There was a time when Indian cricket treated spin bowling as an art form rather than a mere method of taking wickets. The ball did not simply travel from one end of the pitch to the other; it danced, drifted, dipped, teased and deceived. The spinner was not merely a bowler but a craftsman, a magician capable of making batsmen look foolish even on the flattest of surfaces.
The generations that watched India’s legendary spin quartet—Bishan Singh Bedi, Erapalli Prasanna, Srinivas Venkataraghavan and Bhagwat Chandrasekhar—were fortunate witnesses to a golden age. Each possessed a unique personality and style. Prasanna was the master of flight and guile. Venkataraghavan relied on immaculate control and subtle variations. Chandrasekhar, with his unorthodox action, could produce deliveries that defied logic. And then there was Bedi, perhaps the most elegant and orthodox spinner the game has ever seen.
Bedi’s bowling was poetry in motion. His rhythm, loop, flight and control made even the greatest batsmen uncertain. He never appeared to be trying too hard. The ball seemed to obey his command. Alongside him were artists such as Salim Durani and Rajinder Goel, whose left-arm spin captivated cricket lovers across the country. Watching them bowl was not merely entertainment; it was an education in the finer points of cricket.
Unfortunately, as the years passed, that classical approach to spin bowling gradually began to disappear. Modern cricket, particularly limited-overs cricket, placed greater emphasis on containment than craftsmanship. Spinners increasingly focused on bowling flatter, quicker and defensively. Many succeeded statistically. Several accumulated impressive wicket tallies and broke records. Yet something appeared to be missing.
The beauty of flight.
The courage to toss the ball above the batsman’s eyeline.
The confidence to invite the drive and tempt a mistake.
The willingness to trust turns and deception rather than merely accuracy.
A genuine spinner does not simply spin the ball. He manipulates the batsman’s mind. He creates doubt. He forces indecision. Every delivery becomes a question the batsman must answer.
That is why I felt a sense of excitement while watching young Rajasthan left-arm orthodox spinner Manav Suthar during India’s one-off Test against Afghanistan on the second day, Sunday.
The scorebook may record only three wickets on debut. Statistics, however, often fail to capture the full story.
What impressed me was not merely the wickets but the manner in which they came.
On a surface that was not particularly conducive to extravagant spin, Suthar demonstrated qualities rarely seen in young bowlers today. He imparted genuine revolutions on the ball. He allowed it to breathe in the air. He extracted drift before landing it in dangerous areas. Most importantly, he was willing to give the ball flight.
Many modern spinners fear being hit. Consequently, they bowl too fast. The ball reaches the batsman before it has a chance to deceive him. Suthar, however, displayed patience and confidence. He appeared willing to challenge batsmen rather than merely survive against them.
The true art of spin bowling lies in several subtle elements that often escape the casual observer.
First comes flight. Flight is not simply throwing the ball higher. It is the ability to vary trajectory and deceive the batsman about where the ball will land.
Then comes drift. Drift occurs when the spinning ball moves sideways through the air before pitching. Great spinners use drift to draw batsmen out of position.
Next comes dip. The ball appears fuller than it actually is, enticing the batsman into a drive before suddenly dropping shorter than expected.
Finally comes turn. Ironically, turn is only one component of successful spin bowling. Many bowlers can turn the ball. Very few can combine turn with flight, drift and dip.
The world’s greatest spinners mastered all these elements.
Australia’s Shane Warne remains the finest leg-spinner cricket has ever produced. Warne did not merely turn the ball; he controlled every aspect of its journey. His famous “Ball of the Century” to Mike Gatting in 1993 remains a lesson in drift, dip and turn.
Before Warne, there was Abdul Qadir, who revived the dying art of leg-spin during an era dominated by fast bowlers. Pakistan later produced another wizard in Mushtaq Ahmed.
Sri Lanka gave the world the incomparable Muttiah Muralitharan, whose record wicket tally may never be surpassed. Australia had Nathan Lyon, while India witnessed the brilliance of Anil Kumble and later Ravichandran Ashwin.
Kumble was unique. Unlike Warne, he relied less on extravagant turn and more on bounce, pace variations and relentless accuracy. Ashwin brought intelligence, innovation and tactical brilliance to modern spin bowling.
Yet even among these greats, cricket lovers often yearn for the aesthetic pleasure associated with the classical school of spin. The sight of a spinner floating the ball above the batsman’s eyeline, drawing him forward and then beating him with turn remains one of cricket’s most beautiful spectacles.
That is precisely why Suthar’s performance caught my attention.
Perhaps it is too early to compare him with legends. Cricket history is filled with promising debuts that never blossomed into great careers. One performance cannot determine a player’s destiny.
Nevertheless, genuine talent often reveals itself through small signs. The way an othodox spinner releases the ball. The confidence with which he attacks. The revolutions he generates. The faith he places in his craft.
Suthar displayed several of those signs.
Watching him brought back memories of Bedi, Durani and Goel. It transported me to an era when spin bowling was celebrated as an art and not merely judged by numbers.
For former cricketers like me who even in their mid-seventies wear whites to coach young and promising cricketers at a private coaching centre, the past few days have felt unusually empty. For over a month, newspaper sports pages were dominated by the IPL. While the tournament undoubtedly provides excitement and entertainment, traditional cricket followers often crave something deeper—a glimpse of pure cricketing skill and technique.
That is why watching Suthar bowl was refreshing.
It reminded us that despite the glamour, power-hitting, and commercial frenzy of modern cricket, there is still room for craftsmanship.
And for Telangana cricket lovers, there is an additional reason for optimism. With the Telangana Premier League providing opportunities for local talent to emerge and showcase their abilities, one hopes that future generations of spinners, batsmen, and fast bowlers will find the platform they deserve.
Indian cricket has produced many successful spinners over the decades. But every once in a while, a young bowler arrives who reminds us of what orthodox spin bowling is supposed to look like.
If Manav Suthar continues on this path, India may have found not just another spinner, but a spinner worth watching.
And for those of us who grew up admiring the artistry of Bedi, Durani, and the great masters of the game, that is a comforting thought indeed.
