Gundappa Vishwanath

Genius is a misquoted word. Misunderstood and misrepresented. Misconceived and misused. A cliche through wanton and exaggerated use. Today anyone a little out of the ordinary is labelled so.

 

A genius of science or commerce may be evaluated. But how do you fathom a genius of art? How would one rank Gundappa Vishwanath as a batsman? Yes, highly impressive though his statistical record is, the 6080 runs for India was a mere incidence, not his major contribution.

 

The essence of his contribution were the innumerable match-winning innings that he played for India; the courageous fight-backs in the defence of India's honour; and most significantly, the endless hours of pristine pleasure that he gave to cricket lovers the world over with his charming style and graceful manner.

 

Yet his own initiation into international cricket against Ian Chappel’s all-conquering Australia had neither charm nor grace. As the 20-year youth walked back with a zero against his name, a team-mate within hearing distance is said to have remarked, "Why these fancy types when we have hardened ones available." That pithy remark upset his equilibrium. Outwardly he did not fly off at a tangent, but a grim resolve creased his innocent face.

 

In the 2nd essay a complete metamorphosis took place. He showed the world that he was indeed the lord of the world, not only by name. An innings of infinite charm and variety unfolded. Unstoppable were the wristy cuts and flicks, and the beautifully balanced drives. A century of runs came through 25  boundaries out of the innings of 137. Sheer timing and touch captivated the crowd as much as it amazed the players themselves.

 

In the following Test too the frail, dark youngster was in his element as he partnered Wadekar to give India a resounding victory over Graham Mckenzie, Ashley Mallet & company. No revengeful glance or remark did he resort to. Rather those who had come to scoff had no option but to give way to praises.

 

Even today, more than four decades after his retirement, I have seen people at Calcutta shed tears of joy at the mere mention of his name. And why not? How can they ever erase the memory of a small, lean frame walking out to meet the Goliaths at the Eden Gardens on a murky morning in 1969?

 

India was tottering at 2 down for none, with Graham Mckenzie breathing fire. Unruffled, he appeared like a kid who did not know that he had walked into a lion's den. Not a soul stirred as the frail child with pads too big for his size took guard. The environment had all the sinister forebodings: innings collapsing, gloomy surroundings, the Garden's wicket tinged with green and freshly laden with due. Even the Biblical David could not possibly have had such odds stacked against him.

 

To the first delivery of the superlative fast bowler McKenzie, he merely leaned back and coaxed it to the left of cover-point, Paul Sheahan, to the fence. The next delivery of frightening pace and bounce was gently patted down to nestle at his twinkling toes. And as the scowling Aussies raced in with their tails up, the thunderbolt unleashed boomeranged on them. The ball this time went crashing to the distant horizon, this time beating Sheahan on the right. Surely the tiny frame had steel-springs and ball-bearings in those wrists of his.

 

Thunderous applause broke loose. Eighty thousand spectators realized the presence of divinity They stood up in respect: God's own creation was in action. Even cynical critics were tongue-tied in admiration. But, more significantly, the Indian youngsters had found their idol.

 

Gundappa Raghunath Vishvanath was to come back to his favourite Eden Gardens to play many such innings of rare character and artistry. Just as he was destined to create many similar visions for audiences the world over.

 

Where exactly was he in the pantheon of batsmanship? His consistency never matched Sir Don's output. Nor were his technical skills as copy-book correct as Sir Jack Hobbs'. Neither did he possess the glamour of Denis Compton. Never dominated as Rohan Kanhai or, later, Vivian Richards did.

 

The power of Sir Gary Sobers eluded him just as did the silken grace of David Gower. Was far removed from the solidity of Hanif Mohammed or Sunil Gavaskar. Then, exactly how would we rate the batsman?

 

When serious cricket addicts sit down to discuss Vishy they do not waste time with statistics. No figures can tell the story of his artistry. Words fail to picture him. No turn of phrase seems adequate. Even the highest praise sounds meaningless. No writer has yet been able to do justice to his marvellous qualities. He needed a Shakespeare or a Tagore. Or at least, Cardus or Robertson-Glasgow.

 

He actually did not belong to this materialistic age of ours. His batsmanship was not a thought, but a feeling. The head stood still, only the heart fluttered. Only a genius knows his real self, or does he? Geniuses make their own rules, their own ways. Convention, orthodoxy, trends, tactics bury their faces in the presence of a genius.    

