A river runs through his life

COLUMN: Tunnel of Time

Sanjivan Mondal is the three-time winner of the 81-km race on the Ganga near Berhampore. It is possibly the longest swimming race in the world

By Shevlin Sebastian

Photographs: Nikhil Bhattacharya

It was a hot September morning. 

Sanjivan Mondal stood by the side of the Churni river in Ranaghat, 90 km from Calcutta. He was staring intently at a group of children gambolling in the water. He bent down and corrected the stroke of a child. His son. And the child already seems to have the knack that the father possessed to a remarkable degree.

Sanjivan turned and smiled when he was introduced by Gautam Mukherjee, a childhood friend. The smile was wry, a little helpless. The eyes were sad. He gave a limp hand for a handshake. In these quiet, soothing rural areas, people don’t shake hands. So, he was a little surprised when a city slicker offered his hand. He smiled again and invited us to his house.

We walked along a narrow mud path, framed by trees and their branches formed an overhanging arch. At the side, children played marbles. Birds chirped in the trees. A hen hurried across the path. A slim young woman with downcast eyes walked demurely past. 

This was Ramnagar, where Sanjivan lived in a hamlet of weavers in one-room houses with a courtyard in front and at the back. He led us into his hut. It was dark and cool and dominated by a single bed. Alongside one wall were two trophies. It seemed incongruous in that environment. There was a cycle parked on one side. Pots and utensils filled one corner. The family stared in surprise. The wife scurried about. There were four children, two boys and two girls. One girl had an eye closing now and then. The family didn’t know the reason why.

Sanjivan began speaking by saying, “Yes, I have become famous in these parts.” 

He is the three-time winner of what could possibly be the longest swimming race in the world. The distance is 81 kms. It is an annual race conducted by the Murshidabad Swimming Association. Swimmers from all over India take part, and in rural Bengal, especially in places like Ranaghat, Shyamnagar, Murshidabad, and Malda, there is tremendous interest in the event. This is an area, where because of a preponderance of ponds, everyone is a swimmer.

The race starts at the crack of dawn at a place called Jangipur Ghat. And it is a race that lasts the whole day, about eleven hours before it ends. It is a race that blends skill with stamina, determination with desire, and strength with staying power.

“Eighteen swimmers took part,” said Sanjivan. “The river was smooth this year. Since it wasn’t raining, there were no waves to contend with. We started off at a brisk pace and there were a lot of young people who moved off into the lead. But I wasn’t worried. They didn’t have the stamina. They were just using their strength. The only swimmer I was scared of was Khagen Dutta, who was lying fourth. He had won this race quite a few times. I knew he had the experience to come up suddenly.  I kept looking back, but he didn’t come up, and by the time five hours had passed, I was swimming all alone.” 

People crowded the sides of the Ganga. Boats kept track of the swimmers. Every now and then, Sanjivan used to gulp down a glass of glucose that he received from volunteers in a boat that was following him. 

“There’s a certain technique,” he said, a smile lighting up his face. “You have to know how to conserve your strength. After two or three hours, your arms begin to hurt, because you are swimming in a particular way. Then you have to use a new stroke. These are the tricks of the trade.”

Eleven hours later, Sanjivan emerged from the water as the winner. He was pleasantly tired. Another victory had been notched up but the price was high. 

Sanjivan is a weaver of sarees. He earns ₹100 a week, and that is barely enough to make ends meet. The handloom industry is in shambles and the weavers are suffering. He took us to the weaving hut. 
It is about 50 metres away. As we approached the hut, the sound of the looms was like the whoosh of a breeze in a forest. The sound came and went. And there it was: a wooden contraption with pedals for the legs and the left hand has to move a rod in a left-to-right motion constantly. This is extremely physical work. Sanjivan said that when he is training for the great race, he does not work. 

So, how does he make ends meet? 

“I borrow money from people,” he said. “I borrow money from my uncle here (pointing to a small, frail bare-chested man in a white dhoti, smoking a beedi). And then when things get really difficult, I sell my trophies.”  

It is strange, but this shy man has an intense dedication and capacity for hard work. 

