The best spinner Gavaskar ever faced

HE was a shy, reticent man, almost a recluse, who shunned the public glare, preferring a vacant corner in a crowded room so that he wouldn’t have to talk much. He had very limited socialising skills — a reflection of his being more comfortable with himself than a sign of his lacking in self-confidence. In fact, his faith in his own abilities, especially when it came to spin bowling against batsmen of high calibre, was astounding. What he lacked in words, he more than made up with his astonishing range as a left-arm bowler who batsmen dreaded to face.

Rajinder Goel’s creative magic would frustrate and exhaust some of the best players in India. Yet, he never played for the country, being forced to live in the shadow of Bishan Singh Bedi. The two had tremendous respect for each other, and Goel did not have any bitterness at having been left behind in the race. He had an amazing calm about him.

The quiet, soft-spoken Rajinder Goel would open up on the cricket field, letting the round red-leathered ball play myriad, deceptive tricks that would test the patience of any batsman to his limits. In these intense battles fought to the bitter end, the loser would invariably be the batsman. Even a Sunil Gavaskar found it difficult to escape the noose which Goel, with his nagging accuracy and very subtle variations of speed and turn, would tighten around the batsman’s neck. No wonder Gavaskar rated him the best spinner he has ever faced in his career.

My memory lights up with an incident, illustrative of Goel’s mastery and Gavaskar’s surrender, from a Ranji Trophy knock-out match which was played on a vicious turner at Rohtak in the eighties. Gavaskar got beaten with a series of successive deliveries, with the ball eluding the edge and landing in the wicketkeeper’s gloves in one over. Finding himself unable to counter the spinning deliveries, Gavaskar moved away from the crease just before Goel was to deliver his next ball. In a good-natured banter that indicated his helplessness, Gavaskar was suggesting that Goel might as well bowl without him being at the crease!

Goel’s creative magic would frustrate and exhaust some of the best players of spin bowling in India. His Haryana teammate Ashok Malhotra, who, in the book of many experts, has been among the finest players of spin bowling in the country, rates him, like Gavaskar has, the best spinner of his times. “Even in the nets, he would tell me, ‘I will not let you hit me and get you out.’” And, true to his word, reminisces Malhotra, “I would try my best, but fail. His accuracy was so nagging, and his variation so sudden, that I would give up, frustrated and exhausted in my attempts to survive.”

It were these qualities that made him take the highest number of wickets in the Ranji Trophy, a haul of 637 that is unlikely to be broken in a hurry. Yet, he never played for India, being forced to live in the shadow of Bishan Singh Bedi, the left-arm spinner whose emergence coincided with Goel’s career. The two were poles apart in their style and substance. If Bedi was a teaser, excruciatingly slow in the air and forcing the batsman to wait an eternity for the ball to drop, Goel was flattish, making the batsman hurry and quicken his footwork. Bedi is gracious in his praise and acknowledges Goel to be the better bowler than him. Many would like to believe that what separates the two is not their skills, but luck. One was fortunate to move ahead, the other unlucky to be left behind and toil year after year, for 27 years on the domestic circuit and weave his own spinning web, while the likes of Bedi, Prasanna, Chandra and Venkat straddled the international arena.

Goel himself did not express any bitterness at having been left behind in the race. He had tremendous respect for Bedi’s craft and would never betray any emotion that would suggest he was a frustrated cricketer. He had an amazing calm about him and would dismiss any talk about him being unlucky with a smile and a gentle shrug of his shoulders.

It was difficult to draw him out and make him talk about himself. It was as if he was, to the best of his ability, fulfilling a role that providence had assigned to him. He demanded very little from the world, a contented man, who would even decline a promotion in his banker’s job if it meant having to leave his

hometown Rohtak. When the

State Bank of India finally decided to promote him to an officer’s rank, which meant more money and better post-retirement benefits as well, he put a condition: he won’t agree if he is transferred.

There is an interesting story that probably sums up his attitude to the outside world. At the peak of his career, he got a contract to play in one of the English county leagues. He stayed in England for a few days, mostly indoors, rarely venturing out. The biting cold, an indifferent city and an alien culture was so daunting that he changed his mind and returned without even stepping onto the cricket field.

In one of the many interactions I had with him in the course of my reporting career, I asked him if this story of his brief England sojourn was true or not. He, in his typical fashion, laughed, said almost nothing, putting his arm around my shoulders and changed the topic.

His death has saddened a large fraternity of cricket followers with genuine anguish and grief that shows that there is still a place in this world for people who are happy with what they have and don’t cry for more.