Out of Centurion's frying pan, into Wanderers' fire

At a minute to 10 o'clock on a crystalline Highveld morning, all that moved on Centurion's perfectly green outfield was Jasprit Bumrah. He shuttled this way and that both sides of his mark as he waited restlessly, arms whirling low and loose with eager energy. Presently, Adrian Holdstock lowered his left arm, and Bumrah set off from the West Lane End on that now famous hold the egg carefully, mind the speedbump, homage to the Statue of Liberty, herky-jerky run ...

Only to be halted a few steps in by Temba Bavuma's not quite readiness at the Hennops River End. Bumrah glanced behind him to see if there was a sightscreen issue. Satisfied there wasn't, he held an upturned hand towards the batter and jutted his chin at him. As if to say, "Dude!"

Bavuma dug in once more. Back foot. Bat upturned against his aft clavicle, like an unadorned flagpole leaning on a fence. Front foot. The gentlest of kisses from bat to pitch. A respectful address of the front shoulder towards the onrushing bowler. A pointy backlift. A barely perceptible bounce of the knees. A coiled presence. And ... defended. Bat met the first ball of the day as surely as the sun had dazzled the horizon hours earlier. Bumrah's irresistible flurry was met by Bavuma's immovable calm, and the defused delivery trickled harmlessly to earth.

Twice more in his first spell Bumrah was interrupted after he had leaned into his lurch toward the wicket. The first time it was movement near the sightscreen in an ostensibly empty ground that disturbed Dean Elgar. Bumrah acquiesced. The second time it wasn't clear why Elgar had pulled away. Whatever the reason, it wasn't good enough for Bumrah, who reacted by underarming the ball along the ground and up the pitch. Officially, he was asking for it to be shined. Unofficially, he was spitting mad. There was no mistaking neither the anger with which he slung the ball in the direction of the cordon nor the fact that he had aimed it at Elgar.

When Bumrah came round the wicket to trap Elgar in front, a shriek escaped his violently shuddering body as he catapulted forward; every muscle torqued to surely a dangerous degree. The slow motion replay revealed a white butterfly floating, zen-like and out of focus, high above the scene.

Doubtless by then Bumrah had been forgiven his petulance. His strike meant India were locked and loaded for victory, and even those who have diamonds on the soles of their shoes break a lace now and then. The soles of Bumrah's shoes should be insured for vast amounts. To watch him bowl, and not bowl, is to see the human spirit distilled into tangible form. It is a rare privilege.

Less so seeing South Africa shamble to another defeat, their third in the six Tests they played this year. And their fifth consecutively to India, a barren run that started at the Wanderers in January 2018 - when Virat Kohli's team overcame close to impossible odds to