Three months before the race, he begins training. For the first month it is just to relax the muscles, to make it used to long hours in the water. It is only in the next two months that the training becomes intense. Then he gets up at 6 a.m. and goes to a nearby pond and trains till 11 a.m. He returns, has his lunch and goes to sleep. At 3 p.m., he practises for two hours.  

But why swim in a pond and not in the river?

“The pond has heavy water,” said Sanjivan. “The river is fast-moving. There is a current. So, swimming is easy. But in a pond, you have to use your muscles. You have to make the strokes. The water does not help you. So, four hours in the pond is equivalent to ten hours in the river.” 

‘Can we see the pond?” the visitor asked. 

“Sure, why not,” he replied. “But first I must get my swimming trunks.”

 We returned to the house. There was a curious band of onlookers – some young, some middle-aged, and children. 

There was a pervasive despair in the air. Economic difficulties had stunned the hamlet into a brooding, despairing silence. And in the wife, married to this dedicated swimmer for ten years, sadness was battling with the feeling of hope. One could not bear to see which emotion was winning. Perhaps she felt that the visitors could do something. They were, after all, from the big city. 

Sanjivan carried his swimming trunks and his goggles, and with his son he took us down a narrow mud path. He had an easy stride, and a V-shaped body. He walked with a sense of dignity. Near a loom hut, he called out to a youth and asked him whether he wanted to come swimming. The youth said, “Not today, Dada. I am tired.” 

Sanjivan smiled and he began to speak about his early life. “I was born here in Ramnagar, which is a village in Ranaghat. I learnt to swim from a young age. I used to watch my elders swim, and then I got into the water. I learnt on my own. What really made me interested in taking part in these races was the annual three-mile race on the Churi river. I had seen this race many times, and I wanted to take part. The first time I took part, I came second. I won the race later on, but thereafter, an interest in competitive swimming arose in me.”

It was a long walk, but for Sanjivan, it was hardly any distance at all. For the visitors, it was a time of panting and wiping perspiration off one's faces. 

“I used to hear about the Mushidabad race from the radio and newspapers,” he said. “And so finally I took part in the race, but lacked the technique. I ran out of strength when there was about two kilometres left. It takes time to learn the technique, but now I can manage the distance.”

It was noon. The sun was shining brightly. The sky was clear and blue. We crossed National Highway 34, and the trucks rumbled in the silence. We crossed a field and saw the pond. On one side was a school, the Milan Bagan Shiksha Sadan. One can surely visualise the possibility of budding swimmers in that school. There is a passion for swimming in these parts. 

As we neared the 50-metre pond, there was already somebody swimming there. He was swimming length after length. 

“Hi, how long have you been here?” said Sanjeevean. 

“Not very long,” said Babu Haldar. 

“Where is your cycle?” asked Sanjivan. 

“There, said Babu, pointing to a cycle parked next to a tree in the distance. 

Sanjivan smiled and changed into his trunks. He said suddenly, “Do 4x50s one after the other.” 

Babu smiled and went underwater. He was training for a 400-metre race in Shyamnagar, but to train at 12 noon! Perhaps the villagers do not feel the heat so much because they are out in the sun most of the day. 

Sanjivan put on his dark goggles and slipped into the water. The photographer went to the edge. It was slippery, and he had a trying time keeping balance. Two swimmers guided him to a less slippery spot. Again, a crowd had gathered from nowhere. 

They stared with intense attention, but at the back of the crowd a small vignette: a young man, probably 20 or 21, sat on his haunches and was talking to a small, frail boy with puffed cheeks. The boy wore a blue shirt and shorts. The young man said, “One day you should also be a big swimmer like your father.” But the child gazed at him, as children do, in their clear, unblinking gaze, that makes sinners cringe and remained silent. 

And yet, who knows, this may be the start of another legend. The photo session was over. Sanjivan, who has a natural feel for the water, came out reluctantly. The crowd slowly dispersed. As we walked back, it was clear that there was something heroic about this man. On the edge of poverty, or rather in poverty, with a wife and four children, in debt with people, and then once a year, to produce such an effort that surpassed physical limits. 

