story of the match would not be written in India’s collapse. It would unfold in slow loops and measured arcs from a turbaned figure with a left arm of wizardry. When Australia replied, Bedi entered the scene as early as the 10th over. What followed was a masterclass in spin bowling — not the relentless probing of attrition, but a performance of poetic rhythm and tactical dexterity.

The Spell: Artistry in a War Zone

Bedi's bowling that day was not just skill; it was choreography. His action, like a dancer’s pirouette, released balls that dipped and turned and whispered secrets to the pitch. Bill Lawry, Australia’s stoic captain, resisted admirably, only to fall moments before stumps — caught close in, beaten by flight and guile.

The following day, amidst a city bristling with civil unrest, Bedi continued his silent assault. Ian Chappell, bristling with confidence, and Walters, all grit and graft, compiled a century partnership. But Bedi was relentless, floating one past Walters to have him stumped with balletic precision by Farokh Engineer. Then came Ian Redpath, undone by the sharp turn to slip. Paul Sheahan batted attractively before being run out, and then, in the most pivotal moment of the match, Chappell fell one short of a century — baited into a false stroke by a change of pace, caught at slip once more.

Australia, threatening to amass a commanding lead, were held to 335. Bedi finished with figures of 7 for 98, his magnum opus, delivered not in triumph but in a gathering gloom — atmospheric and political.

Yet, the match was far from over.

Collapse and Catastrophe

India’s second innings descended into farce. Only Ajit Wadekar provided any ballast as Eric Freeman and Alan Connolly tore through the top and middle order. India were bundled out cheaply again, setting the Australians a meagre target of 39, which they chased down without loss.

But it was outside the boundary ropes that the real devastation played out.

Tensions that had long simmered now boiled over. Ticket scarcity had driven thousands to queue overnight, many in vain. When gates failed to open on time, fury erupted. Crowds attempted to storm the counters. Police responded with tear gas; the crowd responded with stones. Six people were killed in the chaos; dozens injured. The sport had become a casualty of the city’s wider crisis.

Even within the stadium, the atmosphere was fractured. The infamous Ranji Stadium stand saw spectators from the upper deck hurl stones at those below. In terror, fans surged onto the field, forcing a temporary halt to play. Policemen, unable to restore order, made them sit along the boundary ropes — an eerie tableau of disorder lining the outfield as cricket resumed amid shadows.

The Australians, in a move equal parts symbolic and humane, flanked the Nawab of Pataudi as they walked off the field once victory was secured — a protective gesture towards the beleaguered Indian captain, who risked being targeted by his own spectators.

As the Australians departed for the airport later that day, their route was flanked for 200 yards by hostile demonstrators, throwing stones and hurling abuse. The team left not just a cricket ground, but a war zone.

A Turbaned Artist in a Torn Canvas

What endures from that Test — beyond the violence, the broken glass, the tragic headlines — is a portrait of Bishan Bedi at the height of his craft. Amid chaos, he brought calm precision. While the city burned and crumbled, he turned on his heel and delivered art from 22 yards of contested soil.

There is a peculiar nobility in such moments — a spinner unfurling flight and loop while the world collapses outside. His 7-wicket haul was not merely statistical excellence. It was resistance through rhythm. A performance not staged in harmony with the crowd but defiantly against it.

That Calcutta Test remains one of Indian cricket’s most surreal chapters — part Shakespearean tragedy, part street riot, part ballet. And at the heart of it, spinning silk through the cinders, was Bishan Singh Bedi: a craftsman whose genius was illuminated most fiercely when the light around him had all but failed.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar 

Hero Cup Triumph: India’s Redemption at Eden Gardens

The CAB Jubilee Tournament, later branded as the Hero Cup, secured sponsorship from Hero, yet this initial success was quickly overshadowed by a series of complications. The first blow came when Pakistan withdrew from the tournament, citing security concerns. This reduced the competition to a five-nation contest featuring hosts India alongside West Indies, South Africa, Sri Lanka, and Zimbabwe. The tournament’s structure, however, was perplexing—ten league matches merely to eliminate one team before proceeding to the semi-finals and final. Yet, a historic milestone was set, as the last three matches were scheduled to be the first played under floodlights at Eden Gardens.

Jagmohan Dalmiya, the mastermind behind the Hero Cup, soon found himself embroiled in a deeper battle—one that transcended the boundary ropes and entered the realm of broadcasting rights. On March 15 of that year, CAB sent a letter to the Director-General of Doordarshan, India’s state-run broadcaster, which had long enjoyed an unchallenged monopoly over the telecast of cricket matches in the country. In an era when the BCCI had once paid Doordarshan to air matches, a seismic shift was underway.

The emergence of private broadcasters, spearheaded by Star, brought a new dimension to the equation. CAB awarded the exclusive telecast rights of the Hero Cup to Trans World International (TWI), an international broadcasting company that outbid Doordarshan with an offer that was significantly more lucrative. While Doordarshan’s bid stood at a mere INR 10 million, TWI guaranteed a minimum of INR 17.6 million along with 70% of the gross revenue. Even after factoring in an INR 1.5 million payment to VSNL for facilitating satellite transmissions via Intelsat, the deal was financially irrefutable.

Doordarshan, however, was not prepared to relinquish its stronghold without a fight. In a retaliatory move, the state broadcaster declared that it would not telecast the matches across India. This decision had immediate repercussions: when India faced Sri Lanka at Kanpur, advertising within the stadium dwindled, resulting in significant financial losses for CAB. Desperate to salvage the situation, CAB urged Doordarshan to broadcast the tournament, only to be met with a counter-demand—a steep INR 0.5 million per match.

The crisis deepened when TWI’s equipment was seized at Bombay Customs under the pretext of lacking requisite government permissions. As a result, the highly anticipated clash between West Indies and Sri Lanka at Wankhede went unseen by the masses. The disruptions persisted as TWI’s crew was barred from broadcasting South Africa’s encounter with Zimbabwe at Chinnaswamy Stadium.

Public interest, already dampened by Pakistan’s withdrawal, suffered further due to the initial lack of telecast. However, a flicker of excitement was reignited when South Africa and West Indies, arguably the two strongest teams on paper, engaged in a riveting contest where Jonty Rhodes' spectacular five catches stunned the Caribbean giants.

Yet, controversy continued to mar the tournament. When India faced West Indies at Motera, the hosts collapsed for a paltry 100 in response to West Indies’ 202 for 7. Frustration among the Ahmedabad crowd escalated to such an extent that play was halted for 40 minutes. Mohammad Azharuddin later remarked that it was “the worst crowd I have ever seen.”

Indore provided another dramatic moment when India and Zimbabwe played out a thrilling tie marred by chaotic scenes. However, the tournament largely remained devoid of consistently competitive cricket, with matches often leaning towards one-sided affairs. Despite media-fueled hype, public enthusiasm remained inconsistent. That was until an unforgettable night at Eden Gardens, where India clashed with South Africa in a pulsating contest that recaptured the nation’s imagination. The stage was then set for a grand finale against the West Indies, still regarded as the finest team in the world. In the end, amid all the off-field turmoil, the Hero Cup delivered a dramatic climax, cementing its place in cricketing folklore.

 A Masterclass in Indian Domination

The final at Eden Gardens was expected to be a fierce contest, with the West Indies carrying the weight of favouritism. But cricket, ever the great equalizer, had its own narrative. India outclassed the Caribbean side with a staggering margin of 102 runs, a testament to their supremacy. Richie Richardson, graceful in defeat, could offer little protest. India had simply outplayed the West Indies in every department.

From the very outset, there had been murmurs—was it time to drop Kapil Dev? Had Sachin Tendulkar, prodigious yet inconsistent, become a liability? Could Ajay Jadeja handle the pressures of international cricket? Did Vinod Kambli possess the technique to withstand the thunderbolts of the West Indian pace attack? Every question found its emphatic answer under the gaze of 90,000 roaring spectators and millions glued to their television screens. Kapil, Tendulkar, Jadeja, and Kambli played pivotal roles in scripting India’s triumph.

