Tie-Test Treasure

Every cricket lover carries a few scorecards in his heart. Mine, yellowed by time and perfumed by memory, invariably opens to one unforgettable page. It takes me back to September 1986, to the old Chepauk in Madras, where India and Australia produced a Test match that still glows like an oil lamp on a rainy evening.

Not long ago, while watching another India-Australia series unfold, I found myself drifting backwards through the corridors of time. Memory, after all, is a curious batsman. It leaves some deliveries alone and drives a few into immortality.

Kapil Dev and Allan Border were the captains then. Titans in temperament, different in style, yet united by an unyielding spirit. Nobody imagined that the contest would end in a tie, only the second in Test history. Such miracles belonged to fiction.

At the end of the fourth day, Australia, batting a second time, had established a commanding overall lead of 347 runs with five wickets in hand. The newspapers and pundits anticipated a dull conclusion.

On that Monday morning, I wandered near the stadium. A gentleman, whose name I never knew and whose face I have almost forgotten, offered me his Pavilion Terrace ticket for the princely sum of ten rupees. I bought it without much expectation. If nothing else, I told myself, I would enjoy the famous Pavilion Terrace and perhaps catch a closer glimpse of the players.

Little did I know that ten rupees would purchase a lifetime of memories. I entered the ground almost an hour before play. In those days, the final day’s play began thirty minutes earlier. The old rituals of Test cricket had their own charm and dignity.

Then came the first surprise. Allan Border marched his men onto the field right from the first ball. Australia would not bat further. Here was leadership at its finest. Border, hard as Australian granite, had chosen adventure over caution. He invited India to chase and trusted his own bowlers to finish the job.

The game seesawed like monsoon waves in Bay of Bengal. Kapil Dev's earlier century had provided fireworks. Sunil Gavaskar, elegant as ever, contributed a priceless ninety. Dean Jones, battling severe dehydration, had produced one of cricket's bravest double centuries. David Boon and Allan Border had fashioned centuries of their own. Greg Mathews, forever bustling and chirping, spun his web tirelessly.

As shadows lengthened, the match tightened its grip on thousands of anxious hearts. Four runs were needed from the final over.

Ravi Shastri collected three runs from the first three balls. The scores stood level. Last man Maninder Singh had three balls to become a hero.  Then came the moment that still echoes across generations.  Greg Mathews bowled. Maninder defended. Umpire Vikram Raju’s finger rose.

LBW. A tie. Silence, and then pandemonium. History was created.

Had a single run been taken, perhaps the match would have been filed away among hundreds of others. Instead, it entered cricket's folklore, where numbers surrender to emotions. There was no Decision Review System then. In 1986, human judgment stood alone, brave and vulnerable.

Dean Jones, who later said, “A tie is a draw. It means nothing. But it’s everything to us,” captured the paradox perfectly.

Poor Vikram Raju.  For years, the umpire carried the weight of that decision. Maninder Singh maintained that the ball had brushed his bat. Allan Border, fielding close in, considered the verdict debatable. Yet Greg Mathews called Raju “the most courageous umpire on the face of the earth.”

News of Vikram Raju's recent passing at the age of ninety-two brought a wave of melancholy. Time had finally declared innings closed for the man whose raised finger became part of cricket’s eternal tapestry.

Many remember him for one decision. Perhaps we should remember him for something larger. In an age before technology, when umpires stood exposed and solitary, he had the courage to decide.

The heroes of that epic have gradually departed. Dean Jones has gone. Vikram Raju has taken his final walk. Others too have entered the evening of their lives.

Yet that September Monday remains forever young.  And somewhere in my heart, I still offer silent thanks to that unknown gentleman who sold me his Pavilion Terrace ticket for ten rupees.  He probably thought he was parting with a piece of paper.  Little did he know that he was handing over a passport to immortality. For some investments, one does not calculate returns.  One simply treasures the memories.

(The writer is a retired banker and author. Views personal.)