Ziddi

 “No, I have to go.”

“How can you go today?”

“If I don’t I will be caned by the teacher.”

“I will write a letter for your teacher and surely she will understand.”

“You don’t know her. She just needs a reason to cane me. Plus I can’t let my team down. I am the Vice Captain and this is our first match. I can’t let them down.”

The boy was about ten years old. Never good in academics, he faced the flak from all his teachers for either not doing his homework or faring badly in exams. The only classes he enjoyed were art and games but these never counted in school curriculum. Now in standard 4^th, this was the first inter class cricket match, something which was prestigious for students and the class teachers. For once he had got his chance to be chosen into the cricket team and he wouldn’t let go of this chance to showcase his talent and he a hero in school for once. 

The mother soon stepped in and shouted at the boy, “We have enough trouble already and we don’t want any more. One more time you insist on going and I will give you two tight slaps.”

The father reversed his position and came to the child’s rescue, “Let him go. Anyway he’s far too young and I will only have to do everything.” He asked one of the family elders for help, “Dilip, when you go to Gole Market to get the materials for the puja, drop him at his school. After the match he will come back on his own in the DTC bus.”

The boy was happy for he could now go to the school ground to play. Quickly he changed into the whites and sneakers and went out in an auto-rickshaw. He reached just in time and played the first big school match of his life. He scored 24 runs and picked up a couple of wickets as his team won the match. No, he wasn’t the Man of the Match but the important thing was that the team had won and he had an important role in the victory. Tomorrow morning his name will be on the class notice board with a shining gold star instead of the usual black that he got for his scores.

He caught the DTC bus home. Being a Saturday, he got a window seat. As the bus started moving, his mind went into a rewind mode. He remembered the old man who had passed away that morning. He was his father’s elder brother, Jethu as he would fondly call him.

The boy remembered him from the time he opened his eyes. This man was always around the house when his mother and father went out to work every day. Every afternoon Jethu would be there at the bus stop with a big black umbrella when the boy got off his school bus and walked him home. Never a day passed when he missed this part. On days when the boy would sleep in the school bus, the old man would frantically go to the bus depot which was a couple of stops away to wake up the young lad and bring him back.

It was Jethu who would quickly take the boy to the dispensary when he would get hurt while playing. Often the boy would get into fights, the same old man would even go to the other children’s home to complain to their mothers the boy returned home bruised and beaten. One such regular tormentor was Lovely, the skinny Sikh who would run away with marbles and hit people with his hockey stick. One day when the boy returned home crying with a cut under his left eye, Jethu asked him, “What happened? Who did this to you?” “Lovely beat me up!” the boy cried to which Jethu asked, “Okay, I will go to Lovely’s house now but first tell me is Lovely a boy or a girl?”

Jethu always wore white dhoti and long shirt. The boy did not know much about his education or the work he would have done in the past. To him the old man with his white unkempt white beard was the one who was always at home smoking his daily quota of beedi. Once a month Jethu would go to the barber and get a good shave. This was also the day when he would treat the boy to ice cream and goodies of his choice. Maybe he would get some monthly pension which he would spend almost completely on day one. For the rest of the month, his younger brother gave him small monies and he never demanded more or complained. 

With no family of his own, his world revolved around the young lad. The old man's innings had come to an end as he lay still on the bed while the boy went out to take guard for the start of a new innings.

Today, as the bus whizzed past, the hot Delhi wind blew on the boy’s face as he turned teary. The whole episode struck him late and hit him hard. He wondered, “How could I do this? One match and that was all. Anyway, I am quite used to the teacher shouting and caning me, couldn’t I have done this much for the man who took so much care of me. How many times my father pleaded that I had to do mukhagni (put the pyre to flame), but I refused heartlessly and selfishly and put a school cricket match before this cause. How will I face Baba today?”

Many a question kept coming as he wiped his eyes. The coward returned home in silence.

Almost thirty years later, the scene shifted to Delhi’s Ferozeshah Kotla where a Ranji Trophy semi-final match was going on between Karnataka and Delhi. Delhi faced an uphill task with Karnataka having piled up over 500 runs. That day around 10am the match resumed, with Delhi reeling at less than 100 runs and three top order batsmen in the pavilion, a young 18 year old lad walked into bat. By the time he got out on a personal score of 84, Delhi was safely placed. He opened up his pads and gloves and saw the replay of his getting out many times over. It was then around 3pm when he left the stadium for home to do the last rites of his father who had passed away the previous night.

This man went on to Captain Indian under 19 team and is now the Captain of the senior team scoring runs by the ton, breaking one record after another. You’ve guessed it right, he is none other than  Virat Kohli, the young man who showed courage and passion which have remained his hallmark and reasons for his success. Today he is an icon and a legend. This story of his is oft repeated as a tale in many a management school as an example of highest level of commitment and passion.

History is funny and success changes the way we look at people. The difference between heroes and villains is thin. No one knows how many men have lived a life of ignominy before a Virat is born.

SS