The voice is strong. Self-assured. And, given his recent tri- bulations, surprisingly cheerful.
Or perhaps 'surprisingly' is the wrong word - for Bhagwat Chandrasekhar, pain is an old friend. A comrade in arms, a constant companion who has shared - even accentuated - his greatest triumphs. And today, in retirement, pain like a family retainer or a faithful pet continues to dog his footsteps.
After a lifetime of more than nodding acquaintance, Chandrasekhar is now almost unconcious of his pain.
``What can I say, life goes on,'' says the fabled spinner, when I call him at his home in Bangalore to enquire into his state of health.
Chandrasekhar - 'Chandra', to everyone who has followed Indi- an cricket - returned from the United States just two weeks ago. When the Customs officials at Bombay airport asked him whether he had anything to declare, he did not, in the style of Oscar Wilde, say ``Only my pain. And some disappointment!''
But he could well have used those words - for pain and disappointment were all that he carried back with him from the States, where he had flown two months ago with hope and anticipation.
``I saw many doctors,'' says Chandra, recalling his most recent odyssey. ``In Chicago, Baltimore, New York, Los Angeles. And they all told me essentially the same thing - that an operation was not possi- ble. Some said not now, some said never - but the bottom line was, they could not do anything.''
And so Chandra returned to Bangalore, to live with his lega- cy. That he has been a victim of polio from his boyhood on was bad enough, that he was badly injured in a freak accident a couple of years ago, an accident that left him without the use of his legs and all but paralysed him from armpit to the knee, was just one more of life's cruel ironies.
``What they have told me,'' says Chandra, ``is to do a special type of massage. I have to do it all over, from the armpit to the waist. And that,'' says Chandra, the laugh coming through strong and clear on the phone line, ``is my main occupation these days.''
That laugh stops conversation for the space of a heartbeat. For somehow, when a man meets the worst that fate can do to him and still laughs, it seems somehow mundane, petty, to ask him for more details of his condition.
Chandra steps into the silence, and supplies the unsought-for information himself. ``They told me, no matter what I do, there will be no permanent cure. All my life, there will be uneasiness, itching, burning, that sort of thing... but if I keep up the massage and the medicines, then the swelling will go down. And the ulcerous sore that now infests my leg will heal.... basically, what I have to do is guard against re-infection.''
So I gently ease into the new item that had prompted my call in the first place - a news report that the Cricket Club of India, in Bombay, had presented him with a cheque of Rs 100,000 for his treat- ment and expenses.
``Oh, the response - unasked for, I must add - has been very heartening. Ever since the TWI satellite channel on its own initiative broadcast an international appeal, help has been flooding in. I am very grateful - and for the first time, it feels like the wickets I have tak- en, the bowling I have done, the times I have played for my country, have finally been rewarded,'' says Chandra.
When he talks of his playing days, the memories flood back, unasked. Of the lanky, wiry Chandrasekhar running in to bowl to batsmen who, judged by their facial expression, felt very much as a goat in its prime must have felt when confronted by the butcher's knife.
Memories of Chandra, his long sleeved shirt buttoned at the [Image] wrist and flapping in the breeze, turning his poliostruck arm over, to propel the ball at a pace more suited to a seamer. Of batsman after international batsman poking forward blindly, despair- ingly with the bat. Of wickets flying, edges flying to the greedy hands of Eknath Solkar at forward shortleg.
Memories of India winning against England, against the West Indies.
And most importantly, personal memories of feeling proud, happy to be an Indian. Of knowing that I, and the rest of this cricket- crazy country, did not have to be apologetic about our cricketing prowess any longer.
Chandra gave us that pride. And in return, we gave him what?
A lifetime of pain. An endless vista of massaging his ruined body, in a desperate, and fruitless, attempt to keep the pain at bay. And in his lonely vigil, the television screen - and the endless of telecasts of international cricket contests - is his only amusement, his diversion.
``Frankly,'' says Chandra, moving away from the subject of his pain to the subject of his greatest pleasure, ``I could not follow most of the Indian tour of England because I was in the States at the time. But from the little I saw, and all that I read, I think that we have a good side, a young side. There are lots of players of promise, it is just a phase we are passing through.
``I mean, in 1969 we were losing to Bill Lawry's Australia at home. Less than two years later, we were beating the West Indies in West Indies, and England in England. That's what cricket is like - you are up one day, down the next.''
When Chandra speaks of playing in England, he does so from a wealth of experience. And therefore when he tells you that a bulk of India's misfortunes in the recent series owed to the weather, you listen. ``The cold in England in the early part of the season, it cannot be explained,'' says the ace spinner. ``When you bowl, you find that your fingers cramp, you cannot grip the ball properly and spin it. When you bat, your feet don't move smoothly, your fingers get cramps holding the handle... it is very easy to criticise, but very tough to play out there under those conditions. And if you notice, India's performance improved in the second and third Tests, when the weather warmed up again.''
Of particular interest to Chandra is the natural inheritor of his spinning mantle, Anil Kumble. Who, incidentally, is on record as saying that he had patterned his bowling, in considerable part, on the style patented by his idol.
``Yes, Anil does come home once in a while, we talk of his bowling,'' said Chandra. ``But I don't think it is right to say that I guide him. I believe you can't coach anybody, you can't and shouldn't - change anyone's natural style. Anil has evolved his own style, he bowls with nip and bounce, he is good. What happened in England was only temporary, I am sure he will be taking wickets in plenty again.''
And what does Chandra, who in his time mesmerised the best of international batsmen with his unplayable mix of googlies, topspinners, leg-spinners and the odd extra-fast ball that skidded through off a length, think of Shane Warne, now being hailed as the best leg-spinner the world has ever seen?
``Well, he does turn the ball rather a lot, doesn't he?'' laughs Chandra, while forbearing further comment. ``It's been nice, chatting about cricket,'' he says, a beat later. ``But it is time for my mas- sage... excuse me...''
The voice fades, and an image replaces it.
The image of a man who, in his time, transcended pain to give pleasure to many millions.
A man who, today, continues his lifelong battle against pain. Alone. Far removed from the eyes of the multitudes that once thronged cricket stadia to witness his unique brand of cricketing magic...