An open letter to Yuvraj Singh

Before you dismiss this as yet another hate mail going about the internet from those who claim they understand the game and its nuances, let me assure you it is not. Don’t take it as a sympathetic eulogy either, for we know pity is perhaps the last thing you deserve. However, there’s one thing that has rankled me significantly enough, and your 21-ball 11 happens to be a part of my perplexity. I repeat and insist, it’s just a ‘part’.

Detachment is not something we often associate with you. Perhaps it’s one of the many facets of your otherwise jovial Punjabi self, but if it all it existed before April 6, 2014, you did a commendable job in keeping it off us, even in times of predatory media glare. As contrasting nights descended on two nations separated by dainty Palk Strait, you paraded a contrast of your own. It was a contrast most stark, most uncharacteristic, and most agonizing. You were alone, and apologetic. You were dejected, and down. You were shaken, yet engrossed in some irrefutable reverie. You looked forlorn, and to my novice understanding, you needed the proverbial arm around your well-built shoulders.

To be honest, I am no sportsman, nor have I ever scaled an iota of dizzying heights that you have so effortlessly and ceaselessly conquered. Hence, I must humbly admit, I can perhaps never decode what was keeping you dazed. But it did hurt. It hurt when at the fall of a Sri Lankan wicket, you hovered around the celebrating group all by yourself, perhaps seeking attention from your famous friends. It hurts to see you hurt. It did hurt when, during the post-match presentation, you walked up to the Player of the Series to congratulate him and he accepted your warmth with a sharp and short nod. As television cameras showed, the blue-eyed boy was engrossed in his cellphone. If he, and the rest, came to your room later to tell you they trust you, we have no documented evidence yet. We hope they did. For we know you are a bit better than what we saw in Bangladesh.

For long hours of sublime monotony, they used a cliché to suggest that you appeared a pale shadow of your smoldering self. I disagree. You were not a shadow of your famous self, because it was not you who boarded the flight to Dhaka. The ubiquitous spring in step was lost. You appeared lazy, sleepy and dormant. You never threatened to explode. Yet you never stopped offering us hope. Each time you walked in, we expected explosions. You almost got it right against Australia, and we thought you were back. In mind’s eye however, we can see you still lost, still in pursuit.

Was it a result of the dent Mitchell Johnson’s searing pace made during his brief visit to India last year? Or is it lack of match practice? Like always, you are the best judge. Against Malinga & Co, when you switched to off stump guard and still failed to put bat to ball, we cringed. We knew it was not your time, for once. But has the clock finally called time on someone who has, for over a decade, turned back time and tide with his lusty drives? I am not so sure, and I wish you feel the same too.

You failed, but have not been felled. You proved it when, despite a tumour in your chest, you took us to pinnacle of world cricket in 2011. You proved how much you love the man we love too. The deafening battle cry you unleashed after crunching the winning stroke through extra cover against Australia at Motera still gives me goosebumps. So what if you couldn’t manage a run in six off the eight deliveries you faced after the 16th over on Sunday? Frankly, it doesn’t matter. It just doesn’t matter Yuvraj Singh; you will be loved, always.