Nandu Natekar

In 1954 Free Press Bulletin, a prominent newspaper in Mumbai, conducted a poll to elect the most popular Indian sportsman. The poll generated great enthusiasm around the country. At this time Indian hockey was at its zenith with Olympic gold medalists like KD Singh Babu, Balbir Singh and Leslie Claudius in prominence; Vinoo Mankad and Vijay Hazare were considered among the premier cricketers of the world and Tenzing Norgay had just conquered Mt. Everest.

Badminton star Nandu Natekar surprised one and all with the maximum number of votes. To have won the poll in the presence of such super-stars was indeed an indication of the popularity that he commanded. It is actually amazing to note that this popular appeal of his was even before he had defeated the world number one Erland Kops of Denmark at Cricket Club of India (CCI). For the record, Nandu Natekar won the national championship six times in the 1950s and was the runner-up in four.

At present Indian shuttlers have become household names in the world of badminton. This is certainly a matter of great pride for all Indians that both our men and women are holding the centre-stage around the world. The man who laid the foundation of this glorious era was none other than the Bombay-man Nandu Natekar in the 1950s.

The first people to play badminton in India were the British army officers posted here. That was in the 1870s. The native Indians however began to play seriously much later, only in the 1940s. However within a short span India unearthed some talented players, who displayed excellent technique and temperament.

According to sports administrator-writer Anthony D’Mello, in 1947 Devinder Mohan and Prakash Nath went to UK to participate in the All-England championship, then the premier badminton tournament in the world. Both played beyond all expectations and reached the quarter-final round. Being in the same half, they were billed to play against each other. They decided not to compete between themselves. Prakash Nath gave a walk-over to Devinder Mohan, who was the reigning national champion. Devinder won his semi-final match and ultimately became the losing finalist. As a pair they became also the doubles runner-up.

This was a brilliant beginning, without any semblance of doubt. International badminton critics were surprised as much as the Indians themselves. But in time our performance at the international level was not very consistent. Perhaps it was too early to expect us to produce any player of world-class.

 Our status in world badminton was average. We would take part in the Thomas Cup but we just could not break into the big league, which was dominated by south-east Asian countries, especially Malayasia and Indonesia, as well as by Denmark.

In that scenario a stylish man from Bombay, Nandu Natekar – neat of composure and conduct – won the coveted title of Selangor Cup in Malayasia and repeated the feat in the King’s Cup championship in Thailand in the 1950s.

To win two international championships against world-class opponents raised quite a few eyebrows. Still the Indian populace could not come to terms with Natekar’s magnificent victories. Ignorant as we were, we were in doubt of the importance of these championships; the significance of these victories. We were uncertain of our own ability.

To prove that these victories were no fluke, Nandu Natekar demolished the current world champion Erland Kops of Denmark at CCI in 1958. It was a super-human effort without an iota of doubt. This magnificent duel with the world champion gave Nandu Natekar a permanent place in the honours list of great Indian sportsman. Almost overnight, Indian badminton began to earn world-wide respect.

Natekar was quiet and confident. A master in the art of strategy and planning. He concentrated not on flashy strokes and exhibitionist tendencies. On the contrary Natekar was technicality personified.  In the words of Kishin Wadhwaney, the sports-scholar journalist, “He was the Vijay Merchant of Indian badminton...” Every step of his was in conformity with conventional methods.

On the court Natekar relied not on smashes but on placements and on minimizing errors. He had the stamina of a horse. He relied on rallies and wore the opponent down with deft placements and continuous returns. Although strong-silent, he was goaded to mention, “To me badminton is a touch-sport…Waste no energy. Stick to basics. Play the ‘waiting’ game and try to minimize errors. Let the opponent lose his stamina by playing aggressively.” This was impeccable advice considering the Indian physique and psyche. He himself did as he believed. Extremely bright, he knew what he was saying.

He was a cerebral sportsman. Loved classical music and devoted hours to literature. It is said that Natekar never spoke beyond what was absolutely necessary but would read whatever he found near at hand. Voracious reader he was and possessed a wide orbit of liberal views. Had little time for unnecessary radicalism but was far more progressive than most in his life-style.