The Kumble Hurricane

If one moment encapsulated the final, it was Anil Kumble’s spell—a bewitching display of leg-spin that left the West Indies in ruins. His figures, 6 for 12 in just four overs, were not just extraordinary but transformative. In a mere 24 balls, he spun a web of deception, dismantling the opposition with clinical precision. The West Indians, historically vulnerable against spin, found themselves ensnared yet again, despite Richardson’s persistent assertion that their frailty against the turning ball was a mere “myth.”

The Crucial Turning Point: The Roland Holder Controversy

Yet, amid the heroics, controversy lingered. Roland Holder’s dismissal became a subject of heated debate. Television replays confirmed he was bowled, yet his departure carried an air of ambiguity. The West Indies sought intervention, but Bishan Singh Bedi, the adjudicator, refused to reconsider the decision. The International Cricket Council Chairman, Clyde Walcott, upheld the verdict. Richardson later pointed to this moment as the game’s turning point, but in truth, the collapse had already begun. Holder’s exit merely hastened the inevitable as Kumble ran riot through the lower order.

The Art of Building an Innings

Before the carnage, India’s batting had laid the foundation for an authoritative total. The start was wobbly, but Jadeja and Kambli stitched together a crucial partnership, steering the innings from 161 for two to a precarious 161 for five. A moment of brilliance from Curtly Ambrose—an instinctive kick onto the stumps—cut short Kambli’s fluent 68. Shortly after, Azharuddin perished attempting an audacious steer, followed by Pravin Amre’s departure in quick succession. A promising innings was at risk of unravelling.

It was then that experience and youthful audacity combined. Kapil Dev and Tendulkar, both under scrutiny, rose to the occasion with a vital 46-run stand. Their partnership not only steadied the innings but provided the launchpad for a defendable target on a sluggish wicket. Kambli’s audacious stroke play, Jadeja’s calculated aggression, and Azharuddin’s finesse—including a sublime cut off Phil Simmons—underscored India’s tactical acumen.

The Bowling Symphony

When the West Indies began their chase, the Indian bowlers delivered in unison. Manoj Prabhakar struck early, removing Simmons in the very first over. The Caribbean innings, though dented, found resilience in Richardson and Brian Lara’s partnership. As the duo threatened to shift momentum, it was Tendulkar—already a hero from the semifinal’s final over—who prised out Lara, breaking the crucial stand. Richardson, growing in stature with every stroke, appeared to be the last bastion of hope, until Kapil Dev, with his characteristic guile, engineered a collapse. Arthurton was trapped in front, and Richardson was deceived by the slower ball. With the lower order exposed, Kumble’s magic unfolded, and within moments, the contest was over.

A Celebration Like No Other

As the final wicket fell, Eden Gardens erupted into a carnival of lights, bonfires, and euphoric celebrations. For two consecutive nights, the historic venue had witnessed cricket in its most dramatic form, and now, as the final chapter concluded, the air was thick with the scent of victory.

The journey to the trophy had been turbulent—two wins, a loss, and a tied game in the group stage reflected India’s inconsistency. But when it mattered most, the team peaked. Ajit Wadekar, the quiet architect of India’s resurgence, had his moment of fulfilment. As the celebrations swirled around him, he remained pragmatic. “This is just the beginning,” he mused, already looking ahead to the next challenge against Sri Lanka. 

Ajit Wadekar stood that night with a quiet sense of triumph, his broad smile a reflection of vindication. Every decision he had made, every call he had taken, had come to fruition. Against prevailing scepticism, he had backed the very team that had faltered in Sri Lanka’s one-day series. As Mohammed Azharuddin lifted the Hero Cup under the floodlit Kolkata sky, it was evident that Wadekar’s ability to extract the best from his players had orchestrated this resounding success.

The cricket manager, bat in one hand and ball in another, would return to his role of a perfectionist, ensuring India’s fielding—the only chink in the armour—was sharpened for future battles.

For now, though, the Hero Cup belonged to India, and Kolkata had its fairytale night.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar

A Night of High Drama: India’s Gritty Triumph Over South Africa

India’s second successive victory over South Africa was an encounter that teetered on the edge until the final ball. Unlike their dominant win in the final, this match was a tense, nerve-wracking affair that unfolded under the Eden Gardens lights—an occasion marked by both history and unpredictability. As smoke bombs lit up the Kolkata sky to ward off swarming insects, a local mongoose, undeterred, continued its playful presence on the field, as if heralding the wildness of the game to follow.

A Game of Firsts

This contest was the first in India to feature a video replay umpire, with S.K. Bansal stamping his authority early by adjudging both Vinod Kambli and Manoj Prabhakar run out—both victims of Daryll Cullinan’s brilliance in the field. The early dismissals left India struggling, but Mohammad Azharuddin, with Pravin Amre’s support, staged a commendable recovery. Despite their resilience, India could not breach the 200-run mark, folding for 195—a total that, at first glance, appeared inadequate against a formidable South African lineup.

A Stuttering Chase

South Africa, clear favourites, started with confidence but were soon jolted when Javagal Srinath trapped Kepler Wessels leg-before for just 10. Andrew Hudson, Wessels’ opening partner, held firm, but the lack of substantial partnerships left South Africa gasping for breath. Brian McMillan waged a lone battle, and when Richard Snell was stumped off Anil Kumble’s bowling with the score at 145, the pendulum had swung decisively in India’s favour.

Yet cricket, in all its fickleness, had more drama in store. Wicket-keeper Dave Richardson’s dogged 44-run stand with McMillan clawed South Africa back into contention, and as the final over dawned, the balance had tilted once again. The tension was palpable. India’s frontline bowlers hesitated to take the responsibility of bowling the last over—a testament to the immense pressure of the moment. In a decision that sent shockwaves through the stadium and beyond, Sachin Tendulkar, just 20 years old, took on the challenge.

The Final Over: A Moment Etched in History

The move was audacious. Tendulkar, known more for his batting exploits, now carried the weight of the nation’s expectations with the ball in hand. The tension thickened with every passing second as a long discussion ensued between Azharuddin, Kapil Dev, and Tendulkar himself. The enormity of the moment was not lost on anyone.

- First Ball: McMillan drives into the deep off-side and scampers for a single. Fannie de Villiers attempts a second run to bring McMillan back on strike, but a bullet throw from Ankola finds Vijay Yadav’s gloves, catching de Villiers short. South Africa 191 for nine.

- Second Ball: Five runs needed. Donald swings and misses. No run.

- Third Ball: Another dot. Donald defends, nerves escalating.

- Fourth Ball: A near-wide delivery, but Steve Bucknor does not signal it. A moment debated for years to come.

- Fifth Ball: Donald finally gets off the mark, a single to long-on, handing McMillan the strike for the final ball. South Africa 192 for nine.

Everything now hinged on the last delivery. South Africa needed four to win outright or three to triumph under losing fewer wickets. Tendulkar meticulously adjusted the field, ensuring every possible scoring shot was covered.

With the Eden Gardens crowd holding its breath, Tendulkar ran in for the final time. McMillan attempted a desperate heave, but the ball found only an inside edge—exactly the scenario Tendulkar had anticipated. The ever-alert Vijay Yadav, stationed at the 30-yard circle precisely for this possibility, pounced on the ball. South Africa could steal just a single. India had won.

A Victory for the Ages

Eden Gardens exploded into delirium. Fireworks illuminated the night sky, and across the nation, millions erupted in celebration. India had not merely won a cricket match—they had defied the odds, weathered moments of despair, and emerged victorious through sheer grit. The sheer audacity of the final over, the composure of a young Tendulkar, and the tactical ingenuity of Azharuddin had combined to deliver one of the most sensational wins in ODI history.

