The writing?s on the wall
Dravid, almost self-effacing intellectual of a few years ago, has given way to a more mature avatara, writes Kadambari Murali.
Rahul Dravid pauses a moment, listens intently to what Kaif is saying, nods every now and then, picks up the bat and demonstrates something. Kaif in turn, nods sagely and goes back to nets. Dravid strolls away towards the small crowd gathered at the open practice ground in Barbados.

A few minutes later, Sourav Ganguly strides by. He stands a bit, watching intently as Kaif, suddenly slightly nervous, tries repeatedly to whack the ball over the ropes. "Arre, haath kyu rokh rahe ho?" he yells. "%#&*%#&* uthake maaro na pura zor lagake!" Kaif grins nervously, almost visibly grits his teeth and hits the next ball as hard as he can, straight off the middle of the bat. Ganguly applauds enthusiastically and walks away.
Lord of all he surveyed
That time, some three-odd years ago, seems like a different era. A world away from this one. Sourav Ganguly's star was in the ascendant. That was the time he was calling the shots and aggressively so. After an indifferent Test series (where he still had a couple of rebellious knocks in Bridgetown where all else failed, and tried to save the match in Sabina Park with an exuberant Zaheer Khan till the latter lost his cool last ball before tea), he had come into his own during the rain-marred one-dayers.
He fit right in in those amazing, no-holds barred isles where anything goes and where to be a wallflower is akin to sin. While the beer and rum flowed in the stands and crowds danced with surprisingly graceful bacchanalian abandon, Ganguly magicked the island nations with his batting display (standing out amidst some other notable failures) and his defiant leadership. He was man of the series.
He had decided that VVS Laxman, the top-scorer in the Test series against the Windies, had no place in the one-dayers. He had decided that the only way Dravid would fit into the one-day scheme of things was if he kept wickets.
It was a decision that made that the backbone of Indian batting visibly unhappy, first in private and then in public. Although, in his stoic way and being the quintessential team man that he is, Dravid accepted it as such and has since worked his way into being a fairly competent ’keeper, a far cry from the butter-fingers he was dubbed in his early ’keeping days. Ganguly, however, was lord of all he surveyed.
But the problem may have been that he made no bones about it. By all accounts, the subtle tactics that distinguished his contemporaries and predecessors at the helm were not for Ganguly. He was brash, in your face and loved it.
A man of contradictions
Roguish, bright and sometimes bizarre, the bad boy of Indian cricket — remember his off-the-field escapades — was seizing the opportunity by the horns. At the same time, though, he seemed terribly insecure. He invariably wanted to know what was happening in the incestuous, dog-eat-dog world of international cricket, on the field and off it. He was as intensely curious about what score Mahela Jaywardene — then viewed as his great competitor — was on, as he was about some stray bit of gossip about an official or journalist. He had his loyal acolytes and treated them with almost contemptuous disregard at times. Yet, he couldn't do without them. He revelled in and perhaps even fed off the love-hate relationship he enjoyed with the media, the fans and finally, even his teammates.
He did as he pleased — the Maharaj was very much the lord of the manor. And it put a lot of people off. While he was on song, he was untouchable but sadly, when he seemed to flounder, the spectres of occasionally impetuous acts and often pointedly insensitive words were bound to return and haunt him.