The Cult of Chetweshwar Pujara
I buy things impulsively.
I am frantically looking for posters of Chetweshwar Pujara, my favorite player of the Indian team at the moment. He has just scored over 500 runs this series, and one of the two main reasons we have won in Australia for the first time in Test cricket history.
Unfortunately, I only find one poster that's priced at about 300 rupees, and it is a picture of him very unceremoniously looking up at the heavens after scoring a century. To be honest, it's kind of dour. At first, I can't put my finger on it, but then it becomes obvious.
Pujara has always commanded respect amongst cricket lovers, but never inspired love.
When we talk of Virat Kohli, eyes light up. Ah, what passion he brings to the game! How beautiful his cover drive is! He, deservedly so, makes everyone around stop and look. He is the best batsmen across all formats, maybe one of the best ever. Just like his predecessor Sachin, Virat is worshipped.
So why is it that I adore Chetweshwar Pujara?
Most of my friends think it is because I am a contrarian, always going against the grain of the mainstream. Strangers think I'm crazy. Pujara? They would rather watch paint dry than to watch him bat.
I think the answer is much simpler. The way Pujara bats is the way we middle class people live life. Through hard work and obdurate self belief, we trudge forward, little by little, and put seemingly insignificant checks in our bank account until we can look back and smile. Pujara's forward defensive is a Monday morning at work. Obtrusive, annoying and, in the end, something you have to get through to earn the better parts of the week.
Pujara makes you work for his beauty because he knows that the game of cricket is not about beauty. It about runs, and they are meant to be made, not finessed. Even his most audacious stroke, a disdainful cut shot off of impossibly fast bowling, is usually reserved until he is on about 70. Ever careful, what Pujara considers getting set is when he's played 100 balls. For most batsmen in the modern era, getting set means being on the field for more than 10 minutes. The Rohit Sharmas of the world had to adapt to the t20 mindset, and in doing so often sacrifice Monday mornings for Friday night benders. As you can imagine, such an approach takes a toll.
Now, let me tell you about why Pujara's batting is so personal to me. So far, this article has sounded just like every other, patting Pujara on the back for his patience, only to forget his importance for [insert new find of IPL 2019].
I learned about Pujara when I was 18 years old, when he was making bucket loads of runs in the Ranji trophy. He appeared confident at the crease, talented in the way Dravid was talented, and possessed one of my favorite shots, the skip down flick to the spinners which is made to look ridiculously easy.
I rooted for him. When he scored 153 in South Africa, I felt as if he arrived, bossing Dale Steyn and company around like some Indian landlord. It was good to see this arrogance in his batting, but unfortunately, it didn't last long. Tests went by and his value decreased. He made slow, probing, yet inconsequential runs abroad. He was dropped from Kohli's India, which was different than Pujara's India. At the time, it felt weird that the two co-existed. Could there be a player who was more out of touch with the modern era than Pujara?
Despite an average touching 50 for most of his career, he had been dropped 4 times. There were talks of more talented players coming in. More robust. More intent. More Kohli. But in this series against Austrailia, Pujara has proved that he too can be Kohli. That maybe he was sometimes more Kohli than Kohli was and maybe that Kohli should be Pujara. And Kohli listened. That hundred at Perth was one of Kohli's slowest, but also one of his finest. He mastered the only pitch he couldn't the last time he came to Austrailia, and it came through his following of the commandments of Che.
By the end of this series, even Kohli, the biggest obstacle to Pujara's career and also, arguably, India's best batsmen ever, was doing the Pujara dance. It was his way of giving thanks to the man who came in at 3, shielded him from the bowlers at their best so that he could play his best. It was his way of understanding the grit that was in Pujara was also there in himself, and that being in a team is about integration, not conformity.
Pujara's story is one of hope. I get shudders hearing that he got through his mother's death through his diligent school of batting. How many tears are erased from history when we discuss greatness? How many lonely walks must Pujara have walked with the memory of his late mother into the vast cricket grounds? You don't hear these things in interviews. They are buried under the guise of entertainment.
Suffering, one way or another, always finds its way to the hearts of those at the top of their fields. Kohli, when he was a teenager, scored about 90 after he learned his father passed away. Similarly, Pujara scored his 193 at the SCG knowing his father at the hospital. It is the secret stories that interest me as a fan. Because the ultimate goal of sport is not to win, but to inspire. In cricket today, there is nobody more inspirational for me than Pujara.
Just like Dravid's name brought up Tendulkar's, Pujara's will undoubtably bring up Kohli's. To be the second best batsman of your team is rough in some ways. On the plus side, the opponent prepares for the other guy a bit more. But you never do get the glory. People may not remember you.
Pujara makes up for it by being an unbelievably good human being. He is simple and honest. He wants to improve Indian cricket and score runs. You can tell he enjoys the grind, the grave smell of Monday mornings.
We have asked Pujara to be many things over the years. We could do worse than to become him.