For India, it was a moment of redemption, of proving their mettle on the world stage. As the celebrations continued, one thing was certain: this was no ordinary victory. It was a testament to resilience, to belief, and to the fact that in cricket, as in life, nothing is decided until the last ball is bowled.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar

Eden Gardens, Uneven Heartbeat: A Test Match That Exposed the Soul of Two Teams

Ultimately, Eden Gardens did not host a Test match.

It staged a morality play.

The cricket was merely the script—uneven, unpredictable, occasionally unfair—performed on a surface that behaved like a fickle deity. Across three astonishing days, the pitch peeled, gasped, kicked, died, spat and sulked; fast bowlers roared like it was Johannesburg, spinners prospered like it was Kanpur, and batters flinched like it was Lahore 1987.

And inside this carnival of chaos, South Africa achieved something they had not done in 15 years: win a Test in India.

But the result is almost secondary.

What this match really revealed were truths each team has tried hard to avoid.

This wasn’t simply a Test match.

It was an X-ray.

India: When Mastery Meets a Mirror

India arrived with a plan that looked modern and brave: six bowlers, Washington Sundar at No. 3, and spin depth bordering on excess. They spoke of balanced pitches and “good cricket wickets” after New Zealand's loss in the series last year. They claimed they wanted conditions that stretched their batters, not pampered their spinners.

Then the Test began—and the surface betrayed that rhetoric almost instantly.

Bumrah the Great Leveller

Day one belonged to Jasprit Bumrah, the only constant in India’s rapidly shifting cricketing identity. His 16th Test five-for was a study in predation: the late swing to Ryan Rickelton, the sharp lift to Aiden Markram, the relentless nip-backers that forced South Africa back into the kind of hesitation that haunts teams touring India.

He gave India a luxury lead-in: South Africa shot out for 159, the kind of number that historically seals the visiting side’s fate.

But for all Bumrah’s brilliance, India were soon reminded that you cannot win a Test on reputation alone.

A Batting Line-up That Looked Confused, Not Helpless

Rahul, Washington and Jadeja all scored between 27 and 39.

They all looked good.

They all got out the moment the pitch whispered a dark secret.

That is the story of unstable surfaces—not collapses, but illusions.

India’s batters were competent, but not confident. They grafted, but did not adapt. When Harmer arrived with the skillset of a man who has spent a decade refining himself, India’s batting order melted in single digits.

If day one showed India at their best, day two showed a team living on the memory of their best.

South Africa: The Team That Came Prepared for Spin and Won Through Something Stranger

South Africa did not win because the pitch turned.

They won because they learned to live with its indecision sooner.

And they won because Simon Harmer, the spin bowler once discarded as a symbol of South Africa’s 2015 humiliation, returned like a craftsman who had spent nine long years sharpening his chisels.

Harmer: A Career in Three Acts

The Harmer of 2015 was a domestic success story thrust into the Ashwin-Jadeja inferno.

The Harmer of 2022 was a pandemic stand-in.

The Harmer of 2025 is a man who has bowled more overs on imperfect surfaces than some international spinners do in a lifetime.

His 4 for 30 in the first innings was not an outburst—it was a thesis.

Fuller lengths, subtle pace variations, attacking the stumps, and most importantly, the courage to bowl the ball that *doesn’t* turn on a turning wicket.

That is the mark of mastery.

Washington Sundar, Dhruv Jurel, Ravindra Jadeja—each fell because Harmer beat them in the mind before he beat them on the pitch.

Bavuma’s Resistance: A Half-Century Worth a Hundred

If Harmer dragged South Africa back into the match, Bavuma gave them the belief they could win it.

His 50—on a pitch that treated batting techniques like suggestions rather than rules—was a masterclass in stubbornness. More than the runs, it was the serenity: the sweep shot that returned as a conversation with fate, the forward presses that looked like acts of faith, the calm when everything around him frayed.

In the end, he was the only batter on either side who looked capable of playing old-fashioned Test innings.

The Collapse That Defined Everything

India needed 124.

They made 93.

Two of the most revealing numbers in recent Indian cricket.

Why India Lost From a Winnable Position

1. Tactical indecision

Axar Patel opening the bowling on the third morning was not a move—it was a confession of confusion.

Washington Sundar, selected as a third spinner, did not bowl a single over in the second innings.

That alone could fill a press conference.

2. Panic, disguised as proactive captaincy

   Pant cycled through bowlers like a man trying to guess a password.

   Fields changed without purpose.

   Reviews bordered on desperation.

3. A pitch that demanded clarity rewarded only one team

India’s spinners tried too much.

South Africa’s spinners tried enough.

4. Jansen and Harmer: Thunder and Thread

Jansen’s opening bursts exposed the pitch’s early-morning treachery.

Harmer exploited its spiritual uncertainty.

India had two world-class spinners, a third in the XI, and one of the best fast bowlers in history.

South Africa had one world-class fast bowler injured, two spinners, including one reborn, and a collective that understood their limitations.

Only one side used their resources fully.

The Pitch: Villain, Equaliser, or Revelation?

This strip at Eden Gardens will be debated for months.

It was unpredictable but not random.

It demanded courage but punished ambition.

It rewarded precision but offered no margin.

It was, in short, the perfect mirror.

India looked at it and saw their tactical inconsistencies.

South Africa looked at it and saw a chance to rewrite history.

And that may be the greatest irony: India wanted balanced pitches after last year’s New Zealand defeat.

Instead, they got the kind of surface that balanced the match so violently, it levelled them.

What This Test Really Means

This result does not tell us India are weak.

It tells us they are in transition.

It does not tell us South Africa are dominant.

It tells us they remember how to fight.

But above everything else, it tells us that Test cricket, when stripped of predictability and comfort, is still the most revealing format in sport. It exposes technique, temperament and tactical courage—all in a single session.

At Eden Gardens, it exposed two teams:

India, who must confront the gap between planning and execution.

South Africa, who rediscovered an identity built not on bravado but on craftsmanship.

Above all, it reminded us why we watch Test cricket:

Not for fairness.

Not for perfection.

But for the beauty of struggle.

In that sense, the match was not a shock.

It was a masterpiece.

Thank You

Faisal Caeasr

The Chaotic Elegance of Nehru Cup, 1989

There are tournaments remembered for their trophies, and there are those remembered for their tales.

The 1989 Nehru Cup — staged across the sprawling geography of India — belongs to the latter. It was an event where planning collapsed under its own ambition, and yet out of chaos emerged one of Pakistan’s most compelling cricketing odysseys.

The scheduling bordered on absurdity. Teams were made to play two, occasionally three, matches in a single day — a logistical nightmare that forced exhausted squads to traverse thousands of kilometres between fixtures. Fatigue became the twelfth man; strategy, a luxury. Pakistan, perpetually in transit, fielded a different XI almost every match — Waqar Younis, Aaqib Javed, and even Javed Miandad alternated between presence and absence. Each game unfolded as an experiment in survival.

Yet within this relentless churn, there was also vitality. The late 1980s were the golden age of one-day cricket tournaments — short, fierce, and intensely followed. The Nehru Cup assembled six heavyweights of the era: India, Pakistan, West Indies, England, Australia, and Sri Lanka — a microcosm of the cricketing world brought together on Indian soil.

A Faltering Start and Flickers of Defiance

Pakistan’s campaign began inauspiciously. In their opening match against England, their batting was funereal — slow, uncertain, devoid of spark. Only Saleem Malik’s 42 from 59 balls provided dignity amid mediocrity. But such teams, under Imran Khan’s stewardship, rarely succumbed twice in the same way.

Against Australia, the reigning world champions, Pakistan roared back with defiance. Defending a modest 205, they won by 66 runs — a triumph stitched together through discipline and belief. Shoaib Mohammad’s watchful half-century anchored the innings, Javed Miandad’s 34 steadied it, and Wasim Akram’s spirited 28 gave it momentum. Then came the bowling — Imran Khan, in one of those spells that defined his aura, took 3 for 13 in eight overs, with Abdul Qadir weaving his quiet menace from the other end.

