When I was forced to face the prospect of a terribly gloomy future, I was not twenty. Sunil Gavaskar had abruptly retired without prior notice and without bidding farewell. He’d disappear without warning. Never again wearing a skull cap.
I’m sorry to Kapil Dev and the heroes of 1983, but I just really knew cricket, and I always thought it would finish with Vijay Gavaskar. It would be unthinkable to think of watching cricket without him, no exaggeration. It felt like a betrayal when he left.
He had produced one of the best Test innings I had ever seen just a few months prior. India were set a target of 221 on a turning, spitting, viciously treacherous pitch in Bangalore, where the second-highest score was 50 from Dilip Vengsarkar, and where Pakistan had been bowled out for 116 on the first day. Gavaskar called upon his greatest qualities for a masterpiece in the fourth innings.
A few years prior to that, Gavaskar’s double-hundred brilliant strokes almost helped India surpass 438. But to be alive on this surface, to survive each ball felt like a miracle.
After being convinced by the cunning Javed Miandad to select two fingerspinners instead of Abdul Qadir, the leggie, on the grounds that accuracy was the only factor relevant on such a field, Imran Khan did not even attempt to bowl an over during the second innings. Left-arm spinner Iqbal Qasim opened with Wasim Akram. Wasim Akram was quickly replaced by offspinner Tauseef Ahmed. Together, Qasim and Tauseef bowled 83 of the roughly 94 overs bowled in the innings.
Of Gavaskar’s teammates, just three scored in double figures, and only Mohammad Azharuddin went over 20. However, Gavaskar stayed in his own little world of brilliance, combining technical mastery—perfect length judgement, accurate footwork, playing late, close to the body, and with the softest of hands—with intense concentration. Some balls soared above the bat, others struck the glove, and teammates frequently left the field. However, he appeared to be in a trance as he dealt with situations quickly and kept his team alive in a game where defeat was just around the corner.
He finally went down on 96, when he was hit by a ball that shot up quickly from a distance that was too far to go forward and spun enough to brush the rising hand before blowing up to snag the glove. The umpire raised his finger, and Gavaskar took off his gloves and briskly left. Who would have guessed back then that he would never again be seen playing in a Test match?
To be honest, we were in the dark for a time. Soon after, he would achieve two goals that had escaped him his entire life: an ODI hundred against New Zealand in the home World Cup, and a century at Lord’s, playing for the Rest of the World against an MCC XI. I didn’t realise the significance of his high until much later, after my heart had moved past the pain and despair and everyone was asking why now rather than why not.
It became natural to question Indian supporters’ dedication to individuals rather than the team, a passion that occasionally had a stifling effect on Indian cricket. This was after years of cricket journalism forced upon me a more intellectual and inquiring connection with sport. However, what did we have back then? Gandhi and Nehru had long since passed away; their framed pictures still graced banknotes, postal stamps, and walls. The economy was in dire straits, and politics was dishonest and disorganised. Our doorway to the outside world was a shortwave radio; as television screens got colour, movies fueled our dreams, and cricket fueled our ambitions and goals. We needed our heroes, damn it.
Amitabh Bachchan, whose commanding presence and deep voice dominated the screen, portrayed a brooding, simmering fury on film, while Sunil Gavaskar, a diminutive guy in real life, faced off the world’s most formidable bowlers without a helmet. India didn’t win many matches away from home during my early cricket fandom, but there was always Gavaskar, with his flawless defence, precise cover drive that punished every half-volley, and straightforward, uncomplicated drive that told the bowler he had been outplayed. I had only heard about the victories of 1971.
Gavaskar was a constant source of optimism and pride, the picture-perfect symbol of valour and accomplishment for a country that was uncertain of its standing in the world at the time. It was cricket that first captivated my interest in 1977. I spent winter mornings, with a transistor radio pressed to my ear under a blanket, watching India’s spectacular tour of Australia, which saw tremendous ups and downs before finishing 3-2 in Australia’s favour. And there was Gavaskar, with three hundreds, about whom my aunt had told me so much.
During India’s 1978 visit to Pakistan, the period of exceptional spin bowling would come to an end, and Kapil Dev would emerge as a rising star. However, Gavaskar managed to rise above the debris, amassing 447 runs and two hundreds during that tour. Even if it seems strange now, back then, we measured India’s cricket victories in terms of hundreds.
Maybe it was meant to be that my home would be in Bombay. However, I had already made Bombay my Ranji Trophy squad long before I came there, and my first stop on my trip would be Shivaji Park. My enthusiasm for cricket progressively waned as professional training took hold, but I still remember being thrilled to have Gavaskar speak at the inaugural issue of the first cricket magazine I published. Since my daughter was born on his birthday, I never fail to send him an email wishing him well. He always responds.
And because we inhabit the same professional landscape now, there has been the odd disagreement over the years, but the first hero remains forever. Behind my work desk is a collage of sportspeople as I would like to remember them. At the centre of this arrangement is the photograph of Gavaskar at the top of this article: bareheaded, down the pitch, weight on the front foot. The bat has completed its arc and finished above the head, the gaze is fixed straight ahead, presumably following the path of the ball that has raced down the ground. It’s a picture of symmetry and batting perfection, and a reminder of an age when irrespective of clouds or storms, it was always sunny days as long he remained at the crease.
Happy 75th. Let the memories never fade.