The Bangalore Epic: A Test of Grit, Glory, and Redemption

In 1986, during a candid conversation at a London restaurant, Indian cricket legend Sunil Gavaskar confided to Pakistan’s Imran Khan that he intended to retire after the England series. Imran, however, was quick to object. He insisted that Gavaskar must continue playing, as Pakistan was scheduled to tour India the following year—and he wanted to achieve victory with Gavaskar still on the field.

Gavaskar expressed doubt, pointing out the political strains between India and Pakistan that often cast uncertainty over cricketing ties. Imran, though, was confident: the tour would happen. True to his prediction, cricket diplomacy prevailed. Both boards agreed to a “friendship tour,” and by the end of 1986, Pakistan’s much-anticipated visit to India was confirmed.

In January 1987, an 18-member Pakistan squad, led by the indomitable Imran Khan, landed on Indian soil for a five-Test and six-ODI tour. The stakes were immense. A series against India was always more than just cricket—it was a contest laden with history, pride, and an unrelenting desire for supremacy. For Imran, however, the challenge was even greater.

The team had arrived in India after a mixed run. They had reached the final of the Benson & Hedges World Series in Australia but fell to England at the last hurdle. Adding to the pressure was an off-field scandal. Qasim Umar, a former middle-order batsman, had hurled incendiary accusations against the team, alleging drug use, favouritism, and misconduct. The Pakistan Cricket Board swiftly buried the controversy by banning Umar for life, unwilling to let distractions derail their preparations for the upcoming World Cup, which they were co-hosting with India later that year.

The tour itself began in an underwhelming fashion. The first four Tests ended in dreary stalemates played on lifeless pitches that refused to produce a result. The crowd, eager for a decisive contest, grew restless. Frustration boiled over in Ahmedabad, where unruly fans pelted Pakistan’s boundary fielders with stones and rotten fruit. Twice, Imran led his team off the field in protest. The tension between the two sides was palpable—accusations of negative tactics flew from both camps.

But the fifth and final Test in Bangalore was destined for something far greater. Sensing the growing discontent, Indian cricket authorities prepared a ‘sporting’ pitch—one that would not allow either side to merely survive. What followed was a Test match that would etch itself into the annals of cricketing history, a battle fought on a crumbling battlefield where every run and every wicket carried the weight of history.

The Stage is Set: A Pitch from Hell

When the Pakistani team arrived at the M. Chinnaswamy Stadium in Bangalore, they found the pitch to be unlike anything they had encountered on the tour. It had a brittle, red surface that seemed to crack under the weight of expectation. Imran and vice-captain Javed Miandad examined it closely. Their initial assessment was that it would play true for the first few days before deteriorating into a spinner’s paradise. But what they failed to foresee was the pitch’s eagerness to unravel almost immediately.

Pakistan made two crucial last-minute changes. Iqbal Qasim, the left-arm spinner who had been sidelined for much of the series, was brought in at Miandad’s insistence. Imran, initially reluctant, yielded. Qasim’s experience, coupled with the left-handed angle he provided, would prove to be a masterstroke.

During the series, Gavaskar etched his name in history by becoming the first batsman to score 10,000 Test runs—a milestone that was celebrated across the cricketing world. Imran Khan himself was among the first to congratulate him at Ahmedabad, a gesture that reflected the pride of the entire subcontinent.

The final Test at Bangalore in March 1987 carried extra significance—it was Gavaskar’s farewell to international cricket. As a special tribute, captain Kapil Dev asked Gavaskar to walk out for the toss, an unprecedented gesture in cricketing history. Never before had a non-captain performed the coin toss when the captain was fully fit to play. The gesture drew universal applause and symbolised the respect Gavaskar commanded.

Imran won the toss and elected to bat. In hindsight, the decision seemed logical—bat first, post a decent total, and then exploit the crumbling pitch in the later stages. But within the first hour of play, it became evident that this was no ordinary wicket. The demons in the pitch had awoken early, and Maninder Singh, India’s left-arm spinner, turned tormentor-in-chief.

Collapse and Chaos: A Match Defined by Madness

Pakistan’s innings was nothing short of a horror show. The ball gripped, spat, and turned sharply from the very start. Maninder wove a web of destruction, claiming an incredible seven wickets as Pakistan crumbled to 116. Only Saleem Malik, with a valiant 33, provided some resistance.

By the end of the first day, India stood at a comfortable 68 for 2. The pendulum had swung decisively in their favour. Pakistan’s think-tank met that evening, grappling with a dilemma—why had Maninder extracted so much turn while Pakistan’s spinners had struggled? The answer came from an unexpected quarter.