Once when my friend Pranay Mondkar shook his hand and introduced himself, instantly the 80 plus gentleman asked, “Are you the son of Yashwant Mondkar? What an exemplary person he was. A very close friend of mine.” Just goes to show that age could not diminish the humility and the exceptional mental alertness of the magnificent champion.

Loved to dress well. Impeccably attired, he was always neat and confident.  He gave the impression of a stylish man on the move. Always willing to help, but he would never go forward to guide unless asked for. This approach may not have gone down well with some youngsters. But ultimately this approach seemed to be the best possible option as far as Natekar’s temperament was concerned. He would never get involved with others into irrelevant debates and discussions. His philosophy was: live and let live.

 Born at Sangli in Maharashtra, young Nandu was extremely competent at tennis and cricket too. While at school, apart from being a diligent student he was an all-round sportsman with a natural flair for sport. Later after shifting to Bombay in the 1940s, he developed his liking for badminton and in very quick time made his presence felt at every competitive level.

In recognition of his service to Indian sport, the Government of India conferred on him the Arjuna Award in 1961. He happened to be the first recipient of the Arjuna Award for badminton in the inaugural year of the award ceremony. He was attached to the Maharashtra State Sports Council and left behind his mark with his matured observations and decision-making.

In time the surname Natekar stayed on as Nandu’s tennis-playing son Gaurav went on represent India in Davis Cup. Father and son duo in two different disciplines as international performers is a rarity in the world of sport. The Natekars are a rare commodity with their impeccable skills and manners. They are a credit to their schools, colleges, universities and to all other institutions they were part of.

Nandu Natekar was a self-made player. He observed his seniors and learnt from their words and actions. The intelligent young man was greatly influenced by the two of the best exponents of badminton in the world, Wong Peng Soon (Malayasia) and Tan Joe Hock (Indonesia), whom he saw at the invitation tournaments organized by Bombay Gymkhana and Cricket Club of India (CCI) at Bombay in the 1950s. Sports administrator Anthony D’Mello observed, “…Natekar modeled his back-hand play on Wang Peng Soon’s style.”

An analytical mind and the power of observation were his forte. He realized that to reach world standards he had to follow the best in the profession. Accordingly he set about his task, taught himself the art and the craft of the top players and in time showed his class to the badminton world. This approach of Nandu Natekar revealed his undoubted intelligence and adaptability.

Today when we find our modern generation of Indians doing exceptionally well at badminton at the international level, our heart goes out to the pioneers who helped to pave the way. The outstanding performance of our badminton players is a clear indication that the pioneering work of the former badminton stalwarts did not go waste.

Natekar commands an unique place in Indian sport. He is both the product as well as the seed of Indian badminton. He was the summation of the early talents in the forms of George Lewis, Jabbar Ali, Tara Banerjee, Prakash Nath, Devinder Mohan, Tarak Nath Seth, Manoj Guha and Gajanan Hemmady, among others.

At the same time he was the fount from where the magnificent products like Prakash Padkone and Pulella Gopichand, among others, flowered. The superlative lady-stars of today – Saina Nehawal, Pusarla Venkata Sidhu and Jwala Gutta, among others, – only manifest the pioneering zeal of Natekar’s Badminton India. The legend of Nandu Natekar thrives on and on…

Nandu Natekar’s place in the pantheon of Indian sport will remain forever.

 

Wilson Jones

The name of Wilson Jones is to billiards what the name of Dhyan Chand is to hockey. These words are the exact quote from scholarly, sports journalist Kishin Wadhwaney. Wilson Jones was as much a wizard at the green-baize table as was the original ‘Wizard’ Dhyan Chand on the lush-green turf.

Wilson Jones, an Anglo-Indian based in Bombay, was the person who first put India on the world billiards map. The great heritage of India in billiards and snooker began from this most amiable of giants.

His sterling attributes at the billiard table and beyond has hardly ever been bettered. From top to toe, he was a thorough gentleman: a role model for future of generations of outstanding cueists that India has produced.

India’s unheralded Wilson Jones became the world amateur billiards champion in 1958 and stunned the world with his miraculous skills and amazing consistency. He remained among the leading international players for more than six years. He regained the title in 1964. His exploits have almost been forgotten in the land of his birth.

