Moti Nandi    Part 1

Today 29 July is Guru Purnima, the birthday of the great author of Mahabharata, Ved Vyas. On this holy occasion I can think only of a man who was to transform my life way back in 1972. He moulded and motivated me into putting my thoughts in black and white. He gave me the opportunity and the confidence to write whatever I spontaneously felt like.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another on Moti Nandi will follow next week. Cannot help it. He was the man who led me into putting thoughts into paper.

 Motida, bhalo thakben. Guru Pronam.