For starters, as a kid growing up, I thought Sunil Gavaskar owned All India Radio. The reason was a simple one for a nine/ten-year-old. Whenever India were playing and I was glued to my transistor, he kept batting and batting and I heard his name all day.
I considered myself the second-biggest fan of Sunil Gavaskar. The top seed was Raj Chaudhuri, my school friend who knew the Sunny Days chapters by heart. Divine justice then that Sunny bhai and Raj, settled in the UK, are now good friends.
Growing up in Kolkata and being mad about the game, I was mesmerised by Gavaskar. I was in love with him. I watched every Test match in Calcutta, every ball, and coaxed my father to take me early so that I could watch Gavaskar warm up as well. I did not want to miss a moment of when he was out in the middle. It may seem funny and a trifle silly now, but I would be sad and shed a tear or two when the Indian team left Kolkata for their next venue. SMG was not in my city anymore.
My father, a renowned film personality, decided to give me a surprise. It was a series against a depleted West Indies and the third Test was at Eden Gardens. On day four, my father pulled some strings and got me into the Indian dressing room. Gavaskar was batting, and I got in 10 mins before lunch. The head of the catering department was my local guardian inside. I stuck to him like glue. The other greats of Indian cricket were in the dressing room, barring Dilip Vengsarkar, who was batting with Gavaskar.
But I couldn’t be bothered. I just wanted to see my idol from up close. Ten minutes seemed like 10 hours. Finally Hanumantha Rao and Ram Punjabi, the umpires, called for lunch. I was a fly on the wall. There was absolute mayhem inside the dressing room. Jokes, laughter, it was all happening. Then the door to the old dressing room opened, and we could hear a pin drop. In walked Gavaskar, and my heart went out of my body, or so it felt. He came in, took his gear off, wore a towel and sat in his seat with his eyes closed. Not a word with anyone.
After about 10 mins, MAK Pataudi, the manager, went and tapped on his shoulder. There was a piece of grilled fish and some sweet curd (the famous mishti doi from Calcutta). He finished his meal, and started reading a magazine. Another tap from Pataudi after a while, and he went to the washroom. He probably took a quick shower, came back and started getting his gear on. The last thing to get on to his body was the floppy hat. A few shadow forward defences in front of the mirror, and the door flung open again. He was out of the room. Right then, the mayhem was back and normalcy resumed. Such was the aura of the man. I get goosebumps writing about it, and remember this incident like it happened yesterday. As a footnote, if I may add, he scored 107 in the first inns and 182 not out in the 2nd. The aura was earned, not bought.
Fast forward to me playing cricket professionally for Bengal. I bumped into Sunny bhai on a flight to Kolkata. He was on a personal trip, and I mustered all the courage I could rake up and introduced myself. I was so choked I could barely hear myself. He comforted me, and spoke to me at length. I had a million questions, but the flight was only two hours and 30 minutes long. I wished the flight was for two days. He, I’m sure, wished for it to be 20 mins, but he never made me feel that. He gave me valuable tips on batting. I had enjoyed a good year, and had made it to the East Zone team in the Duleep and Deodhar Trophies. He told me he hadn’t seen me bat, so could not help me technically. But his words on how to build an innings, how to give an hour to the bowler every morning and make sure he gave you the next four, were enlightening, to say the least.
A couple of years ago, we were both at the Star Sports studio in Mumbai doing commentary. Suddenly, I saw Sunny bhai trotting up and down. I mustered up the courage to ask him what was bothering him. He very nonchalantly told me that nothing was the matter, but that he was short of his 10,000 steps for the day and making up. Funnily, Rohan, his son who is a great buddy of mine, also does his 10,000 steps often in between commentary stints.
Fast forward to all the times we have met since. I still get faint seeing him, and my speech gets rather mushy. Somethings don’t change, I suppose. The aura of the man continues to intrigue me. How could this man play 125 test matches against the likes of Marshall, Garner, Holding, Roberts, Thomson, Willis, Akram, and company without a helmet, and score the runs and hundreds that he did? Phew!
Happy birthday, Sir. There will never be another Sunil Manohar Gavaskar.