On  Polly Umrigar: my idol in cricket

 

Polly Umrigar was the chief architect who laid the stolid foundation of modern Indian cricket. He had time for every cricketer from the junior-most trainee to the senior-most former player. Nothing in Indian cricket was beyond his knowledge and extreme involvement.              

 

Former Test cricketers have been remarkably unsuccessful as cricket administrators. Only a handful has left behind any worthwhile contribution. Most former cricketers-turned administrators generally fell prey to the machination of the officials they replaced. Transparency, visionary approach, cricketers’ welfare, youth programmes were anathema to them. They merely carried out the age-old policies of their short-sighted predecessors.

 

There were some glorious exceptions, though. But none more convincing than the magnanimous visionary Polly Umrigar. As the BCCI secretary, closeted in his small office at an obscure corner of CCI’s Brabourne Stadium, he thought big, really big. As a serious student of cricket, he was the ultimate servant of the game. To use a cliché, he slept, ate and drank cricket.

 

No, he did not stop at that. It was not oxygen but cricket that he drew in with every breath. What came out from him was all-embracing wisdom: youth coaching camps around the country, national cricket academies training of coaches and umpires, improvements in travel and accommodation for youth teams, awards for different age-groups, efforts to promote cricket in north-east India, welfare schemes for former cricketers.

 

Today when former Test and first-class cricketers are enjoying the benefits of the BCCI pension scheme, little do they realize that the man who made it possible was Polly Umrigar with active assistance from Raj Singh Dungarpur, a former first-class cricketer himself. It is my great fortune that both Polly-kaka and Raj-bhai had imposed a lot of faith in me as they meddled around with the modalities of the intended pension scheme in the 1990s.

 

In the mid-1990s when Polly Umrigar was firmly in the BCCI secretary’s saddle, he conceived the idea of providing pension to former cricketers. He had all the papers and files ready with the budgets, eligibility criteria, mode of payment and other formalities for the BCCI top administrators to see and sign. When I raised an issue concerning cricketers’ widows, Raj Bhai joked, “Raju, does not have me in mind!” (As all are aware, Raj-bhai and his lady-love Lataji never got to marry).

 

The BCCI administrators took eight long years to come to terms to assist people who had helped the country’s cricket to prosper. This too came about with the arrival of Sharad Pawar at the helm. Thankfully BCCI’s full-time administrator, the brilliant Professor Shetty was near at hand to show Pawar, the new BCCI president, the documents that Polly Umrigar had so lovingly prepared and preserved.

 

Unfortunately Polly Umrigar’s magnanimous approach to assist former cricketers was never highlighted in India. Even BCCI presidents, who had kept the files under wraps since the mid-1990s, took credit and shelved the name of the genuine creator from the media and the people. Today every former cricketer should take time to say a short prayer for the soul who made so many families happy. I knew I did not make a mistake in identifying my all-time hero. 

 

No schoolboy fiction was ever conceived without the wide shoulders, the clear-cut features and the booming voice which went on to make the hero’s personality. We had come to believe that such qualities were found only in story books. But in Polly Umrigar’s story, it was no fiction. It was as authentic as the city of Mumbai which had nurtured and nourished him.

 

Christened Pahlan Rattanji Umrigar, the man was a larger than life persona. The imposing frame sheltered a heart still bigger. Never, not even once, did those massive shoulders stoop. Rather, those were strong enough to perpetually carry his peers. His magnanimous presence captivated all and sundry.

 

As a child I had often seen him playing the dour role of saving India from embarrassment. But the first distinct impression that remains was that of a leader harnessing his men to victory. The year was 1961-62; the venue, Eden Gardens and the opposition Ted Dexter’s England (then MCC). Polly Umrigar was not the appointed captain. But in skipper Nari Contractor’s absence, he introduced Ramakant Desai from the High Court end and brought about the downfall of the prolific Ken Barrington. Eden’s hero Desai bounced, Barrington hooked and another Eden hero Durani, at square leg, made the difficult catch look easy.

 

That masterpiece of tactics had the floodgates open and England collapsed giving India her first-ever Test match victory at Eden Gardens. As the dignified figure of Polly Umrigar receded into the pavilion, he walked into the pantheons of cricket history. Never before or after has a deputy captain made such an inspiring move to liven up an almost dead Test match.

 

Later I met him in 1976 when he was a national selector. During the course of the Eden Gardens Test match, he and colleagues wanted to have a look at the Test prospects from East Zone. Very hastily a net session was organized. All the national selectors, except the eastern region representative, turned up as did the potential players. But none bothered to prepare the pitch for the net session to take place!

 

Another selector Kisan Rungta was furious at the callousness of the local cricket administration. Polly Umrigar was shocked and sympathized, “Hope you boys are more fortunate next time.” Later as the BCCI secretary, he took every possible step for the promotion of youth cricket so that no cricket talent would be lost through carelessness. This is the kind of care he took for junior players.

 

After my cricketing days were over, I kept in touch with Polly Kaka. I would write to him very often with proposals and suggestions. Not once did he express any botheration. On the contrary he would write back words of encouragement and discuss cricket issues, which included the pension scheme for former cricketers.

