Rajeev Bagga

I haven't seen the movie Iqbal yet, but have read several good things about it. Here is an interesting, and related article.

Rajeev Bagga: Real Iqbal of Indian Sport - Sanjay Sharma

I saw Iqbal the other day and was surprised by its simplicity and power in conveying how a deaf-mute boy dreams of wearing India colours in cricket and achieves his goal. The film deserves its accolades.


The climax of the film, when Iqbal enters the stadium to play against Pakistan in his debut game, brought not just tears to my eyes but also memories of 1987. That was when my protege, the deaf-mute Rajeev Bagga, was selected to play badminton for India; it was the start of a great career, spanning almost eight years.


While what Nagesh Kukunoor showed was imagination, what Rajeev achieved was real. But in a cricket-crazy nation, who will dare to make a film on one of Indian sports' greatest stories? This then is Rajeev's tale.


In 1982, when I was practicing for an upcoming National Championships at Mumbai's Hindu Gymkhana , an elderly gentleman and a lean, fit youngster approached me. "I am Brigadier Bagga and this is my son Rajeev," he said. "He wants to play badminton. He has just turned 16 and is already ranked No. 3 in National junior squash. But the time has come for him to shift to badminton. I am told you can help."


There I was, in my prime, having played for India for six years. I had no interest yet in coaching and was stunned by the direct approach. I asked why I should start coaching Rajeev and why he wanted to play badminton when he was nationally ranked in squash?


All this while Rajeev kept smiling. "Why don't you ask Rajeev?" the Brigadier answered with a knowing smile. I turned and asked Rajeev the same questions. I was a bit irritated,I wanted to get back on court where my friend and competitor, Leroy D'Sa, waited impatiently. Rajeev's answer was another smile. I thought maybe I had spoken softly. So I asked again. He kept smiling.
Exasperated, I asked the good Brigadier whether Rajeev was deaf and dumb.

"Rajeev is deaf and mute, not dumb," he said. "He is intelligent and I am sure if you help him out, you will find him a worthy student." I was speechless and embarrassed. "I am sorry if I offended you and Rajeev," I said. The Brigadier shrugged. "Don't worry. This happens all the time. But tell me what you will do?"
I had forgotten practice by now and wondered how to get out of this piquant situation. How was I going to help make a deaf-mute boy into a shuttler! I remained unconvinced about his decision to leave squash. The Brigadier told me. "In squash, the player sometimes gets behind you. Since Rajeev cannot hear him or the stroke he plays, he gets disoriented. He cannot anticipate unless he sees."


I understood. The brigadier insisted I should try Rajeev out. I brought out my second line of defence. "How will I communicate?" I asked. "Rajeev can lip-read very well," I was told. "But you will have to talk slowly and only in English. World over, deaf-mutes are taught only in English so they can communicate with each other."


With all the problems solved and nothing else to ask, I tried to "talk" to Rajeev. Believe me, he responded articulately. Thus began an enduring relationship which saw Rajeev not only reach the National junior championships finals in Oct '84 but also emerge the strongest Indian player of his generation. Within a few years he was the National senior champion and selected for India in 1988.
He played the Thomas Cup, the World championships, the Commonwealth Games, ABCs and almost all major international events, till Gopi Chand's emergence saw his eclipse. He won the National doubles and partnered me in events all over the globe.


He was hard-working, quick to grasp the game's nuances and possessed an astonishingly good match temperament. He was never flustered and never angry on court. In fact, he became a champion in the truest sense of the word, playing a comprehensive brand of badminton. His backhand strokes, thanks to his squash days, were strong and his court coverage was fluent. He went on to become world number 40 purely on merit.


Rajeev had a fan following all over the badminton world. It was not just the hardcore fan who supported him, but also the motivation-seeking deaf-mute.
Becoming a National champion, winning the Arjuna Award and getting to world No. 40 in this sport, a global one, are great achievements. But what Rajeev cherished most were his 15 gold medals in five "Deaf Olympiads", played every four years. For almost 20 years, Rajeev dominated competitions for the audibly challenged. The World Deaf Council, at a press conference on his last appearance there, awarded Rajeev a citation. "For us, Rajeev Bagga is the athlete of the century."


Any regrets? None for me, because in coaching such a gem I learnt about life, futility and courage. I was just an instrument in showing him the direction. He achieved everything on his own steam. Many wondered why I agreed to play doubles with a deaf-mute player so much younger than me. For one, he requested me and I could not refuse.


Secondly, doubles is all about bonding. We developed our own way of signalling and got on with the game. We became India's top pair. But I have one regret for Rajeev. He was not selected in the 1993 World Cup team by the National federation though he was India No. 2 at that time, excluded simply because he did not attend the training camp as he was away for a deaf Olympics.


Former National players in the selection committee did not back him even though he was fit. That was the only time I saw tears in his eyes. But perhaps it can be said that Rajeev had the last laugh. While Indian badminton is in the throes of desperation and ennui, he is well settled in England where he now lives with his wife and his first child.


(Sanjay Sharma is a former India player and captain.)