<div class="section1"><div class="Normal">Muttiah Muralitharan, for me, shall always remain a dark little man in a dark little corner. It was in an unreal setting in Nairobi, during the 2000 mini-World Cup, that this image was implanted in my mind: gangsters from old Hollywood films — with cigars in their hands, dirty or torn hats on their heads and blood-shot eyes — on every street; danger at every bend, even in broad daylight and right in the heart of the city. <br /><br />The safest place for us visiting journalists was the swanky hotel where all the teams were staying. If you didn''t count the risk of bumping into one famous cricketer or his even more famous ego after virtually every step, that is. <br /><br />My favourite sequence, however, would begin around lunchtime. At about 1.30 pm, almost every day, Murali would come down to the restaurant and dissolve into that dark little corner. He would invariably be in a pair of shorts, floaters and a Sri Lanka T-shirt. <br /><br />The first day, he was accompanied by Atapattu and Vaas, the next by Jayawardene and Arnold, and finally by Kalu and Sangakkara. A clear indication of his popularity. Within minutes, without fail, some more Lankan players would surface and the dark corner would spring to life. <br /><br />Invariably, Murali''s boisterous laughter would sail over the long room and attract everybody''s attention. The party would go on for two-three hours, oblivious to morose English cricketers and curious onlookers around them. In the end, Murali would grab somebody''s cap, pull it over his forehead and quietly fade into the hotel corridors. <br /></div> </div><div class="section2"><div class="Normal"><br />The gleaming eyes and glittering teeth are, however, still fresh in my mind. He would simply laugh when you approached him with a set of questions. "There are so many big stars here, why don''t you talk to them," he first said. He also tried, "Ask my coach first." But eventually, he obliged. With a smile. Like he always does for almost everybody. <br /><br />Murali may appear to be shy but his teammates know that he has a great sense of humour. You can see a naughty streak even when he''s practising before a big match. He''s either pulling somebody''s leg, making fun of Ranatunga''s portliness (very, very discreetly of course) or simply imitating coach Whatmore.<br /><br />By 2000, of course, Murali had become a vital cog in the great Lankan machine; by the time I spoke to him again, during the World Cup in South Africa, he had become the star in the team. "I know that Sehwag and Tendulkar are the keys. It''s my job to get them out as quickly as possible," he told, without any sign of bravado or bloated ego. <br /><br />The next day, he returned with figures of three for 46. He could get only Sehwag but he had done his bit quite effectively. Unfortunately, it wasn''t enough for Lanka. They ended up playing Australia in the semifinals and although he bowled brilliantly (10-0-29-0) again to restrict them to 212, his batsmen failed to surmount the target. <br /><br />I still remember the first time I had seen Murali bowl too. It was in 1997, shortly after they had become world champions in One-dayers; they were, however, still babies in Test cricket. Murali was yet to become their most potent weapon; yet he was already playing out a critical role. His one-point mission: bore Tendulkar to death. <br /><br />He bowled around the stumps, about four feet outside the leg stump; he, of course, gave it legitimacy by contriving his own version of leg-spin. Tendulkar watched in dismay as over after over went past him. At times he stepped out and at times attempted some devious stroke but without much success. <br /><br />By then, of course, Murali had become the team''s most electrifying fielder; but, as a batsman, he was still a frightened rabbit who could provide comic relief with his sixers and wild swipes. It was only when an observant photographer caught him in full fury that the world-class bowler was finally unsheathed. <br /></div> </div><div class="section3"><div class="Normal"><br />Even today, he twirls the ball in his hands a million times before every delivery; he also runs in diagonally, almost menacingly, ball after ball. But it''s the final act in the entire sequence that depicts the real monster in him. As he releases the ball, after all kinds of hand-calisthenics, his brows shoot up towards the sky, eyes bulge out like they will explode and the mouth opens up, as if ready to spew fire. <br /><br />Some batsmen are believed to have made the mistake of watching the dance of his arms and got clean bowled; some have been dazzled by the contortion of his face and have got hoodwinked. Some batsmen stuck to the fundamentals and watched the ball very closely but were still beaten by the sheer turn and bounce that he extracts. As if all that was not enough, he has developed an even more deadly weapon: the floater. <br /><br />It isn''t certain what has helped him become the most successful bowler in Test cricket though: his hard work or his determination; his steely fingers, rubbery wrists or his crooked arms. Only one thing is absolutely clear: he has the speed and aggression of a sprinter and the doggedness of a marathoner. He can bowl for hours without losing his rhythm, concentration or his heart. <br /><br />Many still think he is sinister and practices black magic with the ball. But for this writer, he shall always remain a dark little man in a dark little corner.<br /><br /><formid=367815></formid=367815></div> </div>
