Anyone who is a cricket fanatic (and in India who isn’t?), would be aware of Anil Kumble’s magnificent feat of snaring all 10 wickets in a single innings of a test match, when he achieved this super human milestone against archrivals Pakistan at the Feroz Shah Kotla, New Delhi on February 7, 1999.
India won this Test thanks to Kumble’s wizardry. In what was a singular (read crazy) tour schedule, India lost the first of an official two test series in Madras, came back to level the scores in New Delhi, dubbed ‘Kumble Test’, and went on to play another in Kolkata just a few days later.
Only it was not officially the third Test, but an encounter between the two sides in a failed experiment called the Asian Test Championship. However, most cricket followers logically saw this, given the schedule, as a three Test series. An exciting series for so many reasons which, by common consent, Pakistan took by the odd one in three. That’s not what you will see in the official records, but we know better.
The purpose of this piece is not to narrate the minutiae of the above mentioned games, as they have all been well recorded, and reams have been written on the various aspects and exploits during that memorable series. Rather, it is to share with the reader a unique and fortuitous incident that occurred to this chronicler, a few days after the Delhi Test in which Anil Kumble became the toast of a grateful nation.
After all, not since Englishman Jim Laker did the exact same thing at Old Trafford, Manchester against the Aussies in 1956, had this 10 wicket miracle occurred. And it may never happen again.
No, no if you’re looking for more cricketing highlights, you’re welcome to do your own Google search. This is about a happy accident, serendipity some may characterise it as, that happened to yours truly.
Post the famous Delhi Test match, the Pakistan team travelled to Cochin to play a tour match against the Board President’s XI, then caught a flight from Madras en route to Calcutta. Forgive my employing the revered old names for these cities, but I can never kick a good, old fashioned habit.
So what has all this got to do with me? You may well ask. It so happened I was employed in Calcutta by a well-known tyre major at the time, and had come to Madras on business for a couple of days. I also happened to be on that same Indian Airlines flight back to Calcutta, which the Pakistan team were booked on. Only I was completely innocent of the distinguished company I was going to keep. I did not observe any of them at the departure lounge — they were probably being secretively preserved in moth balls, away from the common traveller’s prying eyes.
However, once I had fastened my seat belt and waited patiently for the air hostesses to batten the hatches, there was a sudden collective intake of breath in the aircraft that you could have cut with a knife. The Pakistani cricketers trooped in, single file, and took their appointed seats. All the passengers worked themselves up into a fevered state of excitement. Heads were turning all over the place, and you could hear cries of “Oooh, Wasim”, “Wow, Shahid”, “My God, there’s Shoaib, I hope he sits in our row”, and so on and so forth. You get the picture.
I tried to maintain a calm and insouciant dignity, as if all this was just a lot of silly, teenage nonsense. I was actually churning inside. It would be pertinent to mention at this point that I had just bought the latest issue of India Today at the airport bookshop, featuring, who else, but Anil Kumble on the cover. I had saved it for my in-flight reading. The seat next to me was unoccupied and I thought what if one of the Pakistani cricketers were to come and occupy it. Instead, an elderly, silver haired gentleman in a brown suit took that seat, and we exchanged polite smiles.
The flight was largely uneventful, barring the predictable autograph hunters. In 1999, cameras on mobile phones had not yet been introduced, so we were spared the mad scramble for selfies. The pilot did the decent thing and welcomed the Pakistani cricketers on board, and for some reason, everyone clapped. Actually we Indians are quite civil with our neighbours across the border, except when we face off against each other on a cricket pitch. We’ll leave the Line of Control to the politicians.
As the journey progressed, things settled down. Meals were served, and many of the passengers were getting a shut eye, as it was a late evening flight. I was browsing through my magazine, dominated by the Kumble story. There was a double spread with attractive colour illustrations of all the ten victims, the accompanying text describing in detail how each batsman was dismissed. As I was reading this, an inner voice said to me, “Hey, here’s your chance. You can get the players to autograph each of the sketches”. I told my inner voice to shut it. Imagine a middle aged man walking around the aircraft seeking autographs. Most inappropriate. What if some of them refused to sign? The indignity of it. I wouldn’t live it down. But the inner voice was persistent. ‘It’s now or never’ it crooned, Elvis Presley style.
What can I say? The inner voice won. The aircraft was soon to commence its descent. It was, indeed, now or never. I got up from my seat, self-consciously squeezed myself past the brown suited gentleman, and proffered my copy of the magazine on the opened page to each of the players, along with my Cross pen. To my utter surprise, all the players showed great interest in the magazine, as they had not seen it, and some of them even craned over from their seats to get a glimpse of it. I became quite the cynosure. The good thing was they all signed it, and some even added a remark or two. Shahid Afridi wrote in bold capital letters, ‘NOT OUT’, but wicket keeper Moin Khan’s comment took the cake — ‘Good ball came of the ruff’ (sic), he wrote clearly. Quite so, they certainly had a ‘ruff’ time of it with Kumble!
I managed to get all the signatures bar leg spinner Mushtaq Ahmed’s. He was not on the flight. As I settled back in my seat, aware of many envious passengers eyeing me, the distinguished gentleman next to me winked and asked me if I was happy with my booty. His voice was vaguely familiar, and I introduced myself and shook his hand, hoping to catch his name. “Shahryar Khan”, he smilingly announced, “I am the manager of the Pakistan team”. A bulb went off in my head. Former Foreign Secretary of Pakistan, who also took over as Chairman of the Pakistan Cricket Board.
I nervously opened the magazine once more and thrust my Cross pen, and Mr. Shahryar Khan duly obliged on the margin of the page. “Thank you and tough luck in Delhi, Sir”, I added commiseratingly. Ever the diplomat, he replied, “Fair play to India. We were Kumble-d. Wait for Calcutta, Shoaib Akhtar will be back”. Prophetic words, in light of what was to happen at the Eden Gardens!
The magazine is safely preserved in a locker. One day, I shall get an auctioneer to value it. I fancy it should fetch a pretty penny. Should I fall on hard times, my awkward initiative on that Madras-Calcutta flight would have kept the wolf from the door. All that remains for me is to track down present day India coach Anil Kumble and get his autograph for the front cover.
(The writer is a brand consultant with an interest in music, humour and, of course, cricket)