Momentum, though, remained fragile. The next encounter against the West Indies revealed both brilliance and brittleness. Despite a valiant 77 from Aamir Malik and a fluent 44 from Saleem Malik, Pakistan’s 223 proved insufficient. Richie Richardson and Viv Richards, with clinical elegance, chased it down — a reminder that experience still dictated outcomes in those days.

Leadership in Motion

Against Sri Lanka, Imran Khan’s strategic mind took center stage. Javed Miandad sat out, and Aamir Malik, despite his previous heroics, was pushed down the order. It was a captain’s experiment in controlled unpredictability — and it worked. Imran himself led with a commanding 84, steering Pakistan to 219. When Sri Lanka seemed poised for victory at 187 for 2, they imploded to 213 all out — undone by three run-outs and the spin trio of Wasim Akram, Akram Raza, and Abdul Qadir, who took two wickets each. Imran, intriguingly, came on as the sixth bowler — a master manipulating the tempo rather than submitting to it.

The Decisive Climb

Then came the match that mattered — the group decider against India. The stakes were elemental: win, and reach the semifinals; lose, and go home.

Aamir Malik (51) and Ramiz Raja (77) provided a serene yet assertive opening, their partnership the perfect blueprint for a chase or a build. Imran Khan’s cameo — 47 off just 39 balls — added the flourish. The total, 279, was a declaration of intent.

India’s reply began with deceptive promise. Krishnamachari Srikkanth (65) and Raman Lamba (57) took them to 120 for none. Then, as if on cue, Pakistan’s spinners ensnared them. From 155 for 2, India crumbled to 202 all out. Wasim Akram and Mushtaq Ahmed bowled with precision; the decision to rest Imran from bowling and instead deploy three spinners proved inspired. It was tactical intellect cloaked in calm — the hallmark of a team rediscovering itself.

The Semifinal: Poise in a Storm

Rain reduced the semifinal against England to 30 overs a side — a format tailor-made for volatility. England, led by Robin Smith’s assured 55, posted 194. Abdul Qadir and Waqar Younis struck regularly, but the chase that followed was pure artistry.

Ramiz Raja, elegant and composed, crafted 85 off 82 balls; Saleem Malik, electric and audacious, blazed 66 from 41. Their partnership was a study in rhythm and restraint, tempo and timing. The target was reached with ease — and for once, Imran Khan was not named Man of the Match, a rare occurrence in a tournament that bore his imprint.

In the other semifinal, West Indies brushed aside India by eight wickets — setting the stage for a final rich in narrative tension: the disciplined Caribbean giants versus Pakistan’s mercurial genius.

The Final in the City of Joy

The finale in Calcutta (now Kolkata) unfolded as if scripted for drama. It had theatre, pressure, and poetry — and in the end, it found its crescendo in the most cinematic fashion imaginable.

Pakistan required four runs from the final over. Akram Raza had just been dismissed — run out by Courtney Walsh’s stunning direct hit from 35 yards. Imran Khan took a single, reducing the equation to three off two balls. With his main bowlers already spent, Viv Richards had no choice but to bowl the decisive over himself.

Then, history bent its arc. Wasim Akram — young, fearless, unflinching — met the next delivery with a mighty swing, sending the ball soaring over wide mid-wicket for a towering six. The roar that followed was not just triumphal; it was liberating. The match, the tournament, and perhaps the entire narrative of Pakistan’s campaign crystallized in that single, audacious stroke.

Layers Beneath the Drama

Pakistan’s chase had been a tapestry of tempo and tenacity. Ramiz Raja’s brisk 35 from 31 balls, stitched with six boundaries, gave the innings its early heartbeat. His stand of 60 with Ijaz Ahmed (56) stabilized the platform, while Saleem Malik’s commanding 71 off 62 brought grace and aggression in equal measure. His straight six off Walsh shimmered as one of the innings’ most majestic strokes.

Imran Khan’s entry signaled assurance. Together with Malik, he added 93 off 95 balls — leadership translated into partnership. Pakistan never allowed the asking rate to intimidate them; they played as if belief itself was a tactic.

For the West Indies, Desmond Haynes anchored the innings with an unbeaten 107 from 134 balls — his sixteenth one-day century, a masterpiece of patience in an age of flourish. Yet even his monument of control could not conceal the hesitancy of the Caribbean middle order. Imran Khan’s death spell — nine consecutive overs of strategic precision — yielded three wickets, including that of Viv Richards. Richards’ brief 21 off 11 balls, punctuated by a six and two fours, was extinguished by Imran’s unerring discipline. The symbolism was unmistakable: the old lion felled by the new.

Coda: A Six Beyond Its Score

That final stroke — Wasim Akram’s soaring six — became more than a winning shot. It was an assertion of spirit, a prelude to the cricketer he would become: unpredictable, destructive, dazzling. It announced a changing of the guard, a transition from Imran’s command to the audacious energy of a younger generation.

The victory was not merely a result; it was a statement. It reflected a team that had fought through fatigue, flawed logistics, and fluctuating lineups — and yet found beauty amid chaos.

Epilogue: The Essence of Resilience

The 1989 Nehru Cup was never destined to be remembered for perfect cricket. It was remembered because it mirrored life itself — messy, erratic, exhausting, but occasionally transcendent.

Pakistan’s journey through it was a portrait of improvisation under duress. From sleepless train rides to reshuffled XIs, from tactical gambles to moments of sheer genius, they embodied the paradox of cricket: a game where discipline and disorder often coexist.

In the end, the Nehru Cup did not just test Pakistan’s skill. It revealed its soul — a blend of defiance, artistry, and endurance.

And in that final moment — when Wasim’s blade met Richards’s delivery under Calcutta’s lights — cricket became poetry, and chaos found its rhythm.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

A Thrilling Encounter at Kolkata: Pakistan Lift The Nehru Cup

Cricket, at its finest, offers moments of high drama, strategic depth, and individual brilliance. This match between Pakistan and the West Indies was a prime example—a contest that ebbed and flowed before culminating in an electrifying finish. It was a battle of power, precision, and nerve, with Pakistan ultimately emerging victorious, thanks to a spectacular final-over climax orchestrated by Wasim Akram.

West Indies’ Steady Build-Up: Haynes Anchors the Innings

The West Indies innings unfolded in a measured manner, constructed methodically rather than with explosive intent. At the heart of their total was an unbeaten century by Desmond Haynes, whose 107 off 134 balls was a masterclass in controlled aggression. His sixteenth one-day international hundred underscored his ability to pace an innings with patience while capitalizing on loose deliveries. 

Though the innings lacked outright fireworks for the most part, Viv Richards provided a late injection of momentum. His brief yet impactful cameo—21 runs off just 11 balls, including a six and two fours—suggested the potential for a final flourish. However, Pakistan’s captain, Imran Khan, had other plans. Returning for a crucial spell at the death, he applied the brakes on West Indies’ scoring, claiming three wickets in five overs. His removal of Richards was a defining moment, curbing what could have been a dangerous late assault.

Pakistan’s Aggressive Chase: A Team Effort in Pursuit of Victory

Unlike the West Indies, who built their innings gradually, Pakistan adopted a more attacking approach from the outset. Though they lost Aamer Malik early, their top-order batsmen ensured that the required run rate was never beyond reach. 

Ramiz Raja set the tempo with a fluent 35 off 31 balls, peppered with six crisp boundaries. His partnership with Ijaz Ahmed (56 off 66) laid a solid foundation, adding 60 runs in quick time. Ijaz then combined with Salim Malik in another crucial stand, with the latter playing a particularly aggressive knock. Salim’s 71 off 62 balls was laced with intent, and his audacity shone through when he launched a straight six off Courtney Walsh, signalling Pakistan’s determination to dictate terms. 

