On the Road with Kapil’s Devils

One of the few Indian journalists to have covered the 1983 World Cup recalls the campaign that changed cricket

Casting my mind back over more than three decades of writing on sports, trying to determine the most gratifying sporting event I have seen, throws me into turmoil. Would it be Carl Lewis versus Ben Johnson over 100 metres in the ‘Race of the Century’ at the Seoul Olympics in 1988? But was that more thrilling than Javed Miandad’s last ball six off Chetan Sharma in Sharjah in 1986? Was either of these better than watching Michael Stich subdue Boom Boom Boris Becker in the Battle of Germans at Wimbledon in 1991?

And how about Sunil Gavaskar’s farewell Test innings against Pakistan at Bangalore in 1987, or VVS Laxman’s 281, arguably the greatest knock by an Indian batsman, against Australia at Kolkata, or Sachin Tendulkar’s scintillating 114 on a Perth flier in 1992, or… hang on, I’ve found the answer to my vexations—it must be, it has to be, India winning the 1983 cricket World Cup.

I’ll risk the cliché and say it was a truly extraordinary victory. Bookmakers had offered 66-1 at the start of the tournament and Richie Benaud, venerated former Australia captain and commentator, was still offering 60-1 when the West Indies went in to field first at Lord’s on 25 June. So even in the final, India were considered no-hopers. And then in a little over seven hours, the cricket world had been turned upside down. But I am getting ahead of the story.

Boarding the Singapore Airlines flight to London in early June 1983 to cover the World Cup was almost like setting off on a pilgrimage. Weaned on Enid Blyton in school and growing up later with Doyle, Agatha Christie, Dickens, Shakespeare, Russell, AA Thomson, Wisden and Neville Cardus as companions, England seemed much the Promised Land. My mind was in a swirl about things to see, eat, explore.

Cricket writers like Thomson and Cardus had perhaps been the biggest influence in my life till then. Cardus’ sublime prose had had me in thrall for years. His descriptions of cricketers and cricket grounds in England had left such an indelible impression that I must have passed through Grace Gates at Lord’s as often as the good doctor himself.

From being a passion, cricket had become a vocation after I chose a job in a sports magazine over law practice; it was a decision family and friends had scoffed, but which I now find to be the smartest thing I’ve done. What better high than to get paid to watch and write on cricket?

As I settled down for the nine-hour journey, I looked forward to scones, Yorkshire pudding (little did I know it was not sweet but savoury), Madame Tussauds, Trafalgar Square, Fleet Street, Buckingham Palace, Stratford-upon-Avon, but above all else, the several cricket grounds dotting the country of which I had read and heard so much.

The first I visited was The Oval, stemming not so much from my fascination for Jack Hobbs, whose home ground it was, but because I was trying to spend carefully. Allowances those days were paltry, and being on a shoestring budget, I shifted to a friend’s place in Surbiton, Surrey, after a couple of days at the Indian YMCA, which still cost £17 a day.

The opening India-West Indies match was at Old Trafford. The train journey from London would have cost 10-12 quid, but more importantly, why waste money and time when the result seemed a foregone conclusion, my Surbiton host reasoned. I settled for the England-New Zealand match at the historic Oval, watched a young, stylish batsman called Martin Crowe make 90-odd, but spent the night in some regret: at Old Trafford, India had the West Indies in a spot. Had I missed out on something special?

There were only half-a-dozen journalists from India on that tour, I recall, and not everyone had gone to Manchester. Those who did reported a spirited performance as India won over two days, but were quick to add that this was surely a one-off: by mid-tournament, Kapil Dev’s team would surely be languishing.

There was little to suggest of the melodrama that lay ahead, as India, after winning easily against least fancied Zimbabwe, lost to Australia and the West Indies in succession—and by wide margins—leading to some dismay and not a little heartburn within the team.

The big debate amongst journalists, and undoubtedly within the team too, was the poor form of Sunil Gavaskar, and whether he should make way for another player. As it happened, Gavaskar did not play the match against Australia at Trent Bridge after failing against Zimbabwe, sending the six journalists scurrying to ferret the story behind the story of his absence.

Had he been dropped? Was it possible to drop Gavaskar? Kapil Dev deflected all queries to manager Peter Mansingh, who in turn maintained an inscrutable Buddha-like silence. In 2008, when I caught up with Mansingh in Hyderabad and asked him the same question, he said with a smile, “Gavaskar had been rested.”

