Why I hated Rahul Dravid

While in school, I used to dislike two guys in particular. First was the one who sat in front of me, wore a shirt yellowed by sweat and stank unfailingly after Tiffin-break every day. Now looking back, I forgive him. Poor chap, I reckon, was a victim of hyperhidrosis. On second thoughts, also a sufferer of peer-pressure which made him stand and answer every question the teacher would pelt at us.

The second one was more annoying. On being bullied, he would stare and smile. Whack after whack, his grin grew. There was a hint of seductiveness in his buck teeth. He was not the victim, just a veiled puppeteer. On some days, he resembled Gandhi. He made me pity the plight of the British in front of the never-say-die, never-say-done half-naked man.

Rahul Dravid, being a combination of both my nemeses, I couldn’t help but look at him with distaste. He made me believe he could sweat in-arms with polar bears and make even the coolest heads grumble.

For his fans it is never enough. You call him ‘wall’, they will throw bricks at you; you call him 'dependable', they might sue you for understating. 

He trotted along his own plains, clinically oblivious of things and beings around. He was always painful to his opponents; on many days, his snail-paced innings could inflict as much pain even on his most ardent admirers.

But I admit the blame partly lay with me and maybe the mind which planned the Indian batting order. Chappel-like occasional reshuffles earlier in his career would have spared Dravid world of curses.

For the most part of his hitherto 501 matches, he batted at No.3 which meant his coming in to bat would often mean Sachin’s departure in One-dayers and his survival could delay my master’s arrival in Tests. I would swap T.V channels, would rather switch to a movie. After the hiatus when I would return, Dravid would still be there. He would bow much like that masochist prick from school and then tumble a helmet full of water, showing me what he had accumulated in my hours of ignorance.

Yes, he annoyed and over the years I learned to ignore him. But however I tried, I could never bring myself to ‘hate’ Dravid, for he gave no reason. Dislike and distaste were always there yet hatred seemed too terse a feeling one could have for a man whom even the buzzing mosquitoes were likely to admire. My mind often played with the thought: “has he ever landed his palm on any of those tiny sanguinary beings”. His face never showed any change of expression. Maybe he did in seclusion, during commercial breaks. He was way too polite to get involved in such buffoonery in front of live T.V.

The engineer in him always had a measured approach, pitch-perfect and inhumanly: a smile should look like a smile, never meandering to the boundaries of smug or even a full-fledged grin.

Leave aside Dada of Lord’s, how many times can you recollect seeing Dravid jump in joy? Forget Kambli of ’96 World Cup semis, it belongs to an ignominious day, how many times have you seen your wall wail in despair? He was numb in joy, number in tears.

He could woo a million teenage girls, flaunt his genteelness to impress their moms and manage to go home draped in chorus yet crowned unsung.

For his fans it is never enough. You call him ‘wall’, they will throw bricks at you; you call him 'dependable', they might sue you for understating.

He was underrated, often overshadowed “but does all this translate to being ‘under-appreciated’?” asks Siddhartha Vaidyanathan in his blog.

No it does not. As it should never have been, but didn’t fame follow Rahul in a haphazard manner?

He is clearly remembered for a dream debut at Lord’s but in collective memory it falls short of being splendid- splendor deceived by a margin of five runs. His highest score in one-dayers, however magnificent, peeps from behind the curtains of Sachin Tendulkar’s brilliance. His edenic 180 at Eden Gardens remains outnumbered by the very, very, special 281 that festoons V.V.S. Laxman. His 145 versus Sri Lanka in the world cup of ’99 is talked about more for his supporting act in forging the partnership and contributing to Sourav Ganguly’s 183, and sadly his tally of a gargantuan 461 runs in the tournament is written about more for the fact that he lost the player-of-tournament to the charisma of Lance Klusener.

Dravid is not damned, he cannot be. But the fear is that the feelings attached to him are way too mechanical. He is neither hated nor worshipped. He never reached those extremities of fans’ emotions. A hint of Dada, a tinge of Tendlya, perhaps even a pinch of Sreesanth would have made him more talked-about in street corners.

Now as he has retired from One-dayers and abstinence from Test cricket seems on the cards, I don’t have a foresight of where he would stand. I can’t promise my grandkids would pay attention to my ramblings about an Adam who never sinned. But I can ensure thousand Rahuls are to follow. The Eves whose hearts he rules wouldn’t stop anywhere short of cursing their kids by calling them “Rahoool”. What innovative minds… Ehh?