Sportsworld has been carrying out a series of profiles of champions who have come from difficult financial circumstances. These are the real heroes and heroines in the land. Although Sanjivan said candidly, “I am doing this for a job,” it is still a fine effort (see box). 

It is people like Sanjivan who should receive accolades, praise, and financial assistance. It is these champions we should raise on our shoulders. But in large part, we ignore them. The result is that we have no qualms about paying Rs. 46 lakhs to see American Olympic champion Carl Lewis perform, in September, 1989, at New Delhi, for 10 seconds, while Sanjivan and his wife try desperately to make ends meet, only to find, as always, a river between the two ends. 

Mera Bharat Mahaan!

Box: 

“I need a job”

Said a desperate Sanjeevan Mondal.

At the prize distribution ceremony, Sanjivan, who has been jobless for as long as he can remember, requested the chief guest Jatin Chakraborty for a job. The minister was moved and promised he would. (Kushal Ray, The Telegraph).

That was in August 1988. This is November 1989. And Sanjivan Mondal has yet to get a job. He is reaching the end of his long-distance swimming career. In his early 30s, the sorrow is evident in his voice.

“My main incentive in taking part in these competitions is because I hope to get a job,” he said. “I have no education. I stopped studying after class 4. Despite my achievements, the government has not done anything. Last year, another minister, Debabrata Bandopadhyay promised that he would give me a job. He asked me to submit all sorts of certificates and letters. I did that, but nothing happened.

This year, when I won, he was the chief guest. He asked me to come on September 13 to meet him at Writer's Building. When I went there, the minister looked very busy. Then he asked me to deposit all the forms once again. He did not know that I had already done so the previous year. I wanted to tell him that, but he looked so busy. So, I didn't say anything.”

The people in the hamlet told the visitors, “Don't write his story. Write that he needs a job. Writing his life will not get him a job. Doordarshan did something on Sanjivan, but nothing else happened. Please write that he needs a job.”

(Published in Sportsworld, November 1, 1989) 

On the 'Prose & People Podcast' hosted by Sandhya Iyer

 

Many thanks to the Toronto-based Sandhya Iyer for this podcast

In the first episode of Prose & People, I speak with journalist and author Shevlin Sebastian.

Shevlin made a transition from newsroom to bookshop shelves with his much-liked debut book, The Stolen Necklace, published by HarperCollins.

We talked about whether long-form writing still has a place in today’s fast media landscape, what career paths remain for journalists as newsrooms shrink, and what it really takes to make the creative shift from journalist to author.

As someone who’s spent years in journalism before turning to fiction, Shevlin’s reflections on writing, discipline, and resilience offer both honesty and inspiration.

Listen to the full episode:

On Substack: https://proseandpeople.substack.com/.../episode-1...

On Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/episode/0JxQt995dMi7a4RlCMpKmW...

India’s vultures: beauty, survival, and a one-man campaign to save them

                                                                Long-billed vultures feeding

By Shevlin Sebastian 

On January 18, 2021, wildlife photographer Nitish Agrawal and his parents travelled from Raipur to Rewa, Madhya Pradesh, to pay a surprise visit to his aunt on her wedding anniversary. After the celebrations, the family drove to the nearby Purwa Waterfalls. 

As Nitish stood barefoot on a wet, sloping rock, mesmerised by the pulsating roar and the frothy fall of the water, against a translucent blue sky, he saw a giant shadow beside him. When he looked up, he saw a long-billed vulture. 

“I was mesmerised,” he said. “In my 12 years of birding, I had never seen a vulture.” The eyes were brown, and the bird’s wingspan was ten feet. “When it flew, it cast a shadow almost that wide,” said Nitish with a smile. 

Tears fell from his eyes. Nitish had never cried while seeing a bird before, but the vulture’s size and beauty overwhelmed him. Soon, he saw the red-headed and the Egyptian vulture. Eventually, he sighted several vultures. 

From a higher elevation, he could even look down on their nests, which were made of leaves and thick sticks. “In India you cannot see vulture nests because they are too high up in rock shelters and trees,” said Nitish. “But in Purwa, the nests were below us.” 

He saw one big white egg, which was about three times the size of a hen’s egg. “It was a rare experience,” he said. “I saw a vulture for the first time and could see an egg as well.” 

