Marrying the old with the new

The Indo-Aussie rivalry is a modern phenomenon dressed up as an ancient rite. It was borne of mutual necessity in an era when the countries' natural sparring partners were inadequate or unavailable, and became cemented in cricket's conscience by that unforgettable duel in 2001. But there could be few cities more appropriate for showcasing this clash of old and new than Bangalore.

As India's equivalent to Silicon Valley, Bangalore is a city so overloaded with technology that the traffic lights are a series of light-emitting diodes, accompanied by countdowns which tell you how much longer you have to keep waiting amid the choking rickshaw fumes. And yet, the roads themselves are still stuck in the dark ages - so much so that the offices of one of the nation's IT powerhouses is situated right opposite the biggest infestation of potholes in the entire city.

Today, the new came into focus an hour or so before the start of play, when Michael Clarke was presented with his Baggy Green cap, in a private but very public group huddle at the corner of the field. And an hour or so before the close, Anil Kumble struck with the juiciest of long-hops to delight his home crowd with his 400th Test wicket. Kumble himself was just 19 when he started out on his journey, at Old Trafford 14 years ago, and just 20 years prior to that the myth of Indo-Australian rivalry was laid in place by Bill Lawry and Co.

Except it is not a myth, since the jousts between the two nations - on Indian soil at least - have been marked by some stunning feats in the intervening years. And, as this morning's toss prepared to get underway, the architect of one of the most memorable of these was back at the crease, and more in command than he had ever been at Madras all those years back.

After his epic double-century in the tied Test of 1986-87, Dean Jones was famously placed on a drip after reeling off the field like a punchdrunk boxer, with streaming bloodshot eyes and muscle fatigue screaming out from his every movement. Today, in his new ultra-efficient role of TV main man, he could not have been a picture further removed, as he marshalled the centre of the pitch and ordered back the thronging photographers who, in their eagerness to get the all-important shot of the toss, were casting their shadows onto a good length.

The toss itself was an agonising wait, as the coin rolled and rolled and rolled, and all but disappeared down one of those cracks where John Buchanan had sarcastically claimed to have lost a key in the build-up to the match. But eventually, it landed heads, and Michael Kasprowicz, who had been out of shot marking out his run-up, grinned the grin of a seamer reborn. Doubtless he was even more chuffed at the prospect of a day with his feet up.

Kasprowicz, of course, was back on favoured territory. It was right here, in 1997-98, that he produced a remarkable spell of reverse-swing, 5 for 28, to skittle India in their second innings, and set up an eight-wicket victory. Admittedly it was a dead rubber, but Australia's desperation to avoid the whitewash made it a classic. Furthermore, the match had contained a stunning 153 from Mark Waugh, who shrugged off an Indian total of 424 and a particularly nasty gastric complaint to compile one of the greatest innings of his career.

At least, that is what one might imagine. Waugh, however, is famous for refusing to be drawn on such matters, even when confronted once again with all the sights and sounds of that day. For he has returned to Bangalore, as the host of one of Australia's better-heeled supporters groups, where he sat all day long in leathery-faced silence in the VIP enclosure behind long-on.

For a man who once claimed to be "semi-bored" with cricket, it is indeed a curious career choice. And an even more curious destination. But suffice to say he was doing little to enhance his appreciation of either, save the occasional solemn nod of approval as Simon Katich began to hit his straps. In fact, the only moment of levity (or karma) for the folks sat around him came when a crow disgraced itself lavishly, right on his shoulder. How they must be longing for Merv Hughes to arrive for the second Test at Chennai.

My own attempts at breaking the ice with Waugh were as unsuccessful as the small child with the camera who hovered then fled in fear and tears. It was a full five seconds before his arms unfolded into a limp handshake - this, it was abundantly clear, was not the host with the most, returning to the scene of his triumph, and ready to regale the fascinated with tales of his derring-do.

"Nah, not interested," he shrugged. "I've been here for three hours and had a hundred requests already. I've nothing to say." Not to his paid guests ("Oh yeah," said one, "I did get to meet him at our welcoming dinner at the hotel last night. He said he did well here."), certainly not to the unpaid guests, and over his dead body to a desperate hack with copy to file.

Oh well, you can't win them all. So I wished him good luck with his next book and we went our separate ways. But it is a tragedy, especially in a country which lauds batsmanship above all other virtues, that someone so graceful on the pitch could be so graceless off it. I guess someone else will have to fill in the blanks in this tale from the Indo-Australian annals.