 

Vishy took me to the rarefied realms. To the sublime. He had every orthodox stroke in his repertoire but he executed them in his own way. Made batting appear the easiest of pastimes. For him to cut or to flick a ball from the stumps and that too against the movement was as simple as dipping an idli into the sambar. Never, never have I seen him losing his balance, his composure, his natural elegance.

 

The great Sunil Gavaskar is on record that no other contemporary batter seemed set from the first delivery as Vishy did. The West Indian pacemen related after the 1979 World Cup that he was the most authoritative against them. Players far and wide, mates and opponents, were unanimous in their love for him. His charm and artistry had captivated them. He was one in a million. Never required to stoop to gamesmanship or the so-called killer instinct to thrive in the heat of battle.

 

 Doubt if he ever thought about match conditions or situations or opponents. Although a genius, even in that genre he had a truly remarkable quality. Was never arrogant, never moody, never impatient like other geniuses. No instigation could upset him. No Lillee, no Miandad, no Greig could rattle his composure.

 

 Never an inferior word passed between those lips of his; never a glare for any mischievous opponent. He was as charming to the beggar on the street as he was to the royalty on throne. He never discriminated; never distinguished; never discouraged.

 

Vishwanath painted pretty pictures wherever he played the game.Was the first Indian to score centuries against every Test-playing opponent both at home and abroad. No bowler ever worried him. He was at home to pace and spin alike. On any pitch and under any condition he always looked his usual graceful self.

 

 One of his finest knocks was against Clive Lloyd's West Indies team in 1974 at Eden Gardens. With India down by 2 matches to nil and Sunil Gavaskar not available through injury, Gundappa took it upon himself to combat the fury of Roberts, Holder and Julian. A flawless innings of 139 unfolded and laid the foundation for a grand victory as Chandrasekhar drove the final nails in on the last day. Scintillating stuff it was; super timing and touch. Bengal’s famous litterateur Moti Nandi wrote: Indra parked his chariot in mid-air to marvel at the pristine pleasure of the innings. Moti-da was not wrong.

 

In the next Test at Chepauk Another thrilling innings of 97 not out paved the way for another victory, thereby enabling India to draw level. Never before had India won two consecutive Tests against opponents of the calibre of Greenidge, Richards, Kallicharan, Lloyd and Roberts, among others.

 

Away from India, too, he was as successful. Match-winning innings he played in plenty; match-saving innings no less. At a time when legendary batsmen and outstanding bowlers dominated the Test scene, Gundappa Vishwanath and his brother-in-law, Sunil Gavaskar, were among the very best in the whole wide world.

 

In the slips cordon he was as safe as any. Held 63 catches in his 91 Tests, 87 of which were consecutive. His Test average is as high as 41.93 and includes 14 centuries with 222 as his highest score.      

 

In a first class career that spanned from 1967 to 1988 he had 17970 runs at 40.9 including 44 centuries'. A career glittering with golden deeds. Very impressive as his figures are, still those fail miserably to do justice to the wizardry of this diminutive genie.

 

Such was his spirit that he once called back a batter on being given out. At Mumbai in the BCCI's Jubilee Test against England, Vishwanath led India. When Bob Taylor was adjudged caught behind, the batsman walked up to Vishy and said that he had not touched the ball.

 

Without a moment's hesitation, Vishy requested the umpire that he was withdrawing his appeal! The umpire had no option but to ask the batter to continue batting. The pair of Taylor and Botham added vital runs and India ultimately lost the match. But for Vishi's generosity, the great soul that he was, England would not have won the match.

 

He, of course, became the target of criticism from all quarters. Even lost his captaincy. But he showed no remorse, no regret. Merely smiled his misfortune away. But when the man himself was a victim of a dreadful lbw decision during the 1979 Oval run-chase, no English sportsman came to his aid. Not that he asked for any. But such is the irony of life.

 

Like the sages of yore, he sacrificed his own interests to serve others. It is indeed men like him who embellish the noble aspects of life, as of sports.

 

Not many saw him at Gardens in a Duleep Trophy tie against East Zone in 1968, the year before he first played Test cricket. A treacherous wicket made a mockery of conventional batsmanship. Even Jaisimha and Pataudi who got runs were not very comfortable.

 

Yet on that poor pitch, he was a Mozart in deep contemplation. Melody on his finger-tips as he caressed the chords. Rhythm and tune mingled setting forth enchanting symphony. No erratic strumming of the strings was this, the kind of strumming that sends the uninitiated into superficial ecstasy. This was celestial music exclusively for those cricket lovers who could decipher the authenticity of a cricket stroke by the thud of willow meeting leather.