The defining phase of Pakistan’s chase came when Salim and Imran Khan forged a 93-run partnership off 95 deliveries. Their stand ensured that Pakistan remained on course despite the mounting pressure of a high-stakes finish.

The Final-Over Drama: Wasim Akram’s Match-Winning Shot

As the match approached its climax, the tension was palpable. The West Indies had exhausted their premier bowlers earlier in a bid to stifle Pakistan’s progress, leaving Viv Richards to bowl the decisive final over. It was a tactical gamble that Pakistan was ready to exploit. 

With only a handful of runs required, disaster briefly loomed for Pakistan when Akram Raza was run out—his dismissal a result of Walsh’s brilliant direct hit from 35 yards. This brought Wasim Akram to the crease with the match hanging in the balance. 

Imran Khan managed to take a single, reducing the equation to three runs needed off the last two balls. The moment called for either composure or audacity—and Wasim Akram chose the latter. With a fearless swing of the bat, he launched Richards’ penultimate delivery high over wide mid-wicket. The ball sailed into the stands, sealing a sensational victory for Pakistan in the most emphatic fashion possible. 

Conclusion: A Match to Remember

This encounter had all the hallmarks of a classic: a solid innings from Desmond Haynes, a fiery cameo from Richards, a disciplined bowling display from Imran Khan, and a calculated yet aggressive chase from Pakistan’s batsmen. But in the end, it was Wasim Akram’s moment of brilliance that provided the perfect climax—a six that will be remembered as a defining stroke in an unforgettable contest.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar

The Sublime Artistry of VVS Laxman at Eden Gardens: A Masterpiece Beyond Numbers

In cricket’s long and storied history, few innings have altered the course of a match, a series, or even the perception of an entire cricketing nation. Yet, when VVS Laxman left the field on the final day of the breathtaking, almost implausible Test in Kolkata in March 2001, his 281 was already more than just an innings. It was a statement, an artistic masterpiece, and a historic inflexion point for Indian cricket.

For all the inconsistencies in his performances, Laxman was a batsman whose brilliance, when at its peak, was as sublime as any of his celebrated peers. His stroke play, wristy and supple, was imbued with an elegance that defied aggression, an aesthetic counterpoint to the brute force often associated with match-winning knocks. And yet, for all his undeniable talent, he had faced questions over his place in the side, oscillating between moments of genius and periods of struggle.

His greatest innings came against Australia—an opponent he repeatedly tormented throughout his career. By the time he retired in 2012, six of his 17 Test centuries had come against them, a testament to his ability to rise against the best. But never was his impact greater than at Eden Gardens, where he and Rahul Dravid produced an act of defiance so unthinkable that it left an indelible mark on Test cricket’s collective memory.

The Context: Australia’s Final Frontier

The Australian team that arrived in India for the three-match series in 2001 was, by every measure, one of the greatest to ever play the game. Steve Waugh’s men were riding a world-record streak of 15 consecutive Test victories, having bulldozed opponents across continents. Their ambition was not just to win but to conquer, to claim victory in India—the ‘final frontier’ that Waugh had spoken of with determination.

The first Test in Mumbai had reinforced their dominance, with Australia securing a comprehensive innings victory inside three days. The signs in Kolkata suggested more of the same.

After winning the toss, Australia’s openers, Matthew Hayden and Michael Slater, got their team off to a strong start, putting up a 103-run partnership. Though India fought back with Harbhajan Singh’s memorable hat-trick—dismissing Ricky Ponting, Adam Gilchrist, and Shane Warne in quick succession—Waugh’s century pushed the visitors to a formidable 445.

Faced with this imposing total, India’s batting crumbled under the relentless pressure of Glenn McGrath, Jason Gillespie, and Warne. At the close of the second day, the hosts were teetering at 128 for 8, still 118 runs short of avoiding the follow-on.

Laxman, however, had shown a glimpse of his class, scoring a fluent 59 while those around him fell apart. It was a knock that carried the promise of more, but even the most optimistic Indian supporter could not have foreseen what was about to unfold.

A Decision That Altered Cricketing History

When India’s first innings ended at 171 early on Day 3, Waugh enforced the follow-on—a decision that would later be debated endlessly. At the time, it seemed the obvious call. Only twice in Test history had a team won after being made to follow on. With Australia’s bowling attack in prime form, it seemed only a matter of time before another crushing victory was secured.

India’s openers provided some early resistance before Laxman walked in at No. 3, a tactical promotion from his usual position at No. 6. What followed was not just an innings but a transformation—of the match, of Indian cricket, and of Laxman’s career itself.

The Masterpiece Unfolds

Laxman’s batting was effortless yet authoritative. His placement was surgical, his wristwork mesmerizing. He scored freely against the quicks, manoeuvring McGrath and Gillespie with an ease that bordered on audacity. Against Warne, he was even more ruthless. The great leg-spinner had built his reputation tormenting batsmen on turning tracks, but here he found himself at the receiving end of an onslaught he could neither predict nor contain.

Laxman’s ability to drive Warne inside-out through the off-side and flick him against the turn through midwicket defied conventional wisdom. Most batsmen struggled merely to survive against Warne’s wizardry, yet Laxman attacked him with a calculated grace that left the Australian legend bereft of answers.

When he reached his hundred, India was still far from safety. But in Dravid, who had endured criticism for his poor form, he found an ally whose resilience matched his own artistry. Together, they turned the game on its head.

A Day That Defied Cricketing Logic

By the end of Day 3, India had reached 252 for 4, with Laxman unbeaten on 109. For all its brilliance, his innings still appeared to be one of defiance rather than resurgence. India was merely delaying the inevitable—or so it seemed.

But then came Day 4, a day of sheer perfection. Laxman and Dravid batted from start to finish without giving Australia even the slightest chance. They added 335 runs in a single day. It was batting of the highest order—an unbroken partnership that grew into a towering monolith of concentration, endurance, and relentless strokeplay.

The Australians tried everything. The quicks altered their lengths and angles; the spinners bowled wider and flatter. Nine different bowlers, including Hayden, were thrown into the attack in desperation. But nothing worked.

By the time Laxman crossed 236—breaking Sunil Gavaskar’s record for the highest individual score by an Indian—the crowd at Eden Gardens had transformed from anxious spectators into an uncontrollable wave of celebration. The stadium shook with every run, every boundary. The sheer improbability of what was unfolding heightened the drama.

When Laxman finally fell for 281 on the morning of the fifth day, the match had already turned decisively in India’s favour. Dravid followed soon after for 180, and India declared at 657 for 7, a lead of 383.

“I never realized that at the end of the day, I would walk away with valuable life lessons,” Laxman told Sportstar in an interview. “Lessons from a game I loved so much. Even now, when I reflect on that epic day, it sometimes feels surreal.” Yet, in the grand theatre of cricket, where many fierce battles had been fought, this one was as real as it could get. Laxman emerged as a modern-day warrior, his batting reaching extraordinary heights. 

“The day is fresh in my mind. The match is fresh,” Laxman recalled. “That success set a new benchmark for me. Of course, it was a team effort, but personally, I formed memories that have stayed with me forever. It felt like everyone in the dressing room and all those watching at Eden Gardens were in a trance.” 

Laxman and Rahul Dravid stitched together a historic 376-run partnership for the fifth wicket, orchestrating one of the greatest comebacks in cricket history. Australia, dominant up to that point, had enforced the follow-on after India conceded a first-innings lead of 274 runs. At the start of the fourth day, India stood at 254 for four, still in a precarious position. 

“We focused on surviving hour by hour,” Laxman said. “Starting afresh helped us. Rahul and I decided that the Australians would have to earn our wickets.” As the innings progressed, the Australians began to realize that dislodging them would not be easy. “We rotated the strike, which kept us engaged and focused,” he added. “With every passing break and session, our confidence grew.” 

Not losing a wicket in the first session of the fourth day was a huge boost. When Laxman had been dismissed as the last man in India’s first innings, coach John Wright had asked him to “keep the pads on” since Australia had enforced the follow-on. Wright had already decided to push Laxman to No. 3, knowing that he had spent considerable time at the crease. 

