Moti Nandi
He was an intellectual but did not
believe in exhibiting his intellectualism. He was a novelist who preferred to
pen masterful short-stories. The man was unique in his own way.
He did not have the looks to draw
attention. Nor the bearing. Neither the flamboyance of a celebrity-author. He
made no attempt to impress or to camouflage. His whole life was an open secret;
totally transparent. He led no one; more important, allowed no one to do ‘dadagiri’ on him.
This person was none other than Moti
Nandi. His humble family background was no impediment to his passion for
literature. No obstacle, no circumstance could upset his determination to study
Bankim, Sarat, Tagore in the original as well as Tolstoy, Homer and others in
translation. He revelled in Neville Cardus and Somerset Maugham.
Such a conscientious effort could not
go down in vain. His short-stories began to appear in leading magazines and created
an immediate impact. He became without meaning to be the O Henry of Bengali
literature. Although his forte was short-stories, invariably publishers rushed
to have the rights to publish his novels as well. Nonida Not Out, Striker, Stopper and Coney among others had the readers in total thrall.
The man without any so-called
‘background’, without any so-called ‘backing’ was now the cynosure of the voracious
but highly discerning Bengali-language readership. Even cine-films began to be
made based on his fabulous sports-oriented fictions. His famous line ‘Fight
Coney, fight,’ has become a quote in Bengali idiom. The great artiste Soumitro
Chattopadhyay’s histrionic skills made the quote widely popular.
He was the ideal man to write on sports. He
had tried his hand at cricket at a maidan
club, Star Sporting, and found that he had very little talent. But he had seen
enough of the maidan life to realize
that the virgin territory needed to be acknowledged in print. His novels and
short stories were full of the real world of Calcutta maidan sport with its awkward scenarios, its challenges, its
corruption, its do-gooders and its fabulous humour.
Motida came into my life under
peculiar circumstances. At Howrah Station, the East Zone team boarded a
first-class compartment on its way to Delhi. Before the train left almost all
the senior players were seen chatting with a man at the platform. I had no idea
who he was and did not bother. As luck would have it, while travelling I met
the man on the corridor outside our coupe. He asked me, “Are you not Raju Mukherji?”
I answered in the affirmative. He continued, “Rather surprising. Raju is an
unusual first name for a Bengali.” I mentioned my actual name was Satyabrata
and told him that the nickname Raju got stuck in the cricket arena!
When I asked him his name, he
mentioned it with a faint, modest smile. I asked him if he was connected with
cricket as most players seemed to know him. He just said, “I happen to work in
the sports department of a Bengali daily.”
Then he asked me to accompany him to the coupe beside mine where his
berth was. We chatted late into the night and most of the conversation was
restricted to my personal life, my academic background and nothing at all about
cricket.
Suddenly the huge frame of Rajan Bala
appeared on the door of Motida’s coupe. “Ah! I see Raju is here. Moti, do not
spoil him. He is my boy.” Motida smiled, “If I have assessed him right, he will
never be anybody’s boy. I have as much right as you have to converse with him.”
I could not agree more. Rajanda – my benefactor in many ways – laughed, “Moti, you
assessment is 100% correct. Ok, Raju, you take my berth and chat with Moti, I
shall go and lie down on your berth.” Matter settled with ease with two of the
finest sports journalists I would ever get to see.
Following day for hours I could not
take my ears and eyes off him. We discussed politics, literature, religion and
finally cricket. He asked, “Have you heard about Neville Cardus?” I nodded, “I
have read all his books.” “How come?” he was really surprised. “Well, my dad’s collection.” It seemed I had
passed the first examination with distinction. As the day prolonged it was
apparent to me that I was meeting a very modest gentleman of exceptional
knowledge and memory.
In that first-class debut of mine
against Bishen Bedi’s North Zone at Feroz Shah Kotla ground, Motida accepted me
with all my superstitious follies. I preferred to bat in a torn shirt.