 

Thankfully Vishy, the great artist that he was, never lost his innocence. God had ingrained modesty into him with his own hands. I doubt if he cares to remember his 230 on his Ranji Trophy debut. Or his Test debut century against Lawry's Australians.

 

Grace and graciousness flowed in his veins. Never referred to any of his masterful knocks that brought victories to India. On that fateful day in 1976 at Port of Spain when the West Indies fast bowlers were peppering the Indians with bouncers, courageously Gundappa fought on with a broken finger as did his mates and brought about a historic victory by chasing more than 400 runs in the 2nd innings. But from Vishy's lips we never heard about that brave century or any of his glorious deeds.

 

Thankfully again, Vishy never bothered to change his style or his attitude to the game. He was forever the artist. Never fretted or fumed about criticisms or crowds. Never gave a thought to fame or fortune. Never fawned upon the powerful. He was a singular man in the service of others. Far far removed from the humdrum world of mortal men and their rat races.

 

Yet at the same time he was a man of the world. A lover of life. A man of remarkable wit. He saw humour in the gravest of crisis. Once when the umpire negatived an lbw appeal against him, our medium pacer Subroto Guha suggested, "That was a straight ball." Immediately a smile surfaced, "Bacchu (nickname), marvellous swinger that you are, the ball must have been swinging away!"

 

When people applauded, little Vishy would doff his cap and raise his bat all round the ground. Not for him the rudeness of pointing the bat at some particular people. Such crassness never engulfed him. Once about 25 years back, my 16 year old trainee Dilshad Akhtar said, "Sir, it is not the school but the schooling that makes a man." Absolutely correct you were, dear Dilshad. So much to learn from youngsters. Our idol Gundappa symbolised the sentiment in the best possible manner.

Vishy – just two years my senior – was my contemporary yet my admiration, my affection for him knew no bounds. Every time he faced a ball I had butterflies fluttering in my stomach. There must have been countless others, young and old, who shared my feeling.

 

The unique appeal of Vishy was the universal admiration for him. No other cricketer received the kind of adulation that he received from his opponents, peers and competitors alike. No one seemed to have had an altercation with him. No one can remember any misdemeanor on his part. None has ever said a word against him. No malice. As peers, we were mesmerized by his genius.

 

His is a unique place in the annals of cricket. As an artist he was supreme. His sportsmanship traversed all obstacles. His wit had class and subtlety. He was not tall, lean or born with chiselled features. Nothing in his exterior form suggested that he was extraordinary. Yet that was exactly what he was and precisely where he scored above all others. Whatever he did, he did effortlessly. Whenever he spoke, it was all humour and civil. When he batted he made the difficult art of batting look easy.

 

Vishy’s muscular forearms and wrists of steel we envied. Once I asked him the secret, as he never appeared to do any physical exercise. Very coolly, he picked up an empty beer glass and repeatedly brought the glass to his lips and lowered it again! He smiled, “Raju, if you do this often enough, you too will have similar forearms and wrists!”   Instantly he slapped my right palm in his famous trademark style of appreciation. That’s Gundappa for you.

 

Artistry is in the eyes and the ears of subtle minds. People who have their hearts beating regarded Vishwanath to be a genius. An artiste with the sitar of a bat. He played tunes with the willow; tunes of enchanting melody. Sending his audiences to ethereal heights. His saintly demeanour evoked admiration, respect and love. Only a genius could make the people respond so.

 

In the cricket pantheon he was Lord Shiva: A noble head and a noble heart.

 

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Moti Nandi

Pen is mightier than the sword. Classical writings have remained; mighty empires have vanished. Cricket is lucky to have received the patronage of legendary writers.Charles Dickens wrote on cricket. So did PG Wodehouse.

But in India we have not had any eminent author covering sports. Poet Dom Moraes did write a book on cricket early in life as did Sankari Prasad Bosu. Apart from that no great Indian writer has delved into serious sports coverage.

 However, Moti Nandi was a glorious exception. The great novelist, who penned masterful short stories in Bengali, came into sports journalism in the 1960s.

He was an intellectual but did not believe in exhibiting his intellectualism. 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.

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 on sports 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. His sports novels began to be translated into various foreign languages. 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.

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 (rubbish).”  

“Those are the exact Bengali 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 English. You just put down in print whatever you want to say in conversational Bengali. Do not think too much about Bengali spelling. 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 11 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.