Thereafter, Nitish began vulture-watching extensively. For him, the most enthralling sight was to see the birds soar above 500 ft. “On an hour-long flight, they flap their wings only a few times to conserve energy,” said Nitish. “They fly in concentric circles. From those heights, they cannot differentiate carcasses from live cattle, but they can spot groups of vultures. That signals food, and they join. Any vulture is welcome. Vultures dominate while feeding on a carcass as they want the best pieces, but they are not territorial at scavenging sites.”

Nitish noticed vultures tend to fight when others come near their nests. “They push each other with their legs, use their beaks to attack wings or the body, trying to unbalance rivals. The intruder has to surrender, or the fight becomes fierce.” 

Asked whether they make sounds during fights, Nitish said no. “Usually, they make a shrill, high-pitched call. It reminded me of the dinosaur shrieks in the film ‘Jurassic Park’.” 

Like the dinosaurs, vultures face extinction. Estimates from 2021 suggest only 35,000 to 45,000 vultures remain in India. Before 1992, there were over four crore in India alone. 

One of the main reasons for the decline in population is the use of diclofenac, a veterinary drug, and other drugs like aceclofenac, ketoprofen, and nimesulide by farmers. They used these drugs to treat cattle for pain or fever. If the cattle died within 48 hours, residues of the drug remained in their muscles. 

When vultures fed on the carcasses, they ingested traces of these drugs. Within 48 hours, the vultures died because the urea crystallised in their kidneys. Fortunately, the government banned the drugs in 2006. 

A vicious cycle set in. As vulture populations crashed, villagers stopped throwing carcasses in the open. “They began burying them because the smell was unbearable without vultures to clean it up,” said Nitish. “That reduced food availability further.” 

Yet, against these odds, Madhya Pradesh still holds the largest population of vultures, with Rewa being one of the strongholds. 

There’s a reason for this. 

In tribal areas, because of illiteracy, they did not use any drugs to treat sick cattle. Instead, they relied on Ayurvedic medicine. So, the carcasses were safe to eat. 

Asked about the character of a vulture, Nitish said, “If you see them from the side, they have an angry, menacing look. This is because their eyelids are created in such a way that they cast a shadow over their eyes. And that shadow creates a mean look. If you see them from the front, they look cute as babies.”

Nitish said that vultures are quite bold. “They are not afraid of human beings or dogs. Even after dogs chase them, they try to sit next to them.” 

But they have different attitudes towards human beings. If a villager in traditional attire is around, the vulture is comfortable. But when someone wearing jeans or a T-shirt is nearby, they become alert. They show this by stopping their feeding and walking away from the person. 

The vultures are family-oriented. For the first three months both parents feed the chick. The vultures have an extended pouch in their neck where they store food, holding about 200–300 grams of meat. They fly back to the nest and regurgitate the food to their chicks. By this time, it is also partially digested.

Then, in the next three months, the parents teach them where to find carcasses, and to locate water. In the third month, the chicks can take short flights. But by the fourth month, they can fly and soar like their parents. 

Documenting these life stages became a passion for Nitish, and he has since taken thousands of photographs. Two of his photographs came seventh and tenth in the World of Vultures Photography Contest. Beyond Madhya Pradesh, vultures can be spotted in Maharashtra, the Himalayas, the North-East, Rajasthan, Gujarat, Tamil Nadu, and Andhra Pradesh. 

In addition to his photography, Nitish is doing his bit for vulture conservation. Sonika Kushwaha, the president of the Indian Biodiversity Conservation Society, asked Nitish to host a session on September 6, International Vulture Awareness Day 2025, with the Forest Department at Chitrakoot. 

Nitish spoke to students about conservation challenges, the significance of vultures, their role in the ecosystem, and ways to raise awareness and ensure their protection. On September 11, he also conducted Vulture Awareness campaigns across four villages — Purwa, Baridih, Chachai, and Keoti. 

In a way, Nitish, of his own accord and love for the birds, is waging a one-man campaign to protect vultures and ensure they have a beautiful future. Along with his fiancée Sriti Pandey, he has started an outfit called ‘The Last Vulture’. 

