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