Wilson Jones’ cue cast a magic spell on the glistening balls atop billiard-tables. The coloured shiny spheres seemed to dance to the tunes of Wilson’s magic wand. The handsome man from Bombay, ever modest and unassuming, looked relaxed and in meditation as he contemplated his moves around the table.

Billiards is a game of precision or ‘exactitude’ in Jones’ very words. Even a very small error of judgement can magnify into a gigantic mistake. One slight mistake can give away the initiative to the opponent. A minor lapse in concentration can set one back by hundreds of points. Concentration akin to deep meditation is one of prerequisite of success in this sport of very precise judgement.

Wilson Jones, born in Poona, was brought up in Bombay. Not many people played the game at the competitive level in India at the time in the 1950s. Fewer still were the billiard facilities available. Some facilities were available at the prominent social clubs, perhaps a few more at the fashionable gymkhanas and at the top-tier hotels of the city. Not many young men had the opportunity to pursue the sophisticated sport.

Wilson Jones was fascinated by his uncle’s ‘magic touch’ very early in life. He was one of the fortunate few youngsters who got the opportunity to hone his skills on the billiard-tables at Bombay. His inherent relaxed attitude, his amazing contemplative mentality and his extraordinary sense of judgement helped him to become the national champion at 28 years of age. In the 16 years between 1950 and 1966 he won the national billiards title 12 times. During the same period he was also the national snooker champion on six occasions.

Ever since he took part at the national level, he gave the impression that he was a champion in the making. According to PN Roy of Great Eastern Hotel at Calcutta, which happened to be the centre of billiards activity in the country, “He had every possible quality one would aspire for. And something more, which is inexplicable. He was born with all the attributes to be a champion. Through sheer dedication he made himself into one. A great player. A great man.”

His hard work-ethic was not lost on the people who saw him practice. Hour after hour in splendid solitude the young man would be polishing his skills. Nothing would distract him from the work in hand. He was like a sage in deep contemplation.

No power could touch him in any way. No one could disturb him in any manner. Nothing would be an irritant as he fixed his concentration on the precise nature of his activity. Pocketing ball after ball from numerous angles and rebounds seemed the easiest of tasks. Never broke a sweat as he gracefully handled his cue hour after hour. A touch artist at his creative best. Miraculous powers of concentration and amazing sense of angles and depth, he possessed.

Wilson Jones became the world amateur billiards champion at Calcutta in 1958. He regained the title in New Zealand in 1964. Once in 1960 and again in 1962, he just missed the title losing in the final round on both occasions. To be among the very best of the billiards world for eight long years shows the man’s amazing skills and consistency. Hardly any Indian sports persona has been at the pinnacle for such a long period of time, except of course Dhyan Chand.

His credit was all the more because he hardly had any facilities in India worth mentioning. Hardly any worthy opposition as well to motivate him. There were never enough funds for experience and exposure abroad. Absolutely negligible support from the government or from the billiards federation. Every player had to fend for himself. Even the magnificent Wilson Jones was no exception.

When he became the world champion in 1958 at Calcutta’s Great Eastern Hotel, it was without doubt a great eastern achievement. No other Asian had done it before. The magnificent victory was against all odds. The favourites were Leslie Driffield and Tom Cleary. Dreffield of England was a former world champion and the Australian Cleary was defending his world title.  

Wilson defeated both the former as well as the defending world champions, Driffield and Cleary, on his road to the final. Against the Briton Leslie Driffield it was a historic fight-back. Trailing by 665 points he had just about 105 minutes remaining. According to Wadhwaney, “…Wilson translated a hopeless situation into a rip-roaring success …He won the match 2865-2729.” In the final he had a comparatively easier passage against a very talented fellow compatriot – Bombay-born, Calcutta-based – Chandra Hirjee.

By 1964 Wilson’s stature had grown. He was a towering personality with his 6-foot plus frame and an upright bearing. On the avenue to the final he defeated eight top-class players. In the final, Alfred Nolan of England could not match up to Wilson’s phenomenal supremacy and lost 874-1742. Such domination at a world championship final was rare. But Wilson Jones was indeed a rare, exceptional player and person.