“The Last Vulture is a journey of celebrating the vultures, through awareness, conservation, sensitisation, and ecotourism,” said Nitish.

(Published in rediff.com)

A Free Bird called Simon Barnes

 

COLUMN: Tunnel of Time

By Shevlin Sebastian

Simon Barnes of The Times, London dropped into the Sportsworld office in Calcutta the other day. A thin, intense man, he had flowing shoulder-length blond hair interspersed with a few strands of white hair. He wore a straw hat and big leather boots; it gave him the quintessential image of the foreign traveller. An English version of Indiana Jones.

Simon Barnes is a columnist who dabbles very successfully in anything that comes his way. His style is simple and smooth, like the surface of a laid-back river. He is an itinerant wanderer.

He has travelled over the world, covering major events like the Olympic Games in Seoul, the Wimbledon championships in Britain, the Super Bowl in America and the Nehru Cup in India. He has interviewed people ranging from racing hero Ayrton Senna to sprinter Ben Johnson and boxing god Mike Tyson.

‘A champion in any sport,’ he says, ‘is always an interesting person.’ But perhaps the most endearing quality of Simon Barnes is his affinity and affection for all things Indian. He says that India is a magnificent, strange and quixotic land. He plans to come back again and again.

‘It was a tremendous experience when I experienced Asia for the first time,’ he says. ‘It changed my life.’

His fascination with the continent resulted in him staying four years in Asia based in Hong Kong. He did freelance work and for payment, he asked for air tickets to new places. The result was that he has explored Malaysia, the Philippines, South Korea, Singapore, Sri Lanka, India — you name it, he’s been there.

‘It’s a fascinating experience,’ he said, ‘walking through the forests of Malaysia, lying on the beach in Sri Lanka and getting lost in the by-lanes of India.’

At lunch, while sipping a beer, he said, ‘I love to travel. I hate to be bound up in one place. I want to explore the world. And that is why I am a freelancer for The Times. It helps me to move around.’

The talk then turned to the irritated anger of British journalists while on tour in India. It was the turn of colleague Mudar Patherya to vent forth his much-justified anger against the British scribes.

But Simon was sympathetic and quite perceptive. ‘Remember one thing,’ he said. ‘In India, things take a long time to work. It takes almost a day to get a call to London. Remember that English journalists are living in two time frames. One half of his mind is in India while the other half is in London. He is under pressure from his bosses in London to meet deadlines.’

Agreed, but Mudar didn’t let up. He said, ‘Yes, but here in India, the foreign press expect to get top-class treatment but when we go to their country, they treat us so poorly.’

The onslaught was furious and relentless and Barnes did not know what to say. It was also getting a little embarrassing, and with clever British tact, he changed the subject.

‘Let me tell you a story,’ he began. ‘This has got to do with Graham Morris, the photographer. There was a cricket match among the scribes and Graham Morris realised, as he was padding up to bat, that his partner was a certain Mr. Gavaskar. As he walked out to open the batting with the Little Master, Gavaskar turned to him and said, “See Graham, India is a vast country with different cultures and different languages. So when we go out to bat, we decide beforehand in which language to speak when we call for a run.” Gavaskar then paused and said, “I presume you would like to use the English language.”’

Graham Morris was silent for a moment, then he looked up and said, ‘Accha.’

The conversation rolled on, to apartheid in Africa, the present political situation in India, the supple style of R.K. Narayan, but soon it was time for him to leave.

And the most enduring impression that one got of Simon Barnes was his love of freedom. Freedom to be himself, freedom to move around and see new worlds.

There is a familiar saying that goes like this: ‘Man is born free but is everywhere in chains.’ In Simon Barnes’ case, it was clear that the first thing he did after he was born was to take a hacksaw and break the chains around him.

He’s been a free bird ever since.

(Published in Sportsworld, November 15, 1989)

Update on Simon (according to Wikipedia): Simon, 74, was chief sports writer The Times, and wrote a wildlife opinion column in the Saturday edition of the same newspaper. He has written three novels.

In June 2014 Barnes was sacked by The Times after 32 years' employment, the newspaper having informed him it could no longer afford to pay his salary.