                                                                    

Sir Garfield Sobers was undoubtedly the greatest of all-rounders. He was a rare 3-in-1 all-rounder; a person capable of bowling pace and spin as well as batting. But was he the first of the 3-in-1s? Surely not. That credit, arguably, may be conferred on Polly Umrigar, the most underrated of our sporting heroes. About his batting and off-spinning abilities legends abound, but his medium paced out-swingers and off-cutters did not receive the recognition those deserved.

 

At a time when India did not possess top-class pace bowlers, we had to rely on the incisive medium pacers of this burly all-rounder from Mumbai. Hardly ever he disappointed. On the matting wicket of Bahawalpur in 1954-55 against Pakistan he enjoyed his best spell with the new ball: 58-25-74-6.

 

No Indian cricket addict has quite been able to shed the pangs of recrimination at the way Umrigar was treated by the national selectors and the media. He was a natural leader of men. A man of dominating presence and astute thinking. At the same time, understanding and considerate. He was not the kind to create a halo of impregnability around himself to unnerve the uninitiated. Nor would he have a permanent nod for the powers-that-be. He belonged to neither group and invariably suffered the consequences. For his uncompromising posture, he was our hero.

 

Against Harry Cave’s New Zealand in 1955-56, Umrigar’s India won the series two nil. Next winter he went about consolidating the team as the nucleus was rapidly ageing. But constant changing and chopping did not help to cement the team’s morale against Ian Johnson’s Australia as the series was lost.  But the imposing personality never stooped not even against the marauding West Indies, who had the blistering pace of Wesley Hall and Roy Gilchrist and the genius of Rohan Kanhai and Garfield Sobers. The team, under Umrigar’s leadership, brought off an honorable draw in the first Test at Bombay but the strength of the opposition created an inferiority complex among the players.

 

Umrigar realized the problem soon enough and requested the selectors for a few changes. He wanted courageous men who would fight till the end even for a lost cause. But the selectors refused to yield and Polly Umrigar, the man of high principles, relinquished the captaincy. No Indian captain before or since has shown such sterling qualities of character.

 

However to his eternal credit he never bore grudges nor did he brood himself to frustration. Happily he co-operated with every new captain who replaced him and led India: Ghulam Ahmed, Vinoo Mankad, Hemu Adhikari, DK Gaekwad, Pankaj Roy, GS Ramchand and Nari Contractor.

 

He even willingly served under Mansur Ali Khan Pataudi, 15 years his junior, and wholeheartedly supported the young captain in West Indies in 1962. In Pataudi’s Tiger’s Tale’, the unhesitating help of Polly Umrigar has been mentioned. Umrigar played under various captains of very average ability but not once did he show any rancour nor did he ever try to scheme to get his captaincy crown back

 

A grave injustice was done to him by a flippant remark which went on to become an international headline. He had a dismal series in England in 1952. To compound matters it was said that he had backed away from the express deliveries of Freddie Trueman. If that was true then so were many eminent names in international cricket. Did not the Australians fall in a heap against Peter Pollock in South Africa in 1970? Did not the Englishmen draw away from Lillee and Thompson in Australia? There are numerous similar examples. Why was Umrigar singled out?

 

But the fact remains that he went back to England in 1959 and collared Trueman and Harold Rhodes and smashed an innings of 118 at Old Trafford. He took on the mighty Wes Hall in his own backyard with an unbeaten innings of 172. Where were those who had derided the callow youth on his first tour in 1952? He was never media savvy and never cared about what the uninitiated thought of him.

 

Against Fazal Mahmood’s men he had his most successful series ever. He reeled off 3 centuries in 5 Tests. No matter the opposition, no matter the conditions, Umrigar was a man for all seasons. When he retired in 1962 he had a fantastic average of 42.22 with 3631 runs including 12 centuries.

 

As a bowler he never got his due. Overshadowed by the presence of Vinoo Mankad, Ghulam Ahmed and Subhash Gupte, he was always considered to be a second fiddle. Yet when the Aussies capsized against Jasu Patel at Kanpur in 1959, it was Polly Umrigar’s 4 vital wickets, including those Neil Harvey and Norman O’Neil that hastened the disaster. As a fieldsman he was of the top bracket, whether close to or far from the wicket. A safe pair of hands, an unerring throw and an impeccable anticipation was his hallmark.

 

After retirement from active cricket, he was still more active in the service of the game. As coach, manager, administrator he left behind his mark in every sphere and was highly respected by all those who came in contact with him. Deep knowledge and a broad mind gave him a wider vision than usual. Remarkably open to views he would take suggestions even from laymen. Very diligently he studied and then made his recommendations to BCCI. It was primarily because of his initiative that former players, both Test and first-class, are receiving pension from BCCI in recognition of their services to Indian cricket.

 

The modesty of the man was profound. Once I met him at Sunil Banerjee’s place in Calcutta. Polly-kaka had read a piece of mine on him in Sportsworld and thanked me profusely, “Raju, that article of yours pleasantly surprised my family. They thought no one remembered me any more. Next time you come to Mumbai you must have a cup of tea with us.” With his demise, I have lost the man whom I respected the most in Indian cricket.