Wilson Jones’ pioneering path led to the magnificent achievements of Michael Ferriera, Geet Sethi, Arvind Savur, Ashok Shandilya, Om Agarwal, Satish Mohan, Shyam Shroff, Subhash Agarwal, Yasin Merchant and the Kotharis, among others, in the years that followed. They upheld the fantastic Indian tradition at international billiards championships laid by the one and only Wilson Jones. His great influence touched one and all in the world of Indian billiards.

Thankfully the Government of India recognized his worth and paid him the best possible compliments. Wilson Jones received the Arjuna award in 1962, the first billiards player to receive it. Later he was honoured with the Padmashree in 1966. Finally in 1997 followed the Dronacharya award. No wonder he is known as the ‘Father of Indian Billiards’.

The wonderful gentleman was known around the world as the ‘Gentle Giant’. Again according to Wadhwaney, “…he once gulped 12 kulfies after a full gujrati thali meal.” It is said that he loved his food and loved to dress in formals.

Was vegetarian food his favourite? PN Roy – the owner of Great Eastern Hotel – who had known him very closely said, “No, no. He enjoyed the typical Calcutta Chinese prawn dishes as well as beef-steak which had to be ‘very well-done’. Loved nolen gurer sandesh and payesh. He had a sweet tooth. We enjoyed preparing meals for him at Great Eastern. Fascinating appetite, boundless energy. An exemplary gentleman. A genuine world champion. Our national pride.”

 He was the epitome of class. A gentleman of character. A gentleman worthy of reverence. A cueist par excellence. A man who inspired a generation of world-class billiard and snooker champions from India.

 

Phul-da.

In the late 1960s my very close school-mate Bapi and I were regularly at loggerheads with our diametrically opposite political views. He was all for the naxalite movement that had taken grasp. I of course was an ardent admirer of Swami Vivekananda. One day Bapi took me to a person who he claimed would give me a clear perspective of ‘leftist’ ideology.

As it transpired I met a remarkable individual. A liberal mind of immense knowledge and wide orbit. A man of charm and humour. But I am going ahead of my story…

“Raju, Bapi told me you are the captain of the Bengal Schools cricket team. But you do not look like a sportsman at all.” The debonair man put his arm around me.

”Why not?”  I nervously asked.

“You look like a serious student and a monk in the making,” he smiled.

“A monk?” I stood stunned.

His wife, Deepa Chattopadhyay, was a well-known badminton player at the time. I was well aware of her fame and had seen her pictures in The Statesman. She came to my defence, ”Pulu, that’s no way to rag a young 16 year old.”

The handsome man smiled again, “No, no. I wasn’t teasing him. Just a simple statement. Because Bapi had told me his cricketer-friend Raju was a devotee of Swamiji.” This is how the conversation flowed way back in 1966 when I first met Deepa-di and her husband Soumitra Chattopadhyay.

Deepa-di was at the time the champion woman shuttler of Bengal and cine-star Soumitra was the heart-throb of millions. My friend Subrata Mitra (Bapi) was almost a family member through his close association with Deepa-di’s younger sister Bulu. Phulda – as Bapi addressed Soumitra Chattopadhyay and I followed suit – was a charming conversationalist with a wide repertoire of interests. We discussed sports and politics generally, although Krishnanagar, City College, Calcutta University, Satyajit Ray, Apu, Coffee House came for fleeting references.

At the time the glamorous celebrity-couple used to stay on Southern Avenue. Bapi, my classmate at St Xavier’s School, was a vociferous supporter of Marx and Engels. He asked me to join him whenever he visited the Chattopadhyay household. Deepa-di, a vivacious lady with the softest of hearts, was the reigning queen of the badminton court in Bengal. The Lady Brabourne College graduate was forever in my support whenever Phul-da tried to rag me.

The way the couple conversed with us – at least 16 years their junior – and made us feel comfortable in their presence revealed their class and charm. Deepa-di was an admirable hostess while Phul-da was a warm-hearted, humourous raconteur, if ever there was one.

