But Bishan paaji wasn’t just a softie, as I came to know not long afterwards! At the camp, it was clear that he preferred to focus a lot on physical fitness. Kapil Dev was in charge of looking after the fitness of all the bowlers, Daljit Singh (the former Bihar captain) looked after the wicketkeepers and Bishan paaji took the batsmen under his wings. There was no compromise on work ethic; in that regard, he was a hard taskmaster. 

Anil Kumble shows his frustration as four runs are hit off his delivery during day one of the Second Test match between Australia and India at the Sydney Cricket Ground on January 2, 2008, in Sydney, Australia

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We would have physical fitness and fielding sessions in the morning, with afternoons dedicated to honing cricketing skills. Bishan paaji was particular about the team lunching together because he was convinced that this kind of bonding among players was essential. He believed the team was like a family, and that a family which eats together, stays together. At the same time, he allowed me to spend time with my family—I would leave home for the hotel, where the team was staying, early each morning, spending the day with my extended family, and returning home from evening practice at M Chinnaswamy Stadium. For someone not yet twenty, that meant the world.

When I look back now, I realise I had a bucketful of favours to ask of Bishan paaji right from the outset. The early stages of my exams coincided with the start of the England tour, so I requested Bishan paaji, and the Board of Control for Cricket in India (BCCI), if I could be allowed to join the tour slightly later. I would only be missing the traditional tour-opener at the Indian Gymkhana, just outside Heathrow Airport. Our university had a rule that a student could only carry forward 50 per cent of one’s papers to the next year. Anything more, and you would have to repeat the year all over again. Professor Holla, our inspirational principal, wrote to the Board, going as far as saying that he was willing to pay for my travel, if need be. It wasn’t needed; both Bishan paaji and the BCCI readily agreed to our request, which allowed me to write some of my papers and link up with the team later in London. 

I landed in the English capital and made the short drive to the Indian Gymkhana towards the final stages of the match. We had dinner and left immediately by bus for Birmingham, reaching around 1 a.m. My body clock said it was 5.30 am, I had just arrived from India and had yet to adjust to the time difference. We had practice the following morning, from 9.30 am, at the ground adjacent to Egdbaston. Still terribly jet-lagged and feeling the strain, I struggled to match Bishan paaji’s expectations. 

I remember him saying in his inimitable style, “Come on son, you have weak legs.” He summoned my good friend Venkatapathi Raju, instructed him to sit on my shoulder and told me to do baithaks. I could hear my back go! That’s Bishan paaji—uncompromising, to go with his heart of gold. 

On my Test debut in Manchester, with England pushing for a declaration in the second innings, I misjudged a catch and the ball flew over my head to the fence. To be fair, even if I had judged it perfectly, I don’t think I would have made it, but that’s beside the point. When we entered the dressing-room post the English declaration, Kapil paaji had a real go at me, giving me a dressing-down in front of all my teammates. I got very emotional and started tearing up. As we boarded the bus back to the hotel, Bishan paaji sat beside me and said, “Son, never show your emotion in public.” Then he sought out Kapil paaji and told him off, pointing out in his unique way, that this was no way to look after a youngster. 

I was dropped after the England tour, and by the time I made a comeback, Ajit Wadekar had become the cricket manager, but Bishan paaji continued to follow my career closely. He would not hesitate to pick up the phone and call me, either complimenting me on a good performance or offering suggestions and advice. He always had a cricketing point to drive home. It was wonderful to have had so many conversations about the game with him. 

When the Sydney Test unravelled the way it did in 2008 and there were rumours that we were contemplating leaving the tour midway, Bishan paaji sent me a message. “Son, take a decision that history will remember you by,” he said, adding, “Don’t reach a hasty decision, don’t be ruled by emotion.” It was a great message; without saying it in as many words, he told me I had a greater responsibility towards the sport, towards our country. 

Bishan paaji and I were members of a spin committee when Mr Jagmohan Dalmiya was at the helm of the BCCI. This was long before the T20 format had even been formalised. Bishan paaji was insistent that spinners should not play limited overs cricket till they were 18 or 19. I had a different point of view, and said the best way for spinners to grow and develop was to adapt to the demands of different formats. Predictably, he wasn’t amused. “I am appalled that my young friend here thinks spinners should be playing limited-overs cricket when they are still only sixteen or seventeen,” he thundered. I held my ground. “No offence, Paaji, but if a young captain gets used to playing without a spinner till he is 19, how will he ever have confidence in a spinner later on?” It was good fun and in good spirits. Bishan paaji doesn’t mind you having an opposing point of view, or vociferously espousing it, so long as he sees merit in your logic.

Edited excerpts from the The Sardar of Spin: A Celebration of the Life and Art of Bishan Singh Bedi, Roli Books