 

Polly Umrigar’s retirement from cricket as an active player had a unique ring about it. After scores of 56,172 not out, 32 and 60 against Hall, Sobers and Gibbs in 1962 when India was black-washed five-love, Umrigar stood stall and fearless as usual.

 

The great persona decided that he had had enough. People were aghast. They kept asking, “Why?” Polly Umrigar’s classic reply was, “Better now when they are asking ‘why’ than later when they would be asking ‘why not’. Indeed, indeed. What a lesson from a champion sportsman. His action taught us what character was; what wisdom meant.

 

He was without any semblance of doubt the chief architect of modern Indian cricket. From the day of his Test debut at Brabourne Stadium in 1948-49, he stood tall and surveyed the proceedings of Indian cricket in a manner no one had done before or since. His sterling qualities, his visionary approach, his magnanimity are unparalleled. He bridged the pre-War era with the post-independent India as a statesman. On behalf of all Indian cricketers I bow down to him in eternal pranam.

 

 

Ray, cricket and me       (Part 2)

In India the first indoor cricket facility was at Eden Gardens. Chief Minister SS Ray extended all help to Cricket Association of Bengal.

The highly qualified, sophisticated CM did not express any wish to name the indoor facility after himself, as is the modern trend. In honour of India’s most successful sports manager ever – Pankaj Gupta – the indoor facility was christened.

The Pankaj Gupta Indoor Stadium saw the light of day in 1978 after Ray’s exit from the Chief Minister’s chair. SS Ray was the prime architect of the first indoor facility exclusively for cricket in India.

 On the inauguration day, as the Bengal cricket captain, I took the opportunity to praise the efforts of our most magnanimous former CM from the podium. Credit is due to the Left Front government’s representative on the dais, Jatin Chakrabarti – a dynamic minister of impeccable integrity – who was then also looking after the sports affairs of the WB government. He extended all help to CAB to complete the structure. 

 Jatin Chakrabarti repeated the contribution of the ex-CM, who happened to be his political rival. Yes, that’s the quality of politicians Bengal was blessed with in the 1970s and 1980s.

***

During Ray’s tenure as CM we had the huge multi-purpose sport stadium Netaji Indoor Stadium with a adjacent structure for practice facilities named Khudiram Anushilan Kendra. The CAB club house – Dr BC Roy Club House – too was also while Ray was at the political helm. Never did he crave for publicity by naming these sporting structures after himself, as is shamelessly done today.

 

Nobody seems to know or care that the internationally-acclaimed Calcutta Book Fair began in 1976 during SS Ray’s tenure. Without ever taking any credit for its resounding success over the years, Ray was the prime architect who gave shape to the concept.

When the Publishers’ & Booksellers’ Guild approached the CM Siddhartha Shankar Ray with the idea, he visualized the ‘bigger’ picture and immediately gave the green signal with all assistance from the State government. The Calcutta Book Fair would be celebrating its 50^th anniversary in January 2027.

Thanks to Ray’s visionary enterprise, it has become the pride of West Bengal.  Never for once did Siddhartha Shankar Ray take an iota of credit for all the help he extended to the organizers. That’s the kind of class and sophistication this highly successful yet modest gentleman had.

***

 While returning from Darjeeling in the summer of 1976 after the CM XI tour (covered in Part 1), I received Ray’s ‘firm’ order to meet him early next week.

Following week at Calcutta, I went to meet the Rays at their Beltola residence (palace is the more appropriate term) at 8 am sharp. Both in embroidered silk dressing gowns were at the chamber well before the scheduled time, as I was. Next morning I was to visit a corporate house and meet a prominent executive for an interview. The affectionate warmth of SS Ray was more than evident, “Please don’t start about Jadavpur University. Stick to St Xavier’s.”

Ever to the rescue, by now she was my Mayadi: No, Raju, just be as you are. You stick to your first name Satya Brata. Never follow the advice of politicians!

Ray gave her an angry actor’s stare. I was on my way…

Corporate corridor, sharp at 10 am. In walks a gentleman. After all the routine formalities, the gentleman asked, “Can you join next month?”

I said, “No. I have a short cricket tour of one week.”

He was truly aghast: You mean you will be playing cricket while you are with us?

I nodded: Yes, CM feels that Bengal needs me and I should concentrate on cricket first.

“But then we cannot have you. We do not encourage cricket.”

Now my Jadavpur University spirit was in full flow,” Of course, you do. You organize a domestic cricket championship in India involving all State teams. Are you not aware?”

“That’s only for commercial purposes. We sponsor with advertising in mind.”

The influence of SXC and JU’s combined, “Ah! I see. Smoking welcomed; not cricket!”

He began to mumble, fumble and finally coughed, “I think we will get back to you later.”

“Don’t stress yourself, please.” I signed off.

***

Ray was really upset. Immediately he telephoned Sanat Lahiri, the most prominent name in PR circles and told me to meet him. Thankfully Sanat Lahiri was known to me as my friend Ranajit’s father. Gentlemanliness to the core, Mr Lahiri took me to meet Mr Russy Mody at Tata Centre.

