25th June, 1983 — a personal history
By: Jaideep Varma
Tags: Cricket, Kapil Dev, Indian Cricket, 1983

25th June, 1983 — a personal history

The “where were you when India won the 1983 World Cup” portions in the hastily-narrated, half-baked, heavy-handed film 83, brought back some vivid memories that are perhaps more than just memories.

On the day India lost to Minor Counties during the 1983 WC warm-up games, I was a kid visiting my uncle in Hauz Khas, Delhi with my parents. My uncle, a very knowledgeable and passionate cricket fan (the one who had the biggest influence on me in my love of cricket) was trashing the Indian team’s chances in the impending World Cup and my father, perennially skewed to pessimism, supported him wholeheartedly. I remember piping up at the time and saying that they were both wrong, because India would win the World Cup. They both laughed at me, and my aunt, who wasn’t even into cricket, said no one would ever take me seriously if I said such things in public. But my uncle and father still asked me my reasons. (For context, I was very heavily into cricket at the time — much more than at any other time in my life, even my Impact Index days. The reason my uncle and father took me reasonably seriously is because of my support — or “fascination”, as my father called it — of Mohinder Amarnath during the late-1970s and early-1980s when he was derided heavily by one and all for his inability to play the short ball; in the last year, however, he had proved all his detractors wrong. Including my father and uncle.)

This was the first time, however, I stuck my neck out to predict a tournament result. My reasons were centred around Amarnath, Kapil Dev, Gavaskar, Sandeep Patil and Dilip Vengsarkar, who I believed would do well in English conditions. I hadn’t really considered the bowling but India’s ODI win against WI at Berbice, Guyana just two months ago, suggested a side to me that could challenge anyone. Mostly, it was really just a strong hunch. My uncle, who was a couple of drinks down, expansively gave me 30–1 odds if India were to win, and my father lent me 20 rupees to take him on (while cribbing what a waste of money it was). My mother was totally not amused.

Back in Chandigarh (where I lived), right through the World Cup my father would come back from office around 6 pm, and sit with me in my room where I heard BBC running commentary on SW2 of the matches (Farokh Engineer was indeed one of the commentators). He’d done this before with me, but this time there was an intensity I sensed in him that I hadn’t before. Despite the great start, when India lost two back-to-back matches against Australia and West Indies, his pessimism kicked in — which was also very understandable for an Indian cricket fan then (and I realised in 2011 during my World Cup travels, that is exactly how Bangladeshis felt then about their team, and probably still do). Through the euphoria of the next three matches, he kept his emotions well in check and then announced coolly that we would see the final in my uncle’s flat in Delhi, where he was hiring a colour TV for the day (the India matches were telecast live from the semifinals). It was an exciting surprise.

During the final, my uncle helped me appreciate the sheer brilliance of Amarnath and Srikkanth in those conditions — if they hadn’t had that second-wicket stand, India would have been dismissed for less than 150. Still, 183 seemed well below par, and I was despondent at half-time, convinced India would emphatically lose. My father’s pessimism, predictably, was even deeper. When Greenidge was dismissed, it seemed like a blip, especially when Richards started hitting out. Then, there was a Doordarshan news break and we switched to radio commentary; I went back to BBC. And when Richards was dismissed, my uncle’s eyes lit up just a bit. We will probably still lose given their batting depth, but at least India should fight a bit, he said. My uncle lovingly brought the alcohol out and nervous energy began to palpably flow (in him and my father).

By the time the live telecast came back, West Indies were four down and Lloyd was injured. Then, Lloyd got out, and WI were suddenly five down. Both my uncle and my father changed character in front of my eyes — they got up and shrieked and screamed, these hitherto sober men in their early forties that I’d never seen lose control even once in my life. At 76–6, when Bacchus (ironically named, in retrospect) was dismissed, my uncle yelled he would never ever doubt anything I say ever again, anything, he emphasised, for effect. The alcohol was kicking in. My aunt looked on, probably worried, as 30–1 were big odds, 600 rupees could take a serious chunk out of household budgets in 1983.

And then came that nerve-racking stand between Dujon and Marshall, that took the score to 119. My uncle and father had been drinking copiously through that (my father more than he ever did in his whole life, while I was around anyway), while my uncle recounted various occasions when the late-order took great teams out of holes (mostly Test match examples, but also from the previous two World Cups). My father’s pessimism was back in full-throttle, as he said gloomily — just 64 more. And then Amarnath came on, my man, and soon finished the game off — those moments a complete blur now (though I vividly remember a plump West Indian man in a barrel escorting a sullen Andy Roberts back to the pavilion when he was dismissed, as if deeply commiserating with him — no one took him out — this bizarre randomness was so much of that period).

Through that haze, what I remember most vividly is my uncle getting up and showering currency notes on me like I was a bar dancer — he finished what he had in his pocket, and then went inside and got some more, and started showering them on me, much to the horror of my aunt. My father, not prone to copying anybody ever, did so this time though, and showered some on me himself from his pocket, taking care, I noticed, to choose the smallest denominations. My mother, middle-class sensibilities deeply disturbed, muttered something like — what on earth are they up to? But neither she nor my aunt had the heart to thwart our uninhibited joy (that they had also clearly not witnessed before in my dad and my uncle).

I couldn’t care less about the money. India had won the World Cup. My man got the Man of the Match award. My father and my uncle had respect in their (rather drunken) eyes for me. (Most of the money was cleared away by my aunt before we fully recovered; it was considerably more than 600 apparently; my uncle did happily make up the 600 later).

I never saw my father and uncle this joyful ever again, not even close. My father took my cricket musings very seriously for the rest of his life, more than anybody else’s. It was accentuated during 1996 (when I picked Sri Lanka to win) and 1999 (when I picked NZ, even though they didn’t win). After the heart-rending 2019 final, when NZ (whom I had picked) almost made it, when we spoke on the phone, I realised this is the closest he had come to recreating the 1983 euphoria, and interestingly, it wasn’t even India. As for me, it is possible that I may have created Impact Index purely to justify my hunches a little more scientifically. Oddly, despite all of this, my father was never keen that I pursue it full-time as I did for 8 years, as he feared it wouldn’t end well, pessimism intact right till the end (he was right). My uncle curiously passed away exactly a year before (to the day) India reached the 2011 World Cup final, the one that India would win after 28 years again. He would doubtless have been happy to see the Indians hold up the cup but the unexpected euphoria of 1983 probably would have made this somewhat anticlimactic as well.

That’s the thing about that 1983 triumph for all those who lived through it. The unexpectedness of it, its epoch-changing nature, the rush of sheer unadulterated joy it inspired. Nothing after that can quite live up to that. In this one respect, life has always been downhill after that.

Hazy highlights here, more notable for the atmosphere and the interviews right at the end.