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 – who had won numerous awards – 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.

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.”

Another time around 10 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 from a novice at midnight?

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 Gavaskar, you and may be one or two, others write rubbish!”

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.”

This was the kind of candid comments that set him apart. 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 journalist Dicky Rutnagur saying, “Moti, with a famous novelist like you in the press box, our status goes up. We feel honoured with your presence.”

At a small party of journalists at our place, 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.

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. Writers have contributed to make the game of cricket popular in India.

Pronam neben, Motida.

 

 

Hemu Adhikari:  pioneer cricket teacher

Hemu Adhikari’s cricket career like his life has been one of extreme self-discipline and dogged determination. Born at Pune in 1919 to a Maharashtrian family of famous  political personalities that included the CPI leader BT Randive and Ahalya Rangnekar, young Hemu made his debut for Gujarat (1936-37) at the young age of 17, before shifting allegiance to Baroda which he represented from 1937-39 to 1949-50.

He went to Australia in 1947-48, where he made his debut at Sydney and had a very modest series except for a valiant, determined effort of 51 in the last Test in the company of the great Vijay Hazare. But their effort went in vain as India lost by an innings.  However Adhikari was quick to grasp that his attacking stroke-play would encounter problems on non-placid pitches on which he had very little exposure. From a very young age, the thoughtful Hemu Adhikari was indeed a diligent student of the intricacies of the game.

The bright, young stroke-maker converted himself into a dour, defensive batter to keep himself ready to face international oppositions in future. His intelligence and his adaptability paid immediate dividends as he scored a Test century against Goddard’s West Indies in 1948-49 at Feroze Shah Kotla in Delhi and finished the series with an average of over 50.        .

Later as his cricket career progressed, Colonel Adhikari, now with the Indian army, was extremely busy with his highly responsible duty for the nation on various territorial boundaries. His exemplary courage, his discipline and his fellow-feeling on the battlefield were laid bare on the cricket arenas as well. Wherever he went his was a quiet, unassuming presence. But the presence was striking because of his neat and orderly manner on and off the field.

 Hemchandra Ramchandra Adhikari played for the Services team from 1950 till he retired from active cricket in 1959-60. He was the exemplary role model for the Services cricketers like Chandrasekhar Gadkari, Bal Dani, Apurva Sengupta and Venkat Muddiah who went on to gain national colours in time.

Adhikari played 21 Tests in a career that spanned from 1947 to 1959. His batting average was higher than many at 31.12. In all first-class matches he scored 7988 runs at a highly respectable average of 41.38. Even in the 10 unofficial tests that he played for India, his average remained as high as 42. He also represented the Hindu team in the Pentangular of the early 1940s.

 On the disastrous tour of England in 1952 he was the vice-captain to his mentor Vijay Hazare but did not do justice to his potential.

However in India he played some remarkable knocks. At Kanpur in 1951-52 against England on a dreadful turner in a low-scoring game that finished in 3 days, he scored 60 out of 157 but could not help India to avert defeat.

 At Delhi in Pakistan’s inaugural Test match in 1952-53 Hemu Adhikari (81 not out) in association with Ghulam Ahmed (50) added 109 runs for the 10^th wicket to help India inflict an innings defeat on the neighbours. The record century stand stood for 50 years till Sachin Tendulkar and Zaheer Khan overtook the 10^th wicket partnership against Bangladesh in 2004.

The high point of Adhikari Test cricket career coincided with his greatest disappointment. In 1958-59 when Roy Gilchrist and Wesley Hall were pummeling the Indians into abject submission with sheer speed and ferocity, the Indian selectors took a whole lot of very strange decisions.

Four captains were tried in five Tests! After Polly Umrigar, Ghulam Ahmed and Vinoo Mankad were ousted for various reasons from the captaincy slot, the national selectors decided to give the 40-year old Hemu Adhikari the responsibility to put up some resistance with a battered and bruised side that underwent constant chopping and changing. When the nation beckoned him for service, how can a brave army man like Hemu Adhikari turn down the command? Adhikari himself was certainly on his last legs. But the warrior in him took up the challenge of leading India in his own quiet, unassuming way.

 

The Delhi Test of 1958-59 would go down in the annals of Indian cricket for the glorious fight-back of a national team with its back to the wall. It was most certainly Chandu Borde’s match. In cavalier fashion with the spirit of Shivaji Maharaj in him, Borde plunged into the opposition with his sword raised. Borde was the cynosure of all eyes with 109 and followed it up with 96. In the 2^nd innings, he was out hit wicket with his vigorous ‘pull’ striking the boundary rails and his bat dislodging a bail at the same moment!