Speculation in some sections of the UK media was that the real reason may have been Barnes's outspoken views expressed in his wildlife opinion column.

The column blamed illegal activity by red grouse shooting interests for the continued persecution and near extinction of the hen harrier in England.

Writing on his blog, which he began after leaving The Times in 2014, Barnes wrote: ‘Certainly I have annoyed some powerful people.’

The King of the Planet

 

COLUMN: Tunnel of Time 

The life story of Diego Maradona, one of the greatest footballers in world history  

By Shevlin Sebastian 

THE PLAYER

June 23, 1986, Azteca Stadium, Mexico

Diego Maradona collects the ball from near the centre line on the right flank. He starts to move slowly, then accelerates with all the finesse and sudden speed of a startled deer. He is immediately challenged by two English defenders. He sidesteps one and swerves around the other. At all times, his eyes are on the ball. He runs harder. Again, two English players converge on him with undisguised menace.

Incredibly, he squeezes past them both between the right side of the field and the touchline. Now in full stretch, the ball mesmerisingly glued to his feet. Peter Shilton, the goalkeeper, hesitates. He is afraid to commit himself early, but Maradona is coming in and he has no option but to move forward.

He closes the angle and Maradona feints. He pretends as if he is going to take a shot towards the far corner. It is a dummy. Shilton falls for it, and Maradona contemptuously flicks the ball through the near right post.

GOAL!

The stadium erupts; Maradona erupts. He clenches a fist and runs towards the Argentinian section of the stadium and yells in jubilation. The other Argentine players converge on him. There is a rapturous joy. This was surely one of the greatest goals in the history of the World Cup. In the history of football. A 55-yard spectacular.

The Mexicans have been so taken up by the goal that later, they would build a plaque in the Azteca Stadium commemorating it.

June 29, 1986. Azteca Stadium.

Argentina is in trouble. Two spectacular and opportunistic goals by Karl-Heinz Rummenigge and a header by Rudi Völler have helped Germany draw level with Argentina in the final of the World Cup.

The South American confidence is beginning to erode. There are ten minutes left. It is a moment that demands magic. And so, once again, soccer’s sorcerer responds. He picks the ball up from deep inside his half, eludes three defenders who have been shadowing him, and clips a through pass to Jorge Burruchaga that splits the German defence.

Burruchaga is free and running like the wind. He is not challenged. A desperate German goalkeeper Harald Schumacher advances down the box, to unsettle the Argentinian. But at the most important moment of his life, Burruchaga keeps his cool and sends a low shot that eludes the diving and desperate form of Schumacher. Score: 3-2.

Argentina had won the World Cup and the man responsible for the pass was already on his knees, his arms outstretched, his eyes heavenward, tears rolling down his face and a smile that made it seem he had no lips. Diego Maradona’s dream of winning the World Cup has come true.

This was the first time, since Pele, that a player had stamped his authority on the World Cup so strongly with his individual flair.

Right from the first match against South Korea, where he performed brilliantly, despite some terrible fouling, he produced soccer of the highest class.

The feints, the slow start to his runs, the sudden acceleration, the swift changes in direction, the outrageous dribbles, the perfect headers and those desperately swirling free kicks that puzzled both defenders and goalkeepers alike.

There was no footballer like Diego Armando Maradona. And on June 29, 1986, Diego Maradona was ‘El Rey’, the king of the planet.

EARLY LIFE AND CAREER

Diego Maradona was born in Buenos Aires on October 30, 1960. At birth, the midwife informed his mother: “Don’t worry. He is all right. He will live.”

He was one of eight children of a poor man who worked in a factory and lived in a slum. Maradona was a Cabecita Negra, a ‘black head’, which is a contemptuous term in Argentina for Argentines of Indian blood.

From an early age, he displayed an affinity for football. The talent was God-given. By the time he reached his teens, people had begun to notice him. At that time, he was known as ‘El Cebollita’, the little onion, because of his short, muscular stature.

At 16, he made his professional debut with the Argentinos Juniors. It was not his first choice of career. He had wanted to be an accountant, but was finally convinced his talents lay in football.