As mentioned earlier, there were only a handful of journalists on this tour, which made for an easy relationship with the players. Indeed, it was not uncommon for a journalist to be interviewing a player on the balcony or porch of a dressing room even while a match was on. Personally, I think my friendship with players not from Mumbai—like Madan Lal, Kapil Dev, Roger Binny, Krish Srikkanth, Jimmy Amarnath, Syed Kirmani, Kirti Azad—was considerably enhanced during the tournament.

In most ways, it was a fun tour, allowing for pursuits other than just cricket. I soaked in a couple of rock concerts, including one by my then favourite Dire Straits, a couple of plays at West End (including, inevitably, Agatha Christie’s Mousetrap), apart from the regular touristy things like seeing Buckingham Palace.

England was at the peak of grim Thatcherism in 1983, but for us Indians—players and journalists—life seemed rather tranquil and uncomplicated. Richard Attenborough’s Gandhi had revived interest in India, so polite queries about the ‘state of the nation’ at official functions and such like were frequent. But since awareness was so little, one could get away just bluffing.

Most importantly, there were no crazy demands for copious copy or a scoop a day from editors back home, and players had collapsible curfews. Sometimes players and journalists went sightseeing together, and I recall a more adventurous one dragging a scribe to a night out on the tiles in Soho. Since neither the player nor the scribe was seen much the next day, I suspect the night must have been long and rough.

The turning point of the tournament, as everyone knows, came at Tunbridge Wells, where India played Zimbabwe in the return match. In many ways, this was a do-or-die match, and I remember reaching the ground a little late, having bought an off-peak hour ticket from London to save money.

I spent the train journey mulling over what India’s team composition would be, because the result was hardly the issue. Vengsarkar had been hit on the face by a snorter from Malcolm Marshall in the previous game, which meant that the batting had become weaker, given Gavaskar’s continued poor form. Yet, beating Zimbabwe would be easy.

On reaching the ground, I heard thunderous cheering. Presuming that this must be to acknowledge some great Indian feat, I veered towards the dressing room, which was en route the press box from the gate. The Indian section of the dressing room, however, looked sullen.

Standing outside, I saw Gundappa Vishwanath stroking his moustache, lost in thought. “What’s up?’’ I asked. “Nothing serious, it’ll be fine,” said Vishy. I glanced up at the scoreboard. It read 9 for 4. In my book, Vishy’s reply still deserves the award for the biggest understatement in sports ever.

Lovers of rock music will remember that classic 1975 album by Supertramp called Crisis? What crisis?  Kapil Dev, who walked out to bat at 17 for 5, seemed to live out the title of that album over the next three hours, in an innings of such vitality, power and importance that I still rate it as the best I have seen.

Too much has been written and said of that innings for me to repeat here. Alas, too little has been seen because the BBC was on strike. “Perhaps the BBC did not think an India-Zimbabwe match was important enough,’’ quipped Kapil Dev at the Ceat Awards in January this year. It can be confirmed that there is no private video recording of that match either, which gives my life so much more significance.

Kapil’s unbeaten 175 left the Zimbabwe team dead and beat. An Indian uprising, as it were, had begun. From Tunbridge Wells on to Chelmsford where the disjointed Australia were put down easily, and from there to Old Trafford for the semi-finals, where England, against all expectations were put to the sword.
In the lead-up to the final at Lord’s, I went to a party where the Indian team, now the toast of NRIs and PIOs, was also present. Everybody was in high spirits. I remember asking Kapil Dev at the party if he thought India could win the final. “Did you think we would come this far?’’ he countered.

Getting into the final seemed more difficult for journalists than the Indian team. The Lord’s administration was sticky about accreditation. Indeed, the stewards manning Grace Gates were curt. “Now we have Gandhi coming to Lord’s,’’ said one to another as the clamour for accreditation grew.

Finally, the administration relented. On 25 June 1983, I made my way to Lord’s from Surbiton in a black cab, arriving in style, but left rather broke after paying 45 quid. This money would have been easily recovered, had I dared to bet on India at 60-1 offered by Benaud while running up to the press box.

I won’t run through the match details here, save for saying that Kapil’s spectacular catch to dismiss Viv Richards stamped his influence on the tournament. When the last West Indies wicket fell, the stands erupted, as indeed every home and hovel must have in India.

There had never been a moment like this in Indian cricket history. And I was there.

About The Author

Ayaz Memon