Finally found. Finally, finally, finally. What England couldn't do for two months, 32 hours and 602 runs has been done. A chink-small but significant-has been found in Rahul Dravid's cast iron and blindingly shiny suit of armour. His friends say they've never seen him do it, his coach doesn't think he's the type, it's not live on TV but it's official: the Wall, the Rock, the answer to India's unfunny top-order wobbliness and middle-class moms' dreams, throws his bat.

Gets angry, comes back to the dressing room, shouts out purple words and throws that bat. Not often, but has done so "many times". Not quite the clean-cut, clean-living, book-reading, Pope with pads on, now, is he?

Actually, never was. That's the easy and lazy way to deal with Dravid and his cricket. Tag 'em and bag 'em. He is technically correct, politically correct, reliable, methodical, studious, sensitive even. So he cannot be attractive, competitive, hard, tough, mean, can he? He can. He is.

Like muscles on a batsman's arm beneath a long-sleeved shirt, there are parts to a cricketer that remain unseen and so unrecognised and underestimated. Dravid's "inner steel"-to borrow coach John Wright's words-is one of them. The 29-year-old says, "Aggression is something within, you show it through your deeds."

"What sets Dravid far ahead of others is his hunger." Sanjay Manjrekar, Former Indian player and teammate

As the first batsman to score 1,000 Test runs this year, the deeds were big and his mettle glinted through them. He is India's MVP in 2002 not only because he made four hundreds, four fifties and averaged 67, but because he's made the runs coming in when the scores on tour have read: 3-99, 1-18, 1-6, 1-0, 1-80, 1-13, 1-5, 1-19, 1-2, 1-6, 1-0, 1-15, 1-18 (told you it wasn't funny). As India reached for anti-depressants, Dravid reached for his bat.

His method has revolved around a jaw-jutting refusal to surrender: his wicket, the advantage, whatever it is that must be defended. His mates, batsmen of thunder and lightning, are lustily hailed as they stride out onto the deck. Dravid attracts neither attention nor accolade as he ties himself to the mast and rides out the storm.

To be the stoic among swashbucklers challenges skill, resolve and ego. He's a better cricketer for it and a bigger man. Sanjay Manjrekar, a fellow of the same school of batsmanship, says, "Grit and determination are not appreciated in India. Our crowds can be very tough on batsmen like him. Maybe it's what drives him on." The Indian vice-captain thinks the idea is valid, but it's not something he is conscious of.

Typical. He has always known what to keep his eyes on-and how. Friends like former Karnataka opener Fazal Khaleel say when Dravid concentrates, whether on cricket or even an everyday activity like reading a newspaper, "it's like the rest of the world blurs and he doesn't see anything else. It's spooky. If you want his attention, you have to actually shake him or call his name over and over." Before his first Test in 1995 Dravid got ready, roommate Manjrekar remembers, like a student preparing for his medical exams. He still does. He was invited to dinner by Sunil Gavaskar during the Oval innings but he excused himself. It's just his way. His devotion to fitness comes from the belief that the monotony of a gym routine is also another way to toughen the mind. Losing his temper "doesn't make me play better" so he tries to work it out of his system. Which is how he can get run-out on 217 and leave the field without once shaking his head.

In six years Dravid has batted from No. 1 to 7 for India, was told he should concentrate on off-spin to give himself an edge, and when he was dropped from the national side, sat at his home ground in Bangalore without reacting as a "fan" screamed out a critique of his batting. He has switched three batting slots this season, won back the No. 3, kept wickets to balance the one-day team and has still played the best cricket of his life. Surely at some stage he's wanted to say stop. "You sometimes wonder if you have the capability to do something. Or if that something will make us a better team. You work on it. When results start going your way, your confidence grows, you know you can do enough to win."

Manjrekar said what had set the Indian far ahead of any other batsmen this year was hunger. "After two centuries, even the best players would have relaxed, backed off a little. But Rahul didn't. He made a double hundred."

What Dravid does in the middle is as vital as what he does off-centre. He pushes and pulls pumped-up peers away from sledge-fests on the field, and is the side's mediator and peace-broker when tempers flare on long tours. "You listen to him," says a member of the England tour party, "because you can trust him to be sane." When the NatWest series final was won and the team headed outside whooping, Dravid stopped a younger player from disrobing, Ganguly-style, saying they needed to celebrate with dignity. Thereby saving the world the unedifying sight of a largely topless Indian team running around Lord's. There is much to be merciful for.

He does lose his shirt, metaphorically at least. "What annoys me are people who don't care, people who are laid-back about commitment." He's not referring to quick singles but basic business like keeping an appointment. He can drive like an angel, but clearly is driven like a man with a thirst.

This soul of decorum can, as an English cricket magazine discovered, be wicked if he wants. Asked which character from history he would like to be, Dravid replied, "Any of the freedom fighters in the Indian Independence movement against the British."

Ravi Shastri predicts 25 Test centuries, Manjrekar says a shift in Indian expectation from individual brilliance to team success could give him his stage. The trumpets are blaring, praise is ringing across the land. But Rahul Dravid, creature of order and method and steadily simmering fire, has not just arrived. He's always been there.