Spinning Memories

It’s strange how, even if you’ve never met someone, you can still feel profound sadness and mourn their loss. This is precisely how I felt upon learning about the passing of Bishan Singh Bedi, an icon of Indian Cricket.

Bedi, in his late seventies, had been grappling with health issues. He was an integral part of the four-pronged Indian spin attack that bamboozled some of the world’s best batsmen. This was during an era when Indian bowling was not characterized by speed — fast bowling is a relatively recent development for India.

Erapalli Prasanna, S. Venkataraghavan, and B. Chandrasekhar completed this legendary quartet. Each brought their own unique style to the table, but Bedi stood out as my favorite. His deliveries had a mesmerizing loop. He’d toss the ball, luring batsmen into playing aggressive shots, only to see them deceived and outsmarted. I wish there were more clips of him on YouTube so that we could all experience his magic anew.

He made his debut just a few months after I was born. In his illustrious career, he played 67 test matches, claimed 266 wickets, and secured 14 five-wicket hauls. He represented India in 10 one-day internationals, captained the team, and later managed it. Erudite and outspoken, he was undoubtedly the best left-arm orthodox spinner the game has seen. His passion for cricket was evident, and he held immense respect for every cricketer who graced the pitch.

Growing up, I was captivated by radio commentary and tales of Bedi’s magical “bowling” (or “pitching” for American readers). Those of us who didn’t have the luxury of television came to deeply value the eloquence of radio commentators, who transformed mere human achievements into the realm of the superhuman.

Today, cricket (and most other sports) is available to us on our screens, yet much of the commentary seems like a soundtrack of nothingness. Much of what we hear is banal commentary from former players, punctuated only occasionally by a voice filled with insight, color, and eloquence. Even the best of them, however, can’t always keep pace with the immediacy of the live broadcast.

Radio, on the other hand, left so much to our imagination. Without visual cues, we depended on the commentators to paint a vivid picture of the match. They narrated stories. This engaged our imagination, forging a deeper, more meaningful connection between the listener and the game. I’m sure Americans feel the same way about baseball on the radio. (Recommended reading: Bob Costas, baseball and knowing when to walk away.)

In my mind, the radio elevated Bedi to superhero status. And for good reason — he made the cricket ball obey his command, often leaving even the most skilled batsmen bewildered. Despite facing challenges on the field, he remained tenacious. Reading about his achievements in newspapers fostered my appreciation for the power of the written word.

That era has since faded, as have the unique skills of players like Bedi. The title of the world’s best spinner has shifted from India to Afghanistan. Today, the internet and television are inundated with cricket. The sport has transitioned from its leisurely roots to a more fast-paced rendition. Fittingly, Bedi, who wasn’t particularly fond of this modern iteration, no longer has to endure what some term “tamasha” cricket.

Farewell, Bedi sahib. RIP!

October 23, 2023. San Francisco