Muhammad Ali made the front page of the Newspapers here, in India.
Not just the headlines, but the front page in its entirety. Admittedly, the news was the heart-breaking story of his passing. But for a sportsman who donned trunks instead of whites, gloves in favour of willow bats, and did most of his damage in a ring rather than on an 11-foot pitch, it’s a rare feat indeed in my cricket-crazed homeland. Such was the influence that the charismatic “Louisville lip” wielded over the world.
Not that there’s much of a distinction to be had from occupying the entirety of the front page of an Indian newspaper. The fourth estate in the world’s largest democracy is generally sordid on an ordinary day, and in a state of existential suffering on the other days, when the remaining estates attempt to run it over with a tractor. If the Indian press ever had a golden age, its readers likely slept right through it.
Ali will be remembered and cherished, not only for his prowess in the arena, but as a social iconoclast who wasn’t afraid to speak his mind. Armed with a sharp wit that complimented his fierce punches, he leaves behind a trove of quotes and war-cries that have steeped deeply into pop-culture.
“Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee”, “I’m the greatest”, and the memorable headline “I ain’t got no fight with them Vietcong”.
Had he still retained the fire of the old, if Parkinson’s hadn’t affected him so much, if hadn’t spent so much time taking punishing hits in the ring, I’m fairly certain that he would have been a vocal, if not eloquent speaker on the affairs of the world. As is it turned out, the legend of the man outgrew him, leaving the actual Ali an anti-climax for some. The beast was gone, and the shell that housed him bore haunting reminders of a life spent overcoming pain and adversity.
A slow, shuffling gait, hands that shook almost violently when he lifted them to light the 1996 Olympic torch, and worst of all, a loud silence that supplanted the champ’s blunt fast-talk. But nearly every person to meet him, even after his condition deteriorated significantly, has described that moment as one of the most memorable ones’ of their lives. Because he wore his body proudly; like a battle-scar that he wasn’t afraid to show-off, won after decades spent fighting as the people’s champion.
One could see into his eyes, and know what Frazier, Foreman and Liston each saw in the ring; a man of greatness.
I’ve had the fortune of meeting – personally, this time – another such great man. About nine years ago, I met the former president of my country, India, Dr A.P.J Abdul Kalam. More than being an honorary head of state, he was more noted, amongst other things, for being the scientific mind behind India’s nuclear weapons programme. Particularly, he was the one who framed the doctrines which governed the programme, primarily the ‘never strike first’ policy – something which is still incorporated into all decisions involving India’s nuclear stockpile. As India of today makes headway into gaining acceptance into the exclusive Nuclear Suppliers’ Group (NSG), it certainly owes him a great debt.
Now, no longer with us, I remembered feeling a similar sense of …. Surprise maybe, when I did meet him. A couple of friends and I were presenting at project at our school’s biannual science exhibition, and we were lucky to be among the few displays that were subjected to his appraisal.
When he stopped at our stall, he had but only two others with him – his assistant and a security officer. An entourage of photographers buzzed madly in the background, for sure. But him? He – India’s best scientist – had literally dropped by my school in his car and was standing before three school kids, each of whom were likely less than a third his age, and lesser than that in intellect.
I was about half-a-head taller than him. And when he spoke, it was with the most unexpected accent; I was dumbfounded for a moment. It was a far cry from the imposing figure that we craned our necks to look up to. Here he was, matted grey-hair and all, and all I could do in reply to his calm smile was gape, jaw ajar.
Again, it was the eyes. With a sharpness that I wouldn’t have believed had I not been standing there, he questioned us on our project. My brain, which had taken a holiday to the Himalayas, suddenly ground its gears and forced my mouth to answer.
There was a moment of silence, whereupon the photographers continued to buzz madly like insects and Dr Kalam stared at our model. Then he looked up, and smiled widely again, his eyes lit.
“Very Good” He said. And I saw for a moment, in those eyes, the sharp intellect and the serene humility behind them. Here was a man who had seen it all, and had realized what a humorous little thing life was.
Perhaps that is what true greatness looks like.
We always tell ourselves not to judge a book by its cover. But we need to do that because of the cover with which we are oft to enwrap ourselves in. We are forced to look past the falsity we created around our true selves.
But great people. Well. I would venture to say that they are their true selves all the time, which is why we are always astonished when we hear of the legend and then see them for real. Because we find it hard to believe such a person could exist in the first place at all.
From The Last Bench 