Living legend Sunil Gavaskar is well known for his fabulous sense of humour. Yet again he showed the world how to play a joke on the sports fraternity and administrators. At a function in Kolkata he gave a lovely speech involving an interesting story relating to another legend Chuni Goswami, in whose honour an entrance gate was being inaugurated at a famous club in Kolkata.

Sunil told the gullible audience that he had caught Chuni-da  on 96 at slips in a Ranji Trophy match. The Kolkata sports media lapped up the story and splashed it all over the front pages, sending readers salivating for more.

If you wish to be fooled on an April day, I have no problems. However if you wish to acquaint yourself with the facts then read on:

1.  In 1968-69 Chuni-da had scored 96 and 84 in the Ranji Trophy final against Bombay at Brabourne Stadium. Sunil was not in the Bombay team at the time. Wadekar and Ambar Roy were the captains. Chuni-da was caught by Sudhir Naik off Ajit Pai in the 1st innings and was bowled by Milind Rege in the 2nd Innings.

2.  In 1970-71 at Eden Gardens, Chuni-da scored 34* and 40 versus Bombay at Eden Gardens. Sunil also did not play in this Ranji Trophy semi-final match. Sudhir Naik led Bombay and Ambar Roy led Bengal. 

3.  In 1971-72 in the RT final at Brabourne Stadium, Sunil and Chuni-da met for the only time in a Ranji Trophy match. In this match Sunil caught Chuni-da on zero at slip. Ajit Wadekar and Chuni Goswami were the respective captains. In the 2nd innings Chuni-da was bowled by Rege for 5.

I wish Sunil would take the opportunity to rectify what he said and tell the world that it was only a joke.Otherwise, coming from a person of his iconic status, this 'joke' will become another myth of Indian cricket. 

 

My SALIM BHAI: the selfless genius

 

If a genuine cricket follower cares to put his hand on his heart, his conscience will reveal the truth: the most significant year of Indian cricket on-the-field was 1971. India defeated West Indies and England in successive Test series within months on their own backyards.

 

Never again would India repeat such major victories abroad within such a short span. As England had just registered a victory over Australia in 1970-71, India was justifiably the number one cricketing nation at a time when ‘rankings’ were unheard of.

 

The man who took India to the top of the cricketing world way back in 1971 happened to be a man born in Afghanistan. The ‘Kabuliwala’ who was christened ‘Prince Salim’ by his innumerable fans around the country was the chief architect of that splendid victory in West Indies.

 

Salim Durani was a free soul without a care for the morrow. Had no inhibition; had no ego. He borrowed money and bought beer and coke to share with the ‘creditor’! Next day in the most subtle manner possible, he left the exact amount into the man’s shirt pocket! I can vouch for the incident because the person happened to be me. At Hyderabad during the Moin-ud-Dowla Trophy way back in 1976.

 

In a career that spanned nearly 15 years, the magnificent all-rounder played in only 29 Tests. He went on only two tours abroad – both to the Caribbean ten years apart – where he showed the world his true greatness.

 

The national selectors, in all their wisdom, realized that Durani would be a ‘passenger’ on tours to England, Australia and New Zealand between 1959 and 1974! The man who was helping India to win series after series at home, was omitted from tours abroad!

 

Handsome is as the handsome does, so goes the cliché. Absolutely true in Durani’s case. The greenish-blue eyes looked at the world from a tall, handsome frame. He was all elegance and style.

 

Even the glamorous world of Bollywood had to relent by offering him a hero’s role opposite Parveen Babi in BR Ishara’s Charitra. This also happens to be another ‘first’ of his among Indian Test cricketers.

 

In 1962 when no one quite wanted to face the fiery Wesley Hall and Chester Watson on those lightning fast, hard West Indies pitches of the time, it was this man who volunteered to bat at number 3! So very typical of this man. For good measure, the left-handed all-rounder scored a magnificent century against a world-class attack comprising Sobers, Gibbs and Hall.

 

Salim Durani was born on a train heading towards Kabul in 1934 at a time when his father, Abdul Aziz, was keeping wickets for the Nawanagar State team in pre-independent India. After India’s independence in 1947, Aziz and his family settled down in the newly formed State of Gujarat.