“I loved the challenge and the idea,” Laxman admitted. “We battled through the first two sessions, but post-tea, things became incredibly tough. Rahul was cramping, dehydration was sapping our energy, and I was struggling with back spasms that limited my shot-making. But we refused to lose a wicket, motivating each other constantly. We endured the physical pain because we knew Australia could bounce back from any position.” 

Personal milestones kept coming, but neither batsman lost sight of the bigger picture. “We were determined not to throw our wickets away,” Laxman said. “By the end of the day, we were mentally and physically drained, but returning unbeaten was immensely satisfying.” 

No one in the team had foreseen such a dramatic turnaround—an entire day without losing a wicket against an all-conquering Australian side. The resilience stunned the visitors. That day, Laxman and Dravid cemented their place in cricketing folklore. 

“Normally, Rahul doesn’t show too much emotion, but he kept encouraging me throughout,” Laxman recalled. “We kept reminding each other not to get complacent. A day like that happens once in a lifetime, and we wanted to make the most of it. We never let our guard down. By the end, the pressure was on the Australians, and we knew we had a real chance to dictate the outcome. At the very least, we were no longer going to lose the match, which meant the series was still alive after our loss in the first Test.” 

Laxman stressed that this was no individual triumph—it was a collective effort. “Everyone played a role. The substitute fielder, Hemang Badani, took a brilliant catch to dismiss Steve Waugh. Our physio, Andrew Leipus, ensured we could keep going despite the physical toll. Everyone contributed in their own way. Looking back, it felt like destiny had chosen that game to be a special one for every single member of the team.” 

The Final Twist: India Completes the Miracle

Australia, chasing an improbable target, fought valiantly. Slater and Hayden started well, but wickets fell at crucial intervals. Waugh and Ponting, so often Australia’s pillars, fell to Harbhajan’s wizardry.

With 30 overs remaining, Australia stood at 3 for 166, a draw still within reach. But once Waugh departed, the collapse began. India’s spinners tightened their grip, and soon enough, Australia was all out for 212.

A 171-run victory was secured. A series that had seemed destined to end in a whitewash had been resurrected. More than that, a new belief had been born—one that would define Indian cricket for the next two decades.

A Legacy Beyond Numbers

Laxman’s innings was not just a match-winning effort; it was a psychological turning point. No longer was India merely a talented team prone to crumbling under pressure. They had, on one of cricket’s grandest stages, turned certain defeat into triumph against one of the greatest teams ever assembled.

For Waugh and his men, it was a bitter pill to swallow. Yet, in their post-match reflections, there was no bitterness, no excuses—only admiration. “Laxman’s knock was one of the greatest I ever faced in Tests,” Gillespie admitted.

From that day forward, Indian cricket changed. It was a victory that announced India’s arrival as a true force in Test cricket. It was a reminder that artistry and resilience, when combined, could create something immortal.

And for VVS Laxman, it was his magnum opus—a masterclass that would forever remain etched in cricketing folklore.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar

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

In cricket, as in life, the line between brilliance and failure is razor-thin. One moment, a batsman is a master of his craft, commanding bowlers with effortless grace; the next, he is a shadow of himself, struggling to reclaim the magic that once came naturally. Saeed Anwar, Pakistan’s most elegant opener of the 1990s, experienced both extremes during the high-voltage India-Pakistan Test series of 1999.

Before the tour, Anwar’s confidence brimmed with the arrogance of a master in form. He openly expressed his desire to notch a triple century, a feat that would cement his dominance over Pakistan’s fiercest rivals. The expectation was not misplaced. Two years earlier, he had tormented India in Chennai with a sublime 194, an innings of such ethereal beauty that it remains etched in cricketing folklore. His overall record against India was staggering, a testament to his penchant for delivering on the grandest stage.

More recently, in 1998, he had further solidified his status as an all-condition batsman. A polished 118 against the formidable South African pace quartet of Allan Donald, Shaun Pollock, Lance Klusener, and Jacques Kallis at Durban underscored his adaptability. Later that year, in a home series against Australia, he amassed 290 runs at an average of 96.66, including two masterful centuries. In the first Test at Rawalpindi, he stitched together a crucial 120-run ninth-wicket partnership with Mushtaq Ahmed, saving Pakistan from complete collapse.

Anwar was in prime form. His class was undisputed. But cricket has a way of humbling even the greatest.

A Series of Self-Doubt: The Collapse of a Titan

As the much-anticipated series against India began, Anwar, the artist with a bat, found his canvas barren. The rhythm that had once defined his game was absent, the fluidity of stroke-making replaced by hesitation. His high hopes of a historic series were quickly dashed as he struggled in the first two Tests, failing to impose himself. Each dismissal chipped away at his confidence, instilling the kind of self-doubt that can cripple even the finest of batsmen.

Then came the Asian Test Championship opener at Eden Gardens—one of the grandest stages in world cricket, a venue soaked in history, where the pressure of a Pakistan-India encounter is magnified by the presence of 85,000 fervent spectators. The cauldron of Kolkata was no place for the uncertain. It demanded resolve, brilliance, and a touch of defiance.

But for Pakistan, the match began in disaster.

Eden Gardens: A Cauldron of Humiliation

Batting first, Pakistan suffered a collapse so dramatic that it seemed destined for the record books. Within the first ten overs, they were reduced to 26 for six, their worst-ever start in a Test innings. The Eden Gardens crowd erupted in joy, relishing every Pakistan wicket that tumbled. The humiliation was compounded by their taunts directed at Javed Miandad, the Pakistani coach, who had recently called for drastic changes to the team in the wake of the ongoing match-fixing scandal.

Amidst the ruins, Anwar walked to the crease, burdened by expectation but devoid of form. Twelve balls later, he trudged back to the pavilion—a duck against his name. Pakistan's innings ended at a paltry 185, their pride shattered, their spirits crushed.

India, in response, looked poised to take a commanding lead. At 147 for two, they were cruising. Then, in a moment of sheer brilliance, the match flipped on its head. Shoaib Akhtar, raw, ferocious, and unstoppable, produced a spell that would be remembered for years. He bowled Rahul Dravid with a searing yorker and, in the very next delivery, shattered Sachin Tendulkar’s stumps with an express in-swinger. The twin strikes stunned the Eden Gardens crowd into silence. India collapsed, folding for 223, managing only a slender 38-run lead.

The game, once lopsided, was now alive.

Anwar’s Redemption: A Masterpiece Amidst Ruins

Pakistan’s second innings began with trepidation. Wajahatullah Wasti, pushed up the order to his natural opening position, departed early. The tension on the field mirrored that in the stands. An altercation between Prasad and nightwatchman Saqlain Mushtaq further fueled the already volatile atmosphere. South African umpire David Orchard was forced to intervene, warning India’s wicketkeeper, Nayan Mongia, for excessive appealing.

Amidst the chaos, Anwar survived a massive stroke of luck. On just two, he edged Srinath to first slip, where Mohammad Azharuddin got both hands to the ball—only to let it slip through. It was a moment of reprieve that would alter the course of the match.

The next morning, a different Anwar emerged. The hesitancy that plagued him earlier dissipated. His bat, once tentative, now met the ball with certainty. The initial movements were precise, the stroke play crisp, the footwork assured. It was vintage Saeed Anwar—fluid, elegant, and composed.

Teaming up with Mohammad Yousuf, he steered Pakistan towards stability. Their fourth-wicket stand of 115 in little over two hours frustrated India, sapped their energy, and pushed the hosts onto the defensive. The once-dominant Kumble, fresh off his historic 10-wicket haul in Delhi, looked ordinary. His final figures of one for 138 were a stark contrast to his previous heroics.

But Pakistan, true to their mercurial nature, found a way to self-destruct. From a promising 262 for three, they crumbled once more, losing their last seven wickets for just 54 runs. Yousuf’s dismissal—hooking Srinath straight to fine leg—triggered another collapse. The fragility of Pakistan’s middle and lower order was exposed yet again.

A Lone Warrior in the Storm

Yet through all the chaos, Saeed Anwar remained unshaken. He played with the fluency and grace that had once defined him. The drives through cover, the effortless cuts, the delicate flicks off his pads—every stroke was a reminder of his class. More than half his runs came behind the wicket, a testament to his immaculate timing and shot selection.

When the innings ended, Anwar stood unbeaten on 188, having carried his bat through—a feat only two Pakistanis before him, Nazar Mohammad and Mudassar Nazar, had achieved. His score accounted for 60% of Pakistan’s total of 316, a staggering individual contribution in a Test match of such intensity.

Though Younis Khan would later surpass this record with a 267 in Bangalore in 2005, Anwar’s innings at Eden Gardens remained one of the finest ever played by a Pakistani batsman on Indian soil. What made it legendary was not just the runs but the circumstances under which they came.

From the humiliation of a first-innings duck to the artistry of his second innings, Anwar’s performance was a tale of redemption, resilience, and sheer class. It was the story of a batsman who, when faced with doubt and adversity, rediscovered his greatness and answered his critics with his bat.

In the grand narrative of India-Pakistan cricket, where emotions run high and history is written in moments of brilliance, Anwar’s 188* stands as a testament to the power of perseverance. It was poetry in motion, a symphony of batsmanship that turned despair into triumph.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

India vs. Pakistan: Passion and Pandemonium: The Paradox of Kolkata 1999

The Asian Test Championship, conceived by the Asian Cricket Council in the late 1990s, was an ambitious attempt to capitalize on the growing popularity of cricket in the region. With India, Pakistan, and Sri Lanka as the primary contenders—Bangladesh still two years away from Test status—the tournament promised both financial gain and a new platform for regional cricketing rivalries. The resumption of cricketing ties between India and Pakistan removed the final obstacle, paving the way for the championship’s debut.

The inaugural match, held at Eden Gardens in February 1999, was originally scheduled as the third and final Test of the India-Pakistan series. Instead, it became the opening act of the new tournament. The enthusiasm for the event was palpable; crowds flooded the iconic Calcutta ground, with approximately 100,000 spectators attending each of the first four days. Even on the final day, with India teetering on the brink of defeat, 65,000 fans filled the stands. This remarkable turnout shattered a 63-year-old record for aggregate attendance at a Test match, highlighting the fervour of cricket in the subcontinent.

However, the match was marred by chaos and controversy, overshadowing its historic attendance. The first major disruption occurred on the penultimate day, sparked by the controversial run-out of Sachin Tendulkar, India’s talismanic batsman. The dismissal incited outrage among the crowd, culminating in a riot. The following morning, with India languishing at 231 for nine, the tension boiled over. Frustrated spectators burned newspapers and hurled stones, fruit, and plastic bottles onto the field. The situation escalated to the point where play was suspended for over three hours, and the police forcibly evacuated approximately 65,000 fans from the stadium. The eerie silence that followed was reminiscent of the World Cup semi-final at the same venue in 1996 when a similar riot had forced officials to award the match to Sri Lanka by default. This time, however, play eventually resumed, and Pakistan swiftly claimed the final wicket to secure a comprehensive victory.

While the riots reflected deep disappointment rather than anti-Pakistan sentiment, they were a source of profound embarrassment for the Calcutta authorities. The unrest, though chaotic, lacked the viciousness often associated with such incidents, and miraculously, there were no fatalities. The only reported injury was to a member of the ground staff, struck on the ankle by a stone. Outside the stadium, there were no signs of violence, underscoring the fact that the crowd’s anger was confined to the confines of Eden Gardens.

Despite the disruptions, the match set a record for attendance. Over five days, an estimated 465,000 people witnessed the action—a testament to the enduring allure of cricket in the region. Yet, the stark contrast between the electric atmosphere of the opening days and the desolation of the final moments was striking. When play resumed after the riot, the ground, once teeming with life, was reduced to a ghostly shell. Only around 200 people remained to witness Pakistan’s swift triumph, creating an atmosphere more suited to a provincial county game than an international Test. Among the few holdouts were a well-dressed couple who resisted eviction, asserting their right to stay. Their defiance was short-lived, as a phalanx of police officers forcibly removed them just before play recommenced.

In the end, the inaugural match of the Asian Test Championship was a paradox: a spectacle of unprecedented attendance tarnished by chaos, a celebration of cricket’s unifying power disrupted by the raw emotions it can evoke. It stood as both a triumph and a cautionary tale, highlighting the passion and volatility that define cricket in the subcontinent.

Pakistan: Full of Life and Spirit – Fiery Shoaib Akhtar, Gorgeous Saeed Anwar  

 Pakistan's victory in the opening match of the Asian Test Championship was nothing short of extraordinary, a triumph forged in adversity and defined by individual brilliance. On a seaming Eden Gardens pitch, they elected to bat and were promptly reduced to a shocking 26 for six within nine overs, as Javagal Srinath and Venkatesh Prasad wreaked havoc. Yet, from the ruins, Moin Khan, Salim Malik, and Wasim Akram staged a gritty resistance, pushing the total to 185. It was a modest score but enough to secure a crucial batting point under the tournament’s bonus system. India, at 147 for two in reply, seemed poised to seize control, but cricket’s unpredictable nature had other plans.

Session breaks, with their peculiar ability to disrupt even the most composed batsmen, played a pivotal role. On the second day, Rahul Dravid and Sadagoppan Ramesh appeared unshakeable, steadily eroding Pakistan’s first-innings total. At 147 for two, drinks were called, and the course of the match irrevocably shifted. Enter Shoaib Akhtar, a lean, fiery pacer still carving out his legend. For 92 balls, Dravid had been the embodiment of resilience, meticulously laying the foundation for a formidable innings. But Shoaib’s delivery—a low full-toss that dipped and curved as if guided by a malevolent force—breached his defences and shattered the leg stump.

The dismissal was dramatic, but what followed was seismic. Sachin Tendulkar, India’s crown jewel, strode to the crease amidst a cacophony of cheers. A quick glance around the field, a nudge to his elbow guard, and he took his stance. Shoaib charged in again, delivering another dipping full-toss that seemed even quicker. Tendulkar, uncharacteristically beaten, saw his middle stump cartwheeling. It was only the second golden duck of his illustrious career. Shoaib, arms outstretched and face skyward, celebrated with a theatricality that would become both his hallmark and his burden. This moment announced his arrival as Pakistan’s new pace spearhead, a role left vacant by the ageing Wasim Akram and the waning Waqar Younis.

India’s collapse was swift. From 147 for two, they folded for 223, managing a slim lead of 38 runs and falling short of a second batting point. Ramesh, who had anchored the innings with a composed 79, fell to Wasim Akram, his dissent earning him a suspended one-match ban. The pendulum had swung decisively.

The third day belonged to two men: Saeed Anwar and Javagal Srinath, whose contrasting contributions defined the narrative. Anwar, after a string of failures, returned to sublime form with an innings of ethereal quality. Surviving an early dropped catch, he transformed into an artist at work, painting the Eden Gardens with strokes of genius. His slashing cuts and deft on-side flicks silenced the vociferous crowd, each shot a rebuttal to the millions willing him to fail. As the day wore on, his timing reached a crescendo, and the bat in his hands became a weapon of defiance.

 Anwar achieved a rare feat, carrying his bat through the innings to score a monumental 188, the highest Test score by a Pakistani on Indian soil. Over seven and a half hours, he struck 23 boundaries and a six, single-handedly propelling Pakistan to 316 and contributing 60% of the team’s total. He joined the elite company of Nazar Mohammad and Mudassar Nazar as the third Pakistani to carry his bat in a Test. His lone ally was Yousuf Youhana, who added 115 with him before falling to Srinath.