 But what is totally forgotten is the contribution of the 40-year old veteran skipper. Hemu Adhikari with 63 and 40 added century partnerships in either innings with his mate Chandu Borde. Unused to the fearsome ferocity of Hall and Gilchrist – apart from the young army cadet Apurba Sengupta, no Indian established Test batter could register a century in that series till Borde did, not even in the first-class matches – the warrior in Hemu Adhikari put on his battle-dress and met the opposition with daggers drawn. It was splendid stuff. Chivalry at its best.

 As if this was not enough the steady leggie in him captured 3 wickets for 68 runs in 26 overs.  Debutant skipper Adhikari helped India to achieve a very creditable draw in the face of massive odds. Believe it or not, when the Indian team was announced for the tour of England within months, the name of the India’s highly successful captain was missing from the squad! That spelt ‘finis’ to his Test career.

His physical fitness level was next to none. He was one of the best fielders in the world in the deep in the 1950s. Anticipation, accuracy in throwing and a very safe pair of hands were his forte. Critics the world over rated him to be at par with the great Australian Neil Harvey in the cover region. He was among India’s greatest out-fielders ever.

After retirement, Adhikari was involved in the coaching of young cricketers. At the time in the 1960s prominent Test players were rarely seen to involve themselves in the coaching of young cricketers. The best of coaches were very conscientious gentlemen who had played either at the club or inter-state level. But Hemu Adhikari proved to be a glorious exception. Taking a leaf out of the examples of former English Test cricketers helping young talents, Test cricketer Adhikari involved himself with the big responsibility to help nurture the future cricketers of India. He was the pioneer in this respect.

He went as manager/coach with the Indian Schoolboys team to England in 1967 and to Australia in 1968-69. On both tours many future India cricketers gained from Hemu Adhikari’s ‘paternal’ guidance. He was extremely firm but very friendly. Stern and soft at the same time. He was very orthodox in his manner and speech; in his dress and deportment. With knowledge wide and deep, he was an ideal teacher of cricket to young hopefuls about to enter the adult arena at cricket.

Although he was the successful manager of Wadekar’s team to England in 1971, unfortunately he was not as successful when handling senior teams. It appeared that his orthodox views and policies did not find many supporters among the established players.

 His handling of the Ajit Wadekar’s team in England in the summer of 1974 came for widespread criticism, both on the off the field. It appeared that the elderly man was out of touch with modern-day realities, particularly media relations. Ill-advised, he misguided a young cricketer which led the latter to be branded for life for absolutely no fault of his. This tour culminated in the sad end to Hemu Adhikari’s cricket managerial career.

For eight successive seasons in the 1960s the army colonel from the Services happened to be the north zone representative in the national selection committee. In 1999 BCCI honoured him with the Col CK Nayudu award for his outstanding contribution to Indian cricket. Earlier in 1972 he received an honorary life membership from MCC.

Commissioned by the ABP group’s weekly sports magazine Sportsworld in the 1980s for an interview, I met him for the first time. He attracted immediate attention: clean-cut features, well-tailored apparel and careful attention to every detail. A dignified presence.

Found him quite reticent, unwilling to discuss any controversial issue. After the interview was done, he somehow had a change of heart and requested me, “Will it be all right if you do not publish the interview at all?” I was quite surprised, “Of course, sir, if you wish I shall not print a word.” He appeared extremely happy, “Thanks. Honestly I do not want to offend anyone. Sometimes even an innocent remark can be interpreted differently leading to unnecessary hassles. I want to stay away from controversy.” I assured him, “Sir, I shall not publish this interview ever.” Relieved, he shook my hand. The clasp was firm but warm. Just like the man.

Honestly, I was more relieved than he was. Because he happened to be my father-in-law’s cousin and was a regular visitor at the Samarth’s residence whenever he happened to be at Calcutta. It is always difficult interviewing even a distant relative. The acting editor Arijit Sen, deputizing for editor Tiger Pataudi, understood my predicament.

Next met him at Brabourne Stadium in Mumbai in the mid 1990s when three senior coaches were invited by the CCI president Raj Singh Dungarpur to assist Hemu Adhikari at a CCI-conducted coaching camp for prominent under-19 talents. Vasu Paranjpe of Mumbai happened to be one of the assistants. The other gentleman was from Tamil Nadu, whose name I cannot recollect now. Would he be one Mr Arunachalam, I wonder?  

