With Prodyutda in 1972

Prodyutda at Gavaskar Foundation in 2000. Players from left: Souvik Bappa Banerjee, 

Anupam Sinha, Anirban Bumba Chatterjee, Soumen Singh, Vineet Sinha and Pom Dutta. 

Prodyut Mitra

Like all genuine teachers, he never claimed credit for guiding any trainee. Most certainly it is the student’s duty to acknowledge his debt to the teacher and not the other way round. Hundreds, no thousands, have come under the shelter of his wide shadow, but not for once did he ask for any recognition.

He was a selfless man. He did not know what ego was. He had loads of self-respect but no selfish motive. His only intent was all for our benefit. He wanted no money; no fame; no gratitude from any person. He was a freedom-loving individual who spent his tenure on earth for the service of cricket and cricketers.

He was Prodyutda to all at the Calcutta maidan and beyond. He came into my life under very strange circumstances. We had nothing in common. He was big, burly and strong. I was skinny, lean and weak. If he had ever given me a punch, I would have died there and then. If I had ever thought of giving him a punch, my wrist would have been broken into bits. He loved classical music; I had no clue about melody. He never missed a single practice session whereas I was reluctant more often than not!

When I kept seeing him at the Kalighat Club net I fully grasped the actual meaning of the word ‘patience’. Terms like ‘tiredness’ and ‘lethargy’ were not part of his vocabulary. For hours he would willingly ‘throw-down’ at the nets to me. In fact I, the batter, had to tell him that I was tired and no more please. He would literally beg and plead that I continue for just a ‘hundred’ more!

If we contrasted each other in so many ways, we also complemented one another in other ways. He came to the ground in dhoti and shirt; I came in pyjamas or in jeans and paanjabi. I had constant doubts about myself; he had awesome confidence in me. Whenever I felt disappointed, and that happened quite often, Prodyutda would be at the other end of the telephone wire saying, “Raju, aar ekbar aye. Dekbee shob thik hoey jabe.” (Please come one more time; you will find that everything will be fine.)

 I loved reading books; he thought books spoilt my eyes! Whenever I got out, Prodyutda found ways and means to tell me that the ball did something awkward! He knew far more about sports psychology than qualified and experienced psychologists and coaches. He gave me the confidence which I did not possess before I had met him.

Prodyutda used to work at Oberoi’s Grand Hotel. He was a record-keeper in the laundry department. One day he told Gopal Bose and me that his boss had told him that in future he would need to spend the entire official working hours 10am to 5 pm at the department. Immediately, very typically, Gopal said, “Chalo, let’s meet your supervisor,” and off we went to meet him. The entrance to Grand Hotel laundry section was through a narrow lane opposite the New Empire Theatre. Prodyutda stood outside the room as we walked in and met the supervisor, a genial elderly gentleman.

Without any paraphernalia, the current India cricketer Gopal Bose asked the supervisor, “Dada, how many members of your family would like to watch the Test match next week?” Those days in the 1970s Test match tickets at Eden Gardens sold at a huge premium. Even people of influence had trouble getting those tickets. The supervisor, thankfully a cricket follower, recognized us. He was flabbergasted with the query. Somehow he mumbled, “Three.” Gopal replied, “Tomorrow your assistant Prodyut Mitra will hand you seven tickets. Keep three for your family. Give two to your two assistants and two to your boss. Raju, now please explain to him the reason!”

Now it was my turn to be surprised. However I managed to explain to the supervisor, “ If you do not allow Prodyut Mitra to go to the cricket ground he will suffer and die. You surely will agree that Prodyutda has always been a very sincere worker. We promise that he will finish his daily job on that very day but not during office hours. You have allowed him to do so over the years without any complaints, so please do not cause any problems now. On your decision will depend the future of so many prominent cricketers of Bengal.” Thankfully the gentleman nodded and we left the room. On hearing what had transpired Prodyutda just said, “You two have made me an eternal debtor!”

Prodyutda’s contribution to Bengal cricket cannot be measured. He held no official appellation. He was not even the principal coach of any club. He happened to be associated with Kalighat Club – then among the premier clubs – as a man who assisted Sunil Dasgupta, the official coach. But any club player of any club had free access to Prodyutda. He was ever ready to help. He did not believe in unnecessary technical advice. Rather always concentrated in encouraging players to try their best. Actually in effect he was a sports-psychologist without any official qualification.

As a Mohun Bagan player, I used to notice him from a distance whenever Mohun Bagan met Kalighat Club between 1967 and 1969. He would spend hours under the burning sun walking up and down right opposite the pavilion! This is important to note that during the match he would not bother the players with ‘advice’. At the time of course I did not understand the man’s motive. Honestly I thought the Kalighat assistant-coach was crazy!

 In 1970 Tapan Jyoti Banerjee approached me to play for Kalighat Club so that I would get more opportunities to bat because in Mohun Bagan I had to bat after SS Mitter, Chuni Goswami and PC Poddar in the middle-order. In my new club too, the Kalighat Club captain R Sen kept me at no 6 in the first two friendly matches. Even in the nets I batted very late, almost at sun-down. Quickly I lost interest and decided to pack up. TJda called to say,” Raju, don’t be silly. You will get your opportunities soon. You are our main hope in the middle-order.” That sounded very encouraging coming from a man I admired.

Next day as I arrived at the ground the endearing assistant-coach Prodyutda addressed me,” Raju, you come and spend time with me at the nets. I will throw-down as many deliveries as you like. You have the talent to succeed. Please give an opportunity!” I was dazed with the man’s observation and his willingness to help me when there were so many other Bengal Ranji players in the team. Moreover I had never seen him do any throw-downs to anybody in those few weeks of the early season.

Sure enough, following day I landed round 12 noon and found Prodyutda waiting for me at the nets! Thus began an adventure that was to last more than a decade.  His throw-downs never quite stopped.  At 12 noon it began and then again when the net was over at 4.30pm. Gopal Bose was quick to realize the advantage of throw-down practice and spoke to Prodyutda to help. Immediately Prodyutda complied with the request.

 In Gopal’s Herald car, he would pick up Prodyutda at 8am from home and have throw-downs for an hour at the Kalighat Club, and then drop him at Grand Hotel. Then we would leave our Dasturco office and pick up Prodyutda from his office around 11.30 and before the official net began at 1.30, we would monopolize him. But in the evening at 4.30 Prodyutda was all mine for at least half an hour! The gentleman actually threw-down for at least three hours every day! Year after year. All this for no monetary or any other consideration!

It is unbelievable. I know I myself would not have believed it was possible unless I had seen this happen. I did see the sacrifice, the sincerity and the self-less approach of the person. He never considered himself as a coach. Never wanted to be rated as a mentor. Never wanted any glory for himself. He was destined to help others prosper.

He married cricket because cricket was his first love. Yes, he had an ear for classical music. Every year he would buy a season ticket to attend the Bangya Sanskriti Sammelan, which was held annually on the maidan, just south of the Kalighat Club tent on Outram Street. Here he would stay late into the night appreciating the best of talents of Hindustani classical music. And the following day he would be back to his punctual routine of cricket and laundry-record right on schedule.

When ladies cricket was in its early days at Calcutta, the famous football personality PK Banerjee’s wife Arati Boudi was in charge. She quite appropriately opted for Prodyutda as the coach. Prodyutda agreed to supervise the training of the young girls under one condition: that he would not be regarded as the official coach!

Prodyutda idea of coaching was visual. He would ask the girls to watch the prominent players in action at the Kalighat Club net. Then he would ask them to do ‘shadow practice’. Finally he would give catches to the girl-trainees. One day I had to tell him, “Are you mad? Do you realize how hard you are hitting the balls? Any moment someone will have a serious finger injury.”

“Then how will they learn catching?” he asked.

“Please ask a senior girl to give the catches. That is the power they must get used to. No more than that.”

“Thanks, Raju. This is the reason I do not consider myself as a coach. Your ideas are so simple and easy to follow.”

“Prodyutda, you do not have to think of yourself as a coach. Let others decide about it. I personally feel that you are my coach, mentor, psychologist all rolled into one. You are a genuine teacher of values. That is more important in a coach than anything else. What is the use of being considered a coach if you are ill-mannered, foul-mouthed, uncouth and impatient? I love and respect you as you are.”

Prodyutda was visibly embarrassed, “One request to you, Raju. Please do not say these things to others about me. Theek Acche? (OK?)”

I joked, “No, no, not before you die.”

One day Arati Boudi, who would be at the Kalighat CLub ground with the young girl-trainees told me, “Raju, I want you to discuss field-placing, tactics etc with our captain Sreerupa.”

Sreerupa Bose was a very intelligent and hard-working woman. She was also extremely strict with her team mates. I found her to be very knowledgeable about cricket and needed little guidance. When I complimented her on her approach and aptitude, she mentioned having read some coaching manuals. This was an eye-opener to me. Told her to get a copy of Sir Donald Bradman’s Art of Cricket and within days she had a copy with her. Absolutely outstanding choice as captain. Behind the whole of episode of Arati Boudi and Sreerupa Bose, I suspect the idea was of a man named Prodyut Mitra!

He was that kind of a man. He had no ego, no ulterior motive, no silly complex. His only motto was to help others, whichever way it might be. Never drank a drop of alcohol, never smoked tobacco and was an extremely light eater. He depended on no one for any favours. Once when leaving for overseas, I asked him if I could get anything particular he fancied. His reply was, “I would be most happy if you bring back yourself!” What can you say of such a person?

While playing I developed a silly superstition. It was that before I batted Prodyutda must bowl to me a few deliveries! It was ok with Kalighat Club. Prodyutda – in dhoti and shirt – would turn his arm round a few times in the morning warm-up and I would feel fine. But what about Bengal’s Ranji matches? He was not the Bengal coach or any important CAB official that he could just walk in and start bowling a few deliveries at me on the outfield.

I approached a very prominent CAB official, Mr Notu Kolay – a gem of a person – and he immediately told the Bengal coach that Prodyut Mitra should be permitted to bowl a few deliveries to Raju every morning before the start of the match. This became a regular feature at Eden Gardens for years! Was he the first private coach in the world to take the field during an official first-class match?

Prodyutda spent a few years with me at Mohun Bagan and then went to East Bengal for a longer tenure. But his best days were spent in the company of kids whom he adored. They in return literally worshipped him. His contribution as coach cum mentor has never been properly appreciated and recognized.

When Sunil Gavaskar decided to start a cricket coaching centre under the umbrella of his GAVASKAR FOUNDATION, I happened to be a trustee. My first choice as coach was the one and only Prodyutda. Thankfully our managing trustee Jayanta Chatterji gave his immediate consent and Prodyuta remained with us all along. Jayanta really looked after him, now that his salad days were over and people tended to avoid him.

But Prodyutda, typically, was very embarrassed with the high remuneration offered. He told me, “Raju, I do not deserve this amount. No, no, I cannot accept this. Too high for me. I love to be with the youngsters but what will I do with so much of money?”

In all humility, I answered, “To begin with, the money offered is far less than you really deserve. We cannot measure your contribution to cricket in monetary terms. This is just our token of gratitude to you for guiding us over the years. If you do not accept then I shall feel guilty for ever. Do you want me to feel sad and guilty?”

When Sunil came to launch the Foundation, Prodyutda told his young trainees, “Go and take pictures with him for your Thakur-ghar. You boys may never get this scope again. Don’t delay and don’t disturb him. Go, go, Quick, quick!” So very typical of him. The kids –all crowding round Prodyutda – were very shy to go near Sunil Gavaskar. So Prodyutda took the initiative to goad them to keep the picture of a lifetime. A visionary who never got any credit from any quarter.

When he expired no one told me about it. Everyone kept the sad news away from me. A month later when I came to know, I was furious, “Why was I kept in the dark? What’s wrong with all of you?” Then someone softly said, “That was Prodyutda’s last wish. He kept saying ‘Don’t tell Raju. Don’t tell Raju.’ So we didn’t.” Prodyutda died a very peaceful death. His most dear young trainees gave him a quiet cremation without taking the body all over the maidan.”

Prodyutda left as he lived: modest, quiet, simple. No ceremony. He would have hated that. No condolence meeting. He would have been positively embarrassed. Prodyutda lives in our souls. No spiritual sage could have been as selfless as he was.

What an exemplary role-model. But almost impossible for me to live up to. Prodyutda did not want me to know of his final hours because I just had a mild attack of heart-malfunctioning. He did not want to bother me even in his last journey. He never did bother anyone for anything. To him I remain forever in debt. Very grateful for he made me into whatever cricketer I happened to be.

 

 

 

 

Moti Nandi

He was an intellectual but did not believe in exhibiting his intellectualism. He was a novelist who preferred to pen masterful short-stories. The man was unique in his own way.

He did not have the looks to draw attention. Nor the bearing. Neither the flamboyance of a celebrity-author. He made no attempt to impress or to camouflage. His whole life was an open secret; totally transparent. He led no one; more important, allowed no one to do ‘dadagiri’ on him.

This person was none other than Moti Nandi. His humble family background was no impediment to his passion for literature. No obstacle, no circumstance could upset his determination to study Bankim, Sarat, Tagore in the original as well as Tolstoy, Homer and others in translation. He revelled in Neville Cardus and Somerset Maugham.

Such a conscientious effort could not go down in vain. His short-stories began to appear in leading magazines and created an immediate impact. He became without meaning to be the O Henry of Bengali literature. Although his forte was short-stories, invariably publishers rushed to have the rights to publish his novels as well. Nonida Not Out, Striker, Stopper and Coney among others had the readers in total thrall. 

The man without any so-called ‘background’, without any so-called ‘backing’ was now the cynosure of the voracious but highly discerning Bengali-language readership. Even cine-films began to be made based on his fabulous sports-oriented fictions. His famous line ‘Fight Coney, fight,’ has become a quote in Bengali idiom. The great artiste Soumitro Chattopadhyay’s histrionic skills made the quote widely popular.

 He was the ideal man to write on sports. He had tried his hand at cricket at a maidan club, Star Sporting, and found that he had very little talent. But he had seen enough of the maidan life to realize that the virgin territory needed to be acknowledged in print. His novels and short stories were full of the real world of Calcutta maidan sport with its awkward scenarios, its challenges, its corruption, its do-gooders and its fabulous humour.

Motida came into my life under peculiar circumstances. At Howrah Station, the East Zone team boarded a first-class compartment on its way to Delhi. Before the train left almost all the senior players were seen chatting with a man at the platform. I had no idea who he was and did not bother. As luck would have it, while travelling I met the man on the corridor outside our coupe. He asked me, “Are you not Raju Mukherji?” I answered in the affirmative. He continued, “Rather surprising. Raju is an unusual first name for a Bengali.” I mentioned my actual name was Satyabrata and told him that the nickname Raju got stuck in the cricket arena!

When I asked him his name, he mentioned it with a faint, modest smile. I asked him if he was connected with cricket as most players seemed to know him. He just said, “I happen to work in the sports department of a Bengali daily.”   Then he asked me to accompany him to the coupe beside mine where his berth was. We chatted late into the night and most of the conversation was restricted to my personal life, my academic background and nothing at all about cricket.

Suddenly the huge frame of Rajan Bala appeared on the door of Motida’s coupe. “Ah! I see Raju is here. Moti, do not spoil him. He is my boy.” Motida smiled, “If I have assessed him right, he will never be anybody’s boy. I have as much right as you have to converse with him.” I could not agree more. Rajanda – my benefactor in many ways – laughed, “Moti, you assessment is 100% correct. Ok, Raju, you take my berth and chat with Moti, I shall go and lie down on your berth.” Matter settled with ease with two of the finest sports journalists I would ever get to see.

Following day for hours I could not take my ears and eyes off him. We discussed politics, literature, religion and finally cricket. He asked, “Have you heard about Neville Cardus?” I nodded, “I have read all his books.” “How come?” he was really surprised.  “Well, my dad’s collection.” It seemed I had passed the first examination with distinction. As the day prolonged it was apparent to me that I was meeting a very modest gentleman of exceptional knowledge and memory.

In that first-class debut of mine against Bishen Bedi’s North Zone at Feroz Shah Kotla ground, Motida accepted me with all my superstitious follies. I preferred to bat in a torn shirt. Everybody discouraged me. But not Motida.  He was softly firm, “If Raju feels comfortable in that particular shirt, what’s wrong with it? There is no law against it!” A match-winning partnership with skipper Ambar Roy in a very low-scoring tie settled the matter and I continued to wear my ‘lucky’ shirt.

He seemed to like my company. We met often enough over the next decade during Bengal and East Zone matches. We discussed cricket of course, but more importantly he diverted my attention to various other topics. Little did I realize then that he was guiding me to become interested on a variety of subjects.

As my playing days were coming to an end, one day Motida suddenly asked, “Raju, would you like to be a writer?” I was truly stunned, “Motida, of course, I would love to but my written Bengali is definitely not up to the mark. I shall write heeji-beeji.”  

“Those are the exact words I want on ABP sports-page. You just relate the stories as you tell me.”

I was apprehensive, “Do you honestly think I am good enough to write for ABP?”

He nodded, “Yes, yes, you are a natural writer. I am very impressed by your articles in The Statesman. You just put down in print whatever you want to say in conversational Bengali. Do not think too much about spelling and vocabulary. I shall do the editing myself.”  For the next 20 years I became a regular columnist of ABP. The Telegraph, Sportsworld, Desh and Anandamela followed in quick succession as a freelancer.

One amazing incident goes back to the 1980s. I was covering a match at Mumbai. After sending the day’s report by telex from the post office, I realized that I had made a minor mistake. Desperately I tried to contact the ABP office at Calcutta. Those were non-mobile days. Finally around 10 pm I was able to establish contact with Motida. Very embarrassed, I apologized, “Motida, I have made a silly error. Please erase that point.” Moti, as cool as ever, laughed, “Raju, nobody reads your match reports apart from you! Don’t worry.” Immediately he put the receiver down. Felt very embarrassed because next morning I would lose my credibility with thousands of readers. I was very dejected with my stupidity. More so with Motida’s extremely cavalier attitude.

Next morning to my utter surprise, that particular point was corrected and an impeccable report was published. How did it happen?  Took me a while to realize the greatness of this genuine editor. He had the knowledge to identify my mistake and the magnanimity to rectify it. He had done the job much earlier than my late evening phone-call. What do you say about this famous celebrity-novelist who spent time and effort to help a novice find his feet?  How beautifully he signed off and dented my silly ego.

Motida could be brutally frank, especially if one tried to be too smart. Once at the ABP office, he ticked off the ABP editor by saying, “We are discussing CB Fry. Don’t interrupt with other topics.” The editor tried to reason, “I was trying to say that there are other cricketers too with Oxbridge background. Tiger Pataudi, for instance.” Motida flared up, “We are discussing a man who got a first-class in academics, world record holder in long jump and a double international in football and cricket.” The editor beat a hasty retreat.

Whatever little I have learnt about writing has been learnt at the feet of this wonderful human being. He took it upon himself to shield and guide me. Motida and I would spend hours over rum and peanuts at the Press Club. He always had four small pegs and no more. He was very particular that we both would pay for our own ‘drinks’. Excellent lessons of parameter and perspectives he taught me by sheer personal and practical examples.

He had very non-conventional insights. While discussing fame and awards related to writers, Motida was very categorical, “Trophies, titles, awards, film-themes mean nothing to me. Only when my books are pirated and sold on road-side stalls and by hawkers at discounted prices, I feel really happy. That means genuine readers appreciate me.” This is the forthright Motida at his best.

Shakti Chattopadhyay, the famous poet, had a great liking for me only because I happened to be the cricket captain of his favourite club, Mohun Bagan. For Shaktida, neither Bengal nor India colours meant anything. He was totally engrossed with MB. Always addressed me as ‘captain’. Once he asked me, “Captain, I will take you to my drinking-den and spend time together.” Motida very firmly said, “No. Raju will not drink with you in that place. You come with us to a proper club.” Shaktida, not to be outdone, replied, “Ok, I shall not force. But I have promised my friends that I shall bring the Mohun Bagan captain over one day. Now I will have to go back on my word.” Motida solved the matter in his distinctive style, “Raju and I will go with you, say ‘hullo’ to your friends and depart.”

To say this to Shaktida required tremendous guts. Shaktida had a bohemian approach to life and was a very outspoken personality. He believed in extremes. But on this occasion Motida’s firmness won the day. Motida understood that I would not be comfortable in the company of Shaktida’s friends. Accordingly the ever-thoughtful Motida took the decision to help a young man in dire need of guidance.

Motida made me write so very frequently that many people, particularly peer players and sports journalists, became quite jealous of me. I told him if I could go a little slow. He was amazed, “Why? Are you not enjoying writing.” I told him the real reason. He laughed, “Raju, do not worry about anybody. Why should their inferiority complex bother you? You just keep writing as long as you enjoy writing. You have to write a lot more.” He did not mention the reasons why I should write ‘a lot more’ but added, “You have a natural flair in English. A spontaneous and racy style, which I appreciate. Never try to copy anyone. You don’t need to.”

 After I had produced some very hard-hitting articles on cricket issues, Motida remarked, “Excellent. This is exactly what I expect from you. But always remember you have a pen in hand. The person you are writing about is unarmed and cannot hit you back. Never, never praise or attack anyone because of personal reasons. ” This is the kind of guidance Motida blessed me with.

Once after I had written 2 articles in one day, he asked me to produce another. I told him, “Am I not over-doing it?” He answered, “Certainly not. You have to keep writing on cricket till your last breath. This is the difference between you and others.” It seemed he never found any weakness in me!

Another time around 11 in the evening when I was sleeping soundly, the phone rang. From the other end Motida’s voice was distinct, “Raju, write an obituary on Dattu Phadkar now. He expired just a few hours back. I want the obit in tomorrow’s page. The ABP car will reach you in 20 minutes. Give the article to the driver. Do not keep him waiting. I am staying back at the office for the article.” I mumbled, “Am I the right person to write on Dattubhai?” He just uttered, “I know whom I have asked,” and put the receiver down. Can one imagine a celebrity sports-editor waiting for an article at midnight?

Next day Shantipriyo Bandyopadhyay, then the sports editor of Jugantar, phoned me, “Raju, on outstanding obit. By the way, when did you write it?” When I told him about Motida’s 11 pm command, Shantida said, “Moti really knows his man.”

Motida never liked sportsmen to write. Always maintained, “Most of them do not know what to write. In any case they do not write themselves. They utter a few irrelevant comments and the sports desk has to make a big story out of it. Apart from one or two, others write rubbish!”

Motida was always very categorical and frank. He had no time to impress or to flatter. He would be brutally forthright no matter the scenario. No respecter of the undeserving and lacking tact, Moti Nandi always vehemently maintained, even at public gatherings, much to my embarrassment, “Apart from Gavaskar and Raju, I do not find reading other cricketers worthwhile!”

He could be very firm in his views, “When one goes through Charles Fry, Learie Constantine, Don Bradman and Jack Fingleton of the pre-war period and then in the later decades Frank Worrel, Richie Benaud, Geoff Boycott and Mike Brearley one gets to realize the huge difference with the rest of cricketers-turned-writers.” For his very straight opinions, he was disliked – of course, behind closed doors – by his local contemporaries.

Apart from Neville Cardus, his favourite author was the Caribbean author CLR James, “Raju, your suggested book Beyond a Boundary opened my eyes to the fascinating socio-economic world of cricket. Earlier I preferred Cardus for his literary flavor. Even as a reporter Cardus did not report very accurately. He used to write in a trance with literature and characterization in full flow. But James brought in a different dimension to cricket writing. Now my favourites are Cardus and James. I owe you a debt.” So very typical of a well-rounded personality. Extremely fearless and generous, he suffered from neither superiority complex nor inferiority. He had no hesitation in acknowledging his gratitude to people who were nowhere near him in comparison.

Another issue he hated was taking quotes from players and administrators. “Why? Why should we ask them for quotes if we have our own journalist at the venue? If the journalist cannot think by himself and produce a worthwhile piece, then why is he there at all? Is he a courier or what? The quotes of players and administrators are invariably biased and full of irrelevant nonsense.

Motida was vehemently against the idea of giving ‘honorary doctorates’ to people, “Why should prominent people, including industrialists and sportsmen, be given honorary doctorate titles, I fail to understand.” He quite rightly thought that unless one went through the discipline and system of acquiring an academic doctorate degree, he should not be offered one. Rahul Dravid happens to be among those exceptional individuals who refused to accept the ‘honorary doctorate’ title conferred on them.

He admired his contemporaries Rajan Bala, Kishore Bhimani and KN Prabhu but was adamant, “Why do they ‘ghost’ books for others? Are they paid huge sums of money to become ghost-writers?” It is true that these very prominent authors invariably ‘ghosted’ for their friends. Motida was extremely stern, “If a person cannot write himself, it is not another man’s job to write on his behalf. Why should an author become a proxy on behalf of a parasite?” Strong words but very true, no doubt.

He himself was very particular about issues and facts. Once in the 1980s when the entire Bengal contingent (except Bishwajit Bhattacharya) among the Indian football players deserted the national camp for pecuniary reasons, Motida went berserk next morning. The headline proclaimed:  Please Do Not Think They Are XXX.  The story made such an impact that the so-called ‘rebel’ players understood their mistakes and made amends.

He would not accept gifts from anyone, either organizers or players. Experienced an incident first-hand. We were together in Chennai to cover a Test for ABP. The evening before at a press conference, Tamil Nadu Cricket Association was distributing very attractive leather attaché cases to all the journalists present. When R Mohan of The Hindu, who was helping to distribute the gifts came to Motida, Mohan just smiled at him knowing that he would not accept. Beside Motida was myself. Mohan again smiled, “Surely Motida’s man Raju will also not accept our gift,” and went away.

This was the kind of impression that set him apart at the national level. For a vernacular daily sports journalist to get the kind of respect Motida received around the country was nothing short of a miracle. They all would come and pay their respects to him. I remember once one senior Indian journalist based abroad, Dicky Rutnagur saying, “Moti, with a famous novelist like you in the press box, our status goes up. We feel honoured with your presence.” Never heard of such a reaction for any other sports journalist. Have even witnessed KN Prabhu and Rajan Bala – both doyen among sports journalists – exchange views with him.

On another occasion at our terrace we had a small party of journalists who had come to Calcutta to cover a Test match. Motida as usual was on time. The late-comers as soon as they entered and saw Motida waiting apologized for getting delayed! Marathi writer and prominent author Bal Karmakar told all those present that translation of Motida’s sports-fiction were bestsellers in Maharashtra. Wonder if any other vernacular sports writer can come close to such popularity.

He knew the art of converting an ordinary subject into an object of curiosity. He knew the art of gripping the readers’ attention.  He always kept his backbone firm and straight. He always maintained, “The way the media personnel are going about, our credibility and integrity will suffer in the years to come.” What a visionary he was! How did he visualize the contemporary scenario almost 40 years back?

He was a fearless journalist. He still remains among the foremost of short-story writers in the Bengali language. His books have been translated into many different languages and he has earned great renown. But till the last day of his life he remained an epitome of virtue.  

To me, however, primarily he will always remain my affectionate teacher. The man who helped me to put pen to paper. The man who encouraged me. The man who gave me courage and confidence. Most importantly, he gave me genuine affection and guidance.

The great author even had the magnanimity to dedicate a book of his in my name! The book is a biography of Sir Donald Bradman. This is certainly among the highest honour I ever hope to achieve.

 

 

Khashaba Dadasahab Jadhav

Indians use sports for political mileage, commercial gains, for social recognition but we hardly ever acknowledge the real value of sports and the contribution of sportspersons. As sports education is almost totally absent, the culture of sports stands diluted in our society.

 

A stunning example is the life and career of Khashaba Jadhav. In a country where an Olympic medal in the individual category is as rare as a yeti, this poor villager from Maharashtra saw to it that the Indian national anthem was sung at the medal distribution ceremony at Helsinki Olympics in 1952.

 

Khashaba Jadhav won the bronze medal in the bantamweight category of free-style wrestling in 1952 at Helsinki Olympic Games. Between Norman Pritchard (silver in 1900) and Leander Paes (bronze in 1996), he is the lone Indian to have graced the medal podium as an individual. Such is our callousness that one influential author on Indian sports history mentioned the bronze medal to be ‘silver!  Another ‘prominent’ author thought it was a ‘lower category’ medal!

 

Four years earlier in 1948 at the London Olympiad, Jadhav competed in the flyweight division and was ranked a creditable 6^th out of 42 wrestlers. The western world was a culture shock for the rustic wrestler from interior Maharashtra.  He was bewildered to learn that the rules of international wrestling differed from those prevalent in India. None in India had the farsightedness to inform him. Moreover for the first time ever he was to grapple on mat instead of the familiar mud-pit back home.

 

But he came across Reese Gardner, an American wrestling coach, who took him under his wings for 7days. The London Olympics of 1948 was a learning process for this indomitable youth.  Four years later when he stood on the victory stand, Jadhav was grateful enough to acknowledge the contribution of Gardner, his coach and mentor.

 

Back in India political profit was extracted as endless receptions followed. But within days he once again became a non-entity. No award, no recognition came either from the central or the state government. No private benefactor acknowledged his mighty achievement. Since 1952, nearly 70 years have passed yet the name of Khashaba Jadhav does not even figure in the list of lifetime-awardees! In an age when average sportsmen receive national awards, the treatment meted out to Jadav is a national shame.

 

Born in Goleshwar village in the Satara district of Maharashtra, Khashaba learnt the rudiments from his wrestler-father, Dadasahab. From Tilak High School at Karad, he went to Raja Ram College at Kolhapur, where Professor Manik Rao patronized wrestling contests. Here under the conscientious guidance of Professor Khardekar, the latent talent of Jadhav began to bloom.

 

Those days the selected sportsmen had to pay their own travel cost. Poor Jadav realized that he had no chance to make the trip. But Prof. Khardekar was not a person to beg and borrow. He actually sold his house to pay for his protégé’s trip. Magnanimity at its height. No other Indian patron or sponsor has ever come close to the professor’s sacrifice.

 

Today when sponsors come forward with cheques, they do not do so with any interest for national causes. They come for their own commercial interest. The case of Professor Khardekar is as unique as Khashaba Jadhav’s is.

 

It required an academic to assist a sportsman for a national cause! Apart from –inevitably enough – the Maharaja of Patiala, no king, no politician, no bureaucrat, no industrialist came forward to help the country by sponsoring him. They all lined up to gain publicity the moment he returned with the Olympic medal around his neck. And again they vanished just as they always do.

 

During his lifetime no one thought of giving independent India’s only Olympic medal winner any financial support. Nor did he get award either from the State of from the nation. It gave a distinct impression that to get something one had to beg and plead.

 

Khashaba Jadhav was not born to beg or plead for awards and financial assistance. He was the champion wrestler who gave independent India – yes, our motherland – the first-ever medal at the Olympics in 1952 in an individual event. But, very distressing to relate that in a nation of no genuine sports culture he remained a perpetual pariah.

 

 He was born in abject poverty and lived his life in perennial penury. Where were all the sports ministries and sports policies? Where were all the patrons and sponsors who were supposed to be contributing for the nation’s welfare? They were nowhere in sight when Khashaba Jadhav needed them the most. It appears that he was competing in the Olympics in his individual capacity and not as an Indian representative bantam-weight wrestler.

 

Actually the real truth is that in our country we do not have any genuine interest in sporting activities. We cater to only those sports disciplines where we can reap easy money and media attention. Politicians, bureaucrats, parliamentarians, corporate leaders, sports administrators and media moguls are all in the same boat. They do not have the national interest at heart.

 

Mediocre performers with below-average results are earning in millions today because they have learnt the tricks of the corrupt trade in sports. Commissions and kick-backs are the order of the day. Self publicity has become a way of life. Entertaining the media is a very unfortunate off-shoot that has taken over Indian sports and sportspeople.

 

Today why can our sports-policy makers not think of some posthumous pensions for the family of these great performers? During their prime we neglected these outstanding sports performers. Now that they are no longer alive, why not try to make some amends to the evil that we perpetrated?

 

Why not try to help those families who are in need of financial support. That would be paying a real homage to the soul of our own past greats who brought fame to our motherland. We have the time and the money, but do we have the will to think of others? Do we have the wish to give any effort to help others?

 

 It is high time that instead of sitting in parliament and other high offices, I wish our famous former sports personalities who have had the benefit of earning in millions, do something worthwhile for their sports grandfathers. If one cannot do anything concrete and constructive for these greats of yesteryears while holding prominent positions in the government as well as in the corporate sector, what is one actually there for?

 

The eternal problem with us is that we are totally self-oriented. We cannot think or visualize beyond our noses. As long we are getting fame and fortune for ourselves, we talk in terms of helping others. But the moment we realize that there is nothing available for our own selves, we very quickly lose our interest. We of course still keep talking a whole lot of nonsense but do precious little in concrete terms.

 

In 1988 independent India’s first Olympic medallist died in a road accident, unlamented and unheralded. This in a nut-shell is the sports culture prevalent in our country. Que sera sera…

 

Rev CK Leeming: A Bridge between the School and the College

At Xavier’s no one took Reverend Cecil Leeming seriously. Nor did he care to take anyone with any seriousness. In fact he did not take anything in life seriously at all. His life was full of relaxed wit, full of silent service, full of warm affection. Never cared to make impressions. Never bothered about formalities. If Fr Bouche had implicit faith on him, Fr Joris had no less. He seemed to be an invisible bridge between the school and the college.

Fr Bouche relied on him for all the appointments of sports teachers at the school. No wonder we always had exceptional former sportsmen as our sports teachers. Fr Joris depended on him for the recruitment of young sports talents at the college. No wonder outstanding sportsmen emerged from Xavier’s during his long tenure.

I doubt if any other priest or teacher enjoyed the same wave length with both the school as well as the college authorities. He was extremely popular with the students as the in-charge of the Christian Hostel. At the same time our sports-ground personnel like Barnabas, Lakra and Mathais literally worshipped him.

Reverend Fr Leeming left a distinct impression on all those fortunate enough to have spent time with him. The well-built, handsome priest was extremely sturdy and mentally alert even in his 80s. His gait gave the impression of a man of sport who faced the world bare-chested on the open field. His was a transparent life-style: he had nothing to hide. The mobility of his physique gave his mobile face a distinctive identity.

Actually he was a top-flight sportsman in his youth. He was nationally acclaimed as an athlete and would have gone for higher honours unless the call of the Church in the 1930s steadied him to a life of priesthood. Fr Leeming’s passion of sports was however not lost on the church authorities.

 As a priest, his life alternated between Calcutta St Xavier’s and Darjeeling St Joseph’s.  He had a long tenure at Calcutta St Xavier’s to supervise the sports activities of the college as well as to take charge of the Christian hostel. He was destined to spend decades between North Point and Xavier’s imparting, imploring and encouraging young men to be active on the sports arena. He combined the Nihil Ultra (“Nothing Beyond” of St Xavier’s) with the Sursum Corda (“Lift Up Your Hearts” of St Joseph’s) like no other.

Cecil Leeming was a self-effacing gentleman who thrived on witticism. He just could not hold a conversation without peppering it with a whole lot of sauces. Once as he emerged from his room on the ground floor of the hostel building, a lady pleaded, “Fr Leeming, I desperately need your help.” Without a moment’s hesitation he straight-faced, “Ma’am, the correct name of the priest is LEE MING. He has chinky eyes and is totally non-emotional. He is perpetually praying inside the room. He is a very holy man, extremely grave in his bearing. Please do not disturb him. However, can I assist you, ma’am?” Goes without saying the request was immediately approved and he went off looking for some other prey!

“But Father, why did you mislead the lady for no rhyme or reason?” I asked, stunned.

“Well, well. You characters never praise me so I thought I would do the job myself! People must know that Leeming is a very pious priest!”

Once a prominent young cricketer, Rana Mukherji (twin brother of Indian School Boys’ team captain Raja Mukherji) accompanied me to his room for admission to Xavier’s. Fr Leeming, without even glancing at him, said “Yes, son, you look stupid enough. What is your lowest score?” Rana was taken aback; did not know what had hit him. He somehow mumbled, “I think my lowest score is 17.”

“Sorry, cannot take you. You have not played enough cricket.” I quickly intervened, “Father, no, no, his lowest score is zero.”  Typically Fr Leeming replied, “Ok. We will take you. But try not to improve on your lowest score! Now get out of my sight!” Interview over; job done.

Generations of sportsmen have benefitted from his peculiar brand of humour and encouragement. Bhaskar Gupta (first former SXCS student to play for Bengal in Ranji Trophy), Shivaji Ray, my elder brother Dev Mukherji, Subroto Guha, Rusi Jeejeebhoy, Suprakash Som and Dilip Doshi to mention a few represented Bengal in Ranji Trophy while studying at Xavier’s College and being at the receiving end of Fr Leeming’s brand of earthy leg-pulling. His affection for Premjit Lal and Vece Paes knew no bounds.

Once I had asked him,” Father, who do you think was the best cricket talent to emerge from St Xavier’s School?” Instantly he replied, “Best bowler Shankar Bose, without doubt.” “What about batsmen?” I pestered. He smirked, “They were all rubbish.” Shankarda (batch probably 1961), of course, was an exceptional bowler who could bowl medium paced leg-cutters with terrific control, a rarity even in international cricket. He opted for engineering; a serious loss to cricket.

Generally, we thought, Fr Leeming ignored the school boys who practised cricket on the space in front of the then gymnasium and the chemistry lab. In 1966 the school team recorded a resounding victory by 8 wickets over a depleted college side which however had the Bengal stars Doshi and Som playing for them. Mike Carlos (1966 SC batch) might remember the match for he played an outstanding innings for the school team. At the end of the match, Fr Leeming’s very short speech to the college lads was a revelation, “Hard luck, girls. Try your best next time.” The embarrassment of the college lads was a sight indeed.

But that particular encounter had a significant impact on my equation with Fr Leeming. Whenever he saw me on his regular walks from the hostel to the college building, he gave me a wry smile! Once, after I had crossed over to the college for my graduation course, he told me very casually, “You look bright but you are as stupid as all other cricketers. Why do people play cricket in the burning sun for 6 hours, God only knows! Silly fools, nothing less.” Honestly, I had no answer.

On another occasion Xavier’s defeated our perpetual rival Ashutosh College – a very strong unit comprising current Bengal players – in a close match. Rather unusual for him, Father Leeming had come to the University ground at the Maidan towards the end when the see-saw battle was at its height. When debutant Arjun Mukherji and I returned to the pavilion we had brought off a very delicate win by a mere 2 wickets. End of the match after all the usual back-slapping and cheers, the professor-manager of Ashutosh College requested Fr Leeming to say a few words of encouragement.

Microphone or not made no difference, Fr Leeming was always on form. More so on that day. He said, “The better team lost. The namby-pamby jokers of Xavier’s come to play cricket only because of the lunch provided! Now we will have to organize another lunch for the next match. Unnecessary expenses which could have been better spent on poor people.”

After the Ashutosh  College players had gone, Rana (who else?) told Fr Leeming that skipper Raju did not allow anybody to have lunch that afternoon because of our poor performance in the first session where we allowed our opponents to build a big total. Fr Leeming just asked, “What was in the luncheon menu?” Rana mentioned, “Chicken stew with sliced bread, vegetable chop and salad.”

Instantly the grave voice bellowed, “This is the problem with our idiot of a captain. Who appointed him captain? He does not even know what a proper cricket lunch should be. Go and ask the canteen man to make fried fish and mutton chop for all. Rana, you go and get hold of an ice-cream-wallah and order ice-cream all round.” He gave me a teasing smile and said, “It’s difficult not to get a decent score against this weak opposition!” That’s Fr Leeming for you and me. Thoroughly unpredictable but fabulously warm-hearted.

Little did we realize that Fr Leeming kept his eyes and ears open for the sports talent available at St Xavier’s School. This I came to know from our school sports teacher Mr Brown, an outstanding hockey goal-keeper in his youth. Mr Brown always maintained that Fr Leeming was the invisible bond between the school and the college. This aspect of Fr Leeming has hardly ever been recognized. His easy manner, his carefree humour and his relaxed life-style created an impression of being light in the head. He got far more recognition outside the gates of SXC than he got inside. Father Leeming bridged the chasm between the school and the college with his brand of Irish humour: a strong message with an icing of easy wit ala Bernard Shaw, his native countryman.

Once he took me to the priests’ dining hall on the first floor for breakfast! I was a little apprehensive, “Father, suppose someone raises an objection to my presence?” He merely looked at me and flexed his right forearm muscles!

Another not to be forgotten evening was at the Governor’s House. Those days in the 1960s the Calcutta University “Blues” were presented their certificates by the Chief Minister Siddhartha Shankar Ray in a lovely ceremonial manner with all the players of various sports disciplines and distinguished guests present. During his speech, SS Ray – the first Xaverian to be a chief minister – mentioned the exemplary contribution of Fr Leeming to school-college-university sport in Calcutta. A standing applause greeted the announcement. Fr Leeming, for a change, looked stumped. The pink complexion turned beet-root red. He was actually blushing! It took a man of SS Ray’s stature to give the deserving sportsman-priest his due. Ray signed off, “Reverend Father Leeming, wish you were in-charge when I represented Calcutta University at cricket in the 1940s.”

Thankfully being Calcutta-based I was fortunate to have had the opportunity to be in constant touch with him over the next two decades. Then suddenly one day I came to know that he was at the infirmary on the top floor of the priests’ residence building. The sight was a shock. Although the mental alertness remained, the strong physique had given away quite suddenly. A limp body lay on the bed. A male nurse and I helped him to the balcony to sit on an easy-chair. He looked happy but also distinctly uncomfortable. Happy to have someone in front of him. Uncomfortable to be in a chair. The body was just not willing. Yet the humourous spirit remained, “If I become a ghost, Raju, I shall come and haunt you. Ok?” He smiled; I wept.

Once way back in the early 1970s, Fr Leeming took me to an orphanage. He held my hand as we went round. Within minutes, I told him that I could not take it any longer. He kept holding my hand as we walked back. On the way back he just said, “Just think how lucky you and I are.” No more words were needed. That short sentence gave my life a new meaning.  Forever in debt to a self-effacing sage who refused to take himself or anyone seriously. He taught me that life was only a short, temporary halt in a very long journey to the unknown.

We sat on the balcony for just about 30 minutes. He seemed to relish the stories that I was telling him of his own glory days. Then he tried to clasp my hand, but it was only a feeble touch.

The touch was a blessing that has lingered on and on… and it surely will till my last breath.