Everybody discouraged me. But not Motida. He was softly firm, “If Raju feels comfortable
in that particular shirt, what’s wrong with it? There is no law against it!” A
match-winning partnership with skipper Ambar Roy in a very low-scoring tie
settled the matter and I continued to wear my ‘lucky’ shirt.
He seemed to like my company. We met
often enough over the next decade during Bengal and East Zone matches. We
discussed cricket of course, but more importantly he diverted my attention to
various other topics. Little did I realize then that he was guiding me to
become interested on a variety of subjects.
As my playing days were coming to an
end, one day Motida suddenly asked, “Raju, would you like to be a writer?” I
was truly stunned, “Motida, of course, I would love to but my written Bengali
is definitely not up to the mark. I shall write heeji-beeji.”
“Those are the exact words I want on
ABP sports-page. You just relate the stories as you tell me.”
I was apprehensive, “Do you honestly
think I am good enough to write for ABP?”
He nodded, “Yes, yes, you are a
natural writer. I am very impressed by your articles in The Statesman. You just
put down in print whatever you want to say in conversational Bengali. Do not
think too much about spelling and vocabulary. I shall do the editing myself.” For the next 20 years I became a regular columnist
of ABP. The Telegraph, Sportsworld,
Desh and Anandamela followed in quick succession as a freelancer.
One amazing incident goes back to the
1980s. I was covering a match at Mumbai. After sending the day’s report by
telex from the post office, I realized that I had made a minor mistake.
Desperately I tried to contact the ABP office at Calcutta. Those were
non-mobile days. Finally around 10 pm I was able to establish contact with
Motida. Very embarrassed, I apologized, “Motida, I have made a silly error.
Please erase that point.” Moti, as cool as ever, laughed, “Raju, nobody reads
your match reports apart from you! Don’t worry.” Immediately he put the
receiver down. Felt very embarrassed because next morning I would lose my
credibility with thousands of readers. I was very dejected with my stupidity.
More so with Motida’s extremely cavalier attitude.
Next morning to my utter surprise,
that particular point was corrected and an impeccable report was published. How
did it happen? Took me a while to
realize the greatness of this genuine editor. He had the knowledge to identify
my mistake and the magnanimity to rectify it. He had done the job much earlier
than my late evening phone-call. What do you say about this famous celebrity-novelist
who spent time and effort to help a novice find his feet? How beautifully he signed off and dented my silly
ego.
Motida could be brutally frank, especially
if one tried to be too smart. Once at the ABP office, he ticked off the ABP editor
by saying, “We are discussing CB Fry. Don’t interrupt with other topics.” The
editor tried to reason, “I was trying to say that there are other cricketers
too with Oxbridge background. Tiger Pataudi, for instance.” Motida flared up,
“We are discussing a man who got a first-class in academics, world record
holder in long jump and a double international in football and cricket.” The
editor beat a hasty retreat.
Whatever little I have learnt about
writing has been learnt at the feet of this wonderful human being. He took it
upon himself to shield and guide me. Motida and I would spend hours over rum
and peanuts at the Press Club. He always had four small pegs and no more. He
was very particular that we both would pay for our own ‘drinks’. Excellent
lessons of parameter and perspectives he taught me by sheer personal and
practical examples.
He had very non-conventional
insights. While discussing fame and awards related to writers, Motida was very
categorical, “Trophies, titles, awards, film-themes mean nothing to me. Only
when my books are pirated and sold on road-side stalls and by hawkers at
discounted prices, I feel really happy. That means genuine readers appreciate
me.” This is the forthright Motida at his best.
Shakti Chattopadhyay, the famous poet,
had a great liking for me only because I happened to be the cricket captain of
his favourite club, Mohun Bagan. For Shaktida, neither Bengal nor India colours
meant anything. He was totally engrossed with MB. Always addressed me as
‘captain’. Once he asked me, “Captain, I will take you to my drinking-den and
spend time together.” Motida very firmly said, “No. Raju will not drink with
you in that place. You come with us to a proper club.” Shaktida, not to be
outdone, replied, “Ok, I shall not force. But I have promised my friends that I
shall bring the Mohun Bagan captain over one day. Now I will have to go back on
my word.” Motida solved the matter in his distinctive style, “Raju and I will
go with you, say ‘hullo’ to your friends and depart.”