 As was his reputation, the mentor-supervisor Hemu Adhikari was his dignified, unassuming self and asked his assistants to take charge independently. I looked into the fielding aspect and began with my usual drill with tennis-ball catching. He was highly impressed as were Raj Singh Dungarpur and the attending journalist, the highly volatile Rajan Bala.

Hemu Adhikari shall always remain a treasured name in Indian cricket for his contribution as a teacher of cricket to Indian youngsters. In the 1950s and 1960s rarely would one find a former Test cricketer spending time and effort to help young, inexperienced players as there was neither fame nor fortune to be made from coaching unheralded youngsters.

Colonel Hemu Adhikari was a glorious exception and a pioneer. His manner, his speech, his bearing, his tone, his discipline, his sincerity all bore the stamp of a person at peace with himself. He left for his Heavenly abode in 2003 leaving behind his wonderful wife, Kamala.

 

Mohinder Amarnath

A wry, cryptic smile played on his lips. Otherwise not a trace of emotion creased his handsome face. Deprived and detested, he was Karna reborn. Like the Mahabharata hero, his spirit never flagged; his body never faltered. Brave and strong he was, but his real strength was in his implacable faith in himself.

 

Mohinder's cricketing career has been a zigzag movement. Unlike other stalwarts who have shown steady progress or rapid rise, Jimmy Amarnath's career graph was identical to an ECG report. The curve went up one moment and at the very next would be seen to be plunging down. He never had a moment's rest during the course of a career that stretched from 1969 to the late 1980s.

 

He has always been a loner. Never quite found any attraction to the petty communal and regional groups that invariably dominate the India teams. He was his own master. Never needed to stooge around to lap up the drops of honey that generally come to the favoured ones.

 

Like his irrepressible father Lala Amarnath, he had the gumption to speak his mind. Lala way back in 1936 had criticized a captaincy decision. Similarly Mohinder Jimmy Amarnath called the national selectors 'a bunch of jokers' in the 1980s. In time both stood vindicated. Courage has its own way of redeeming itself.

 

 

 Groupism would have abhorred this man of strong principles and impeccable manners. He never belonged to any faction and inevitably paid the price of not receiving the supportive nod. Not that he bothered. In fact he would have vehemently opposed to be such a puppet. He was a serious soul, a soul that searched within himself. But no restrictions ever crippled him: whenever the need arose he was fully capable of soaring far, far beyond horizons.

 Plunged into depths, drawn over burning coal, tortured with solitary confinement, Mohinder did not lose his cool, his composure and his character. Confident of his own capabilities, he treated success and failures with similar disdain. Nothing and no one could divert him from his strong sense of principles.

 However with the Mahabharata hero he had one major difference. Karna sacrificed his amulet as an act of generosity and knowingly hastened his death. While Mohinder willingly put on the helmet and rejuvenated his career. Moreover Karna was deprived of paternal care, but Mohinder was indeed fortunate to have the master tactician Lala to supervise his cricketing skills.

 Mohinder, nothing else but self-respect and national honour mattered. No amount of battering bruised him. No amount of heckling unnerved him. In the face of odds he would stand firm in defence of the honour of himself and more importantly the nation.

 

Time and again Mohinder was laid low by the short rising delivery. In Pakistan Imran Khan struck him a nasty blow on the face. At Kingston the West Indies bowlers peppered him black and blue. And at Mumbai Rodney Hogg felled him on the wicket. It is a saga of cricketing legend that Mohinder got up every time he was laid low and went out to battle again.

 

 He did not seek the refuge of nursing homes, or the shelter of pavilions. He had pride, he had guts. What a contrast he must have been to those fancy fairies who went to the Caribbean as batters in 1982-83 and stayed away from the fast bowlers even in the island matches.

 

Mohinder made his Test debut in 1969 against Bill Lawry's Australians at Chennai. At the time he was just about 19 and was selected to open India's bowling attack. People guffawed initially, but as his slow medium movement accounted for Keith Stackpole and Ian Chappel, they gulped and nearly choked themselves. Yes, he did send back two of the prominent batters of the time. Stackpole was dismissed bowled and   Chappel lbw. But the feat of the young medium pacer was not good enough for our myopic national selectors. As the Test ended so did Mohinder's first taste of international cricket.

