Being Pujara

Sunny used to gently sway away, his body arching back while his eyes remained latched on to the ball, till it reached the keepers gloves. The Roberts and Holdings of his era kept aiming at the floppy hat or the bare skull under the curly hair, but none could touch him, not once!

Well over three decades since he last picked the bat, the little master remains the ultimate reference of test cricket batting. How did he do it? Only he knows. In an era where helmets were largely non-existent, self-preservation must have ranked higher than scoring runs, not that he didn’t score them. He scored plenty of them, over ten thousand, arguably against the best and most ferocious bowlers ever to have graced the game.

He remains the grand-master of the game but then not everyone is Sunil Gavaskar. Sometimes we have to make do with being Cheteshwar Pujara. Sometimes we have to take body blows because we can’t sway like Corn or like Sunny.  

It’s the case in every walk of life, the role models are always almost impossible to match. Their method, their achievements far exceed our capacity. We admire them, we yearn to reach their level of greatness, but we don’t necessarily have what it takes to get there. At some point we should let go of the obsession and do what we can do, if it means getting bruised in the process, so be it.

Pujara has faced a lot of criticism about his scoring rate. Pujara has faced a lot of criticism about his technique. He is not a Kohli to smash the ball out of the park and he is not a Sunny to sway away. Those who love him, question his need to brave it all, why does he have to take this punishment, why can’t he escape it, somehow? They say this cause they care, but they don’t necessarily understand Pujara.  

Pujara can’t! When an abusive short ball approaches him, he looks away, praying that it will go over. Sometimes it does, sometimes it hits him, he takes it either way. When a tempting half volley lures him, he leaves, waiting for the next, till such time he is confident of not nicking it. Despite his best effort to score, he perishes, like everyone else, but he hangs in there, as long as he can.

His method is neither to carve nor to hammer, his method is to absorb, everything that is thrown at him, the way he can. It may not be pretty, but it works. It works for others who use his stay to mount counteroffensives, it also works for him as it makes his stay meaningful.  

At the end of a successful game, he goes to his room and inspects the punches he has braved, alone. Not one to show off, he dresses back and joins his mates and claps along with a beaming smile when the Gills and Pants are cheered for their heroics. When his name is called, he smiles and takes a step back, uncomfortable with the spot light. But you know what, deep down, it gives him a sense of accomplishment and it makes him harder to brave the next bout.

Gavaskar, Tendulkar and Kohli will remain the icons and rightly so, but every generation has a Pujara who enables these superstars to be who they are. Does that make Pujara a side kick, does that mean he is enabling someone else’s dream, rather than living his own? Maybe, maybe not, it depends on how we look at it. Rather it depends on how Pujara looks at it. If he is comfortable with his role, if his stay remains meaningful, then he remains a hero in his own right.   

We can be a Pujara and still be a hero. Not a hero that people cheer for, but a hero nevertheless.