To say this to Shaktida required
tremendous guts. Shaktida had a bohemian approach to life and was a very
outspoken personality. He believed in extremes. But on this occasion Motida’s
firmness won the day. Motida understood that I would not be comfortable in the
company of Shaktida’s friends. Accordingly the ever-thoughtful Motida took the
decision to help a young man in dire need of guidance.
Motida made me write so very
frequently that many people, particularly peer players and sports journalists,
became quite jealous of me. I told him if I could go a little slow. He was
amazed, “Why? Are you not enjoying writing.” I told him the real reason. He
laughed, “Raju, do not worry about anybody. Why should their inferiority
complex bother you? You just keep writing as long as you enjoy writing. You
have to write a lot more.” He did not mention the reasons why I should write ‘a
lot more’ but added, “You have a natural flair in English. A spontaneous and
racy style, which I appreciate. Never try to copy anyone. You don’t need to.”
After I had produced some very hard-hitting
articles on cricket issues, Motida remarked, “Excellent. This is exactly what I
expect from you. But always remember you have a pen in hand. The person you are
writing about is unarmed and cannot hit you back. Never, never praise or attack
anyone because of personal reasons. ” This is the kind of guidance Motida blessed
me with.
Once after I had written 2 articles
in one day, he asked me to produce another. I told him, “Am I not over-doing
it?” He answered, “Certainly not. You have to keep writing on cricket till your
last breath. This is the difference between you and others.” It seemed he never
found any weakness in me!
Another time around 11 in the evening
when I was sleeping soundly, the phone rang. From the other end Motida’s voice
was distinct, “Raju, write an obituary on Dattu Phadkar now. He expired just a few
hours back. I want the obit in tomorrow’s page. The ABP car will reach you in
20 minutes. Give the article to the driver. Do not keep him waiting. I am
staying back at the office for the article.” I mumbled, “Am I the right person
to write on Dattubhai?” He just uttered, “I know whom I have asked,” and put
the receiver down. Can one imagine a celebrity sports-editor waiting for an
article at midnight?
Next day Shantipriyo Bandyopadhyay,
then the sports editor of Jugantar,
phoned me, “Raju, on outstanding obit. By the way, when did you write it?” When
I told him about Motida’s 11 pm command, Shantida said, “Moti really knows his
man.”
Motida never liked sportsmen to
write. Always maintained, “Most of them do not know what to write. In any case
they do not write themselves. They utter a few irrelevant comments and the
sports desk has to make a big story out of it. Apart from one or two, others
write rubbish!”
Motida was always very categorical
and frank. He had no time to impress or to flatter. He would be brutally
forthright no matter the scenario. No respecter of the undeserving and lacking tact,
Moti Nandi always vehemently maintained, even at public gatherings, much to my
embarrassment, “Apart from Gavaskar and Raju, I do not find reading other
cricketers worthwhile!”
He could be very firm in his views,
“When one goes through Charles Fry, Learie Constantine, Don Bradman and Jack
Fingleton of the pre-war period and then in the later decades Frank Worrel,
Richie Benaud, Geoff Boycott and Mike Brearley one gets to realize the huge
difference with the rest of cricketers-turned-writers.” For his very straight
opinions, he was disliked – of course, behind closed doors – by his local
contemporaries.
Apart from Neville Cardus, his
favourite author was the Caribbean author CLR James, “Raju, your suggested book
Beyond a Boundary opened my eyes to
the fascinating socio-economic world of cricket. Earlier I preferred Cardus for
his literary flavor. Even as a reporter Cardus did not report very accurately.
He used to write in a trance with literature and characterization in full flow.
But James brought in a different dimension to cricket writing. Now my
favourites are Cardus and James. I owe you a debt.” So very typical of a
well-rounded personality. Extremely fearless and generous, he suffered from
neither superiority complex nor inferiority. He had no hesitation in
acknowledging his gratitude to people who were nowhere near him in comparison.