 

Years passed in the national championships without any ripples. People who mattered seemed to have forgotten the young man. The potential that he had displayed as an all-rounder with the Indian schoolboys sides in England and Australia in the late 1960s went under wraps.

 

 While at school he was upstaged by his elder brother Surinder's stylish elegance, but the knowledgeable realised that the younger Amarnath had much more tenacity and talent as a batsman to succeed at the top level. He used, his feet splendidly against the spinners and was not shy of stepping out at the slightest pretext. He played classically straight and eschewed all possible risks by being very selective as regard horizontal-bat strokes.

 

However it must be readily granted that around this time Jimmy's approach against pace was not without reproach. He looked uncomfortable against the short, rising delivery. But then, to be honest, who doesn’t?  “It's only that some people play those lifters better than others,” so spoke Rohan Kanhai, as did Patsy Hendren in an earlier era. How true, how very true.

 

However the fact remained that Jimmy, who was so very assured in tackling spin, gave the impression that the short, rising delivery was his Achilles’ heel.

 

Rarely do we see a cricketer overcome a genuine weakness to such an extent that in time he comes to be regarded as an epitome of skill in that particular field. Mohinder who had suffered so many times at the hands of pace, ultimately developed to such an extent that he came to be regarded as the perfect model against pace bowling. This is no mean achievement.

 

No other cricketer in the long history of cricket can lay claim to similar fame. When the West Indies fast bowlers themselves maintained that Mohinder was their most feared opponent, he received his highest accolade.

 

His was story of raw courage and intelligent application. He decided to meet fist with fist; sword with sword. He practised hard and alone. For hours on end, day after day, month followed month. Not for him the easier option of resignation to fate. He could have adopted the easiest way of blind, wild heave of the bat at the ball, which some of our modern stars seem to be thriving upon. He also could have tried the time-tested technique of weaving and ducking.

 

But Lala suggested that he meet the ball square on, to put the bat to the ball in full measure. He adopted the idea, mastered the art. Such was the degree of competence and courage that he could hook the fastest missile beyond the ropes with utmost disdain.

 

Mohinder did not follow the classical pattern of hooking which recommends that the ball be kept down, preferably to the left of the square leg umpire. The difficult task was mastered by a handful only. Men like on Don Bradman, Patsy Hendren, George Headley, Rohan  Kanhai and our own Kapil Dev, among others, are considered to be the master exponents.

 

On the contrary Mohinder met the climbing delivery on its rear and sent it soaring into the stands. Such was his control and confidence that the risky stroke of hitting up became his patented trademark. When he was around no fast bowler was willing to see his express deliveries sailing over the rails. The helpless batter became the most feared hooker in the world.

 

What exactly was the reason for Mohinder 's emergence as a world class batsman ? Extremely difficult to pinpoint a particular reason. No answer would be conclusive. However I personally felt that in his case it was an issue of mind over matter. An unyielding determination to tide over odds. An extraordinary will-power that would not brook any obstacle.

 

His cool-cucumber bearing nursed a distinctive, analytical brain. His courage made him an optimist. Constant neglect had made him impervious to changes in fortune. It appeared that during the period between 1979 and 1985 when he was at his peak that a superior spirit had entered into his self. He just could do nothing wrong. Whatever he touched turned into gold. Even his slow wobbles of swing and seam mesmerized men like Richards and Lloyd.

 

Technically he underwent a radical change. He opened up his stance, standing almost square to the bowler. No side-long glances; he squared his shoulders and looked at the bowler almost straight on. This of course gave him the necessary initial position for the hook and the pull. With his feet wide apart, he gave himself a wider base and so a better balance. Actually he gave the impression that he was ready for the hook and the pull.

 

All this is of course much easier said than done. Mohinder did it in his own way and came up trumps. However his immense credit was that despite having a square-on stance, he did not reveal any weakness on the off-side. This was indeed quite a revelation. For players who shift their emphasis so obviously generally compromise on their, original ability. But in Mohinder’s case such apprehensions were frivolous.

 

Another fascinating technique of Mohinder's was to play fast bowling basically on the front foot. Generally the best of batters who play fast bowling well are those who are very strong on the back foot. One rare exception was the stylish England batsman Tom Graveney, who very capably tackled pace off the front foot but then he was not known to be an outstanding hook-stroke exponent. Mohinder too did so and was outstanding against Imran's in-dippers and lifters in 1982-83, when he scored at will.