 

Destiny had decreed that Durani would be Afghan by birth but Indian by nationality, as was the case with millions of others affected by the partition of the sub-continent.

 

He was as much the people’s man as he was of the connoisseurs. A hero to millions. At Calcutta people still – now nearly 50 years since he last played for India – go crazy when they see him. No one ever was more popular than he at Eden.

 

He always seemed to keep his best for the Eden Gardens crowd. In 1965 in one over of magic weave he had three Aussies in hypnosis. Unfortunately his wonderful spell did not get the acknowledgement as the match was curtailed owing to unseasonal rain.

 

“Yes, I enjoyed the support of the crowd at Eden. To be honest, I enjoy only if the spectators enjoy wherever that be. Otherwise what is the purpose of sports?” How true.

 

His charm was captivating. Once in a Duleep Trophy tie, the bowler Durani actually applauded a cover-driven boundary of mine! I was too stunned to react. It took me moments to realize the fathomless magnanimity of the man.

 

His simplicity, his modesty, his love for life and his love for companionship are lessons to learn from. At Eden during my book inaugural session he told a packed audience, “…I always wanted to be a railway engine driver…Never thought I had any talent for cricket…Life has been good to me…No regrets at all…”

 

Never once has anyone heard him criticize another person. Not even a harsh word passed through his lips. That was quite beyond him.

 

He believed in enjoyment. He enjoyed his life, his cricket. And in return he gave far more enjoyment to others, whether they were spectators or friends. Doubt if he ever had a foe. A man of few words, when he spoke his soft, chaste voice was all music. He was the Prince Charming of Indian cricket.

 

Great cricketers would be born again and again. But there will never be another to match this nonchalant, selfless, large-hearted genius.

 

 

Salim Durani combined extraordinary innovativeness with extreme ease of execution to walk into this exclusive elite company of Keith Miller and Gary Sobers, Salim Durani who could probably the transform the tide of a tie in a matter of moments.

 

Lissome and handsome, the elegant left-hander left an imprint on every ground he trod on. The languid gait was enough to draw attention. The effortless approach of gay abandon drew spontaneous applause. His skills were varied and of pristine pure quality. People adored him for they knew that he was far far beyond the accepted patterns of orthodoxy. His unpredictability gave him an aura of vulnerability and for that reason his adventurous ways made him so very appealing.

 

 No respecter of icons or ideologies, he took delight in puncturing reputations on the field. But there would be no violence, no mockery, no sadism. Made it appear the simplest of activities: nonchalance in the extreme.

 

And like all geniuses he also had his powerful detractors. In the 1960s Indian cricket was studded with excellent performers, but without the presence of the one and only genius the team hardly ever played to its real potential. If Durani was unpredictable, the selectors were no less. To be honest the man was at a wrong place, at a wrong time.

 

His first-class career began as a batsman at 18 with Saurashtra in 1953 for whom he scored a century on debut. Then after spending two years with Gujarat, he finally transferred loyalties to Rajasthan, where under the care of Raj Singh Dungarpur his latent talent flowered.

 

Consistent batting performances earned him his Test debut at Bombay against Benaud's team in 1959. But an injured finger relegated him to no. 10, where an innings of 18 relegated him to oblivion.

 

 With Vinoo Mankad and Chandu Joshi around, Durani was hardly required to bowl for Rajasthan but then the young man was so involved with all the facets of the game that he began to pick up the tricks of the bowling art just by watching the mastery of Mankad. Such was the versatility of Salim Durani that in 1958-59 he even kept wickets for Rajasthan regularly!

 

After the inauspicious Test debut, Salim concentrated on batting and on bowling. Prodigious turn of his strong fingers and supple wrists made the ball spin appreciably on all wickets and its best results came when he had 8 for 99 against Bombay in the Ranji final of 1960-61.

 

Next year he was recalled against Dexter's team. Now the neglected batsman was regarded as the principal bowler! In conjunction with Chandu Borde, with whom he was to climb many a peak together, Salim (71) added 142 runs for the 5th wicket and each of them claimed 3 wickets to cement their positions in the side.

 

The following two Tests were drawn and then at Calcutta the magnificent pair brought about a stunning victory through their prolific contributions. Durani with 63 and 5 and 3 wickets and his mate Borde with 68 and 61 and 3 wickets were the toast of the crowd.  The duo continued their act in the next Test at Madras. Borde with 5 wickets and Durani with 10 wickets brought about India's first ever series victory over England.

 

To West Indies Durani went in 1962 as our premier all-rounder. On hard, pacy wickets where no spinner on either side made any dent, his guile and genius accounted for 17 wickets in just 7 innings against men of the calibre of Frank Worrel, Rohan Kanhai , Garfield Sobers, Conrad Hunte and company.

 

However what marked him out as special was the courage and class that he displayed in his batting. By the 4th Test the Indians were battered and bruised by the fury of Wes Hall, Charlie Stayers and Chester Watson. It was at this hour that his Pathan blood boiled. No longer could he restrain himself to be on the receiving end.

 

Volunteering to go at No. 3 he proceeded to take the attack to the enemy camp. His bat was a rapier as he lunged into the fearsome attack without a care for the morrow. Gutsy Vijay Mehra gave him solid support as he raced to his century and later the grand old man Polly Umrigar came up with a heroic unbeaten 172. In the Caribbean Salim Durani was not only the major bowler but also took upon himself the role of the saviour. When the top batsmen 'back-pedalled’, he emerged to offer sanctuary and security to his supposed superiors.

 

This saviour's role he was to play time and again for the cause of his mates and country. One moment he was expected to grit his teeth in attrition and at the very next to plunge the dagger in. To play just one role is beyond most, but to be outstanding in both called for something special. It was this rare quality that marked him out as a genius.

 

 He loved adversity; relished challenges. Against weaker teams and under easy conditions he was invariably below his best, but when the going got tough, he would get hold of the rudder and inspire others through personal example.

 

 Again against Sobers’ men when the Indians were feeling the heat of battle and succumbed at Wankhade, the only semblance of resistance came from Prince Salim's aggressive half century where he countered Hall and Griffith thrust for thrust, glare for glare. But sure enough he was omitted for the rest of the series!

 

He was done in by vindictive comments of mediocre contemporaries and also by cliquish, narrow-minded selectors. In 1971 he went back to West Indies under Wadekar, a tour memorable for India winning her first-ever series overseas against West Indies.

 

It was his golden arm that first deceived Lloyd and rattled Sobers’ stumps first ball at Sabina Park. So rattled were the West Indies that they collapsed and could not regain their posture throughout the series. Durani with the two most important wickets for just 21 runs off 17 overs was the chief architect of India's first Test and series victory in West Indies. However, true to expectations, he was dropped from the playing XI just after one further Test!

 

However, this was not the end of his Test career. By now he had become a phoenix, perpetually rising from the ashes, as it were. After the euphoria of victories over West Indies and England abroad, India returned to promptly lose to Tony Lewis’ England side in the first Test.

 

 Immediately the panic buttons requisitioned for Durani. Now at the fag end of his career, Durani was to serve the country as a batsman! Durani began as a batter, then a spinner, later an all-rounder and finally back to square one as a batter! Amazing are the ways of our national selectors.

 

What an exhibition he had laid in store for his fans. To a thunderous ovation he walked in at the Gardens and into familiar surroundings: underprepared wicket, India in trouble, opposition literally baying for blood. Just the occasion he relished to have his adrenalin flowing.

 

He swatted a fly and it ricocheted back from the fence to his toe nails in the form of a cricket ball. Sheer magic it was. Edens erupted. We knew we were in the presence of an extraordinary individual, a genius. A man, a real man. A man of adventure and heroic proportions. A genius at the top of the world.

 

As he unusually calmly met a few deliveries without even moving his feet, we knew not the strain in the thigh. A runner was allowed later when the pain was too obvious and he was not even able to use his feet for basic foot-work, far less to run singles.

 

With his favourite Gavaskar to scurry about, the genius played an innings of rare gem. No cavalier was he this time; No frills, nothing fancy. Now he had his head down, chin up, elbow straight, body behind the ball. He steeled himself as he proceeded to play an innings of character that would bring victory to his country and draw parity in the series. He scored 55 out of 157 and helped his captain and mates to go on a victory lap.

 

In the following Test at Madras, once again he was in the thick of action at a time when India was wilting under pressure. And once again he was the main contributor to India's victory in the Test and consequently, as it transpired, in the series as well.

 

And once again he was dropped from the next Test at Kanpur. It was said he was omitted on grounds of fitness.

The insult to injury had the Bombay crowd up in arms in unison. They made placards proclaiming 'No Durani, no Test' and demanded his return. The Board and the selectors  wasted no time in recalling Salim to the playing XI.

 

The genial genius responded to the spontaneous ovation by playing two superlative knocks of 73 and 37 and signed off his magnificent deeds in Test cricket for good.

 

In the history of Test cricket never before or since has a man been omitted immediately after he had directly contributed to national victories. He won 3 Tests out of his last 5 for India  and altogether 6 out of 29 Tests and saved as many.

 

There are numerous Test cricketers — with statistics far superior to Durani’s — who have neither won nor saved a single match for their country. The very same people over the years are earning in crores for passing a whole lot of inane comments on television.

 

They tortured you, Salim bhai, but they could not take away your achievements.

They tormented you, Salim bhai, but they could not take away your genius that God had blessed you with.

Now finally you receive justice at the hands of your Creator.

You will remain my idol till I die and beyond.

 

 

Gundappa Vishwanath

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

*********

'

 

 

 

 

Moti Nandi

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

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

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

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

His humble family background was no impediment to his passion for literature. No obstacle, no circumstance could upset his determination to study Bankim, Sarat, Tagore in the original as well as Tolstoy, Homer and others in translation. He revelled in Neville Cardus and Somerset Maugham.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One amazing incident goes back to the 1980s. I was covering a match at Mumbai. After sending the day’s report by telex from the post office, I realized that I had made a minor mistake. Desperately I tried to contact the ABP office at Calcutta. Those were non-mobile days. Finally around 11 pm I was able to establish contact with Motida. Very embarrassed, I apologized, “Motida, I have made a silly error. Please erase that point.” Moti, as cool as ever, laughed, “Raju, nobody reads your match reports apart from you! Don’t worry.” Immediately he put the receiver down. Felt very embarrassed because next morning I would lose my credibility with thousands of readers. I was very dejected with my stupidity. More so with Motida’s extremely cavalier attitude.

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

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

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

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

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

Once after I had written 2 articles in one day, he asked me to produce another. I told him, “Am I not over-doing it?” He answered, “Certainly not. You have to keep writing on cricket till your last breath.”

Another time around 10 in the evening when I was sleeping soundly, the phone rang. From the other end Motida’s voice was distinct, “Raju, write an obituary on Dattu Phadkar now. He expired just a few hours back. I want the obit in tomorrow’s page. The ABP car will reach you in 20 minutes. Give the article to the driver. Do not keep him waiting. I am staying back at the office for the article.” I mumbled, “Am I the right person to write on Dattubhai?” He just uttered, “I know whom I have asked,” and put the receiver down. Can one imagine a celebrity sports-editor waiting for an article from a novice at midnight?

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

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

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

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

This was the kind of candid comments that set him apart. For a vernacular daily sports journalist to get the kind of respect Motida received around the country was nothing short of a miracle. They all would come and pay their respects to him. I remember once one senior journalist Dicky Rutnagur saying, “Moti, with a famous novelist like you in the press box, our status goes up. We feel honoured with your presence.”

At a small party of journalists at our place, Marathi writer and prominent author Bal Karmakar told all those present that translation of Motida’s sports-fiction were bestsellers in Maharashtra. Wonder if any other vernacular sports writer can come close to such popularity.

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

The great author even had the magnanimity to dedicate a book of his in my name! The book is a biography of Sir Donald Bradman. Writers have contributed to make the game of cricket popular in India.

Pronam neben, Motida.