Whenever I met Phul-da at his place, he was always dressed in a long-flowing panjabi and spotless white wide-pajamas, the typical attire of a cultured, intellectual of Bengal. As we progressed into our post-graduation studies in early 1970s, Bapi came under the influence of Charu Mazumdar’s movement as were some of my other friends like Sanjay Basu Ray and Ram Gopal Mitra. Without Bapi around, my association with the wonderful couple gradually dwindled and came to a standstill.

Later in 1979 I went across to their residence, now at Lake Temple Road (previously, Satyajit Ray’s apartment), to invite them to my wedding reception. Deepa-di and Phul-da promised that they would certainly come but they would be very late! When I expressed surprise, Deepa-di settled my doubt, “If he goes on time, Raju, you would face unnecessary problems with security.” Absolutely to the point. No false modesty.

As the wedding reception neared its end, there was no sign of the glamour couple. BK Saha, the then Police Commissioner, had policemen posted at various places. Even his patience was at the end of its tether. He asked,” Do you think Soumitro-babu will really come at this late hour?” I had no doubt at all, “If he has given his word, he will keep it. That’s for sure.” BK Saha – himself an excellent table-tennis player – stayed back till the distinguished couple arrived.

So did my Bengal Ranji Trophy team-mate Srimonto Banerjee. Later bright and witty Srimonto would regale his audience with innumerable ‘manufactured tales’ of the occasion, “Oh! Yes, I had a long and serious conversation with the intellectual couple. After all, my Ramkrishna Mission School and St Xavier’s College background made all the difference!”

Though a fitness fanatic, Phul-da enjoyed the fish mayonnaise and the lobster thermidor. True to form, Deepa-di did justice to the Bijoli Grill preparations. Mr Barick, the proprietor, was thrilled at being highly complimented. 

A week later with wife Seema, I went to their flat to thank them. Seema wore the bangles they had gifted her. Deepa-di was extremely pleased as was Ful-da. They blessed us profusely.

For various reasons we hardly met over the next few years. Except perhaps very casually at some media parties. To me it was always the Ful-da of good old days: warm and affectionate. Once his close buddy Pradip-da (PK Banerjee) was present. It was a delight to see and hear the two friends exuding charm and affection all round. Both were exceptionally knowledgeable and full of humour.

In January 2015 a pleasant surprise awaited us. Seema’s cousin-sister Tanuja flew down from Mumbai to attend a ceremony as the guest of honour to celebrate the 80^th birth anniversary of her close friend Phulu, with whom she enjoyed fabulous chemistry on and off the screen.

Generally Seema spends a lot of time with Tanuja whenever the ever-graceful heroine is in Kolkata. This time too it was no different. Seema and I were invited. We met Tanuja at Oberoi Grand and went together to the function. We were escorted to the ‘green room’ and saw the dashing 80 year old in his inimitable candour.

The regal bearing of the magnificent performer came to the fore. He began with a chat-show with Tanuja, followed by a superlative rendering of Tagore’s poems and finally concluded with a shruti-natya with his daughter. Incomparable in every respect. The ultimate in Bangali Bhadralok culture.

Prior to the show, on seeing me in the ‘green room’, Phul-da’s eyes lit up and he gave that million-dollar smile and clasped my hand with all warmth, “Arey Raju, onek din por. Tomar lekha mon diye pori. Khub bhalo lagey.” It was enough for me, coming from a person for whom I had the highest admiration as a performer and as a person. 

 

Milkha Singh

When Milkha Singh ran, it seemed he ran not only for a country but for a continent. Every Asian from Tokyo to Teheran ran every galloping-stride with him. His popularity was mind-boggling. It is doubtful if any other Asian athlete has matched the mass support of millions that he had around the world, especially from the developing Oriental nations.

From the late-1950s a skinny Sikh sprinter from India held the world athletic followers in thrall. Commonwealth Games (then Empire Games) he dominated. At the Asian championships including the quadrennial Asian Games he was the perpetual champion. Across Europe and United States wherever he competed, the fleet-footed ‘cheetah’ was among the best. Milkha’s hair knotted into a bun gave his presence a distinctive appeal to the international audience.

The slight physique gave the impression that he was not really running but ‘flying’! The sobriquet ‘Flying Sikh’ stuck, very appropriately. Whoever coined the nick-name was absolutely on the spot to describe the frail sardar in running spikes, shorts and sleeveless vest. The image that he created by his graceful flow was a gift to the spectators. Silken smooth approach developed into a momentum of speed. A delight to watch for spectators. In awe and wonder for competitors. His movements and mannerisms revealed a distinct impression of a man with a mission.

Yes, a mission he had. He desired that his nation would be the best. The feline grace of the quarter-miler gave the impression of a speeding gazelle in its natural habitat. A sight for the connoisseurs. His ease of style, his determined look, his non-emotional bearing made him hugely popular all over the world. A slight frame dominating the strong, physically endowed giants had an appeal beyond description. A David among the Goliaths.

In 1958 at Cardiff in Wales at the Commonwealth Games, Milkha Singh left the field far behind to win the gold in the 440 yards. In 1958 yet again this time at Tokyo Asian Games he was the undisputed champion in the 200 metres and 400 metres.  At the end of the season, he won the Helmes Award for the best quarter-miler in the world. He was certainly among the favourites to win the 400 metres at the Rome Olympics in 1960.

When the news filtered in, a shocked silence pervaded the atmosphere. Strange was the feeling: a certain kind of void. People felt morose. As if a close friend or relative had passed away. The disappointment was not only Milkha’s, it was felt all over the country by every Indian. Around the Asian continent too. We all felt sad. Gradually we began to realize the enormity of the issue.

We were so used to Milkha Singh winning that we could not visualize that he could also lose. He was only human, we realized. He was competing against the very best that the world had to offer. He was the representative not only of India, but of the whole continent of Asia as well. Now he was competing not against the best sprinters of one continent, he was competing against the best of five continents. As the magnitude of the achievement seeped into us, we began to admire the magnificent athlete still more.

In much less than a minute our world came to a stand-still. Six best quarter-milers on earth took their positions for the 400 metres sprint at Rome on a day of sunshine with a light breeze. Ideal conditions for outdoor athletics. In a matter of barely 46 seconds all six of them crossed the finishing line. Two of them beat the existing world record and four of them the existing Olympic record. Amazing race, it was.

Later Milkha remembered that he had a splendid start and breezed ahead till 200 metres. “Then suddenly,” quoted by sports researchers Ezekiel and Arumugam, “I slowed down a bit. I thought the pace was very fast and I would fizzle out in the end if I continued at that speed…may be I also took a side-glance…” Why? Why? Why? An answer that will forever remain shrouded in mystery.  No one would ever know, not even Milkha Singh himself. That momentary lapse proved to be the biggest mistake of his life.

Many theories have been cited. But none at all convincing. Typical of our Indian bio-pics, we have even tried to give a ‘filmy’ sob-story to the disastrous moment. ‘Side-glance’ perhaps makes a good story for movie-goers and media publicity. But in the world of real sport no one resorts to a ‘side-glance’ when running a sprint.

Milkha Singh did not give a ‘side-glance’ during the 400 metres sprint. No way. He perhaps made the mistake of slowing down a stride or two before the final burst of speed.  Why can we not accept the truth that a moment’s mistake cost him an Olympic medal?

He returned to his homeland to a hero’s welcome. But he just could not forget the blunder. On a fraction of a second his destiny changed. He missed even the bronze medal by a whisker. Milkha finished just behind the South African Malcolm Spence, whom he had defeated earlier. The mind rankled: nothing would compensate for missing the bronze medal. In fact some athletic experts had predicted before the Rome Olympic Games that Milkha Singh was good enough to get either the gold or the silver on his current form.

If this run left him without even a bronze medal, it was another run that saved his life from marauding murderers. Innocent, hardworking millions suddenly found one night that they had become refugees in their own homeland because of some callous politicians who gave precedence to their own self-interest ahead of genuine public service.

Born in Llyalpur (now Faisalabad in Pakistan) in 1935, he witnessed the murder of his parents and relatives at the time of the Partition of the sub-continent. The young Sikh managed to escape. He just ran and ran. There was no time to think, no time to collect anything, no time to plan. He hid himself under a railway-coach compartment that made its way to India. Or, perhaps, in the ladies toilet of a train, according to another version. His memories of certain incidents are crystal clear. But a lot of it is only a blur. It is not possible for one to remember details when one is desperately trying to save one’s life from assassins.

