In the elaborate theatre of cricket, paradox often masquerades as poetry. Few stories capture this better than the tale of Bhagwat Subramanya Chandrasekhar — a man whose withered right arm, the residue of childhood polio, became a wand that spun legends into defeat and turned deformity into divinity. It is a tale where tragedy and triumph are inextricably entwined, where cricket’s cruellest jest became its most astonishing gift.
It was the King himself — Sir Vivian Richards — who
reportedly termed Chandra’s emaciated limb “the Hand of God.” And who better
than Richards to acknowledge the arcane genius of a man who had once made him
look merely mortal? In the winter of 1974, the young Antiguan, destined for
greatness, found himself repeatedly bamboozled by Chandra’s curious concoction
of top-spinners and googlies, hurled from an arm that seemed to defy anatomical
logic. In his debut Test at Bangalore, Richards fell cheaply to Chandra in both
innings. He might have blossomed earlier had the Indian selectors not inexplicably
omitted Chandra in the second Test — a decision that saw Richards plunder 192
runs in a carnival of strokes. But Chandra returned, and with him, balance was
restored. Richards never found his footing again that series, finishing with an
average of just 23.
Years later, when India toured England in 1979, Chandra —
near the twilight of his career — would still have the last laugh. Richards,
now an icon of the game, met his old nemesis at Taunton. When Gundappa
Viswanath tossed the ball to Chandra, the West Indian reportedly sneered, “What
has he been brought on for?” Moments later, he was dismissed. There are
whispers that Chandra greeted his arrival at the crease with, “Here is my
bunny.” Apocryphal, perhaps. But it’s the kind of myth that reality rarely
dares to create unless it carries some hidden truth.
The Weapon Forged in
Weakness
Chandrasekhar’s greatness lies not just in numbers — though
those are formidable enough — but in the sheer improbability of his art. Struck
by polio at the age of five, his right arm was condemned to wither, limp and
unformed. But from that ruin emerged a physics-defying weapon. The lack of
muscular symmetry gifted Chandra a whiplash motion, a peculiar blend of speed
and torque, and an eerie unpredictability that turned his deliveries into
riddles written in seam.
There have been athletes who have overcome the limits of
their bodies — Wilma Rudolph sprinting to Olympic gold after childhood
paralysis; Bethany Hamilton surfing after a shark took her arm — but Chandra’s
story remains unique. His disability did not just coexist with his success; it
was integral to it.
Bounding in with a long, deceptively relaxed run-up, Chandra
delivered his leg-spinners and top-spinners at speeds that startled batsmen.
His bowling often bordered on medium pace, and his unpredictability wasn’t a
byproduct of randomness but of a rhythm so unorthodox it evaded anticipation.
Even Chandra admitted he often didn’t know what the ball would do after
pitching. And yet, within that chaos lived calculation.
John Edrich at The Oval in 1971 could attest to that —
undone by a delivery named after that year’s Derby winner, “Mill Riff,” a
faster ball that shattered his stumps as his bat hovered airily. Charlie
Griffith was once bounced — yes, bounced — by Chandra. That the ball struck
Griffith’s body is less surprising than the fact that Chandra tried it at all.
Numbers and the Art
of Destruction
Chandrasekhar's final career statistics — 242 wickets in 58
Tests at an average of 29.74 — only begin to tell his story. The more revealing
metric lies in his performance in India’s 14 Test victories during his time: 98
wickets at 19.27, a strike rate of 45.4. That is not a spinner doing his job.
That is a match-winner at work.
It was Chandra who scripted India’s first historic win in
England at The Oval in 1971, with a spell of 6 for 38. It was Chandra who spun
through New Zealand in Auckland and eviscerated the West Indies in
Port-of-Spain. It was Chandra who delivered back-to-back masterclasses at Melbourne
and Sydney during the Packer-split 1977-78 series — 6-wicket hauls that echoed
with the groan of crumbling reputations.
At home, he set Eden Gardens alight in 1973, turning the
game with a spell of sorcery against Tony Greig’s England. The next Eden
miracle came two years later, when the West Indies, cruising to victory, were
undone by Chandra's sudden resurgence, conjured by Pataudi's unwavering faith.
From mediocrity to magnificence, Chandra claimed Lloyd and Kallicharran in
quick succession, sealing a win that few thought possible.
The Quiet Giant
Among the famed Indian spin quartet — Bedi, Prasanna,
Venkataraghavan, and Chandrasekhar — it was Chandra who spoke least, yet
delivered most when the stakes soared. He lacked Bedi’s elegance, Prasanna’s
guile, or Venkat’s control — but none could shift the axis of a Test match
quite like him.
His idiosyncratic journey to international cricket was no
less dramatic. Selected for the national side just months after his domestic
debut, he was fast-tracked on potential alone. Inconsistent early on — aided
not by India’s notoriously clumsy fielding — he faded, returned, and finally
found his defining rhythm in the watershed series of 1971. By then, Solkar and
Wadekar had reshaped India's close-in fielding, and Chandra’s artistry found
the safety net it long deserved.
The Batting Phantom
There is almost comedic charm in Chandra’s ineptitude with
the bat. With 24 ducks and an average of 4.67, he was the very caricature of a
tail-ender. His total Test runs — a mere 167 — fell short of his wickets tally
by a healthy margin. A bat, famously hollowed out by Gray-Nicolls to
commemorate four ducks in a series, became his reluctant badge of honour.
And yet, there was courage even in that — the courage of
survival, of standing tall at the non-striker’s end, of sharing the crease long
enough to create improbable lower-order stands.
The Last Spell
Chandra’s end came not with a bang but a gradual dimming.
The young Pakistani batsmen of the late 1970s, agile of foot and resolute of
mind, read him better than most. Still, he ended that series outperforming his
peers. But time, like spin, waits for no one. England, in 1979, was the final
curtain. Viv Richards may have fallen at Taunton, but at Edgbaston, Gower and
Boycott took brutal toll. That was the end.
Even retirement brought its trials. In 1991, a truck
accident left him hospitalized once more, this time requiring crutches. The old
affliction — leg ulcers, brittle joints, and an unpredictable body — returned.
But Chandra never stopped showing up for life. In 2011, he travelled to Perth
to commemorate India’s first polio-free year — a poetic full-circle moment for
the man whose career had once spun out from polio’s cruel grip.
The Man Who Bowled
Against Fate
Bhagwat Chandrasekhar was not merely a spinner. He was a
phenomenon — a cricketer who defied anatomical orthodoxy, turned fragility into
ferocity, and built a career not despite his deformity, but through it. He
was never the polished performer, never the poster-boy of discipline. He was
chaos made craft, defect turned defiance.
He never wrote his legend with speeches or swagger. The
tales were left for the turning ball, the top-spinner that leapt off a benign
pitch, the batsman who stood bewildered, and the crowd that roared in
disbelief.
He is, and forever will be, cricket’s most extraordinary
paradox: the match-winner forged from misfortune, the magician who never quite
knew what trick would come out next — and whose spells still echo with the
strange, beautiful rhythm of destiny.
Thank You
Faisal Caesar