A case of instant rapport, it was. Russy Mody did not bother about any formalities. We discussed cricket and Indian sport in general with Sanat Lahiri adding some very relevant information, particularly about corporate sports facilities for budding sportspeople. The seeds of the Tata Sports Academy at Jamshedpur were perhaps planted there and then.

Finally, Russy Mody said, “Rajew (that’s how he pronounced my name), go to Jamshedpur as soon as you can. You join our PR department. Keep writing. I desperately want you to play for Bihar.’

Hesitatingly I muttered, “Sir, I cannot leave my ageing parents behind. Moreover I may be leading Bengal this season.”

Mr Mody was magnanimous enough to say,” Very fair. The offer remains open. You take the decision. At Jamshedpur you would get a bungalow, get married, raise children and also take your parents with you. You will get enough time to play cricket. They might even ask you to teach at XLRI. Don’t rush. Take your time. I do not want you to regret later.”

Was I right or wrong? Honestly, I still do not know. Perhaps, I regret the decision to stay back. Perhaps, I was correct to remain with Calcutta, Xavier’s, JadU, cricket, my cricket-students and the media. With every passing day, I am in perpetual dilemma…even now!

***

Let’s go back to Ray and sports. WB Governor Ms Padmaja Naidu – of Telegu-Bengali parentage – began a tradition in the 1950s of presenting the Calcutta University sportspersons with their ‘University Blue’ certificates at the Raj Bhavan. In the 1970s, SS Ray as CM continued with the hallowed tradition.

Once at the Raj Bhavan in the early 1970s the Chief Minister SS Ray while presenting ‘Blues’ to the Calcutta University sportsmen in a moving speech mentioned the exemplary contribution of Reverend  Cecil Leeming (our sports-in-charge at St Xavier’s) to school-college-university sport in Calcutta. A standing applause greeted the announcement.

Fr Leeming – who was never short of witty repartees – for a change, looked stumped. The Irish complexion turned beet-root red. He was actually blushing! It took a man of SS Ray’s eminent 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. We would have learnt a lot from you.”

Can one imagine this ethos today?

***

Recently my young, enterprising publisher-friend Sachin Bajaj of Mumbai had a delightful incident to relate to reveal the real man in SS Ray. Sachin had come to Eden Gardens for a Test match in the mid-1980s when Ray was the President of CAB.

During the luncheon interval for guests at the Club House dining hall, Sachin asked the catering manager of Bijoli Grill, what the fish was in the Fish Orly served. A booming voice from just behind volunteered, “That’s the original Calcutta bhetki. No substitute will you ever find. You cannot stop at one. Go ahead. Do justice to the fish and the cooking.”

Sachin Bajaj was awestruck at the easy spirit of comradeship, the humane attitude and the generosity of guidance. That’s Siddhartha Shankar Ray at his best. Even the chef was not forgotten by the CM. Thanks, Sachin, for sharing the revealing incident.

Ray held no rancor against anyone; had no idea of revenge. Had no time or inclination towards self-publicity. Have seen him enjoy the company of Jyoti Basu, his successor as CM, at the Calcutta Club. Educated, liberal men in the most appropriate sense of the word.

For Ray every moment was a moment of joy, a moment to savour. He was a statesman of utmost pragmatism; a politician of easy accessibility; a man far, far beyond greed and jealousy; man full of affection and understanding.

I can merely whisper that the softest of persona loved youngsters as his own grandchildren. Sport, particularly cricket, was his life-long passion.

 

 

 

SS Ray, cricket and me

Siddhartha Shankar Ray was directly linked in crushing a cricket tradition! It was because of him that the men’s cricket world cup came out of UK and began to be hosted around the cricketing globe.

Let’s go to the incidents involved in July 1983. When India reached the final at Lord’s to meet West Indies, the BCCI president NKP Salve, a brilliant lawyer and Mrs Gandhi’s cabinet minister, requested the English and ICC cricket authorities for two tickets, complimentary or against payment.  Salve wanted those two tickets for his former colleagues, SS Ray and his wife Maya Ray.

The ICC authorities turned down the request. Just two tickets for the final between West Indies and India, they could not cater for one of the finalists! After India’s miraculous world cup victory, Salve met Mrs Gandhi at New Delhi and informed her of the humiliation. Dhirubhai Ambani took the next flight to meet Indira Gandhi and Salve. The trio discussed their strategy to shatter the ICC tradition of monopoly hosting in UK.

At the next meeting at London to decide the dates and formalities of the following world cup in England in 1987, suddenly Salve raised the issue that India was keen to be the next host! The ICC members were stunned for it was inconceivable to think of the cricket world cup away from Britain.

Visionary Salve’s next move was to raise the guarantee money to all teams! Although the white nations objected, the decision was a foregone conclusion. Salve, to rub it in, offered total hospitality to all officials of all teams! In an act of superlative diplomacy NKP Salve invited Pakistan to be the co-host. The world was stunned with this joint Indo-Pak venture.

Mrs Gandhi was assassinated in 1984 and it appeared that India would back out for lack of funds. “The blank cheque was meant for India’s honour. Please use it,” said Dhirubhai’s sons, Mukesh and Anil. PM Rajiv Gandhi and his cabinet went full steam ahead. India hosted the tournament to perfection with the final at Eden Gardens in deference to its iconic status.

