England blasted in the furnace

Tanya Aldred

A line of electricity pylons skirt the Sardar Patel stadium, like giant metal women gazing serenely at the factories and cottage industries below them. And Ahmedabad's industrial heritage also resounds inside the cricket ground. A quarter-full multi-coloured bowl is transformed by the heat of the sun into a blast-furnace. The beating of hands on seats echoes hammer on anvil, and the roof covering the pavilion amplifies every sound like the guts of a factory. English batsmen walk out to an intimidating wall of sound - shouts of Gamppati Bapa Mauriya (a religious chant often hijacked for sporting occasions), drums and whistles. They return to lowing, echoing boos.

The intensity had lifted three notches since Mohali, which was calm apart from Sachin-mania. And England frazzled at the edges. Michael Vaughan, thrown in like a spare tyre because of Graham Thorpe's flight back home, prodded nervously, pushed forward blushingly and settled not at all. Andy Flintoff, though he ran out into the den with at least a façade of confidence, lasted two balls. Hussain admirably cooled the hot-pot after a furious Butcher had got himself out, taking a quick single off his first ball. But then Ian Robinson reapplied the pressure with his non-retractable index finger. This a man who once told the media that he was one of the top three umpires in the world - "and not necessarily No. 3".

But more effective than Robinson or the cacophony was the tall figure who stands at fine leg when he is not poised by the umpire. Anil Kumble is not a magnificent marauding legspinner like Shane Warne. He looks like an Amazon warrior - tall and noble - but is more of a hunter-gatherer, greedily picking up his prey by pushing it through, keeping it tight and deploying variations so subtle the crowd can hardly see them.

His legbreaks are innocuous but his topspinner devours small children as a mid-morning snack. English batsmen in India find him irresistible: after five days' play in this series, he already has 13 wickets, and the big 300, a peak never climbed by an Indian slow bowler, is only six wickets away.

Kumble is the undramatic face of Indian cricket. A placid operator, though with a good line in stares. But with his trousers worn high up on his waist he looks like the school square, and the glower has nothing on Javagal Srinath's.

Marcus Trescothick often had the better of him. He cover-drove him twice for four, dismissively, like a bulldozer. But afterwards he had kind words, especially for a man who got him out on for 99. He said that he had watched Kumble in South Africa on television and that he was now back to his best - he had found his rhythm.

Mark Ramprakash, whose battle with Kumble drew the eye to the afternoon session, swept him for a six into the east stand where the reflective heat on the white seats seemed to turn the spectators crazy. The policemen lifted their lathis. But Kumble was the killer.

Assistant editor Tanya Aldred is covering the whole tour for Wisden.com.

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