Jumbo lands

Anil Kumble’s retirement on a lazy Sunday afternoon is as unexpected as it was expected. After all, just a few weeks ago, when the din for fresher arms and legs had started shattering eardrums, he presented his most combative face: “I will go away on my terms, when I am ready.’’ Nobody thought it would be so soon, so sudden; his exit, if nothing, signals the end of samurais from the world of cricket. Just like the fabled Japanese warriors, Kumble too believed in total loyalty, putting his life on line each time he turned out for his country. He fought with the last ball too, for the last wicket, often surpassing himself when the odds were against him or the team. Even the most romantic writer could not have scripted such a perfect ending though. For Kumble, the Kotla has been his garden of conquests: it shed tears each time he walked on it and almost always rewarded him with a rich bounty, including an extraordinary all-ten-wicket haul nearly a decade ago. Indeed, he might be going away as the captain of the team, as its supreme commander; but he was, in reality, its greatest soldier. He carried himself with amazing dignity and humility, had unbelievable reserves of fight within, and was the one man, both, teammate and opponent loved, respected and feared. Kumble is not your regular cricketer from India though. He is good-looking but never flamboyant; he is intelligent but hardly ever outspoken; he is friendly but not extroverted. He carries a wise head around and was the perfect role model for little boys who could get corrupted by the glamour, money and women that came with the game. In the beginning, he was the hunted one though. Critics made fun of him, calling him the fastest bowler in the Indian team. But batsmen, for the first time, were caught in a different kind of web: they were bamboozled by spitting flippers, stunned by darting leg-breaks; they failed to read him in the air, and worse, couldn’t see him off the track. Not surprisingly, he came to be known as the smiling assassin. Bespectacled, quiet and almost innocent, he looked like any man on the street; but he was actually a deadly killer in disguise. He plotted each kill with his accuracy, speed and perseverance. Indeed, he was the one who made slow death popular before Glenn McGrath usurped that philosophy. As the barbs became unbearable, Kumble decided to add spin to his armoury at the turn of the millennium. But a rotator cuff injury came along and slowed him down. At the same time, Harbhajan Singh made his mark and India adopted the onespinner strategy, especially on tours. It meant that Kumble, till then, the team’s prime match-winner was reduced to a mere spectator: it hurt his pride as much as it hurt his feelings. He went back to the drawing board, fine-tuned his googly, worked on his fitness and waited for his turn. As luck would have it, Harbhajan picked up an injury in Australia, circa 2003. Kumble struck back with a vengeance. He picked up 24 scalps in three Tests and announced his second coming. He was a rejuvenated bowler thereon, rolling among wickets all over again. He had already become the elder statesman of the team; now suddenly, he was making a charge towards 400, 500 and finally 600. Eventually, he left everybody behind, save Shane Warne and Muthiah Muralitharan. Just about a year ago, the smiling assassin had two regrets though: his inability to make proper use of the bat and the tendency of the national captaincy to float past him each time it was up in the air. In August 2007, one of his dreams came true: he scored a century at the Oval. He celebrated it like he had never done before, jumping deliriously and laughing incredulously like a stunned little boy. A few months later, Rahul Dravid walked away from the crown of thorns and Tendulkar refused to wear it again. Unexpectedly, it landed on Kumble’s head. He was probably at the right place, at the right time; but then, as events in Australia proved, he turned out to be the right man too. He led the side like a proud statesman, dousing the flaming controversies with amazing elan and insight. But then slowly the poisonous tentacles of age were encircling him; in Sri Lanka, even as Mendis and Murali were making Indian batsmen look like bunnies, Kumble himself was struggling. And then, from Bangalore to Delhi, he agonized over close to 85 overs for his next wicket. He missed the Mohali Test with an injury and when another one attacked him at the Kotla, he knew his time was up. Without much fanfare, or bitterness, he made his announcement, flashing his trademark smile. Every time Kumble’s name is invoked in this writer’s presence, two images flash through the mind: the first one was the pain, almost anger, in his eye when he spoke about the 2003 World Cup final a few months later. He was omitted and it was clear that he felt it was a travesty, a grave injustice. What hurt him more, though, was the fact that he couldn’t fight for India in its most important match. The other one was the sight of him walking down the aisle in Antigua in 2002 with a bandage around his head. Left with a broken jaw, and unbearable pain, he could have simply taken the long flight back home. But he had a point to prove: he was dropped in an unsavoury way in the previous Test. Taking pain-killers after each over, he bowled his heart out for close to two hours. He checkmated Brian Lara on a dead track and trapped Carl Hooper LBW too; but the umpire ruled him not out and the match petered out. Kumble gave up only when victory had clearly slipped out of India’s grasp. The stadium (as did the Kotla now) gave him a standing ovation as he took his cap and walked away the last time. Every eye in the press box was wet and each pen saluted the brave effort of this warrior. It symbolized his fighting spirit, burning ambition and the desire to prove his detractors wrong at any cost. Adios Samurai. The fight is over.