Denial of two tickets for Siddhartha Shankar Ray and his wife Maya started a new, healthy trend in world cricket.  Homage to the Gandhis, Ambanis and particularly to NKP Salve for their patriotism that transformed world cup cricket forever.

***

Let’s look back. SS Ray was the CM from 1972 to 1977, During his tenure the Emergency was imposed around the country. As the Congress lost at the Centre, Ray too lost in the 1977 assembly elections.

 During his tenure came up the Indoor stadium within the huge Eden Gardens complex. He named it after Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose. The Club House at the cricket arena was also his contribution. He did not name it in his own name! Rather paid respect to former Chief Minister Dr Bidhan Chandra Roy’s memory. Yes, that was the kind of class we used to have at Calcutta.

Let us now go to Ray, the man. Ray possessed an unimpeachable character with the blood of Deshbandhu in his veins.

 Ray also happened to be a cricketer who represented Calcutta University in the 1940s and the Kalighat Club in local club matches. His love for cricket was paramount even in the midst of his rise and rise in the legal profession and the political ladder.

In 1976 Chief Minister SS Ray decided to take a cricket team – under the nomenclature of CM XI – to Darjeeling to cement his relationship with the Hill people, whom he adored. In that team along with SS Mitra, Chuni Goswami, Gopal Bose and other prominent Bengal Ranji Trophy players, I happened to be one of the last choices.

As we reached Darj, we were herded to the Governor’s House to meet the CM for lunch. Chunida led the way into the dining room where Ray and his wife were awaiting us, sitting at the head of the wide table side by side. Reticent and shy, I was the last to enter and found that the seat on the column to Ray’s right was occupied by Chunida. And the seat beside on the other column to Maya Ray’s was vacant. I smiled as she gave a gentle nod of welcome to sit.

Ray began by welcoming us. Chunida mentioned how privileged we were. But others found nothing to say!  Hardly any conversation happened as the lunch was served in style and splendor. Then Ray said, “Maya, this is Raju. A young cricketer, full of promise, who does not want to play cricket.” She gave me a warm eye-brow query. I said, “I find cricket a waste of time.” She smiled, “Why? What do you want to do?’

“Well, I really do not know.”

Ray intervened, “Which school?”  When I mentioned, he went into reverie: Xavier’s? That’s where I began. But my maternal grandfather CR Das would have none of any foreign influence on me. He brought me to Mitra Institution, closer home in Bhabanipur, early enough.

I interrupted: My dad was in Mitra Institution as well. He told me once that you were his classmate. Would you remember anyone by the name of Karun?

Ray was lost in memory: Karun, Karun. Fair complexion? Came from Coochbehar?

Very excited, I said: Yes, yes. You still remember?

Ray, the champion raconteur, gave a roaring laugh, “Oh! Lord. After Mitra Institution, he did his Intermediate Arts with us at Presidency, then the silly fella went off to get married!  Lost all contact.”

Lunch over, she asked Raja and me to come again for tea the following evening, if we were free.

Raja wasn’t free! I was hopeless at ‘adda’ sessions with peers; knew not the difference between spades and hearts; hated smoking; was yet to enjoy ‘drinks’; avoided jay-walks. So had enough time to spare!

The Rays were ready at 5 pm, the scheduled time. Ray asked, ‘After school where did you go?”

I was a very earnest sort of a person at the time. Not easy with casual chats. I replied, “After St Xavier’s College, I did my Masters in International Relations at Jadavpur University.”

Ray was on fire: Whaaat? Jadavpur University, of all places? What’s wrong with you? Son as silly as dad!

 Instantly Maya Ray came to my rescue. A righteous barrister she was and would not take Ray lying down: What’s wrong with you, Manu? JU is Rishi Arobindo’s university. Raju studied his favourite subject at whichever place he liked. He had every right.

 I was stunned to say the least. A lady who did not even know me was defending me in front of one of the top lawyers of the country and a CM at that. Not to forget that the dreaded Emergency was in operation! Little did I know that she herself was a qualified lawyer. I was born lucky.

CM calmed down and gave his billion-dollar smile: Raju, everything about you is Congress and Mohun Bagan. I cannot imagine you with those leftists.

Now I was full of confidence: I am no leftist. I am a staunch believer in Swamiji’s socialism.

Maya Ray, God bless her, nodded. Ray gave me a long warm look of appreciation, “Tell me about yourself. What are you doing now?”

I said: Now am concentrating on research work. The topic is Sports & International Relations, with particular emphasis on Muhammed Ali and the Vietnam War.

Maya Ray: Who is your guide at JU?

I said: Dr Jayantanuja Bandyopadhyaya.

The baritone voice boomed: What a man to have as guide. He is among India’s foremost intellectuals. Whenever Mrs Indira Gandhi sends cultural delegations abroad, her first choice is the honorable professor from JU.

Although I knew my guide was very deserving, nevertheless I was still thrilled that Dr Bandyopadhyaya had such a high international rating. I found my voice:  Sir, he never belonged to the Congress Party. He has leftist leanings.

