An exuberant encounter Down Under

In the eight years since my Test debut, we had played England home and away more than once each. We had travelled to the Caribbean and New Zealand and hosted them too. But for some reason, we didn't run into Australia post 1969. All that was to change towards the end of 1977.

To say I was excited when it was announced that we would be travelling to Australia for a five-Test series would be a gross understatement. From my formative years, I had enjoyed listening to the exploits of their legends, I admired the way they played the game, I liked their history. Sir Don Bradman, the greatest batsman of all time, was from Australia. So was my hero, Neil Harvey.

We knew this would be a challenge like no other. None of the batsmen in our side had played in Australia previously, but our spinners had been there earlier and enlightened us on the extra bounce which characterized surfaces Down Under. In England and New Zealand, you had to watch out for swing; in Australia, it was more seam and bounce, aspects of the game I hadn't encountered too often in the past.

That several of Australia's top players were unavailable did little to dampen my enthusiasm. Agreed, without the Chappell brothers, Doug Walters, Dennis Lillee and Rod Marsh, they were a depleted side short on experience, but there has never been a dearth of talent in Australia despite a relatively small talent pool to choose from. We knew no matter which 11 men took the field sporting the Baggy Green, we would have a fight on our hands.

One of the big points of interest was who would lead them. Australia had a great record at home and the establishment, at loggerheads with Kerry Packer's World Series Cricket which had weaned away the superstars, was determined to ensure that didn't change. They turned to old warhorse Bob Simpson; to no one's surprise, the 41-year-old readily agreed to return to international cricket, even though he hadn't played at that level for nearly a decade.

Ahead of the tour, we had our first full-fledged fitness camp under Major Tandon in Chennai, as I have alluded to previously. Already confident of our skills, we were further buoyed by physical conditioning and genuinely believed that we could become the first Indian team to win a Test series in Australia.

Our conviction stemmed not merely from Australia's inexperience. We were a settled and established side, and even though the batting group hadn't played in Australia yet, we boasted a wealth of experience in the shape of Sunil, Mohinder, Ashok Mankad, Brijesh and myself, with the gifted Dilip Vengsarkar lending additional class. We might not have had crack fast bowlers, but Pras had shown 10 years back that spinners could feed off the extra bounce by finishing as the highest wicket-taker across both teams.

I had started my own little preparations once the tour was formalized. These revolved largely around getting used to the extra bounce. Pras and Chandra reassured me that the bounce would be consistent, which brought a twinkle to my eyes because as a stroke-maker, I wanted the ball to come on to the bat at a good height. Depending on the lengths and therefore the positions one got into, you could play forcefully off both the back and the front foot. Even though the outfields were massive, there was value for strokes; in any case, working with Major Tandon had boosted our endurance and speed, and we knew we could run threes and fours on a regular basis if need be.

To adjust to the additional bounce, I faced up to tennis balls soaked in water, and hurled at me at a short of length from 15–17 yards. The idea was to get in line and either play it off the back foot or let the ball sail by. My routine was three-fold: sway out of the way, drop the ball down at my feet with soft hands, or play horizontal-bat shots square on the off or legside, depending on the line. For obvious reasons, I didn't have to practise ducking under the ball a great deal!

For about a month prior to our departure for Australia, I played more than 100 such balls a day without fail. As it is, my back foot play had been honed by the circumstances as they existed. All our league fixtures were on matting surfaces, as were all Ranji Trophy games in Karnataka outside of Bangalore. From the very beginning, that facilitated my back foot play. The wet tennis-ball workout augmented that experience, and when we emplaned for Australia, I felt I was as well prepared as could be expected.

I am of the opinion that generally, back foot players are a little more attacking than those with a penchant for committing to the front foot. When you go back, you have that extra fraction of a second to adjust; by the same token, when you play forward, you are trying to get as close to the pitch of the ball as you can, allowing you to play aggressively or defensively secure in the knowledge that you have covered for potential swing. In the end, it all depends on how quickly your feet are moving and how close you get to the ball. It's up to each individual to make that adjustment, first in your mind and then with your hands and feet.

I also didn't change my style depending on where I played. Of course, you must make minor modifications to your technique if you aspire to succeed, but even in England, for instance, I didn't play forward blindly to counter the swing. Playing off the back foot was equally productive, particularly because the ball often swung late and when you stayed back, you could address it after it had done its thing. Again, it's an individual thing. Unlike now, we didn't have video analysis or batting coaches to help us out; you had to figure out on your own what worked best for you, and in my book, that's the best kind of learning. That's where experience and instinct comes into play. All the adjustments I made, be it in India or in other parts of the world, happened intuitively.

Throughout my career, I never tinkered with my backlift either. That wasn't out of ego or stubbornness. I knew what worked for me and what didn't. I wasn't interested in where my bat was coming from, only where the ball went after it made contact with my bat. Experts asserted that because my bat came down in an arc from around point and not straight down from first slip or the wicketkeeper, I was susceptible to the yorker. Sure, I did get out to yorkers occasionally, but who doesn't? When you have a long career, there are bound to be multiple modes of dismissals. But I don't think I was especially vulnerable to the full ball.

Like the backlift, I didn't change the weight of my bat one gram. I played with a very light bat largely because I played square of the wicket on both sides—from cover point to deep third man on the off, and from mid wicket to fine leg on the on. I preferred the light bat because the bat would come down faster and assist in my aggressive intent. It suited my game, my character and my style.

The one change I did make was eschew the hook from my repertoire; unlike now, the hook was more fashionable at that time than the pull. Early doors in my Test career, I wouldn't think twice about taking the ball off my face and hooking it behind square. I did so in the West Indies in 1971; against Chris Old in England in 1974 when he was pretty quick, I distinctly remember hooking him out of the ground. But after 20-odd Tests, I decided not to play the conventional hook. It was a fairly high[1]risk stroke, and because you are hitting in the air, you can't always be sure of being in control. I started to come inside the line, take the ball outside my left shoulder and tap it on its head at the top of its bounce, playing it fine and keeping it down. It's not an easy stroke, especially when you are vertically challenged, but it was safer than the hook, especially against express pace of the kind I encountered quite often in my career.

(Excerpted with permission from Gundappa Viswanath's Wrist Assured; published by Rupa Publications)