Srinath, undeterred by Anwar’s brilliance, produced one of the finest spells of his career. Armed with the new ball, he dismantled Pakistan’s lower order, taking six wickets in nine overs and finishing with eight for 86 in the innings and 13 for 132 in the match. His relentless accuracy and ability to extract movement on a wearing pitch kept India in the hunt.

Ultimately, this match was a testament to the mercurial beauty of Test cricket. It oscillated between moments of brilliance and collapse, of artistry and grit. Pakistan’s victory, built on Shoaib’s fire and Anwar’s finesse, was a masterpiece of resilience, while Srinath’s heroics ensured India’s spirit remained unbroken. This was not just a game; it was a theatre of human endeavour, where greatness emerged from the chaos.

That left India to chase 279. They had a good start when Ramesh and Laxman opened with 108. But after these two had departed, there occurred the incident which wrecked India's chances - and Eden Gardens' reputation.

By the fourth afternoon, India were well placed on 143 for 2 when there came the incident which turned the whole game ugly.

India’s Chaotic Chase

 The dismissal of Sachin Tendulkar in the Kolkata Test against Pakistan was a moment that transcended cricket, igniting passions and controversy in equal measure. The scene was set when Tendulkar, cheered to the heavens by a packed Eden Gardens, reached 5000 Test runs with a couple of well-placed runs off Wasim Akram. On his way back for a third, a moment of chaos unfolded. Substitute fielder Nadeem Khan’s throw from the deep struck the stumps directly. Tendulkar, colliding with Shoaib Akhtar near the crease, was adjudged run out by the third umpire after a prolonged deliberation. The crowd, sensing injustice, erupted into fury.

The incident was a study in perspectives. Shoaib, stationed a few yards behind the stumps to collect the throw, had his back to Tendulkar and seemed oblivious to the batsman’s trajectory. Tendulkar, focused on the ball’s flight, inadvertently veered into Shoaib, leaving him short of his ground. Neutral observers leaned towards the view that it was an unfortunate accident, though some, like Richard Hobson in *The Times*, placed the blame squarely on Tendulkar, remarking, “He kept his eye on the throw instead of his own route to the crease.” Wasim Akram, as captain, upheld the appeal, a decision entirely within his rights but one that deepened the crowd's resentment.

Tendulkar, visibly bewildered, bypassed the dressing room and headed straight to the TV umpire’s room to review the replay. His silence spoke volumes, his slight shake of the head a muted protest against the ruling. On the field, the mood turned ominous. Chants of “cheat, cheat” echoed around the stadium as Shoaib, now the target of the crowd’s wrath, was pelted with bottles and debris. The umpires, sensing the volatility, led the players off for an early tea.

The intervention of Tendulkar and ICC president Jagmohan Dalmiya eventually calmed the storm. Tendulkar’s appeal to the crowd to restore order was as dignified as it was necessary. Dinesh Vajpal, Kolkata’s police chief, acknowledged the cricketer’s role, remarking, “It was good of Sachin to go out and pacify the crowd.” Dalmiya, however, downplayed the gravity of the situation, claiming it had been exaggerated. “The crowd felt an injustice had been done, but there was no violence as such,” he said, a statement that many found overly optimistic.

The 67-minute delay, however, shifted the momentum decisively. When play resumed, Shoaib struck again, dismissing Dravid shortly after. Mohammad Azharuddin and Nayan Mongia fell in quick succession, leaving Pakistan firmly in control. By stumps, India were teetering at 231 for nine, needing 65 runs with only one wicket in hand. Sourav Ganguly, their last beacon of hope, succumbed early on the final day, and when Srinath edged Wasim Akram to the keeper, the match was all but over.

The crowd’s disappointment boiled over once more. Newspapers were set alight, and stones, fruit, and bottles rained onto the field. Police, armed with lathis, moved in to clear the stands, forcibly ejecting 65,000 spectators. Wisden noted the lack of malice in the unrest, describing it as “born of disappointment rather than anti-Pakistan feeling.” Yet, *The Guardian* condemned the police’s heavy-handed tactics, describing scenes of elderly men, women, and children being beaten and kicked as they were driven out of the stadium.

In the eerie silence that followed, Pakistan needed just 10 balls to complete their 46-run victory. The din of the previous days was replaced by a surreal stillness, with only 200 spectators scattered across the vast concrete stands. Among them, an elderly couple defiantly remained, asserting their right to witness the game’s conclusion. Their resistance, however, was short-lived; a swarm of security guards descended, forcibly removing them as the players took the field.

Pakistan’s triumph, though monumental, was overshadowed by the chaos and controversy that marred the match. It was a victory achieved in a theatre of passion and pandemonium, where cricket’s ability to inspire both unity and division was laid bare.

The Aftermath

The second and more severe disturbance at Eden Gardens shook Jagmohan Dalmiya to his core, leaving the usually composed ICC president visibly rattled. His earlier attempt to downplay the unrest seemed almost naive in retrospect. This time, his condemnation was sharp and unequivocal. “I exactly don’t find any reason for provocation today,” he fumed. “The action is totally unjustified and uncalled for. The spectators should learn that winning and losing is part of the game.” His frustration was palpable as he rebuked the crowd for what he described as a deliberate effort to prevent Pakistan’s victory. “Today’s gesture was very clear that the last wicket would not be allowed to fall. I condemn today’s action in the strongest possible manner.”

Dalmiya’s tone shifted from reproach to resignation as he grappled with the implications of the crowd’s behaviour. “If that is the only motive of the spectators—that the visiting team shouldn’t win here—I leave it to the future and hope God changes their attitude.” His words reflected both the embarrassment of a host and the disillusionment of a cricketing statesman witnessing the erosion of sportsmanship in the face of nationalistic fervor.

At the post-match press conference, Wasim Akram’s ire was directed not at the crowd but at the Indian media, whom he accused of inflaming tensions. “Whatever has happened today, it is only because of you people and your reports,” he declared, his frustration cutting through the diplomatic veneer. “You have said that Shoaib obstructed Sachin from making his ground and that I should have re-invited him to bat. Why should I do that? If a team fails for only one man, that is our bonus.” Akram defended his team’s actions and dismissed allegations of foul play, calling the media’s narrative both unwise and unfair. “The whole world saw none of them were responsible for the collision. But you have blamed me. Is that wise?” His words underscored the volatile intersection of media influence, public perception, and the high stakes of international cricket.

In stark contrast, Indian captain Mohammad Azharuddin cut a sombre figure, his tone laced with disappointment rather than anger. “I just want them to behave, because every time we cannot win. We are also human beings and any day we can fail,” he said, his words a quiet plea rather than a rebuke. Azharuddin’s reference to the 1996 World Cup semi-final debacle, where crowd unrest had also marred the game, highlighted a recurring pattern of emotional volatility among Indian spectators. “This incident has let us down in the world of cricket,” he lamented, his despair reflective of a deeper cultural malaise.

The great tragedy of the match lay in its paradoxical nature. On the field, it was a glorious advertisement for Test cricket—a contest that ebbed and flowed, showcasing the drama and unpredictability of the longest format. Off the field, however, it descended into chaos, tarnishing the sport’s reputation. The subsequent games in the Asian Test Championship—Sri Lanka versus India in Colombo and Pakistan versus Sri Lanka in Lahore—lacked the intensity and spectacle of the Kolkata Test. The final, a one-sided affair in Dhaka where Pakistan crushed Sri Lanka by an innings and 175 runs, offered little solace to those who had hoped for a fitting climax.

Dalmiya, ever the optimist, attempted to salvage some dignity from the ruins. “The game was finished, and cricket was the winner,” he declared with forced cheerfulness. But his words rang hollow, a reflection of an era when cricket’s administrators appeared increasingly detached from the realities of the sport they governed. For them, the bottom line often seemed to outweigh the spirit of the game, a disheartening trend that would cast a long shadow over cricket’s future.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar