My Chunida

He seemed born to blend. Unwittingly he bridged the divide between bangal (east bengalee) and ghoti (west bengalee) in an exemplary manner. His presence led to rapport between the cricketers and the footballers of Bengal. He possessed a magical mass appeal that gave him unprecedented popularity among the populace. His popularity even in the non-television era of his time would have dwarfed many a current cinema star.

Born and brought up in the liberated Murapara zamindary (now in Bangladesh), my maternal link, where he was preceded by Sarojini Nayudu, Bhanu Bandyopadhyay and Nripati Chattopadhyay, the young Chuni utilized his sports talents in the path of reconciliation of differences between the two artificially divided parts of Bengal.

Destiny too willed so. While he was showing off his undoubted football skills to his Tirthapati Institution friends at Deshopriyo Park, a distant pair of eyes watched with awe and wonder. Walked across, asked him his father’s address and by evening was knocking at the door. The elder Goswami instantly recognized the boxer-footballer Bolai Chatterjee and was too happy to allow his son to be at the Mohun Bagan ground the following morning for a practice session. As the cliché goes…the rest is history.

Former players were wide-eyed in amazement to see the talent exhibited by the child prodigy. Within the course of the year he was the shining star of the club and state teams. By 1958 at the age of 20 he was scoring goals for India.

Under Syed Rahim’s coaching he flowered beside the magnificent duo  of PK Banerjee and Balaram and held India‘s flag high at the 1960 Rome Olympics. He went a step further at the 1962 Jakarta Asian Games when India won the gold under his leadership. This was best-ever era of Indian football. The most successful period  when men of the calibre of Arun Ghosh, Jarnail Singh, Peter Thangaraj, Simon Sunder Raj, Mario Kempiah and Yousuf Khan among a host of others dominated the Asian football scenario. Apart from PK and Balaram, the evergreen glamour of CG stood out in the glittering panorama.

Chuni Goswami led India in the pre-Olympic qualifying match at Calcutta’s Rabindra Sarovar Stadium in 1964. As a 14 year old enthusiast, I remember attending the 1-month camp every single day as a spectator. Unfortunately the brilliant Rahim was replaced by an English coach named Wright. Chunida scored the lone goal as India lost 1-3 to Iran with my favourite defender Arun Ghosh denying the opposition a dozen goals. Never again was India good enough to qualify for Olympic football.

Lack of guidance held him back from accepting a foreign assignment with Tottenham Hotspur in his heydays of 1960s. This was a typical scenario in our football context. While cricketers were going abroad and taking up assignments in the English cricket leagues, our football players never received any encouragement from our ‘frog in the well’ administrators, who were content with their clubs’ politics, personal prominence and media flatterers. Thankfully Chuni Goswami had the talent to seek other avenues.

He was deeply attached to cricket since his school days. He represented Monoharpukur Milan Samity at cricket while a student at Ashutosh College. He also represented Calcutta University at cricket while doing wonders and winning championships on the football ground.

Chuni Goswami made his Ranji Trophy debut under the strangest of circumstances. At the peak of his football career he was selected to play against Jaisimha’s Hyderabad in the Ranji Trophy semi final. The year was 1962-63 the season when four West Indies fast bowlers came to India. Roy Gilchrist the fearsome fast bowler held little terror for the debutant as he most courageously gave support to this skipper Pankaj Roy who scored two hundreds in the match. Thereafter he played very irregularly for Bengal as he was busy with his football commitments for club, state and country.

In the Ranji final against Bombay in 1968-69 he played two glorious knocks of 96 and 84 displaying his leanings for cross-batted strokes, particularly the sweep. His fantastic speed between wickets is still in the memory of people who have seen him bat. Chunida’s lone first-class century came against Bihar at Jamadoba in 1971-72 when he promoted himself to bat at number 3.

The highlight of his cricket life was of course the fantastic victory of Central-East Zone combined team under Hanumant Singh which inflicted the 1967 West Indies team to an innings defeat at Indore. Chunida took 5 and 3 wickets and in tandem with Subroto Guha had the powerful Caribbeans on the mat. Skipper Wes Hall top-edged a high skier towards mid wicket. Goswami ran almost 30 yards from mid-on, lunged forward to hold the one-handed and then actually went on a victory lap around the ground! Skipper Hanumant’s cultured voice, “Chuni, we are not playing football” was drowned by the thousands who had come to see their soccer hero playing cricket. That was the kind of popularity and affection he enjoyed.

In 1971-72 the Bengal cricket captaincy crown was on his head and he led Bengal to the final. The following year – my debut season – he led Bengal for the last time and announced his retirement. This idea of when to call it a day is a splendid example that he has set for others. At 34 he realized another few years of cricket would be a waste of time as he would be curtailing the prospect of a deserving youngster. He had left international football at 26 and now first-class cricket at 34. A master-stroke: a great lesson for most sportsmen.  

If Subimal was his first name, surely his middle name was Flambuoyance. Both the names were destined to stay in the background. Glamour and Chuni Goswami became synonymous. Reeking of glamour, Goswami was a revelation in a world of introvert Indian sportsmen. Most of our champion sportsmen in the pre 1960s were quiet, confident men who avoided controversies and publicity. Not so Goswami. He reveled in his extrovert form. He loved crowds, companionship and constant media coverage.

To my generation of sports lovers, Chuni Goswami was a magical name. Handsome of bearing, glamorous of manner the man had a distinct individuality. Smiling, waving, chatting he seemed to be in perpetual motion. Extrovert to the extreme, he brought the Bengal cricketers out of their shells. With Chunida as captain the Bengal team learnt to take on the opposition eyeball to eyeball. Within the typical easy-going exterior of Bengal team mates, he planted a tough approach to the job, which obviously did wonders for the state  in the future. This was a distinct contribution of his.

He seemed destined to bond people. Following independence and partition the differences between the Padma migrants and the Bhagirathi residents were distinct and definite. Hilsa and Chingri. Bangal and Ghoti. Only the Mir Jafar’s sat on the fence as far as loyalties were concerned. In such a precarious scenario emerged a young lad with eastern Bengal tastes and lingo to become the hero of the western Bengal bhadrolok. Without meaning to do so, his approach and actions actually assisted to bridge the yawning chasm between two extremely strong loyalties. So popular was he that I remember praying with all earnestness: Let Chuni Goswami do well but East Bengal win! I am sure there were many school boys of the 1960s with similar prayers.

*** 

A long association of about 60 years has come to an end. Our childhood hero is no more. Chundai has left the maidan for the Elysian Field.

 The last time I met him was on his 82^nd birthday at his Jodhpur Park residence on 15 January this year. The Philatelic Bureau issued a stamp in his honour that day. The ever-jovial face was in distinct discomfort. To enliven him I recounted to him of his own glorious days; his magnificent contributions; his unique brand of witticisms. A tear or two welled up as he smiled his enjoyment. But no words emanated from the brilliant raconteur. Sad sight; sadder still to relate. Really unfortunate.

 For an extrovert like Subimal Goswami, universally popular as Chuni, to be sofa-tied and tongue-tied was indeed a dungeon-like existence. Boudi, Bubli, his wife and Chunida’s endearing grandson gave him the best of companionship possible but the inevitable was near at hand. Though extremely saddening, perhaps his ‘passing-away’ was, in a sense, a blessing in disguise. No one would have liked to see his ever-cheerful face in that posture.

***

My elder brother Deb was a regular opener for Bengal and Mohun Bagan in the early 1960s and so I was quite a frequent visitor to those matches. Saw Chunida often enough and was thrilled to get his cheery smiles. Once he offered me and my friend Bapi toast and tea at the Mohun Bagan canteen when we were waiting for a lift from Deb. That year I also attended his wedding reception as the guest of his elder brother Manikda, who played club cricket with me at Milan Samity at the time.

However the first genuine meeting was in December 1967 when I attended the Mohun Bagan net after writing my final school exams. With Chunida and his very witty elder brother Manikda around, the net sessions were full of laughter and humour, repartees and wise-cracks. Chunida warmed me up with, “Oh! No, another Mukherji. Oh! No, another with specs.” I was too stunned to think of a reply but realized that I had gained acceptance at the Bagan household.

Never before I had met anyone with his peculiar brand of speech and humour. However I realized that he had a funny peculiar way of speaking: a statement in the form of a query. Had a fantastic sense of humour. He would keep us in splits.

“This pitch is a pace bowler’s graveyard.”  Before the star pace bowler could take another breath, the Bengal captain replied, “Please take rest today. I need soldiers who will fight for his team.”

That was a typical straight forward Chuni Goswami repartee. He had no time for excuses, vague comments or for the soft-hearted. He himself led from the front and expected everyone to follow. Chunida did not believe in unnecessary theories. He always maintained that if you cannot motivate yourself, no one can motivate you. Absolutely to the point.

Once he admonished a prominent batter, who complained about the size of the sight-screen after being dismissed, “Watch the ball and forget the sight-screen? Did you get sight-screens in school, college and road-side matches?”  He gave cent per cent and more to the cause and expected others to do so.

He received accolades and recognition from every possible platform. Arjuna award was followed by the Padma Shree. A whole lot of honorary posts were created for him. Influential people queued up to shake his hands and be photographed.

But the main accolade came from the common man on the road. His popularity in the days before television coverage was miraculous in the extreme. People stopped their cars to wish him. People at airports and railway stations stared at him and waved. Once our train was held up for more than 2 minutes at Bardhaman till Chunida came to the door of the train coach to wave at the multitude waiting to catch a glimpse of the man they had only heard of and read about.

To my generation, Chuni Goswami was all glamour and skill. Every movement of his we would try to copy. The way he walked, the way he spoke, the way he smiled. Our childhood hero was far ahead of the celluloid stars in sheer popular mass appeal. Always impeccably dressed, he spoke in an easy manner, mixed easily and genuinely enjoyed companionship.

He possessed a very rare sense of timing. He knew what to do and when. He knew when to retire just as he knew when to take up a new assignment. He knew his abilities just as he knew his limitations. His life has been a shining example to many. He never wanted to be a teacher but his life was a document of teaching.

Not only was he my first Bengal captain, he was also the man who released my first book Cricket in India: Origin and Heroes in 2004. Ten years later he penned a fabulous Foreword to my second book Eden Gardens: Legend and Romance. About three years ago, in a wistful mood one evening Chunida said, “I want you to write my obituary.”   

“Ki bolchen ta ki?” (“What are you saying?”) I protested.

In a serious vein, he just added, “I am your captain. I am your senior. I like the way you write.”

His companionship was full of humour and nostalgia; prawn and beer. I am indeed blessed to have had him as my captain.

My Incomparable Pradipda

Once in the 1980s at a seminar the Sports Minister Subhash Chakrabarty asked me to help sell wads of 10-rupee donation cards to the general public for the construction of the Yuva Bharati Stadium. He added, “Please do not worry. My men will be with you at the Moulali junction. Here the common people respect sportsmen. They will love to buy from you.” I hesitated not knowing if I would be able to do the job. Pradipda, unarguably the most popular speaker present, encouraged, “Just stand and flash your smile. The tickets will vanish in 5 minutes. When the stadium comes up, you can tell people of your contribution!” What a way to motivate.

He was a modern-day Socrates. Generously served his wisdom to all and sundry who gathered around him freely and frankly. Could hold his audience enthralled for hours on any subject. Like Plato he trained a host of teachers who made successful careers of themselves.

 Thank God he did not get the Dronacharya award. No, no, that was certainly not for him. He was not a vulgar teacher who would ask his pupils for guru-dakshina. Rather he was a replica of the Avatar Parashuram who freely gave away his acquired knowledge to all those who asked for like Karna and Drona.

Unfortunately in our country we could not find a place for Pradip Kumar Banerjee as an independent candidate in the Parliament. He would have changed the complexion of India’s sports ethos within months. He had that kind of personality, dynamism and vision. People of all age-groups, provinces, communities, class and creed revered him for his wisdom and total lack of bias. He was a kindred soul who traversed the earth alone to meet and educate people.

He was never an Establishment crony. Never gave undue respect to politicians, sponsors or the influential. He was the People’s Man. A man who always held his head high and walked tall with purposeful strides. Found time for the poor and the needy; for the weak and the ordinary. I remember once at a Blood Donation camp held at Netaji Indoor Stadium he went up and down the street to enthuse people to come and donate blood. The pedestrians followed him and the magic figure of 1000 donors was reached for the first time. When he came to my bed, he shrugged his shoulders at the blood bottle, “Oh! Raju, yours is also red! How wrong I was!”

Once when my wife Seema was hospitalized, Arati boudi and Pradipda arrived with a big box full of sweets. We protested but to no avail. Pradipda gave the attending nurse one huge sandesh and told her, “These are not for them! Keep these for the visitors who come to see my daughter!”

Mid-1970s. Calcutta Maidan. Every morning the Bengal women’s cricket team would use the Kalighat Club ‘nets’ for their practice sessions before we began ours. One elderly lady – warm, matronly and ever-smiling – would be present from start to finish. As it happened, she and I got along very well. We would discuss any and every subject possible. One day she asked me, “Raju, why do you avoid physical training?” Told her that I hated running. She laughed, “Wait, I must tell PK about your laziness.”  Only then I came to know that she happened to be the wife of the legendary football player, PK Banerjee, who at the time was riding the crest of a wave as the coach of a local football club.

Next season, as it transpired, PK Banerjee was appointed to guide the Bengal Ranji Trophy squad in physical training. As usual I would run just about two laps of Eden Gardens and find excuses to rest. Pradipda, who had developed a great liking for me (I suspect because of Arati boudi), once said, “Rajubabu (that’s how he generally called me), unless you do your physical training seriously, you will forever remain as physically weak as you are.” My Jadavpur University background surfaced: I argued that cricket was a mind game and physical training was not that important.

Instead of getting upset, in his softest tone he confided, “I am sure you have a health problem, Rajubabu. Otherwise a person like you will not have this wrong notion.” Much later, after 25 years, it was actually diagnosed that I had a congenital heart ailment. How was he so sure? I am certain he had a fascinating intuition which separates these men from ordinary mortals like us.

Pradipda and Boudi did not attend my wedding reception. Pradipda said, “No way, Rajubabu. People will crowd around me and spoil all your arrangements.” This was no immodesty; no idle boast. The kind of ‘traffic-stopping’ popularity that he enjoyed, his presence would certainly have caused a pandemonium.

If he was born under straitened financial circumstances, nothing in his conduct suggested so. His generosity would embarrass many a wealthy man. Larger than life in everything he did. When Arati boudi and he invited people to a meal, that would invariably be a ‘spread’ that never seemed to end. If boudi’s speciality were prawns and hilsa, she was as brilliant with the basics of rice, dal and rakamari torkari.

Innumerable meals my wife and I had at Pradipda’s residence, both at Salt Lake as well as at their Qaiser Street Eastern Railway quarters. Once after a very heavy meal of shukto, posto, prawn malaikari, keemar chop, fried chicken followed by malpoa and payesh the magnanimous hostess Arati boudi actually packed a tiffin carrier for us to take home! When I mildly protested, Pradipda’s fond reply was, “Shey ki ray, khabar bedhe niye jabi na? Kemon bamun tui? ” (What kind of Brahmin are you that you do not want to carry food back home?).

Wonder if Pradipda is the householder-rishi that Sri Ramakrishna had in mind? He was truly a saint: a karma-yogi, like Swamiji, in the most appropriate sense of the term. He was so very sincere and absorbed in his effort that the result would not cross his mind. In addition, he was the epitome of a husband and father. If he was a wonderful father to his two marvellous daughters, he was no less a father-figure to his brothers as well as to his innumerable students. He did not need to crave for respect. He earned reverence by his deeds.

Once at our Lake Road residence Pradipda brought a basketful of gifts for us. I was very embarrassed. Pradipda’s loving rebuke was, “This is for Seema, not for you. I am merely carrying out Arati’s orders.” Even today my friends have not forgotten the fabulous time he gave us that evening which stretched for hours. Our adda continued beyond midnight with not a drop of liquor involved. Just goes to show that it’s the company and nothing else that matters for a genuine, worthwhile adda.

After Arati boudi left for nirvana, Pradipda just could not come to terms with the loss. He seemed to have misplaced his soul. He tried to involve himself full steam in various social activities, but he was practical enough to realize that his salad days were no more. His daughters and the nursing staff worked wonders to keep him in high spirits as he readied himself to reunite with boudi.

Pradipda is (tense intended) very much in our midst. His life is a perpetual source of inspiration. Even people who have not met him or seen him have been motivated by his actions. His life-story is a tale of positivity and idealism. What a raconteur of incidents he was. His orbit and depth remain unmatched.

Exceptionally strong both mentally and physically, the iconic gentleman’s goodness flows in abundance:  generous to the extreme; magnanimous in praise of others; impeccable integrity; honest effort without bothering about the consequences; courage in the face of odds; completely away from petty issues; never bothered about posts and awards; never conspired for any influential position after retirement.

Once he casually asked me, “I must be your favourite football player?” I replied, “Not really.” Surprised he raised his eyebrows. I added, “Well, they are Tulsidas Balaram, Arun Ghosh and Yousuf Khan.” He patted me on the back, “Excellent choices. Where do I figure?”

I bent low and touched his toes. He put his hand on my head and, raising me, embraced. I said, “Pradipda you are not a mere sportsman. You are a Real Man. The most admirable all-round personality I have ever met.” Pradipda looked at me and just said,” I have one message for you: Just be as you are.” That has remained my diksha-mantra ever since. I have no hesitation in sharing my diksha-mantra with the world. With Pradipda’s blessings, I know it will remain that way till the last breath.

In 1955 when the teenage ‘right-wing’ recruit from Jamshedpur was running circles around defenders for Calcutta’s Aryans Club at New Delhi in the Durand Cup, from the stands the legendary India football coach Syed Rahim realized that he had found the gem India was waiting for. Next year he joined Eastern Railway and was on the flight to Melbourne for the Olympic Games to begin the 6-year chapter of India’s best-ever football era, 1956 to 1962.

 If Swamiji was his inspiration, he himself is no less an inspiration to millions. I can still feel the power and the warmth of his embrace. He is still in our midst in more ways than one. He is beyond compare.

Shyam Sundar Mitra: My role-model has gone but the memory remains…

When cricket connoisseurs including Sunil Gavaskar talk of Shyam Sundar Mitra invariably they remember him as the most deserving middle-order batsman who never represented India.  His career ran along the lines of Veda Vyas’ heroic warrior Karna: forever in neglect, but cannot be disregarded for his outstanding merit.

SS, to his friends and foes, did not believe in joining groups; had no desire to have ‘backers’; hated sycophancy. He was his own man: aware of his capabilities and in complete control of himself. Destiny decided that he be neglected and rejected by the mediocrity around him. But again like Karna, SS stood tall and independent on his own merit.

In a sea of corrupt influences, invariably enough, he paid for his uprightness. While Shivalkar and Goel lost out on a Test place because of the looming presence of Bishan Bedi, SS was tripped for a strange reason. A very domineering national selector hailing from Bengal wanted SS to play for his club in Calcutta. But SS preferred to be loyal to Mohun Bagan AC which he adorned with dignity and pride from 1964 to 1974. The price for his integrity was to remain in oblivion forever. Neither Mohun Bagan AC nor CAB ever came forward to assist him in any way.

SS graced Bengal and East Zone teams for more than a decade. An aggregate of 3058 at 50.13 from 59 first-class matches is a phenomenal feat on uncovered and spinner-friendly Indian pitches of the 60s and 70s. His 7 centuries included two against the might of Bombay of those days. He had two more against Indian Railways in one match as well.

As if this was not enough, he scored a masterly hundred against the great Vinoo Mankad on a matting wicket at Udaipur. Those who thought he was weak against genuine pace got their answer when he notched 98 against the fiery and fearsome West Indies fast bowler Roy Gilchrist who had sent shivers down the spine of our Test batters.

Exemplary concentration, unruffled temperament, cultured stroke-play and an impregnable defence were the hall marks of his skills. His batsmanship was based on classical lines. He preferred the ‘back and across’ movement at the crease but whenever the opportunity arose he would go half-forward and drive on the up. Like the persona, his bat was always straight. That most difficult of cricket strokes – the on-drive off the back-foot – was his copyright trademark and he accomplished it with rare grace. His batsmanship was a visual delight. Handsome of bearing, the chiselled face topped a lithe physique of 6 feet.

SS had a terrific sense of humour: the dry, cultured wit of PG Wodehouse, whose books he would read on tours. Someone once mocked, “Shyamu, tui boddo kaalo.  (your complexion is very dark).” Instantly he smiled, “So would you be, if you were to bat for as long as I do.”

His straight face sarcasm we relished. Once he remarked to a batter, who was out off the first ball he faced, “If you keep batting in this way, your bat will last a lifetime!” His dry wit extended to the ground as well. “Two on his shoulders, one on his waist and one on his lap!” was a typical skipper SS’s way of setting the field for two slips, one short leg and one silly-point!

Bapu Nadkarni’s accuracy made batters impatient and invariably they perished trying to hit him across the line. So SS’s prescription was, “Bapu does not like to be hit; so don’t try to hit him!”

My first real look at him was at Mohun Bagan AC, a club I joined at 17 after my ISC exam. He was our captain. It was a delight to see him use the bat as a violin. Melody flowed as he middled the ball. My impressionable mind realized that this man was different, far ahead of any of his contemporaries.

 I became the Ekalavya to his Dronacharya. Tried to pick up the finer points by observing, evaluating and practising. Subconsciously the style became ingrained. One championship-winning partnership with him against Guha and Doshi taught me more about batting than anything that I had learned earlier.

I reckon SS never took a fancy to me when we were together in Mohun Bagan for about 3 years. Not that he criticized me, but he would never praise. Nothing I did seemed to satisfy him. He seemed to have no time for others. Probably his approach was the correct approach. Why would he come forward with suggestions, when not asked?

Years later, after I got a match-winning 99 against Kapil Dev and Rajinder Goel at Eden Gardens, SS – at the time a Bengal selector – wryly smiled, “Ah! Captain, I see you have got the right role-model. I quite like the style.” That was enough for me. High praise from a man who was unaware that he was my batting idol ever since I first saw him bat.

Yes, Shyamuda, you were my role-model. God has taken you to a better place. RIP.

Riyan Parag: A Boy with a Mission

At a time when very wealthy and very influential former Indian cricketers are desperate to convince the world that they do not charge money from the IPL teams for their work as ‘mentors’ or whatever, one Ahom teenager has taken the sword out of the scabbard and slaughtered the hypocrisy in style and splendor.

One major message of this year’s IPL is the quiet emergence of a rare talent in the form of Riyan Parag. The teenager from Assam, who was a member of the world cup-winning India under-19 team last year, showed the adult cricket world his exceptional class, his repertoire of strokes, the power of his timing and, above all, his quiet confidence for the big occasion. No wonder he has MSD as his role model. Initially coached by his father, Riyan has certainly picked up the right recipe of batsmanship from his India under-19 coach, the unflappable and erudite Rahul Dravid.

In the face of odds, the gutsy young man helped Rajasthan Royals to defeat Mumbai Indians and then followed it with another sterling match-winning performance at Eden. All the supposed ‘international muscles of KKR’ vanished into thin air as the 17 year old Ahom gave a lesson to the recruiting personnel of KKR not to show disrespect to the talents in East Zone. For the record, KKR does not have a single player from the eastern region in its team.

Riyan gives the ball a real wallop. But what delights the connoisseur more is the solid cricketing technique that he possesses. Here is a batsman, who needs encouragement and exposure from the right quarters to be able to serve his national team for years to come. Wonder if our national selectors have even heard of him?

It is high time that our cricket administrators in mainstream India realize the kind of talent that lies in obscure corners of this land, particularly in the much-neglected north-east. These largely-ignored sportspeople from the north-east have time and again proved that even with the slightest of opportunities they can easily upset the apple-cart of their ‘fancied and favoured’ opponents.

Riyan’s father Parag Das was an outstanding all-rounder from Assam in the late 1990s. One of the hardest hitters of the ball, he bowled medium-fast getting his deviation from the proper use of seam. Apart from these qualities, Parag was among India’s best out-fielders in his time. On the electronic media in 1999, it was my well-considered opinion that he should be in the India world cup team to England. For having said this unpalatable truth, I lost my job! Parag’s seam bowling, power-packed stroke-play and exceptional fielding skills would have done the country proud. But then who has the time for a man from the perpetually ignored north-east?

Riyan’s mother Mithu Barooah is a former India swimming sensation. All those gold and silver medals that she won for India and Assam are now only a distant memory. Totally deprived of opportunities in their heydays, both Mithu and Parag decided that they would fight the system with no quarters asked for. Riyan reflects his dad’s image on the field. Wonder if any visionary would appoint Parag as a coach at the national level? Mithu, on the other hand, would make a fantastic sports administrator with her verve, energy, knowledge and a very broad-minded approach to life.

Riyan’s maternal grandfather R P Barooah was a very popular teacher at Don Bosco School in Guwahati in the 1970s. The tea garden owner was also the school’s cricket coach. As a regular columnist and commentator, prolific writer RPda harped on cricket with passion and feeling. Riyan, most certainly, is extremely fortunate to have such an excellent sporting pedigree. For India’s sake, I wish Riyan becomes the vanguard of a sports movement in Assam.

Even after seven decades of India’s political independence, will north-east still remain out of mainstream India?

A Tribute to a Genteel Soul

On Sunday 31^st March, Dipen Datta, a person I deeply revered, expired in his sleep. A memorial service will be held at St Xavier’s on Wednesday, 17^th April, in the evening at 6. Cannot help but share my feelings with my readers, of whom many were well acquainted with this man of charm and feelings.

It took a while for the shocking news to filter in. The wonderful man was gone forever. Not the usual two-minute vanishing act of his for a quick puff. This time he was not to return. No longer would we see his happy, ever-smiling face. No longer would he be acknowledging our innumerable requests. To me, he played the elder brother role to perfection.

Dipenda happened to be a permanent fixture at St Xavier’s ever since he joined the school in the early 1950s. Hailing from a zamindari family of North Calcutta, he excelled at cricket in school, continued his pursuit at college and finally played for Sporting Union, a prominent Calcutta club side which boasted the presence of Test cricketers like Pankaj Roy, Ambar Roy and Subroto Guha among others. Later, when he and his closest friends represented the illustrious Dalhousie Athletic Club for years, they spread cheers all round. Many cricketers would surely agree that it was a pleasure playing with and against him.

He was asked to take charge of the Alsoc office – the association of former students of St Xavier’s Collegiate School – on his retirement from a very successful stint in the corporate world for the better part of three decades. He gave the Alsoc post a distinct reputation with his remarkable skills in man-management. Dipenda became the go-to man for everyone. He was a diligent listener; possessed an analytical mind and would always deliberate before taking firm decisions. His integrity was beyond compare.

A gentleman to the core, he was genteel and civil to all who came across him. Teachers and students, priests and peers held him in the highest esteem. The handsome man with a ready smile was too modest to understand how much he meant to so many. Last November when Xavier’s won the SLOBA cricket tournament, Dipenda had tears in his eyes. He hugged me and gently muttered, “Raju, today I am really, really happy after a long time. We needed this victory.” Never saw Dipenda in that emotional frame ever.

The dignified persona radiated warmth and happiness. In his company people felt relaxed and comfortable. Perpetually low of profile, he brought sunshine to the lives of many but never would he try to be in the limelight himself. With cricket teachers he shared beers at social clubs; enjoyed tarka-roti at dhabas; sipped cha on pavement stalls. He was at ease on all occasions. Every adda of Dipenda would include Xavier’s. He and Xavier’s were inseparable partners.  

To perpetuate his memory, the cricket coaches at Xavier’s have instituted the Dipen Dutta Memorial trophy for the Best Young Cricketer of the Alsoc cricket camp. Whenever I used to rag him about Xavier’s, he would smile and say, “Raju, I know very well that your heart feels just the opposite.” One day about five years back, while having lunch at Calcutta Club at Anupda’s invitation, Dipenda merely said, “If Raju Mukherji does not have time for Xavier’s cricket, who will?” That settled the matter. Egos and worse vanished into thin air. That’s my typical Dipenda, a person I revered and respected.

As a member of distinguished social clubs – Calcutta Club and Calcutta Cricket & Football Club – he was universally popular. The wonderful gentleman was an epitome of etiquette and elegance. A rare individual he was. Not once did he allow anybody to realize the distress that he had to endure throughout his entire life.

Once I drove into a ‘No Entry’ lane and was stopped by a sergeant. Thoroughly cool Dipenda, sitting beside me, smiled at the sargeant and said in his inimitable way, “Please do not fine him. Caution him. He is always in a hurry.” Honestly, I was dazed. So was the sergeant, it seemed. He too burst out laughing and gave me a mild rebuke, “At your age, you should not drive. Please hire a driver!”

Personally, I have lost my elder brother. I have lost a genuine well-wisher. I have a lost a matured guide. The slight stoop of his gave him a stylish gait. Not that he wanted to draw attention, but then he attracted people by his disarming smile and cultured voice. Never have I met a man with such a selfless approach to life.

 Dipenda, wherever you are, we know your soul would be at Xavier’s. Amen.

Ashwin-Buttler issue

If the batter is taking an undue advantage (euphemism for cheating), why is the bowler being blamed? This defies logic. How can one hold the bowler responsible for playing the game according to the laws?

If the umpire was wrong to give the non-striker Jos Buttler out, then the umpire should have been held guilty. If the match referee has not charged Ashwin with defacing the spirit of the game, then how is Ashwin to be blamed?

The issue is very simple. The non-striker in his ignorance, idiocy or cunningness was trying to over-rule the laws. The intelligent bowler outsmarted him. Full stop. No point making a simple issue complex.

Honestly I am not in the least bothered about either of the players involved. Both are professionals and are expected to know the laws as well as to abide by the ‘spirit’ of cricket.

Some former players-turned-critics, especially those who had brought the game into disrepute by betting against their own team and by using dust to change the condition of the ball, are now making a desperate attempt to defend the guilty non-striker Jos Buttler by mentioning words like ‘dozy’ and ‘brain-fade’. These are merely ways and means to show that the white man was not trying to cheat and that the brown man was not ‘sporting’ enough. Silly notions. In this century no intelligent, self-respecting cricket lover would fall for the trap.

My only concern is that Vinoo Mankad’s name is being bandied about for no rhyme or reason. There is little by way of comparison. In 1947-48 when Mankad ran-out Bill Brown, the non-striker, he did it after cautioning him in a first-class fixture between Australian XI and India at Sydney. Mankad again ran-out Bill Brown in an identical fashion in the 2^nd Test match at Sydney. But this time, quite rightly, he did not feel the need to caution Brown again.

Mankad need not have warned the Aussie batter Bill Brown even in the first instance. But he did. Just goes to show the class and the character of the great Vinoo. He remains the finest all-rounder India has produced. In his time – along with Keith Miller – he was the leading all-rounder in the world.

The Aussie captain in that post-war series was none other than Sir Donald Bradman. Far from criticizing Mankad, Sir Don in his book Art Of Cricket went on to defend Mankad’s action of running out Brown in no uncertain manner.

 Let Sir Don take over, “…immediately in some quarters Mankad’s sportsmanship was questioned…For the life of me I cannot understand why. The laws of cricket make it quite clear that the non-striker must keep within his ground until the ball has been delivered. If not, why is the provision there which enables the bowler to run him out?”

That is exactly what cricket is all about. Play hard, but play fair. Brown was cheating and Mankad caught him red-handed. Thanks to Sir Don, Vinoo Mankad received his unstinted support in print. This is the spirit of cricket.

There have been many players and captains who have allowed the opposition to take advantage of the laws to the detriment of their own team’s interest. Magnanimous men like Gundappa Viswanath (Bob Taylor’s caught behind) and Courtney Walsh (1987 world cup) among others, have shown the world that cricketing chivalry is more of an exception rather than the rule. But they all ended up on the losing side!

The author with Tenzing Norgay at the latter’s Darjeeling residence in 1955

On Tenzing Norgay, my first idol

Darjeeling, 1955. Dr ‘Pahari’ Guha Mazumdar was at the time the civil surgeon of the Darjeeling district. A selfless man of charm and honour. The hill people were his family. He spoke their language, he wore their ‘sarong’, he ate their food and he took care of them. The Sherpas and the other hill tribes literally worshipped him.

Among the hardy Sherpas who came to visit the ‘Pahari daktar saab’ was a man who began life as a guide and coolie to foreign mountaineers who came to the foothills of the Himalayas with the intention to climb the various high peaks of the region. Within a few years he was not only the best guide available but also the most sought-after supervisor of the labourers, who carried heavy loads on their back to help the expedition teams.

Away from mountaineering expeditions this stocky, tough Sherpa was a social worker par excellence in his hometown bustee at Darjeeling. He would carry the old and the infirm to the good doctor and flash his heart-winning smile. He became Dr Guha Mazumdar’s younger brother in every respect imaginable.

When Sherpa Tenzing came down from the skies in 1953, the noble doctor complimented him on his ‘conquest’ of Mount Everest. The world renowned climber in all modesty replied, “Doctor saab, I was lucky to go on a pilgrimage to God’s abode.”

The doctor embraced him and began to weep uncontrollably. Years later Dr Guha Mazumdar told our family, “I realized there and then how small we were. The real people are these men who have the highest regard for the bounties of nature. Our knowledge is so very shallow, so very superfluous. These simple, innocent hill people have a far more profound understanding and respect for nature.”

In a country where genuine heroes are forgotten, erosion in values is the only option. A true champion of Tenzing Norgay’s stature has receded into the background. The spirit of adventure has ebbed. We have no inclination towards sports of high risks. Our whole ethos revolves around ‘heroes’ of doubtful potential.

The greatness of Tenzing lay in his simplicity. International renown and awards chased him. Presidents and kings followed his trail. Press and politicians pestered him. But he remained his smiling self with the barest minimum of needs.

The greatness of the man lay in his innocence. He just could not utter a lie, not even a white lie. When asked who stepped first on top of Mt. Everest, Tenzing replied that though they had the same rope around their waist, Edmund Hillary’s feet were the first on the summit and his own followed soon after. It takes great courage to say that degree of truth.

 In mountaineering parlance, two climbers handling the same rope are considered to be together and not separate from each other. In a high-risk adventure sport like mountaineering, the issue of individualism does not arise. It is a total team effort. Tenzing could easily have avoided the issue with a vague answer, but then, Tenzing would not have been Tenzing.

This was the real Tenzing. Throughout his life he has been ‘used’ by others. On being appointed the Director of Himalayan Mountaineering Institute, he was assured by Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru and Chief Minister of West Bengal Dr Bidhan Chandra Roy that his appointment was for life and that he would accordingly draw remuneration throughout his tenure.

But after the death of those political leaders, he was asked to retire! No further remuneration, no pension followed. Moreover, throughout his period of directorship, not once did he get any increment on his salary!

When some little money came to him by way of book royalty and donations, numerous blood-relations appeared and came to stay in his humble home and lived off him. The kind-hearted man just could not turn them away. When India began sending expeditions to Mt.Everest, nobody thought him important enough to be invited at the flagging-off ceremonies. But not once did he ever express any grudge against any of his exploiters.

Born in Nepal of Sherpa stock, Tenzing lived in the British-built hill-station of Darjeeling in North Bengal. After the epic achievement of ‘summiting Everest’ in 1953 he was offered “nationality” by both Nepal and India. Both countries, which had done nothing for him or for his indomitable Sherpa people, wanted to claim him as one of their own for international publicity.

Pressure was piled on him from either side, but Tenzing, true to his honest belief, maintained that he was both a Nepali and an Indian! In his innocence he highlighted the international nature of his personality.

This is exactly the kind of pettiness and disregard we have shown a man who literally put India on top of the world.

On 29^th May, 1953, he and the New Zealander, Edmund Hillary, reached the summit of Mt. Everest as part of the British expedition team under John Hunt. When the tri-colour flag fluttered on top of the world on that historic day, the brave man holding the pick-axe was none other than this self-made mountaineer from Darjeeling in Bengal.

When they realized they were on the summit, two toughest and bravest of men embraced each other and began to shed tears. They were mesmerized by the beauty and the grandeur of nature. Tenzing took out the sweet lozenge and the coloured-pencil-stub his daughter Nima had given him and offered it to the Almighty!

People who climb peaks are themselves at the summit of the human race. They have little interest in borders and barriers. Rarefied realms they traverse in isolation. They do not bother about nationality, race, colour of skin, levels of education, financial backgrounds. Edmund Hillary would not have opted for the ‘coloured’, poor Sherpa when he decided on the final launch, if he was a racist.

Tenzing did not blink an eye to say that Hillary was the first to step on the summit ahead of him. In mountaineering two climbers together on the same rope are like twins. The rope is the umbilical cord.  They are together, inseparable. They have the same identity. Both Hillary and Tenzing were very appropriately given the honour of being the first to climb the highest peak on earth. None would consider them first and second in order.

 If Tenzing was magnanimous, so too was Hillary. On top Hillary reciprocated by clicking Tenzing’s photo on Mt Everest and did not insist on having his own photo taken. These sacrifices are beyond the comprehension of most of us.

Why was just Tenzing’s photo on the summit taken? Why not Hillary’s as well? The reason being that they had just two exposures left. Hillary realized that Tenzing may not be able to handle the camera well enough. So to get the perfect frame, he took Tenzing’s picture and with the single remaining frame he clicked the final path they traversed for the benefit of future mountaineers. These acts of Tenzing and Hillary are at the summit of man’s selflessness.

Mountaineering is an amazing sport. Exclusively for the bravest and selfless of men and women. There are no spectators to cheer and applaud up on the mountain. No media support for instant glory. It is a complete team-effort. No individual can do it alone without the active, selfless support of his colleagues.

One small error and the climber invites his own death; sometimes even dragging down his partner with him. Very lonely, very slow, very difficult the progress is. Courage, strength, patience, team-work, leadership all combine to be successful in this most dangerous of all sports.

Mountaineering is man’s communion with nature. Not a sport between humans. It is a pursuit to overcome the almost insurmountable hazards of natural obstacles: climate, rain, blinding sun-light, gusty wind, snow, rocks, crevice, chasm, lack of oxygen, no shade or shadow, glacier, avalanche. Why would anybody want to volunteer to attempt to overcome such odds?

The mind of a genuine mountaineer is almost impossible to fathom. They are above the concept of self. These dare-devils care not about fame or fortune. Why would any sane person opt for a sport where there is no return in any form?  Why aim for a deserted summit? There are so many ‘whys?’ begging for answers.

To help us understand the reason for a mountaineer to climb a peak, a legendary climber by the name of Keith Mallory simply said, “Because it is there.”  Full stop. All questions vanish in a moment. One is astounded in the face of such selfless courage. Incidentally Mallory vanished in the Himalayas in the 1920s while attempting to climb the world’s highest peak. His body was never found.

Tenzing could not write yet he sent hundreds of letters to his fans worldwide. Tenzing could not read, yet he received thousands of articles and books written on him from his admirers all over the world. 

Tenzing Norgay’s admirers are legion. His exploits on the mountain are legendary. Generous, courageous, honest, self-less, the exemplary mountaineer remains to this day a legend and an inspiration to millions around the world. But in his own country, for which he earned so much of international respect and adulation, he is a forgotten man.

When ‘Pahari’ doctor took our family to meet him, the ever-smiling all-conquering Tenzing Norgay picked up the 5 year old child in his arms and related constantly to my parents, “It was a pilgrimage to the Almighty’s abode.”  I can still feel the blessed touch. He was my first hero. Never regretted the fact. With every passing day I can still smell the earthy odour of the most marvelous of human beings. For me, it was a pilgrimage to the best of creations.