When the World Record Was Spared, My Brian Lara Heartbeat Returned

A Fan’s Emotional Journey Through Cricket’s Most Artistic Genius

(Arun Arokianathan)

When I saw a Facebook post from journalist Azzam Ameen on July 7th—just one line saying “Wiaan Mulder 325 not out chasing Brian Lara’s 400 record”—I froze. My heart started pounding like it did back in school. Without thinking, I offered a silent, desperate prayer: Please, someone, somehow, stop him. Don’t break Lara’s record.

It wasn’t the first time I prayed that prayer.

The First Prayer – 1997

It took me back to one fine day in August 1997. Sanath Jayasuriya was batting on 326 not out. I was supposed to be focused on my A/L test at the Royal College. But instead of thinking about equations and essay structures, all I could think was: What if Sanath breaks Lara’s 375?

Back then, we didn’t have smartphones or instant updates. You had to listen to Radio Ceylon or wait for the television news.

When I stepped out of the exam hall, someone said, “Sanath’s out… 340.”

I didn’t say anything, but I was quietly overjoyed. Around me, my Sri Lankan classmates were disappointed. But me? I was relieved. Lara’s record was safe. And I felt like I could breathe again.

This Time Too, The Record Stood

And now, 27 years later, it happened again.

South African captain Wiaan Mulder was closing in on 400. This time, technology told us everything instantly.

When I learned that Mulder declared on 367 not out, I felt that same electric joy I felt as a teenager. My Lara fanboy heart resurfaced. That deep, irrational, beautiful love I have for Brian Charles Lara came flooding back.

In 2001, at the SSC in Colombo, a dream came true. After West Indies lost the Test series 3–0, I met my cricketing hero, Brian Lara — the man who lit up a losing cause with three sublime centuries and 688 unforgettable runs. I was working at Shakthi TV then, but in that moment, I was just a fan boy meeting his legend.

Why Lara? Why Always Lara?

I often think I inherited my love for West Indies cricket from my erudite father. He adored their swagger, their spirit. The names—Viv Richards, Clive Lloyd, Gary Sobers—were sacred in our household.

But for me, Lara was different. Lara wasn’t just a cricketer. He was feeling.

I wrote his name in my schoolbooks more than my own. My mother once thought “Lara” was the name of a girl I had a crush on. I even wrote a Tamil poem for him once, just marvelling at his batting.