Saying goodbye to Mr. Bindra, a cricket visionary and trailblazer, leaves a void in the world of sports administration. But here's the surprising part: despite his deep connection to cricket, he rarely discussed the game itself. IS Bindra, affectionately known as Inder to his close friends, was more fascinated by cricket's power to unite and inspire than its technical intricacies or historical moments. While he steered clear of the sport's nuances, his administrative prowess was unparalleled, solidifying his place as a cornerstone of Indian cricket's growth.
And this is the part most people miss: Bindra's true passion lay in cricket's soft power and its commercial potential. At matches, his attention was drawn not to the scoreboard, but to the electrifying energy of the fans. This unique perspective fueled his mission to harness cricket's influence, both culturally and economically.
When I first encountered Bindra at the BCCI, the organization was led by a formidable group of giants: Fatehsinghrao Gaekwad, MA Chidambaram, Madhavrao Scindia, PM Rungta, BN Dutt, and Raj Singh Dungarpur. Below them were regional leaders like PR Mansingh, C Nagraj, and Judge Anant Kanmadikar. Bindra stood out among a rising generation of stars, including Ranbir Singh Mahendra, Niranjan Shah, Jayant Lele, and the legendary Jagmohan Dalmiya. But here's where it gets controversial: Bindra's partnership with Dalmiya, while immensely successful, was a study in contrasts. Dalmiya, a detail-oriented businessman, meticulously analyzed numbers and fine print, while Bindra, a seasoned bureaucrat, focused on the broader vision, often dismissing minutiae. Their dynamic raises the question: Can a partnership thrive when one prioritizes details and the other, the big picture?
Bindra's foresight in recognizing cricket's economic potential was groundbreaking. I recall a pivotal meeting in Pune where he introduced Trans World International to then-BCCI president Mr. Scindia, advocating to break Doordarshan's monopoly on cricket broadcasting. Years later, during the 1996 World Cup, his strategic maneuvering in creating a subcontinental power bloc and securing lucrative sponsorship deals showcased his mastery of international cricket politics. But was this shift towards commercialization a boon or a bane for the sport's purity?
One of my most vivid memories is the tense meeting at Lord's in early 1992, where we anxiously awaited the announcement of the 1996 World Cup host. Bindra's special relationship with Pakistan, forged during the 1987 World Cup, played a crucial role in these negotiations. In those days, international cricket operated on bilateral agreements, with the ICC playing a minimal role. Bindra's exceptional networking skills and warm relationships with ICC members made him a pivotal figure in this landscape.
Here’s a bold statement: Bindra's personality was as distinctive as his achievements. A true saab, he exuded sophistication, from his designer tweed suits to his preference for the finest whiskey and meticulously prepared Darjeeling tea. Yet, beneath this refined exterior was a warm, generous, and large-hearted individual. His hospitality at Mohali matches was legendary, setting a benchmark for cricket experiences.
Within Indian cricket's inner circle, Bindra was a towering figure, trusted by board presidents and stalwarts alike, from NKP Salve to Sharad Pawar. He brokered deals, organized major events, built consensus, and delivered results. One of his most significant contributions was backing Lalit Modi in launching the IPL, a move that revolutionized cricket's commercial landscape. But is the IPL a triumph of innovation or a commercialization too far?
As we reflect on Bindra's legacy, it's clear he was more than an administrator; he was a visionary who reshaped cricket's global influence. His story prompts us to ask: How do we balance tradition and innovation in sports? Share your thoughts in the comments—let’s keep the conversation going.