And it was true. Success came easily to him.

In 1976, César Luis Menotti, the Argentinian coach, brought Maradona into the national squad. Maradona made his international debut in a friendly match against Hungary. But in 1978, Menotti excluded Maradona from the Argentinian team for the World Cup. It was a slight that Maradona never forgot or forgave.

Later, Menotti defended himself by saying that Maradona was too young to play in such a big tournament. But Maradona was so piqued he did not speak to Menotti for six months. Then they patched up their differences. Maradona led Argentina to victory in the World Youth Championships in 1979.

The next year he led Boca Juniors to the Argentinian First Division title, and was subsequently voted South American Player of the Year in 1980 and '81.

Great things were expected from Maradona in the 1982 World Cup in Spain. By now, he was a household name in Latin America. His genius was evident although it was still rough and undisciplined. But the Spain World Cup was to be Maradona's most conspicuous failure. He was too arrogant, too gifted, to understand the necessity of teamwork. He was unable to assimilate that he could not win the cup on his own.

But to be fair, he was subjected to a sustained physical assault on his person, the likes of which had never been seen before. A continuous, desperate need to cripple his genius.

Time and time again, he was brought down, and this was most pronounced in the match against Italy. Claudio Gentile was policing him. Maradona realised as he was chopped down again and again the referee would not come to his rescue.

Gentile justified his tough tactics by saying, “This is not a dance academy.”

True, but neither was it a dojo for karatekas.

Expectedly, Maradona's patience was tested. It finally snapped during the match against Brazil where he committed a grievous foul on Batista. He was shown the red card and ejected from the field. It was the end of the Spanish nightmare.

After Spain, he signed on to play in Barcelona, but he suffered from boredom and injuries. He lasted there for barely a year before, in 1984, Napoli paid $8.3 million and lured him away. He has been there ever since and has helped Napoli win the league title in 1989 and 1990.

He still looks good for a couple of years more.

THE MAN

Diego Maradona is a short man, 5’5” in height. He is so short and so muscular, yet this ensures a low centre of gravity, which is so vital to his balance, his feints, his success. Furthermore, he has superb athletic gifts which he blends with an intuitive brain. He is emotional and gregarious. These character traits are similar to Naples and its people. That’s why there is so much affection for Maradona in Naples.

He is also a family man. His parents and brothers and sisters spend several months of the year in Naples. “I can’t spend more than two weeks without my family,” he said. “One of my brothers has to always be with me.”

For his parents, he bought a comfortable home in suburban Buenos Aires. He said that after a lifetime of struggle, his parents deserved a rest. He has employed a vast number of his friends from his earlier days in a company called Maradona Productions.

And yet, despite this generous side to his character, there are certain inconsistencies in him. He is apt to lose his temper easily. Throughout his career, he had scuffles with photographers and journalists.

Once, when he was about to be interviewed by an Italian journalist for a television programme, he yelled at the scribe because he had written negatively about his performance. The journalist had no option but to leave.

In Barcelona in 1983, he used to have dinner parties where he would serve guests, holding the plates in both hands while he bounced a football on his thighs. Then, late in the night, carloads of people used to descend on a restaurant or a cinema and occupy it for the night.

It was said at that time his long-time agent, Jorge Cyterszpiler, was responsible for this wild life, and it may have been true because later Maradona sacked the agent in 1985.

His impulsive nature has also led him into a host of controversies. He was accused by a 22-year-old Naples woman, Cristiana Sinagra, of being the father of her illegitimate child. She said it was the result of a five-month relationship. Maradona denied the rumours, but the woman named her son Diego Armando.

He has had regular tiffs with Napoli club president Corrado Ferlaino, and he was about to be fined $600,000 for breach of contract. A year earlier, he refused to return to the club before the start of the league, was overweight, and when he did join, his performance was below par.

He accused FIFA of fixing the World Cup draw so that it would suit certain teams. And then, of course, there was his famous ‘Hand of God’ goal against England in the Mexico World Cup.

There have been so many other controversies, but Maradona can get away with it because he is rich and famous, a man whose face is recognisable across the globe, and the money is just rolling in.