Javed Miandad, ever the strategist, phoned his old friend Bishan Singh Bedi, the legendary Indian left-arm spinner. He requested an audience for Iqbal Qasim and off-spinner Tauseef Ahmed. That night, in a quiet corner of Bangalore, Bedi imparted wisdom that would change the course of the match.

“You’re trying too hard,” Bedi advised. “Don’t force the ball to turn. The pitch will do the work for you.”

The lesson was simple yet profound. When Qasim and Tauseef took the field on the second morning, they applied Bedi’s advice to perfection. India, expected to amass a commanding lead, instead collapsed for 145. The once-innocuous Qasim turned lethal, scalping wickets at crucial junctures. Tauseef provided perfect support, suffocating the Indian batsmen with relentless accuracy. Suddenly, the game was alive again.

An Uphill Battle: Pakistan’s Fight for Redemption

Trailing by 29, Pakistan’s second innings needed to be different. This time, they chose aggression over caution. Miandad promoted himself to open with Ramiz Raja, hoping to seize the initiative. Their 45-run stand provided a solid foundation, but wickets fell in clusters once again.

At 89 for 3, Pakistan was precariously placed. Then, in another unorthodox move, Imran sent Iqbal Qasim—normally a tailender—up the order to counter Maninder Singh’s spin. The ploy worked. Qasim, dogged and determined, added crucial runs alongside Saleem Malik and, later, Imran himself. When Pakistan ended the day at 155 for 5, holding a lead of 126, the game remained in the balance.

The following day, Saleem Yousuf played the innings of his life. The Pakistani wicketkeeper, known more for his glovework than his batting, counterattacked brilliantly. His 41, coupled with Tauseef’s gritty support, took Pakistan to 249. A lead of 220. Not a winning total, but a fighting one.

The Final Day: A Battle of Attrition

India needed 221 to win. Pakistan needed 10 wickets.

Wasim Akram struck early, removing Srikkanth and Amarnath in quick succession. But then came the master, Sunil Gavaskar. Steely-eyed, unshaken, he began to carve out what would have been one of the greatest match-winning innings of all time. His technique was impeccable. His patience is infallible.

With the score at 155 for 5, India still needed 65 runs. But Pakistan had one last trick up its sleeve—persistence. Qasim, the forgotten man of Pakistan’s spin department, had already made his mark with the ball. Now, he removed Kapil Dev with a delivery that jagged in viciously.

The game teetered on a knife’s edge. And then, the moment that would define this battle arrived. With India at 180, just 41 runs away from victory, Gavaskar—who had been unbreakable—was finally undone. Qasim, bowling with unerring precision, found the edge of his bat. Rizwan-uz-Zaman at slip held on for dear life. Gavaskar was gone for a heroic 96.

The silence in the stadium was deafening. A sense of inevitability gripped the Indian crowd. At 185, Yadav fell. At 204, Roger Binny, in a desperate attempt to steal victory, perished.

With India needing just 16 runs, Tauseef sent down a sharp, skidding delivery. Binny swung hard, aiming for the boundary. The ball kissed the outside edge and flew into Yousuf’s gloves.

For a moment, there was silence. Then the umpire’s finger went up.

Pakistan had done it.

A Victory for the Ages

This was more than just a Test match win. It was history being rewritten. Pakistan, after decades of trying, had conquered India in their own backyard.

For Imran Khan, it was a moment of vindication. For Miandad, a testament to his cricketing acumen. For Qasim and Tauseef, a place in folklore.

The 1987 Bangalore Test was not just a match—it was a saga, a tale of resilience, strategy, and unyielding belief. More than three decades later, it remains a shining example of Test cricket at its purest—where skill, courage, and patience triumph over adversity.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar

The Dullest Yet Most Historic Test: Gavaskar’s Everest and Pakistan’s Stonewalling

Cricket, at its finest, thrives on a balance between artistry and strategy, aggression and resilience. Yet, the Ahmedabad Test between India and Pakistan in 1987 defied these conventions, emerging as a paradox—at once historic and painfully insipid. It was a Test where Sunil Gavaskar, after sixteen years of unparalleled service to the game, became the first batsman to scale the Everest of 10,000 Test runs. It was also a match that saw an extraordinary act of attrition from Pakistan, a spectacle so excruciatingly slow that it incited a rare outburst of crowd violence. The game, defined by personal milestones, curious narratives, and a numbing absence of intent, remains one of the most unforgettable yet tedious encounters in Test cricket’s annals.

A Historic Milestone in a Tedious Encounter

Gavaskar’s moment of glory arrived on the third afternoon, with a late cut off Ijaz Faqih that brought him the historic brace. For a batsman who famously avoided glancing at the scoreboard while in play, he was keenly aware of this momentous occasion. As he sprinted down the pitch with his bat raised high, cricket history had been rewritten. Yet, the crowd's reception to this grand achievement was far from ideal.

