Return of the King

‘‘I will not be involved with Indian cricket anymore. If, after serving the country for so many years, this is what I get in return, I don’t want to be a part of it,’’ he went on record to say.

It was a line that touched every Indian who had ever been a child. So, as the Haryana Hurricane sulked in private, the grieving public sorted through the sepia photographs. The camera served them well, for it had captured all the moments that made a life remarkable.

His first India cap in the 1978-79 series in Pakistan, 32 wickets in the following season at home against Pakistan. And then, holding up the enormous Prudential Cup in the Lord’s verandah. Four sixes off Eddie Hemmings off consecutive balls to save the follow-on at Lord’s in 1990. Beside himself with delight after breaking Richard Hadlee’s record of 431 Test wickets in 1993-94.

Some soundbites played back at this stage. Kapil, still a Rapidex product, told the world, ‘‘I thanks my mother and I thanks my god, and I thanks everyone….’’ None of it took away from his claim to being India’s biggest, most likeable sporting icon. One man communicated the message that if talent, grit and sheer joy in sport spoke, grammar was irrelevant.

It was still years away from the BBC breakdown, when Karan Thapar made Oprah look like an ogre as a blue-shirted Kapil let the tears fall on live television. ‘‘I didn’t do it,’’ he said in flawless English. But no one was listening. The picture told the story, and all of India was watching.

So, the fans waited. The Kapil posters became a little dog-eared on the walls, but the cheery twinkle in those eyes didn’t fade away. The faith remained intact. Meanwhile, there were signs that the sulk was fading. Golf—which he had described as ‘‘a sport I love but have never been able to spend time on’’—was drawing him away from his various businesses (Dev and Dev, Dev Features et al) and to the greens. The media, smelling a story, became his shadow again, but the man had matured. No cricketing questions, was the firm dictum. No one dared disobey.

But of course, if Kapil had to return to the public space, it had to be via cricket. The magic hour came on July 23, 2002. Viv Richards, who had publicly reposed faith in Kapil at a time the world seemed to be wavering, handed him the glittering Wisden Indian Cricketer of the Century award. The faith had been vindicated, the absolution was complete.

Since then, it’s just got better. When Laureus, bestower of the most coveted sports awards in the world, wanted to open a chapter in India, their first choice of a pointsperson was Kapil. ‘‘It was a natural choice,’’ says Iain Banner, chief executive of Laureus.

‘‘When I was introducing Kapil to the chairman of the New York Stock Exchange, I described him as the Michael Jordan of India. The vice-chairman was there as well, a man of Indian origin, and he corrected me, saying, ‘In India we have only one sport, cricket. Kapil is bigger than Michael, an icon to a billion people.’ It said a lot.’’

It’s not just about rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous and sophisticated—though Kapil makes his obligatory P3 appearances as well—or teeing off with the biggest and best of them. It’s about holding the head high and keeping the dignity intact in the face of an intrusive media, an inquisitive public and the inflexible rules of stardom.

‘‘When you talk about icons, they don’t get much bigger than Kapil,’’ Arun Lal, India opener during Kapil’s time, tries to explain the phenomenon. ‘‘He is the biggest there is, the Amitabh Bachchan of cricket. No one apart from people of their colossal stature can stage such comebacks.’’

As a result, Kapil gets the kind of media attention that even contemporary cricketers miss. ‘‘I don’t like being in the media so much,’’ he says earnestly. ‘‘But it’s not something I can do anything about. Wherever I go, they come after me, write whatever I say. I am not comfortable with it because I don’t court the media at all.’’ Journos trying to track him down would agree.

In an era of six-second celebs, the Kapil charisma refuses to run out of steam. ‘‘Paaji never says no to anyone,’’ says Joy Chakraborty of Tiger Sports Marketing, an active organiser of golf tournaments. ‘‘Whenever there is a big tournament to be inaugurated or a new brand in need of an ambassador, we approach him. He never charges money and he never refuses.’’

Which leads one to wonder whether Kapil can even keep track of the number of organisations he’s involved with. The answer is typically straightforward: ‘‘It’s not that I need to be everywhere everyday. My businesses are taken care of by other people and I spend a lot of time on the golf courses. Nothing else, including the Laureus work, occupies me for more than a few days once in a while.’’

The reason he has it so pat, analyses former Test cricketer Atul Wassan, is because of his shrewd business sense. ‘‘Plus cricket is a metaphor for life, it teaches you that a good day is followed by a bad one and you need to be positive through it all. And Kapil is such a huge cricketer.’’

And what of the eyeball-grabbing CID stint? ‘‘As long as I didn’t have to act, I was fine with the idea. After all, I have been myself for 45 years,’’ he flashes a rare grin.

That’s probably where the Azhars and Jadejas got it wrong.