Shakib Al Hasan: The peerless conductor of Bangladesh's mesmerising orchestra

Even as his hundred was afforded a well-deserved standing ovation, Shakib's helmet never left his scalp – as if removing it might uncloak the identity of this reluctant genius

In front of every great orchestra stands a conductor: a silent voice, invisible but omnipresent, a common denominator amid changing tunes, different instruments and a revolving door of musicians.

Quite simply, imagine the chaotic scene of an ensemble without its unflinching metronome. Think of the unbearable screeching, the anarchy of rhythm, the mutiny of sound. The conductor’s mere presence is enough to arrest that disruption; his role is one of empowerment.

He relies, for his own authority, on his capacity to give a voice to those around him. His existence is one of unfettering inhibitions, of releasing others from the shackles that chain and contain their adventure.

In Shakib Al Hasan, Bangladesh have their conductor – a man whose otherworldly talents have for so long come at the expense of a staggering global ignorance, but whose steel-laden temperament is ensuring that this World Cup finally gives permanence to the reputation of an exceptional talent. He exudes a calm that allows a team to flourish.

Make no mistake, that Shakib can lay claim to being his side’s key man with both bat and ball is no slight on the well-drilled army led by Mashrafe Mortaza. Rather, it is a feather in the cap for an ageless 32-year-old, who quietly dominates games in a manner that suggests anything less than such stoic competence would represent abject failure.

In a tournament of bad takes, pinnacled by a format serving up an irritating diet of dead rubbers and mismatches, there can have been few more tiresome opinions than the misconception of Bangladesh and, by extension, of Shakib.

^{Shakib and Liton Das put on an unbeaten stand of 189 in 22.3 overs.}

Twenty years on from a World Cup debut, this Bangladesh outfit represents far more than an outdated image of plucky minnows for whom simply participating equated to a box ticked. They are efficient, supremely capable, fueled by a degree of experience unsurpassed at this tournament. They are sharp in the field, the perfect mix of subtlety and power with the bat, both cunning and streetwise with the ball. They are worth more than the sum of their parts.

And they are all those things because Shakib is all those things. There is currently no greater pound-for-pound cricketer. He has been the world's best allrounder for longer than you have known his name.

Even the celebration of his hundred against West Indies was a mark of an unrivaled class. There was a warm embrace with the impressive Liton Das. There was a touch of gloves – not a punch, for Shakib does not possess the pretention for anything so extravagant.

And then, once free from the acclaim of his adulating partner, there was a polite smile. It was an embarrassed grin. For a brief moment, he allowed a feeling of self-satisfaction to enter his mind. But then he would correct himself; the smirk disappeared from view as the left-hander bowed his head like the evening sun slipping beyond the horizon. After all, runs are part of the job description.

Even surrounded by a standing ovation, his helmet never left his scalp – as if removing it might uncloak the identity of this reluctant genius. Revealing the truth of a sweat-drenched face might display a mortal vulnerability. Instead, it remained covered, hidden from full sight. A Bangladeshi Zorro, if you will. A subcontinental Spiderman. A cricketing Peter Parker, unwilling to allow celebrity to stand in the way of unfinished business.

The celebration became an almost awkward acknowledgement – a graceful acceptance of Taunton’s warmth, but an awareness that no personal accolade is complete without collective triumph. It is an attitude of which some could do worse than to take note.

When the game continued, Shakib had offered little more than a half-lifting of his bat – an attempt to thank his supporters, but more a plea for quiet from a leader demanding calm.

Think back to the conductor, the silent equilibrium tasked with steering his proteges to success. This was him controling his audience: "Quiet please, the music hasn't finished."

Even in a losing cause – as with his century against England at Cardiff, he has excelled with a glorious mishmash of simplicity and sheer efficiency.

Shakib has made scores in this World Cup of 124*, 121, 64 and 75.

And it is that mastery of the uncomplicated that makes Shakib so fascinating a personality. His left-arm spin is – to the untrained eye – serviceable, if little more. A couple of hops, a skip, a jump and a twirl. From a distance, he is both Jonathan Edwards and Ashley Giles. But somewhere between the first tepid step of an unremarkable run-up to the breaking of his arms into a windmill at the crease, a passable action becomes something more wily.

Batsmen operate against him with a caution that, from afar, seems both undue and unnecessary. But that, in a nutshell, is Shakib. He does the simple things well. In fact, he does them better than anyone.

In an era where cricketing machismo is judged by six-hitting - one monster from Shimron Hetmyer drew an appreciative nod from Andre Russell, Shakib settles for a different kind of self-adjudication. His is a rare wisdom - both humble and sensible enough to know the limitations of his own game and the benefits of such limits.

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His batsmanship has none of the overt flair of Jos Buttler, none of the brute of Aaron Finch, certainly none of idiosyncratic unorthodoxy of Steve Smith or the visible intensity of Virat Kohli. It just has all the characteristics of a man who knows what works. Shakib just does Shakib.

At times, you would do well to notice him. It is among his most dangerous qualities. Risks are taken with calculation; he offers little fuss and even fewer chances. And just like that, a run-a-ball fifty. You can’t remember his runs, but you can’t really recall how you might have got him out.

He has a cut shot to die for – a death fed almost without pause for breath during a West Indian bowling display of shoddy indiscipline and immaturity. Yet even so, Shakib was effortlessly ruthless in dispatching these gifts. When third man was fine, he would hit squarer. When third man was replaced by a deep point, he would hold himself back for a fraction of a second to guide the ball finer. It was an exhibition.

The cut shot is a scythe. It is not meant to have the beauty of other more feted strokes. Watching Shakib, however, is different. He scythes with a fluid grace – not like he is hacking away at his harvest, but gently stroking the grain he has been nurturing for months.

West Indies have won just one of their five games so far, while Bangladesh have won twice.

In a sense, he is both the least and most mysterious of world cricket’s greats. The least, quite simply, because there is no mystery. The most, however, because that in itself is a mystery.

Even the bunt through cover that would take him to this most impeccable match-winning hundred was achieved without any wristy swish. Rather, it was simplicity personified – the stroke of a man who has learnt to live with relative anonymity on the world stage.

This should never have been the case. Few cricketing nations have been forced to endure the patronising overtures faced by Bangladesh as standards have risen during two decades of rapid development. They have always been appreciated, but seemingly measured against themselves – the notion that the barometer for success should be weighed against their own history. It is a condescending approach to a proud nation and a mightily fine outfit.

2019 is Shakib’s World Cup. We’re just lucky to be sharing in it. The world is dancing to his tune – the silent voice of Bangladesh’s peerless conductor has never been heard so clearly.

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