Pakistan’s batting, devoid of enterprise, had sucked the energy out of the contest from the outset. The absence of Javed Miandad had left a strategic vacuum, and Pakistan’s approach to countering India’s four-pronged spin attack was defensive to the point of absurdity. Rizwan-uz-Zaman, hailed by Imran Khan as a future batting mainstay, crawled to 5 in 75 minutes. Rameez Raja, more watchful than expressive, took two and a half hours for 41. Younis Ahmed, returning to the Test fold after an 18-year hiatus, batted for over three hours for his 40.

By stumps on Day One, Pakistan had scored 130 runs off 86 overs, a rate that would make 19th-century stonewallers blush. The following day saw more of the same. Saleem Malik's 20 came in three hours and 12 minutes, and Pakistan soon found themselves at a precarious 176 for 6. But then came Ijaz Faqih, a last-minute reinforcement for the ailing Tauseef Ahmed, who batted nearly a full day for his 105. His innings, punctuated with occasional sixes, offered brief sparks in an otherwise dull stretch of play. Even his heroics, however, could not placate the restless Ahmedabad crowd.

An Eruption in the Stands

The prolonged dullness ignited unrest. By the third day, the frustration among spectators boiled over into outright hostility. Bottles rained onto the field, and enraged fans hurled concrete chunks at Pakistan's fielders. Imran Khan later showcased one such missile to the press—it was the size of a cricket ball. Rizwan-uz-Zaman and Abdul Qadir bore the brunt of these projectiles. With security personnel ineffective, Imran took the only logical step—he led his team off the field.

The intervention of cricketing legends was needed to restore order. Gavaskar, speaking in Gujarati over the public address system, implored the crowd to maintain decorum, reminding them that Pakistan were guests. Kapil Dev echoed his sentiments, emphasizing sportsmanship. Eventually, the game resumed, but not without a moment of farcical defiance—Pakistan’s fielders returned wearing helmets, even at mid-off and mid-wicket, wary of further missile attacks.

A Masterclass Amidst the Chaos

While the Test dragged on, Dilip Vengsarkar remained unfazed. In the words of Harsha Bhogle, he was in a phase where he could "score a Test hundred in his pyjamas while brushing his teeth." His fluent 15th Test century stood out in stark contrast to the sluggish batting that had defined the game. Kapil Dev, in a brief but exhilarating counterpoint, blasted a 52-ball fifty, injecting fleeting energy into an otherwise dreary affair.

Yet, despite Imran Khan’s declarations about aiming for victory, Pakistan showed no inclination to press for a result. Even after taking a 72-run lead, they made no effort to set up a chase. Younis Ahmed’s 73-minute stay at the crease for just 2 runs in the morning session of the final day encapsulated Pakistan’s lack of ambition. When play was finally abandoned after ten of the mandatory last twenty overs, it was a relief for the dwindling audience.

The Imran-Gavaskar Connection: A Twist of Fate

Beyond the numbers and the sluggish cricket, there was an intriguing subplot that had unfolded behind the scenes. Years later, Gavaskar revealed that it was Imran Khan who convinced him to extend his career long enough to reach this milestone. Over an Italian lunch in England in 1986, Gavaskar had confided in Imran about his plans to retire. But the Pakistani captain, determined to beat India with the legend in their ranks, insisted that Gavaskar stay on.

"Pakistan are coming to India," Imran had told him. "I want to beat India with you playing." Gavaskar remained skeptical, replying that the series had not been confirmed. "The ICC meeting is happening soon," Imran assured him. "You'll hear the announcement next week." True to his word, the series was confirmed, and Gavaskar continued. Had he retired in 1986, he would have ended his career with 9,200–9,300 runs, falling short of the magic 10,000 mark.

A Match That Was Both Forgettable and Unforgettable

In retrospect, the Ahmedabad Test was a paradox of a game—both unforgettable and forgettable in equal measure. Gavaskar’s 10,000th run ensured its place in cricket’s history books, while Pakistan’s mind-numbingly defensive approach rendered it one of the dullest Tests ever played. The helmeted fielders, the unruly crowd, and the sluggish batting combined to produce a spectacle that was as bizarre as it was frustrating.

Cricket, in its best moments, is a contest of will, flair, and drama. This Test had willpower in abundance but little of the rest. It was Gavaskar’s indomitable will that carried him past 10,000 runs, and it was Pakistan’s stubborn will that turned the game into an extended stalemate. In the end, it was a Test match that symbolized both the triumph of individual brilliance and the perils of excessive caution. And that is why, decades later, it still lingers in cricketing memory—both as a milestone and a missed opportunity.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar