Gundappa Vishwanath

Genius is a misquoted word. Misunderstood and misrepresented. Misconceived and misused. A cliche through wanton and exaggerated use. Today anyone a little out of the ordinary is labelled so.

 

A genius of science or commerce may be evaluated. But how do you fathom a genius of art? How would one rank Gundappa Vishwanath as a batsman? Yes, highly impressive though his statistical record is, the 6080 runs for India was a mere incidence, not his major contribution.

 

The essence of his contribution were the innumerable match-winning innings that he played for India; the courageous fight-backs in the defence of India's honour; and most significantly, the endless hours of pristine pleasure that he gave to cricket lovers the world over with his charming style and graceful manner.

 

Yet his own initiation into international cricket against Ian Chappel’s all-conquering Australia had neither charm nor grace. As the 20-year youth walked back with a zero against his name, a team-mate within hearing distance is said to have remarked, "Why these fancy types when we have hardened ones available." That pithy remark upset his equilibrium. Outwardly he did not fly off at a tangent, but a grim resolve creased his innocent face.

 

In the 2nd essay a complete metamorphosis took place. He showed the world that he was indeed the lord of the world, not only by name. An innings of infinite charm and variety unfolded. Unstoppable were the wristy cuts and flicks, and the beautifully balanced drives. A century of runs came through 25  boundaries out of the innings of 137. Sheer timing and touch captivated the crowd as much as it amazed the players themselves.

 

In the following Test too the frail, dark youngster was in his element as he partnered Wadekar to give India a resounding victory over Graham Mckenzie, Ashley Mallet & company. No revengeful glance or remark did he resort to. Rather those who had come to scoff had no option but to give way to praises.

 

Even today, more than four decades after his retirement, I have seen people at Calcutta shed tears of joy at the mere mention of his name. And why not? How can they ever erase the memory of a small, lean frame walking out to meet the Goliaths at the Eden Gardens on a murky morning in 1969?

 

India was tottering at 2 down for none, with Graham Mckenzie breathing fire. Unruffled, he appeared like a kid who did not know that he had walked into a lion's den. Not a soul stirred as the frail child with pads too big for his size took guard. The environment had all the sinister forebodings: innings collapsing, gloomy surroundings, the Garden's wicket tinged with green and freshly laden with due. Even the Biblical David could not possibly have had such odds stacked against him.

 

To the first delivery of the superlative fast bowler McKenzie, he merely leaned back and coaxed it to the left of cover-point, Paul Sheahan, to the fence. The next delivery of frightening pace and bounce was gently patted down to nestle at his twinkling toes. And as the scowling Aussies raced in with their tails up, the thunderbolt unleashed boomeranged on them. The ball this time went crashing to the distant horizon, this time beating Sheahan on the right. Surely the tiny frame had steel-springs and ball-bearings in those wrists of his.

 

Thunderous applause broke loose. Eighty thousand spectators realized the presence of divinity They stood up in respect: God's own creation was in action. Even cynical critics were tongue-tied in admiration. But, more significantly, the Indian youngsters had found their idol.

 

Gundappa Raghunath Vishvanath was to come back to his favourite Eden Gardens to play many such innings of rare character and artistry. Just as he was destined to create many similar visions for audiences the world over.

 

Where exactly was he in the pantheon of batsmanship? His consistency never matched Sir Don's output. Nor were his technical skills as copy-book correct as Sir Jack Hobbs'. Neither did he possess the glamour of Denis Compton. Never dominated as Rohan Kanhai or, later, Vivian Richards did.

 

The power of Sir Gary Sobers eluded him just as did the silken grace of David Gower. Was far removed from the solidity of Hanif Mohammed or Sunil Gavaskar. Then, exactly how would we rate the batsman?

 

When serious cricket addicts sit down to discuss Vishy they do not waste time with statistics. No figures can tell the story of his artistry. Words fail to picture him. No turn of phrase seems adequate. Even the highest praise sounds meaningless. No writer has yet been able to do justice to his marvellous qualities. He needed a Shakespeare or a Tagore. Or at least, Cardus or Robertson-Glasgow.

 

He actually did not belong to this materialistic age of ours. His batsmanship was not a thought, but a feeling. The head stood still, only the heart fluttered. Only a genius knows his real self, or does he? Geniuses make their own rules, their own ways. Convention, orthodoxy, trends, tactics bury their faces in the presence of a genius.    

 

Vishy took me to the rarefied realms. To the sublime. He had every orthodox stroke in his repertoire but he executed them in his own way. Made batting appear the easiest of pastimes. For him to cut or to flick a ball from the stumps and that too against the movement was as simple as dipping an idli into the sambar. Never, never have I seen him losing his balance, his composure, his natural elegance.

 

The great Sunil Gavaskar is on record that no other contemporary batter seemed set from the first delivery as Vishy did. The West Indian pacemen related after the 1979 World Cup that he was the most authoritative against them. Players far and wide, mates and opponents, were unanimous in their love for him. His charm and artistry had captivated them. He was one in a million. Never required to stoop to gamesmanship or the so-called killer instinct to thrive in the heat of battle.

 

 Doubt if he ever thought about match conditions or situations or opponents. Although a genius, even in that genre he had a truly remarkable quality. Was never arrogant, never moody, never impatient like other geniuses. No instigation could upset him. No Lillee, no Miandad, no Greig could rattle his composure.

 

 Never an inferior word passed between those lips of his; never a glare for any mischievous opponent. He was as charming to the beggar on the street as he was to the royalty on throne. He never discriminated; never distinguished; never discouraged.

 

Vishwanath painted pretty pictures wherever he played the game.Was the first Indian to score centuries against every Test-playing opponent both at home and abroad. No bowler ever worried him. He was at home to pace and spin alike. On any pitch and under any condition he always looked his usual graceful self.

 

 One of his finest knocks was against Clive Lloyd's West Indies team in 1974 at Eden Gardens. With India down by 2 matches to nil and Sunil Gavaskar not available through injury, Gundappa took it upon himself to combat the fury of Roberts, Holder and Julian. A flawless innings of 139 unfolded and laid the foundation for a grand victory as Chandrasekhar drove the final nails in on the last day. Scintillating stuff it was; super timing and touch. Bengal’s famous litterateur Moti Nandi wrote: Indra parked his chariot in mid-air to marvel at the pristine pleasure of the innings. Moti-da was not wrong.

 

In the next Test at Chepauk Another thrilling innings of 97 not out paved the way for another victory, thereby enabling India to draw level. Never before had India won two consecutive Tests against opponents of the calibre of Greenidge, Richards, Kallicharan, Lloyd and Roberts, among others.

 

Away from India, too, he was as successful. Match-winning innings he played in plenty; match-saving innings no less. At a time when legendary batsmen and outstanding bowlers dominated the Test scene, Gundappa Vishwanath and his brother-in-law, Sunil Gavaskar, were among the very best in the whole wide world.

 

In the slips cordon he was as safe as any. Held 63 catches in his 91 Tests, 87 of which were consecutive. His Test average is as high as 41.93 and includes 14 centuries with 222 as his highest score.      

 

In a first class career that spanned from 1967 to 1988 he had 17970 runs at 40.9 including 44 centuries'. A career glittering with golden deeds. Very impressive as his figures are, still those fail miserably to do justice to the wizardry of this diminutive genie.

 

Such was his spirit that he once called back a batter on being given out. At Mumbai in the BCCI's Jubilee Test against England, Vishwanath led India. When Bob Taylor was adjudged caught behind, the batsman walked up to Vishy and said that he had not touched the ball.

 

Without a moment's hesitation, Vishy requested the umpire that he was withdrawing his appeal! The umpire had no option but to ask the batter to continue batting. The pair of Taylor and Botham added vital runs and India ultimately lost the match. But for Vishi's generosity, the great soul that he was, England would not have won the match.

 

He, of course, became the target of criticism from all quarters. Even lost his captaincy. But he showed no remorse, no regret. Merely smiled his misfortune away. But when the man himself was a victim of a dreadful lbw decision during the 1979 Oval run-chase, no English sportsman came to his aid. Not that he asked for any. But such is the irony of life.

 

Like the sages of yore, he sacrificed his own interests to serve others. It is indeed men like him who embellish the noble aspects of life, as of sports.

 

Not many saw him at Gardens in a Duleep Trophy tie against East Zone in 1968, the year before he first played Test cricket. A treacherous wicket made a mockery of conventional batsmanship. Even Jaisimha and Pataudi who got runs were not very comfortable.

 

Yet on that poor pitch, he was a Mozart in deep contemplation. Melody on his finger-tips as he caressed the chords. Rhythm and tune mingled setting forth enchanting symphony. No erratic strumming of the strings was this, the kind of strumming that sends the uninitiated into superficial ecstasy. This was celestial music exclusively for those cricket lovers who could decipher the authenticity of a cricket stroke by the thud of willow meeting leather.

 

Thankfully Vishy, the great artist that he was, never lost his innocence. God had ingrained modesty into him with his own hands. I doubt if he cares to remember his 230 on his Ranji Trophy debut. Or his Test debut century against Lawry's Australians.

 

Grace and graciousness flowed in his veins. Never referred to any of his masterful knocks that brought victories to India. On that fateful day in 1976 at Port of Spain when the West Indies fast bowlers were peppering the Indians with bouncers, courageously Gundappa fought on with a broken finger as did his mates and brought about a historic victory by chasing more than 400 runs in the 2nd innings. But from Vishy's lips we never heard about that brave century or any of his glorious deeds.

 

Thankfully again, Vishy never bothered to change his style or his attitude to the game. He was forever the artist. Never fretted or fumed about criticisms or crowds. Never gave a thought to fame or fortune. Never fawned upon the powerful. He was a singular man in the service of others. Far far removed from the humdrum world of mortal men and their rat races.

 

Yet at the same time he was a man of the world. A lover of life. A man of remarkable wit. He saw humour in the gravest of crisis. Once when the umpire negatived an lbw appeal against him, our medium pacer Subroto Guha suggested, "That was a straight ball." Immediately a smile surfaced, "Bacchu (nickname), marvellous swinger that you are, the ball must have been swinging away!"

 

When people applauded, little Vishy would doff his cap and raise his bat all round the ground. Not for him the rudeness of pointing the bat at some particular people. Such crassness never engulfed him. Once about 25 years back, my 16 year old trainee Dilshad Akhtar said, "Sir, it is not the school but the schooling that makes a man." Absolutely correct you were, dear Dilshad. So much to learn from youngsters. Our idol Gundappa symbolised the sentiment in the best possible manner.

Vishy – just two years my senior – was my contemporary yet my admiration, my affection for him knew no bounds. Every time he faced a ball I had butterflies fluttering in my stomach. There must have been countless others, young and old, who shared my feeling.

 

The unique appeal of Vishy was the universal admiration for him. No other cricketer received the kind of adulation that he received from his opponents, peers and competitors alike. No one seemed to have had an altercation with him. No one can remember any misdemeanor on his part. None has ever said a word against him. No malice. As peers, we were mesmerized by his genius.

 

His is a unique place in the annals of cricket. As an artist he was supreme. His sportsmanship traversed all obstacles. His wit had class and subtlety. He was not tall, lean or born with chiselled features. Nothing in his exterior form suggested that he was extraordinary. Yet that was exactly what he was and precisely where he scored above all others. Whatever he did, he did effortlessly. Whenever he spoke, it was all humour and civil. When he batted he made the difficult art of batting look easy.

 

Vishy’s muscular forearms and wrists of steel we envied. Once I asked him the secret, as he never appeared to do any physical exercise. Very coolly, he picked up an empty beer glass and repeatedly brought the glass to his lips and lowered it again! He smiled, “Raju, if you do this often enough, you too will have similar forearms and wrists!”   Instantly he slapped my right palm in his famous trademark style of appreciation. That’s Gundappa for you.

 

Artistry is in the eyes and the ears of subtle minds. People who have their hearts beating regarded Vishwanath to be a genius. An artiste with the sitar of a bat. He played tunes with the willow; tunes of enchanting melody. Sending his audiences to ethereal heights. His saintly demeanour evoked admiration, respect and love. Only a genius could make the people respond so.

 

In the cricket pantheon he was Lord Shiva: A noble head and a noble heart.

 

*********

'