Milkha’s case was multiplied by millions who had to flee from the newly-declared country of Pakistan. The mass exodus of the population on either extreme of India – Bengal and Punjab – brought forth misery unfathomable. Self-centred political leaders deprived innocent people of their lives, limbs, land and livelihood. Milkha was no exception as a haunted refugee.

In India the young Sikh found refuge in the Indian Army. It was the Indian Army that gave him the opportunity to pursue his fancy: the will to run and to compete with the best. With each passing day, the young jawan of the Indian Army breezed through and breasted the tape way ahead of all others. Army meets he won with ease. National championships he won again with ease. Now international exposure was required. But where would the money come from? Who would help to arrange and organize? Invariably the House of Patiala came to the rescue, as they had done to Indian sports and sportsmen for decades.

What Milkha achieved in his Rome Olympic defeat was much, much more than what he achieved in his innumerable victories. His exploits revealed to the athletic world a glimpse of Asia emerging as a sporting giant. He was an Indian first and an Indian till the last. But he was also Asia’s favourite athlete all along. Very few sportsmen can lay claim to such heights of fame and adoration despite being an Olympic non-medalist.

More than any of his various victories around the world, it was Milkha’s failure to win a medal at Rome in 1960 that gave him immortal fame.  People hardly remember any of his outstanding performances over world-famed sprinters. Ironically, it was his missing an Olympic medal that made him a legend in the eyes of his countrymen!

Doubt if any other sportsman has been eulogized to such an extent for not having won any Olympic honours. Such was the appeal and the mass admiration for this superlative athlete.

 

 

Kishore Bhimani

A wonderful, well-rounded personality. Raconteur extraordinary. Could liven up an evening over a peg with anecdotes on cricketers, especially off-the-field! Lover of good life, Kishore had a graceful and gracious way of writing prose. While his famous contemporary Rajan Bala would concentrate on technicalities, history and superlative turn-of-phrase, Kishore developed his own distinctive style as he wrote on cricket for The Statesman for decades.

Started with Calcutta St Xavier’s and finished his academics with London School of Economics (LSE), his orbit was wide, deep and liberal. Could hold a conversation on any serious topic just as he could come up with light-hearted banter. Outstanding  he was as cricket commentator.

One great quality of his was his ability to accept jokes at his expense. Rajan Bala at times teasingly called him “Beimani” but Kishore would laugh the loudest. Once I had asked him, “Are you the only LSE product to have served time at the Press Box?” Kishore replied,” No, no. There are several others as well from prominent universities.” I told him, ”My emphasis is not on LSE, but on ‘served time’.” You should have heard his laughter. In the Press Box he actually looked a downcast prisoner!  He was not born to be a cricket journalist to warm the benches at the Press enclosure. He was a free-bird who loved to mix and chat with elan. He had a way with celebrities. Yes, he was that kind of a man.

He was a regular at prominent social clubs and extremely popular with his penchant for adda. In the latter days a perpetual presence around the walk-path of CCFC. Charm of manner and speech, he was a man of dignity. Very doting husband to Rita and father to Gautam. A wonderful family.

I wish to remember him for his relaxed manner, easy smile, ready humour. Once I told him,” You are a living ghost! Why do you ‘ghost’ books for cricketers and industrialists?” Kishore furrowed his eyebrows and tried to muffle his smile but it did not last more than a few seconds. He burst out laughing with his gold-tooth glistening, “Raju, you were at least 10 years junior to me in school.” 

That was his way of rebuke to a man he had given the opportunity to write for The Statesman way back in 1980. Extremely generous of him to offer an active cricketer to write at the age of 30. His magnanimity made me the first non-international cricketer to write regular columns in one of India’s leading newspapers.

Kishore celebrated his 80^th birthday last February. Calcutta-media’s sports pages, very typically, decided he died at 74! Surely from the celestial plane Kishore would be enjoying this debate over his date of birth. A life lived in style. A life full of generous banter. A delightful person whom I will never again get to meet.