“So what?” he calmed down, “We know who the deserving people are, whichever group they may belong to. We hold him in highest esteem. He is very highly regarded abroad in academic and cultural spheres. Can there be a better choice than he? Lucky you are to be guided by him.”

 

Years later Sourav Ganguly, the India captain, got on the wrong side of match referee Clive Lloyd because of time-wasting tactics. When late evening after the match Lloyd announced a ban on Sourav for a few vital matches, Jagmohan Dalmiya appealed against the decision. He made all arrangements and asked me to study the full game on screen that very night. To prepare a note to save Sourav. Honestly, no way the captain could be defended cricket-wise.

I decided to bring ‘nature’ into my report. My contention was that owing to heavy dew in the evening, the Indian players were forced to dry the ball after every delivery. Consequently the delay took place. I headlined the report “Time lost; not time wasted”. Next evening a call came from Dalmiya, “Raju, we have won. Our lawyer was SS Ray. He has conveyed his thanks to you for the excellent and appropriate reasons prepared by you.”

This is typical Siddhartha Shankar Ray. The brilliant lawyer’s argument carried the day in an international podium in front of a Justice from New Zealand, yet he found the time to think of a non-entity who prepared the ‘defence’ case. Ray congratulated me; but the man who escaped the ban found no inclination!  That’s life in a nut-shell.

God has been very, very kind to me. Got much more than I deserved. Truly blessed.

 

 

 

First  Olympic flag-bearer of India

Bengal is not new to the Olympic gold medal. In the 1920s and 1930s our hockey Olympians Richard Allen (3 golds) and Carlyle Tapsell (2 golds) set the ball rolling with the gold nuggets round their necks with the all-time legend Dhyan Chand’s India hockey team.

Yes, we do remember Dhyan Chand. But what about the other great architects? Hope we have forgotten them! Why do we have so little time for our past legends?

Norman Pritchard, born of British parents, was the first from Bengal and from India to go to the Olympics in 1900 and win 2 silver medals for India (He has been covered in these columns).

We are going ahead of our story. The first person from Bengal of Indian parentage to go to the modern Olympic was an athlete by the name of Purna Chandra Banerjee. He was also the first sportsman from India to carry the Olympic flag at the march-past.The 7^th of the modern Olympics. 1920, Antwerp, Belgium.

 That was India’s first official entry after the formation of Indian Olympic Association in 1919. Tata’s and the House of Patiala were the principal sponsors of the India’s inaugural Olympic squad.

 It was a long voyage as the tired limbs of 5 Indian pioneers to Olympic Games reached the destination via England. They had little time to acclimatize. The heroic men were high-spirited athletes who cared none for change of climate, food, environment in a foreign land, totally at variance with India. They hardly found the time or the facilities on the ship deck for practice. 

 Apart from Purna Chandra Banerjee, the other two athletes were Phadeppa Chaugule (10,000m & marathon) and Sadashiv Datar (marathon). Two wrestlers formed the full squad: Kumar Navale (middle-weight) and Dinkar Rao (Randhir?) Shinde (featherweight).

On track PC Banerjee’s blistering speed gave him the 4^th rank in one of the 100m heats. Unfortunately it was not enough to qualify for the final. Without losing hope he also participated in the 400m. Here again he had to be content with a 4^th rank in the heats.

In India he was the redoubtable champion in his events. He won his events with ease and could have stayed back to enjoy the adulation at home.

Dinkar Rao (Randhir?) Shinde was unlucky to miss the bronze by a narrow margin as he came 4^th in the final standing. But who has the time and inclination to remember them? Apart from cricket, no other sport in India has any idea of its own heritage! Only bothered about official posts, media publicity and …

Purna Chandra Banerjee, a resident of Calcutta, was a member of Mohun Bagan Athletic Club during his active years between 1915 and 1925. He was popularly known as Pooeeya-da. The national champion was a very popular man with his relaxed presence.

He had a nephew, whom we called Prodosh-mama, a raconteur of unimaginable excesses! Prodosh-mama’s flights of imagination nearly convinced us that Purna Chandra actually went on to win a gold medal at the Antwerp Olympics! He shrugged,” But, Kaka, as you all know (!), was very careless and lost the gold medal in some flood at Calcutta!”

Shades of what we have heard from one of our hockey players of the 1970s regarding a bronze medal! Team medals were given only to those players who represented the nation’s XI in at least one match at the Olympic Games. Bengal and India's heroic Leslie Claudius happens to be the only Olympian to have actually lost all his 3 gold and 1 silver medals way back in the 1980s.

Purna Chandra Banerjee or Pooeeya-da remains India’s first-ever flag bearer at the Olympic Games. Of course, neither India nor Bengal or Mohun Bagan bothers to remember him.

 Who has the time to remember dead pioneers?

Top left:  PURNA CHANDRA BANERJEE

2nd row ,extreme left: DINKAR RAO SHINDE

 

On Abebe Bikila                         

It was a power-packed field of runners from all over the world at the start of the 1960 Olympic marathon race at Rome. Strong, determined, able-bodied men jostled for vantage positions at the starting mark. The runners were attired in their national colours, had cushioned shoes for the exhausting ordeal of running no less than 26 plus miles (42 Kms +).

 Right at the end stood a nondescript figure, who did not even have a pair of shoes. Frail to the point of being under starvation-diet, the low-profile man did not attract any attention. Just before the pistol shot, he merely looked up and said the shortest of prayers. Just asked for His blessings, as he had always done throughout his life before starting any work.

On his way, he was. He glided through the paved roads of the Italian capital with utmost ease and elegance. He was in no hurry. He was not in any race. He was not running against anybody. He was not running against the clock or any record. He just kept moving his elbows and legs in constant momentum.

Abebe Bikila ran this marathon as he would do so often among the hilly regions of his motherland, Ethiopia. He ran because he liked to run. He ran because it was his expression of freedom. He ran because he enjoyed running. Never bothered about style or strategy; techniques or tactics. No, he did not suffer from such luxuries.

In Ethiopia, Bikila ran through rough terrain. He never wore any shoes for the simple reason that he could not afford any. Wet ground, dry earth, sandy soil, rocky surface came alike to him. No gazelle was more graceful than he when on the run. At Rome he found that the entire route was smooth unlike the uneven ground he would cover without any complaint at home. He expressed no elation, no emotion.

After a while Bikila picked up a water bottle from the table set aside for runners. Bikila poured the water on his head while continuing to run. In Ethiopia no drink, not even water, is kept on the route for runners. In a country where starvation deaths are not unheard of, who has the time and money to offer drinks to a runner rehearsing his run?

Rome was distinctly more hot and humid than Addis Ababa. After about 19 miles, he sipped some water and waited a few moments to see how those following him were doing! For other runners it was an ordeal, more so to find a lean frame by-passing them with utmost ease. Now Bikila decided he had seen enough and decided to go ahead on his own.

Up the Appian Way he went in splendid isolation. In his charismatic style he breasted the winning tape and went on jogging as if the 26 miles and 385 yards were not enough! The organizers ran after him to get hold of him but the man, now for the first time, changed his routine.

He stopped, did a few callisthenic exercises to cool himself, then looked up and thanked his Creator. Vaguely smiled at the world and waved his right hand. There was no bombastic gesture. No publicity stunt. No political or ideological message.

After Rome in 1960, Bikila competed again at the Tokyo Olympic Games in 1964.This time both the start and the finish were inside the stadium. But for Bikila, nothing really had changed: the same non-emotional face; the same frail physique; the same low-profile. At Tokyo, now with the media spotlight on him, he repeated his feat of four years ago: the gold medal round his neck. However, now, there was one distinct change: he had shoes on!  

 Shoes or no shoes, spotlight or no spotlight made little difference to the genius of Abebe Bikila. Not a trace of emotion clouded his façade. The same calisthenics at the finish, the same thanks to the Creator, the same wave of the hand.

In between Rome and Tokyo, the king of Ethiopia Haile Selassie had made Bikila one of his bodyguards at the palace. Now he could afford luxuries. He could take life easy. But then if he did so, he would not have been the One and Only Bikila.

Bikila showed the world that the poorest of nations, the poorest of people could match the very best the world had to offer. Even when exposed to fame and fortune, not once did he fall for the trap. In his own quiet way, he remained ram-rod straight in his love for his Creator, in his pride for his country, in his ideology of Spartan living.

It was because of Ethiopia’s Bikila that the neighbouring African nations of Kenya, Sudan and Morocco began to promote long-distance running in their own territories. Today the domination of African athletes and sportsmen in international meets is all because of one man named Abebe Bikila. Through sheer personal example Bikla became a champion of the coloured sports athletes of the world.

He uplifted not only a nation; not only a continent; not only a race. He uplifted the dignity of all the coloured people of the universe. Very few men have left behind such a legacy. An inspiration to all Afro-Asian athletes.

As I related all this to the ebony-complexioned taxi driver at Taunton who dropped me to my residence after a long drive from Heathrow, he raised his eye-brows, “Maan, I had no idea that my old uncle was an inspiration to so many. But are you sure?”

I am still flabbergasted.

 

 

 

 

 

  Another early mentor

 

The formidable figure of Father Beckers came into my life quite by accident. But an apparently casual remark of his became my mantra as the months flowed into years.

 

We in school in the 1960s had nothing to do with him. Although we were quite familiar with the sight of a man in pyjama and khadi panjabi cycling in and out of Xavier’s, the school students were in no way connected with him. The well-built man with the receding hairline gave the impression of a man in a hurry. He had no time to waste. We did not bother; nor did he.

 

Ironically, perhaps, I first met him beyond the gates of Xavier’s. I was walking down to the maidan with my cricket kit in the afternoon just before the last period of class. In a grave voice he asked, “Missing class?” I nodded and added, “Yes, father, with permission from the prefect I am off to cricket practice.” Instantly his face lit up, “Ah! I see. Good. Try to utilize that activity for others benefit.” To be honest I did not realize the import of those words on that day.

 

Years later when I was playing serious cricket, he was to tell me on one occasion, “Raju, are you involving people into cricket? Why don’t you coach those who do not have the opportunity of formal coaching?” This was the last thing on my mind that afternoon. Here I was trying to put bat to ball in the best way I could, but a voice wanted me to assist others less fortunate.