 

After his Test debut in 1969, Mohinder next Test was in 1975-76, on the twin-tour of West Indies and New Zealand. Quite a success he was. In the Port of Spain Test when India successfully chased 400 plus to win the Test. Mohinder hit 85 and then in the following Test at Kingston where the West Indies resorted to bodyline bowling Mohinder alone stood ground to score a magnificent 60 out of India's 97. Back home he had another fair series against New Zealand and then a lean time against England at home. In 1977-78 he was an outstanding success in Australia.

 

 

But a serious head injury in 1979 took its toll. He lost his form and place in the team. However when he was again back among runs and wickets he had the mortification to be overlooked for the tour of England in 1981.

 

This was the final straw. Now Mohinder perceived that in the troubled waters of Indian cricket to survive he would have to swim all by himself. The life jackets and the helping hands were for people with other surnames, with different off-the-field skills.

 

With the sheer weight of performance Mohinder battled his way in to the team for Pakistan in the winter of 1982. A series that exposed the short-comings of Indian cricket like no other. And the Gods chose Mohinder to be our only saving grace. Against Imran at his ferocious best, he reeled off 109 not out, 53, 22 and 78, 61 and 64, 120 not out, 19 and 103 not out. Within months Holding, Roberts, Garner and Marshall were dumbstruck as he plundered 29 and 40, 58 and 1, 7, 13, 91 and 80 and 54 and 116.

 

The silver streak stretched to the Benson & Hedges World Championship victory in 1985. Between 1982 and 1985 he was arguably the most prolific batter in the world. None else had surpassed his consistency and courage against the fearsome West Indies attacks in the 80s.

 

Mohinder's cricket was based on guts and intelligent application. And a fascinating brand of optimism. By the time he was forcibly omitted he had scored 4378 runs at 42.50 with 11 centuries in 69 Tests. In the shorter version too he left aft indelible imprint, both in batting as well as in bowling. The crowning glory being the Man of the Match award in that glorious World Cup final of 1983, which has been so deeply highlighted that it needs no further delineation.

 

Mohinder's bowling indicated that apart from pace and movement, subtle variation could also make a man a match-winner. A few bouncy jogs took him to the crease and gave him the required momentum and rhythm, and then an easy action would ensue. He created no feeling of apprehension, none at all of deception. I honestly suspect that it was his drowsy, laid-back approach that lulled the batters into a false sense of confidence. The wobbles of either way, bowled to perfect length and line, would then do their finishing job. He was the man who started the trend of bowling gentle floaters in the one-dayers, the highly successful current tactic the world over.

 

He was an excellent captain of Delhi and North Zone. Ably guided generations of cricketing colleagues. He was the man who as coach laid the foundation for the success of Bangladesh, the ultimate credit for which went to Gordon Greenidge who succeeded him. He was a martinet; as far as he himself was concerned. But with others he was an extremely caring soul.

 

Mohinder Amarnath's conception of the game was clear and concise. He did not resort to unnecessary academic debates and pedantic lectures. In fact he hardly ever opened his mouth. His views on cricket were exclusively for his own development, unless of course if anyone cared to seek his opinions.

 

Once after a disastrous series against West Indies when he had scored just 1 run in 6 innings and had appropriately enough lost his place in the national team, I asked him what he felt had gone wrong with his batting. Cool as ever, Jimmy said that he had analysed his batting and found that there was no apparent technical problem. What he needed, he said, was a lot of batting in the ‘middle’ and a lot of runs to regain his confidence. So he had decided to go to England in the Indian off-season to play as much as possible: friendlies, charities, benefits and the leagues.

 

It needed a lot of self confidence to say that he found no technical faults in his own batting even after getting just 1 in 6 innings. But then that was Jimmy. Clear, candid, concise. A man who did not believe in excuses or in vague arguments.

 

Again his ideas about physical fitness is worth memorizing. He himself loved to run, to stretch, to bend. Hour after hour. But no woolly thoughts clouded his judgements. He fully appreciated that every different individual had his own way keeping fit. Even as a national selector, Jimmy would bring his exercise-mat with him to the ground and do his routine physical stretching!

 By the way, it is pertinent to note he had the courage to resign from the national selector's role on a point of principle. So very typical  of Jimmy. Wonder if anybody else has ever done it in Indian cricket. Doubt it.

 

He would stick to his views. But would have the decency to listen to others. It was this acceptance of others, especially of those different from his views that made him such a delightful company. A gentleman of manners he was. Of handsome bearing. A man worth emulating. Surely among the most courageous batsman ever in the history of cricket. Proud to call him my friend.