They were a team with no past but an overwhelming thirst for a future.
In the shadow of the giants, Sri Lanka’s Test side of 1985
was not expected to challenge, let alone conquer, a world champion. With just a
dozen Tests played in over three years and few tangible results to boast, they
had mostly existed on the margins—seen, perhaps, as brave but overmatched
participants in the game’s grand theatre. Yet, when India arrived on their
shores, riding high from their World Championship of Cricket triumph in
Australia, they were met not by reverence, but resistance.
The Sri Lankans were not here to admire. They were here to
win.
Steel in the Soul,
Not in the Squad
They lacked the conventional weaponry—a quality spin attack,
world-class experience, or the psychological edge of past victories. What they
had instead was belief and a cunning blueprint built around relentless medium
pace and mental discipline. The pitches were tailor-made for seam, and India’s
famed spinners were reduced to weary workhorses. Sri Lanka’s bowling strategy
was simple but devastatingly effective: bowl on middle and off, move the ball
away, frustrate, and choke. The Indian batsmen, used to dominance at home, were
jolted by the sheer audacity of the plan.
The batting, too, was resilient, if not rhapsodic. From the
gritty glove-work and opening defiance of Amal Silva to the classicism of Roy Dias
and Duleep Mendis, the hosts batted not for beauty but for history. Behind the
classical façade stood the promising silhouettes of youth—Arjuna Ranatunga and
Aravinda de Silva—whose flickers of brilliance hinted at the firestorms to
come.
And then there was Rumesh Ratnayake.
With a band around his forehead and a whirlwind in his stride, Ratnayake gave the Sri Lankan attack menace. He could move the ball at pace, hit the deck hard, and—most crucially—believed in every delivery he bowled. India had vanquished the best just weeks ago; now they sleepwalked into a trap spun not by leg-spin, but by sheer will.
The Turning Point: A Test Carved from Grit
The first Test in Colombo was almost theirs. Rain, and a
stubborn Vengsarkar vigil, denied them victory by a whisker. But what it gave
Sri Lanka was far more valuable—belief. When they moved to P. Sara Stadium for
the second Test, they arrived not as underdogs but as predators smelling blood.
India, surprisingly, fed the narrative. Gavaskar demoted
himself in the order, a tactical indulgence that quickly turned into a disaster.
At the end of Day One, Sri Lanka had ground out 168 for 1. The pitch was slow,
the pace glacial, but the scoreboard ticked methodically forward. Amal Silva
batted with monastic concentration, reaching three figures. Madugalle offered
grit. Dias and Mendis, as always, were the pillars. India’s celebrated
leg-spinner Sivaramakrishnan, so potent in Australia, looked blunted and
bewildered.
Despite a late collapse—17 for 6 turning into 385 all
out—Sri Lanka had already seized the mental edge. And by the time India came
out to bat under the fading light, the nightmare began. By stumps: 6 for 3.
Azharuddin, Rajput, and Vengsarkar gone. Ratnayake roared.
The second morning brought a brief counterpunch. Srikkanth
lashed out with typical abandon for 64, and Gavaskar and Amarnath knuckled down
in a dour, painstaking stand. But it was Sri Lanka who won the day with
discipline, line, and sharp fielding. When Gavaskar was stumped charging
Ranatunga’s part-time medium pace, the symbolic moment of the Test had arrived.
The mighty were unravelling.
A Nation Holds Its
Breath
In their second innings, Sri Lanka did what many wouldn’t:
they dared. Promoted to No. 3, the young Aravinda de Silva unleashed an
audacious assault—two sixes, nine boundaries, a statement. His 75, aided by
Dias’s polished 60, was thrilling yet clinical. When Mendis declared, India
were set 348 to win or bat out a day and a half. Either path was uphill. And
when the drama returned, it did so with controversy in its arms.
Srikkanth and Rajput were leg-before. One, clearly marginal.
Vengsarkar fell to a leg-side tickle, Silva and the umpire combining in a
decision that left the Indian vice-captain speechless. Kapil Dev fumed—at the
umpiring, at the scheduling, at the mental fog enveloping his side. But even
the cloud of injustice could not obscure what was unfolding on the field.
Ratnayake, with adrenaline coursing and a nation willing him
forward, cut through India’s middle order. Gavaskar. Amarnath. Then Azhar and
Shastri. India were 98 for 7, and the noise from the stands grew primal. Kapil
and Siva delayed the inevitable—bravely, stubbornly. But not forever.
When the final blow came, it was poetic. Ratnayake himself,
diving full stretch across the pitch to snatch a return catch and seal the
historic win. The ground erupted. This was not merely the end of a match. It was
the beginning of a legacy.
A Bitter Farewell, a
Glorious Arrival
Kapil Dev left the field with 78 to his name and bitterness
in his heart. He later lamented the hurried nature of the tour, the lack of
preparation, the psychological toll of uncertainty. All of it may have been
true. But the scoreboard showed 1–0 to Sri Lanka, and the numbers didn’t lie.
The pitch had aided seam, but the Indians had failed to
wield it. The same track had seen Ratnayake, Ahangama, and de Mel share 19
wickets. Kapil, India’s spearhead, had just one to show for his toil.
The Sri Lankan celebration was uncontained and deserved.
Amal Silva’s rare double—hundred and nine dismissals—etched his name in
folklore. Dias’s twin knocks, and Mendis’s guiding hand, had been vital. But
the true hero was Rumesh Ratnayake: 4 for 76 and 5 for 49, the face of a new
era.
A Draw, But Not an
Equal Ending
The third Test at Kandy saw India seek redemption, but they
stumbled again—scoring too slowly, letting chances slip. Despite Maninder
Singh’s incisive bowling and Amarnath’s century, they could not dislodge Dias
and Mendis, who once again stood like sentinels for five unbroken hours. Twin
tons secured the draw and, with it, Sri Lanka’s first-ever Test series win.
A Test, A Statement,
A Shift
This was no ordinary series. It was a nation emerging into cricket’s light. It was a team refusing to be patronised. It was the moment when Sri Lanka told the world, and perhaps themselves: We belong!
And in the searing Colombo heat, amidst drama, pace, and perseverance, cricket had given us what it so rarely does—a first that felt like a final.
Thank You
Faisal Caesar