 

 In time when my active cricket was over, it was the voice of Fr Beckers that commanded me to take up active cricket coaching, especially of children who were not privileged. Was he a visionary who could see beyond time and space?

 

Fr Beckers never taught in school. Chemistry was his forte. He made valencies and compounds palatable to generations of St Xavier’s College students. But more than mixtures and formulae, it was his chemistry with the young people that mattered most to him. He was in his elements with the social service activities of students in college. He was the catalyst of blood donation camps in the city as well as the initiator of schemes that motivated people to donate eyes and bodies after death. He had too many, just too many activities to keep himself engaged.

 

One of his greatest qualities was to make others feel relaxed and adequate in his presence. The huge man of handsome features never created an aura of invincibility or impregnability. He never cared for the prosperous and the prominent. The truth is that he had far more time for young students coming to St Xavier’s College from vernacular backgrounds as well as from the handicapped sections of society. He actually found Xaverians from the school to be too namby-pamby and self-seeking for his community-oriented outlook in life.

 

Once I had asked him about the pressures of living. He laughed, “Raju, when you have seen war, starvation, floods, drought and the torture faced daily by women and children, nothing else is pressure in comparison.” To my dying day, I would remember that we who are born with silver spoons have no right to talk about pressures and tensions in life.

 

The bi-cycle was his constant companion. The rugged man in sandals or Hawaiian chappals would be seen all over his favourite city of Calcutta. He was called “Babu” by his host of admirers. But other terms of endearment like Babu-da, Babu-chacha, Babu-kaku were not uncommon. Once two of us, Subrata Mitra and myself, approached him for guidance to become Jesuit priests. He casually looked at us and said, “Just be normal human beings. No one needs a tag to serve others or God?”

 

That was typical of Fr Beckers. He was far above sectarianism, parochialism, any distinction between people. I doubt if he ever even thought of nationalities and boundaries. He was what Tagore had in mind when the great man wrote on the Universal Man. He was the epitome of ideal and character. A man to admire. A man to emulate. An icon of rare fibre.

 

The common man on the street was his real friend: the sweeper, the rickshaw-puller and the puchka-wallah. Fr Beckers was the one in a million. He knew not arrogance, nor conceit. If it was the chemistry of elements and formulae he taught in classrooms, he personified the chemistry of life to people fortunate enough to cross him.

 

His was a life free of falsehood, of dishonesty. He did not seek publicity, nor worried about popularity. The baritone voice never quivered: from it emerged encouraging words on the harsh realities of life. The gentle soul did far more in one lifetime than many of us would ever visualize. May God always be with his humane soul.

 

Once I went to his 2^nd-floor room and confided, “Father, I want to commit suicide!” Without even looking at me the reply was, “Lovely idea. Just jump out of the window. Once decision taken, don’t waste time.” Seeing me hesitate, he said, “Don’t you realize you are like me? We are total non-entities. Even if we die, it will not make any difference to anybody.”

“But father I am not making any headway in life. I do not want to live.” I was in tears.

With a hand on my shoulder, the giant whispered, “Son, think of the millions who are worse off than you are. You have food, roof and clothes. They have nothing. Live for them. Try to do something for them. Now, go back to class and prepare yourself.”

 

Those simple words changed my life…

 

Moti Nandi   Part 2

The eminent author Moti Nandi and I had nothing in common. Two extremities just bonded. My deep respect was reciprocated by his unconditional love. He gave me space as much that I did not stray…

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. His interest in sports began and ended with Mohun Bagan! Always addressed me as ‘captain’.

 Once Shaktida asked me, “Captain, I will take you to my drinking-den and spend time with my friends.” 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 from a novice at midnight?

Next day Shantipriyo Bandyopadhyay, then the sports editor of Jugantar, phoned me, “Raju, an 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 articles by 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, musicians, authors 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.

Dear readers, please note that Rahul Dravid happened to be among those exceptional individuals who refused to accept the ‘honorary doctorate’ title conferred on them.

Motida admired his contemporaries Rajan Bala, Kishore Bhimani and KN Prabhu but was adamant, “Why do they ‘ghost’ books for others? Just because they are paid huge sums of money to become ghost-writers?”

It is true that these very prominent authors invariably ‘ghosted’ for others. 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. But, to be honest, cricketers are known to be very stingy! Did they “really pay huge sum of money” to their ‘ghosts-writers’? I doubt it.

Moti Nandi would not accept gifts or invitations from anyone, either organizers or players. This was the image 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 Dicky Rutnagur – a widely acclaimed senior Indian journalist – once saying, “Moti, with a famous novelist like you in the Press enclosure, our status goes up. We feel honoured by your presence.” Never heard of such a reaction for any other sports journalist. Sundar Rajan, Wadhwaney, KN Prabhu and Rajan Bala – doyen among sports journalists – too had the highest regard for his knowledge, analyses and principles.

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 to stick to my individuality. 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. I must be the luckiest man in the world to earn such unconditional love from my teacher!

Motida, pronam neben.