Another issue he hated was taking
quotes from players and administrators. “Why? Why should we ask them for quotes
if we have our own journalist at the venue? If the journalist cannot think by
himself and produce a worthwhile piece, then why is he there at all? Is he a
courier or what? The quotes of players and administrators are invariably biased
and full of irrelevant nonsense.
Motida was vehemently against the
idea of giving ‘honorary doctorates’ to people, “Why should prominent people,
including industrialists and sportsmen, be given honorary doctorate titles, I
fail to understand.” He quite rightly thought that unless one went through the
discipline and system of acquiring an academic doctorate degree, he should not
be offered one. Rahul Dravid happens to be among those exceptional individuals
who refused to accept the ‘honorary doctorate’ title conferred on them.
He admired his contemporaries Rajan
Bala, Kishore Bhimani and KN Prabhu but was adamant, “Why do they ‘ghost’ books
for others? Are they paid huge sums of money to become ghost-writers?” It is true
that these very prominent authors invariably ‘ghosted’ for their friends. Motida
was extremely stern, “If a person cannot write himself, it is not another man’s
job to write on his behalf. Why should an author become a proxy on behalf of a
parasite?” Strong words but very true, no doubt.
He himself was very particular about
issues and facts. Once in the 1980s when the entire Bengal contingent (except
Bishwajit Bhattacharya) among the Indian football players deserted the national
camp for pecuniary reasons, Motida went berserk next morning. The headline
proclaimed: Please Do Not Think They Are XXX.
The story made such an impact that the so-called ‘rebel’ players understood
their mistakes and made amends.
He would not accept gifts from
anyone, either organizers or players. Experienced an incident first-hand. We
were together in Chennai to cover a Test for ABP. The evening before at a press
conference, Tamil Nadu Cricket Association was distributing very attractive leather
attaché cases to all the journalists present. When R Mohan of The Hindu, who was helping to distribute
the gifts came to Motida, Mohan just smiled at him knowing that he would not
accept. Beside Motida was myself. Mohan again smiled, “Surely Motida’s man Raju
will also not accept our gift,” and went away.
This was the kind of impression that
set him apart at the national level. For a vernacular daily sports journalist
to get the kind of respect Motida received around the country was nothing short
of a miracle. They all would come and pay their respects to him. I remember
once one senior Indian journalist based abroad, Dicky Rutnagur saying, “Moti,
with a famous novelist like you in the press box, our status goes up. We feel
honoured with your presence.” Never heard of such a reaction for any other
sports journalist. Have even witnessed KN Prabhu and Rajan Bala – both doyen
among sports journalists – exchange views with him.
On another occasion at our terrace we
had a small party of journalists who had come to Calcutta to cover a Test
match. Motida as usual was on time. The late-comers as soon as they entered and
saw Motida waiting apologized for getting delayed! Marathi writer and prominent
author Bal Karmakar told all those present that translation of Motida’s sports-fiction
were bestsellers in Maharashtra. Wonder if any other vernacular sports writer
can come close to such popularity.
He knew the art of converting an
ordinary subject into an object of curiosity. He knew the art of gripping the
readers’ attention. He always kept his
backbone firm and straight. He always maintained, “The way the media personnel
are going about, our credibility and integrity will suffer in the years to come.”
What a visionary he was! How did he visualize the contemporary scenario almost
40 years back?
He was a fearless journalist. He
still remains among the foremost of short-story writers in the Bengali language.
His books have been translated into many different languages and he has earned
great renown. But till the last day of his life he remained an epitome of
virtue.
To me, however, primarily he will
always remain my affectionate teacher. The man who helped me to put pen to
paper. The man who encouraged me. The man who gave me courage and confidence.
Most importantly, he gave me genuine affection and guidance.
The great author even had the
magnanimity to dedicate a book of his in my name! The book is a biography of
Sir Donald Bradman. This is certainly among the highest honour I ever hope to
achieve.