He earns an estimated $2 million a year from Napoli with bonuses, including the sale of souvenirs and free tickets to and from Buenos Aires. He earns hundreds of thousands of dollars through exhibition matches.

Here are two examples:

For the 100th anniversary of the English Soccer League, there was a match between the English League team and the rest of the World XI at Wembley. After much haggling, Maradona agreed to play after he was paid a mind-boggling sum of £90,000. It meant he was earning a neat £1,000 a minute.

For an exhibition match that he played in Saudi Arabia, he was given a scimitar, studded with diamonds, costly jewellery lavished on his wife and a $30,000 appearance fee. And there are several such exhibition ties that he plays throughout the year.

THE LOVE MARRIAGE

When Maradona began playing for Argentinos Juniors years ago, he began to make a little money. It was then that he decided to move to a different area of the city. In this neighbourhood lived Claudia Villafane, the daughter of a taxi driver. She was a fan of his and had been watching him for a long time. He knew that and so, once at a local dance, he approached her.

It was the start of a 14-year romance.

By all accounts, Maradona had a successful relationship. And although he had not married her, she gave birth to two girls, Dalma Nerea and Janina Dinorah.

One day, the elder girl, Dalma, asked her mother whether she could see the wedding photographs. It was then that Maradona realised that it was time to legalise the union.

The wedding took place on November 7, 1989.

Buenos Aires newspapers billed it as the ‘Marriage of the Decade’. There were 1,100 guests. Maradona had flown in on a private jet more than 200 team members and friends from Naples and lodged them in three of the best hotels in the city.

There was a civil registry marriage followed by a Roman Catholic marriage.

Maradona was dressed in a black morning suit with a grey waistcoat and matching bow tie, with a diamond earring. His wife was wearing a white gown with a diamond train of 30 metres. Their children were the bridesmaids.

The wedding party was held in a boxing stadium and it started at 8 pm and finished at 5 am. The caviar and the drinks flowed. The wedding cake was 15 feet high and weighed 150 kilos. The couple had to climb a ladder in order to cut it.

It was a grand function. Maradona spent close to a million dollars so that he could provide his children with those elusive wedding photographs.

THE PRICE OF GENIUS

Because of his exceptional abilities, Maradona has borne the brunt of the defenders' attacks on him. Time and time again, during the course of a match, he hits the ground, sometimes with great force, sometimes with great skill in order to minimise the damage. And yet, he has shown remarkable courage and persistence.

Despite the vicious attacks on him, the chopping of his legs by defenders, the grabbing of the shirt, the punches in the face, the holding him back by putting an arm around him, he has managed to perform and score brilliantly. But the price has been high.

Here are a few examples.

In a Spanish league match against Bilbao Athletic, in 1983, the centre-back Andoni Goikoetxea, known as the ‘Butcher of Bilbao’, kicked Maradona so hard that his left leg was dislocated. He was out of action for two-and-a-half months.

In May 1985, in a World Cup qualifier in San Cristobal, Venezuela, someone in a crowd of fans kicked him on his fragile knee. The same accident took place in Colombia a few days later. When Argentina played Venezuela in a return match in Buenos Aires in June, he was again kicked on the knee.

Today, according to an orthopaedic surgeon, Maradona's leg looks like that of a man 10 years older than him. In actual fact, Maradona is 29 years old. And for 15 years, he has put immense stress on his body because of his football. He has a tendency to put on weight.

His teammates in the early days used to call him fatso, and therefore he uses drastic measures to reduce his weight.

In March this year, he was six kilos overweight. So, he enrolled himself in a clinic where he followed doctors' orders to reduce weight drastically. All these demands on the body had its effect. “Chronic Lumbago,” says the noted sportswriter Rob Hughes, “is a side effect of such wilful disregard of nature.”

There is a slight decline in skills. He takes a little longer to recover from an injury. And the fact is that he is not getting any younger. And so, although he would expectedly shine at the World Cup in Italy, it may not have the brilliance of Mexico. Nevertheless, it does not matter. His skills have thrilled billions. For one summer, in 1986, he experienced what very few people have experienced in their life.

He was El Rey, the king of the planet.

(Published in Sportsworld, May 23, 1990)