The association of Indian sport with the Taj Mahal and Oberoi hotels, currently in the news for all the wrong reasons, runs deep and long. My earliest memory is of running into Vijay and Anand Amrtiraj in the Taj’s discotheque Blow Up in the early 70s.

I was an 18-year-old student then, they were already international tennis stars, though not much older. I struggled to get an autograph and had to settle instead for a handshake from Vijay.

As a professional sports journalist, I have had to frequent the Taj and Oberoi often since then, with cricket being the primary pursuit. Till the 1960s, it must be remembered, teams would stay at the Cricket Club of India.

International matches were played at the Brabourne Stadium and the players had to do no more than just wake up and descend from their rooms to the field, as it were. There are some remarkable stories — some salacious, some obviously apocryphal, some wildly concocted — about ‘those days’ when the amateur spirit ruled and cricket was not a business. My ailing friend Raj Singh Dungarpur is flush with such anecdotes, but of these another day.

Once the sport got a little richer, the players somewhat more demanding, alternative venues within a short distance from the grounds (by this time the Wankhede was also up) were sought. The Taj and Oberoi were the obvious choices, not the least for world class hospitality standards which every cricketer I have known swears by.

I have had some unusual and exceptional experiences at these hotels. I once interviewed Imran Khan in Abdul Qadir’s room at the Taj, both tucked under the same blanket. In case this is misconstrued, let me clarify: Imran had agreed to come to the room, found it really cold, and instead of offending his teammate by asking for the air-conditioner to be switched off, agreed to get under the blanket and spoke from the heart. Qadir was to say that “skipper has never spoken to so openly” even while Imran covered himself completely with the blanket.

On two occasions, separated by  perhaps a decade, I have also heard John Wright strumming his guitar and singing soulful ballads in his room at the Taj. The first time, he was captain of New Zealand, the second coach of the Indian team, though I can’t remember any difference in his choice of songs. Perhaps that gives some idea of the essential Wright.

At the Oberoi, I once had to intervene between Viv Richards and a sozzled guest who had made some tasteless racist remarks at a function. Richards, who was seated in the party, rose to his full 52-inch chest stature and threatened to carry out the offender and dunk him in the swimming pool.

He was restrained by yours truly somewhat, but even more by the staff who seemed to have known him better. “Richards is a very strong man and can do it,” said the staffer. This perhaps gives an idea of the essential Richards.

There are enough memories to fill up a volume, but that would be like putting everything in the past tense. Which is being defeatist, a sentiment that has no place in sport. The association of Taj and Oberoi with Indian sport is certainly not over. It’s a lull, and as the wise old man put it, this too shall pass.