On a dim, sullen winter’s day in Calcutta, as smoke curled above the Eden Gardens and tempers flickered like exposed fuses, Bishan Singh Bedi etched his name into cricketing history. His best figures in Test cricket — 7 for 98 — were not accompanied by celebration, but by collapsing wickets, chaos in the stands, and the haunting echoes of street violence. In this match, cricket became not a game, but a theatre of societal tension — every delivery, a defiance against disorder.
From the outset, the series against Australia in 1969-70 had
the feel of a cursed epic. The first Test was transplanted from riot-hit
Ahmedabad to the relatively placid setting of Bombay. Yet even in Bombay, calm
was elusive. The Brabourne Stadium witnessed its own descent into anarchy, with
stands aflame, missiles raining, and fielders arming themselves with stumps as
improvised shields. The following Tests in Kanpur and Delhi, remarkably subdued
by comparison, offered momentary reprieve — India drawing level at Delhi behind
the elegant spin of Bedi and EAS Prasanna. And then came Calcutta.
The city in 1969 was already in a slow churn of fury. Floods
in neighbouring East Pakistan had displaced thousands, and refugees poured into
West Bengal. In response, the state’s political underbelly grew volatile.
Maoist-inspired Naxalite movements clashed violently with the establishment,
and civil unrest simmered just beneath the surface. Eden Gardens, the
cricketing cauldron of the East, became a crucible not just for sport, but for
social friction.
A Match Under Siege
The visiting Australians arrived not merely as athletes, but
as inadvertent symbols of Western military intervention. A rumour — entirely
false, yet stubbornly persistent — had cast Doug Walters as a Vietnam War
veteran. For a city steeped in leftist ideology, this was enough. Protesters
massed outside the team hotel, shouting slogans and hurling stones. A pre-match
practice session was abandoned when 20,000 agitated fans poured into the
stadium just to glimpse the Australians.
But the story of the match would not be written in India’s
collapse. It would unfold in slow loops and measured arcs from a turbaned
figure with a left arm of wizardry. When Australia replied, Bedi entered the
scene as early as the 10th over. What followed was a masterclass in spin
bowling — not the relentless probing of attrition, but a performance of poetic
rhythm and tactical dexterity.
The Spell: Artistry
in a War Zone
Bedi's bowling that day was not just skill; it was
choreography. His action, like a dancer’s pirouette, released balls that dipped
and turned and whispered secrets to the pitch. Bill Lawry, Australia’s stoic
captain, resisted admirably, only to fall moments before stumps — caught close
in, beaten by flight and guile.
The following day, amidst a city bristling with civil
unrest, Bedi continued his silent assault. Ian Chappell, bristling with
confidence, and Walters, all grit and graft, compiled a century partnership.
But Bedi was relentless, floating one past Walters to have him stumped with
balletic precision by Farokh Engineer. Then came Ian Redpath, undone by the
sharp turn to slip. Paul Sheahan batted attractively before being run out, and
then, in the most pivotal moment of the match, Chappell fell one short of a
century — baited into a false stroke by a change of pace, caught at slip once
more.
Australia, threatening to amass a commanding lead, were held
to 335. Bedi finished with figures of 7 for 98, his magnum opus, delivered not
in triumph but in a gathering gloom — atmospheric and political.
Yet, the match was far from over.
Collapse and
Catastrophe
India’s second innings descended into farce. Only Ajit
Wadekar provided any ballast as Eric Freeman and Alan Connolly tore through the
top and middle order. India were bundled out cheaply again, setting the
Australians a meagre target of 39, which they chased down without loss.
But it was outside the boundary ropes that the real
devastation played out.
Tensions that had long simmered now boiled over. Ticket
scarcity had driven thousands to queue overnight, many in vain. When gates
failed to open on time, fury erupted. Crowds attempted to storm the counters.
Police responded with tear gas; the crowd responded with stones. Six people were
killed in the chaos; dozens injured. The sport had become a casualty of the
city’s wider crisis.
Even within the stadium, the atmosphere was fractured. The
infamous Ranji Stadium stand saw spectators from the upper deck hurl stones at
those below. In terror, fans surged onto the field, forcing a temporary halt to
play. Policemen, unable to restore order, made them sit along the boundary
ropes — an eerie tableau of disorder lining the outfield as cricket resumed
amid shadows.
The Australians, in a move equal parts symbolic and humane,
flanked the Nawab of Pataudi as they walked off the field once victory was
secured — a protective gesture towards the beleaguered Indian captain, who
risked being targeted by his own spectators.
As the Australians departed for the airport later that day,
their route was flanked for 200 yards by hostile demonstrators, throwing stones
and hurling abuse. The team left not just a cricket ground, but a war zone.
A Turbaned Artist in
a Torn Canvas
What endures from that Test — beyond the violence, the
broken glass, the tragic headlines — is a portrait of Bishan Bedi at the height
of his craft. Amid chaos, he brought calm precision. While the city
burned and crumbled, he turned on his heel and delivered art from 22 yards of
contested soil.
There is a peculiar nobility in such moments — a spinner
unfurling flight and loop while the world collapses outside. His 7-wicket haul
was not merely statistical excellence. It was resistance through rhythm. A
performance not staged in harmony with the crowd but defiantly against it.
That Calcutta Test remains one of Indian cricket’s most
surreal chapters — part Shakespearean tragedy, part street riot, part ballet.
And at the heart of it, spinning silk through the cinders, was Bishan Singh
Bedi: a craftsman whose genius was illuminated most fiercely when the light
around him had all but failed.
