Cricket: Cheteshwar Pujara heroic before Rishabh Pant stole one of the great Test wins

Cheteshwar Pujara was battered and bruised by Australia’s fast bowlers in a Test innings both stoic and heroic.

India's Cheteshwar Pujarastood strong against a barrage from the Australians

Battered. Bruised. Thrice struck on the helmet. Blows to the ribs. The fingers. The back. The shoulder. The elbow. The bicep. The hip. The thigh. Courageous? Outrageous. Cheteshwar Pujara was the upstanding epitome of the bravest touring squad to have visited these shores.

Pujara played one of the great Test innings to thwart Australia and ensure the Border-Gavaskar Trophy returned to the glittering and oversized cabinet at the BCCI headquarters inside Mumbai’s Wankhede Stadium.

Fifty-six runs from 211 deliveries. The immovability of a Tibetan yogi meditating in a secret Himalayan cave. The patience of a Russian chess grand master. Five hours of concentration culminating in hard-earned celebration. Rishabh Pant grabbed the glory with the most extraordinary matchwinning innings since Ben Stokes at Headingley, but Pujara’s contribution was heroic. Stoic. Epic.

More than an innings. An occupation. A vigil. He played enough of a straight bat to make the beloved old wall called Rahul Dravid resemble an overzealous slogger. When he reached double figures from nearly a hundred balls, it had taken so long he would have been justified in raising his bat. When he finally departed, you could crawl out of a boxing ring with less bruising.

A devilishly nasty whack to the fingers of his right hand from a shortish ball by Josh Hazlewood. He jumped on the spot in stinging pain. Went to his haunches. Fell on his back. Gripped the fingers tightly as if they were broken.

His breathing was fast. Panic mode. He grimaced and winced. He jumped back to his feet and batted on and on and on.

Hazlewood smelled blood. An especially wicked delivery crashed into Pujara’s helmet with enough force to make the strap at the back of it fly off. It was brutal. Whatever a snarling Hazlewood said to Pujara, it wasn’t a sorry or are you OK, mate? Nor should any niceties have been exchanged. This was great Test cricket, rough-and-ready Test cricket, historic Test cricket. Underdogs had over-performed

Pujara’s was a marathon knock. Hospital scans might be needed to 90 per cent of his flesh and marrow. He was struck so often you thought, how much more could he possibly take? Those striking green eyes were unblinking.

The only time he backed away was when a white butterfly entered his eyeline while Hazlewood was steaming in. Next ball, he was cracked once more on the helmet. Translated from Hindi, Cheteshwar means “long-lasting”, and for as long as he was at the crease, India would get the draw. It slowly became apparent that while he was out there, India might just pull off a phenomenal and historic victory.

Who’d begrudge them? No one. See those Australian kids in the crowd dancing around when Pant was slashing boundaries with the flair, skill and fearlessness of Brian Lara?

T20 cricket has its flaws, but it’s produced the sort of batsmen who can chase fourth-innings totals in Tests that would normally peter to a draw. He was brilliant and belligerent as an estimated 60 million Indians tuned in to the broadcast. Pant was crazily thrilling; Pujara’s input had been a deliciously slow grilling. Pant was man of the match, but somebody give Pujara a medal.

This was India’s B team after injuries and Virat Kohli’s paternity leave ravaged the tourists. Only three members of their first Test team were on the field at the Gabba.

A draw would have been a win. An actual win was out of this world. One of India’s greatest victories.

One of Australia’s most shattering and confounding defeats. After Adelaide, you could have sworn they’d win the series 4-0. Pat Cummins was tremendous. Mitchell Starc was ineffective. Nathan Lyon failed to bowl Australia home on the fifth day for the second straight Test. Neither would be taking their future selection for granted. Nor Tim Paine. Fantastic emotion at stumps. Fist-pumping joy at one end; devastation and shock at the other. Sport in all its endless glory.