^{He was not born to be a cricketer and he did not elicit comparisons to the Almighty, but he was the embodiment of what every coach wanted his pupil to be, what every father wanted to see in his son.}

There is just so much to celebrate about Anil Kumble, more than just the numbers or the longevity or the efficacy. I have always been convinced that he was one of the few cricketers who could pursue whatever he wanted to and be successful. And that is saying a lot, because talents and penchants are not universal, but character and discipline stretch across every sphere of life.

I remember feeling an intense love for this sport circa 1990, around the same time that Kumble made his debut. I remember listening with a pocket radio pinned firmly against my ear with friends huddled around me under the class benches or on the school bus, and although it was just a voice in my ear, a Kumble topspinner invariably brought the same excitement that a Tendulkar boundary did. In ODI cricket, whenever a captain, all the way from Azhar to Tendulkar to Ganguly to Dravid, looked with roving eyes and a question mark across the field, Kumble was handed the ball. And with it came a special anticipation because you knew India was on the prowl.

Kumble hails from Karnataka, a state that has yielded immortal giants of Indian cricket. They are all simple-living, high-performing, and above all, noble. They always make the news for the right reasons. I cannot help but wonder what it is, and maybe one can attribute it to the education and the culture. There is rarely any fanfare or unnecessary ostentation in their cricket, for their energies are singularly devoted to performance and that underrated attribute of professionalism. Their approach and their achievements call for constant celebration, for in a few months time, another one of these storied greats from Karnataka will leave us.

We enjoy watching different players for different reasons. Ganguly was godly on the off-side, Warne has produced the most highlight reels and gaping mouths, Richards brought a sense of Hollywood to his batting, and Tendulkar is worthy of worship to many. But with Kumble, there was not much of this. He was not born to be a cricketer and he did not elicit comparisons to the Almighty, but he was the embodiment of what every coach wanted his pupil to be, what every father wanted to see in his son. Kumble achieved unlimited successes with limited abilities, and although that might be less attractive than the exploits of a Tendulkar or a Gavaskar, it must be mentioned with a deep sense of respect and admiration.

Harsha Bhogle recently said that if he had a daughter, someone like Kumble would make for an ideal son-in-law. Compliments do not climb much higher than that. Kumble was special because everyone, from the best bus driver to the IT geek to the school teacher to the aspiring student, could relate to him. We can hail Sachin but we must try to be like Kumble, because what Kumble wore on his sleeve every day of his career can be imbibed and taught, and all of us would do well to take a leaf out of that book. Money, fame, and fortune victimize all but the most balanced, and thus Kumble was the ideal role model. Yes, the future of Indian cricket is bright and unfettered, and it will be fun to watch, but one cannot exactly say that he looks forward to emulating the Harbhajans, Sreesanths, and Yuvrajs of today.

For the most part of those 619 Tests and 337 ODI wickets, Kumble must have been the most underrated Indian cricketer. They claimed that he succeeded only on India’s favorable dustbowls, that he did not spin the ball enough, that batsmen would latch on to his style sooner or later. The fact of the matter is, when India called, only Kumble always answered. He answered those incessant critics with only the ball, for retaliation and expletives were not part of his armory. Batsmen could never relax, for he kept coming at them with the same intensity in those eyes, be it his fifth over or his fiftieth. And eventually, the trademark quicker one would skid through and displace the furniture or thud lethally into an unsuspecting pad. He was modest almost to a sin, and for a man whose deliveries merely went straight through, 956 international scalps is no mean feat.

And now the sun has set on a glittering career, and the light it emanates will be used by future generations of cricketers and citizens alike. I will miss Anil, for he was the un-celebrity-like celebrity that I most looked up to. Many would have shed a tear when he took off that well-worn India cap for the last time, for if anyone ever played with that chakra on his forehead and his heart on his sleeve, it was Anil. In Antigua, he played with a jaw that was literally in two pieces and was held together by a mummy-like cast around his head, and then took Brian Lara’s prized wicket to top it off to give India a sniff at victory. It was symbolic of what the man brought to the table every single day for 18 years. His penultimate delivery to Matthew Hayden was reminiscent of a decade past, for it fizzed off the wicket and almost took Dhoni’s head with it. His last one was not – a tired full toss that was dispatched to the long-on boundary. It was an inglorious end to an utterly glorious career.

Photo Courtesy: Prabu.S

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