 

Shankar Laxman

No life is worth living if one does not do something for one’s fellow-men or for one’s own country. In life as in death these rare individuals earn genuine admiration even from their opponents. One such soul happened to be Shankar Laxman.

The name may not ring a bell for many readers. Certainly not the readers’ fault. Shankar Laxman’s exploits were hardly ever highlighted by the media. He never received any worthwhile recognition while he lived. Today years after his death his name is almost forgotten. But if the annals of India’s sports history ever reflects the truth, then the name would reverberate and send ripples around the land.

The diminutive man was a giant between the posts. Short and sturdy, he was a real warrior who wore his Indian army uniform in pride and splendour.  Courage was his middle name as he turned the art of hockey goal-tending to a spectacular display of raw bravery and fortitude. For the Indian army jawan, the rectangular area between the goal-posts and the cross-bar was India territory and he would not allow a single enemy bullet to touch his motherland.

In those days goal-keepers did not wear helmets and chest guards. The short-statured Laxman found the pads unwieldy. Those came beyond his hips and were heavy enough to make a goal-keeper almost immobile. But the jawan from the Services had little time to worry about the size and the weight of his kit. His unflappable concentration revolved around his duty: to guard India’s citadel against every possible invasion. Nothing else mattered to him. With just his hockey stick in one hand and a tattered glove on the other he took charge of India’s honour for close to ten years that covered three Olympic Games.

The first Olympic Games Laxman went to was at Melbourne in 1956. He was the under-study to the best goalie in the world, Raghunandan Francis, who was a vital member of two Olympic gold medal-winning India teams at London in 1948 and Helsinki in 1952. But the team management realized that Laxman was ready to come into the first XI.

On the morning of the final against Pakistan, captain Balbir Singh told the young jawan to get ready to play. Laxman’s Olympic debut was in the final! He did not have the luxury of time for mental preparation. He did not have the comfort-feeling of being ‘nursed’. He did not need such namby-pamby treatment. He was a warrior first and foremost and that’s the reason he was ready for any challenge at any hour of the day or night. To him it mattered not who the opposition was or what the conditions were like. He was a fighter and fighters do not bother about anything but the honour of their motherland.

After a hard-earned win in the final match, the grateful senior players carried the brave, young soldier on their shoulders. He had brought off not ‘saves’ but saved the nation’s citadel time and again against constant onslaughts. Sidelined for the final match, the senior goalie Francis rushed onto the field and embraced his young protégé. Tears flowed as the two generations merged for the cause of the nation. What spirit of patriotism the Indians had those days. With the gold medal around his neck, Shankar Laxman let out a war-cry from the medal-pedestal, “Jai Hind.”

In 1960 at the Rome Olympics, by the extremely high standard the hockey team had placed for themselves, the Indian hockey players were a disappointed lot. They had given their all but a solitary goal defeat in the final against Pakistan rankled. The nation as a whole stoutly defended them for their exemplary skill and valour but the players thought they had let the nation down! Just imagine the bar they had settled for themselves: feeling sad for coming 2^nd in the world! Feeling downcast for winning the silver medal! This was the kind of spirit our hockey team possessed till the 1960s.

Tokyo Olympic was still four years away. But the hockey players refused to rest and relax. They were impatient for revenge. The effort that Laxman put in would put an aspiring, ambitious youngster to shame.  In 1964 again the man beneath the cross-bar was the one and only Laxman.

But in the final, Pakistan, down by an early goal through a penalty-stroke, came back to wreck vengeance on the Indian goal. Attack after attack followed. Any moment the citadel would break down. It was just a matter of time. Munir Dar the magnificent Pakistani striker, among world’s best ever, was threatening to break the neck of every Indian in his vicinity.

 The final match was now no longer a hockey-duel, it had become a battle between two neighbouring nations, India and Pakistan. Eye-ball to eye-ball they fought. No quarters given, none asked for. In the last ten minutes – that’s a long period in a fast sport like hockey – the dark-green shirts were all over the Indian ‘D’. As the final whistle blew, no one had the energy to be on one’s feet. All 22 players were on the ground desperately trying to regain their breath. Hardened, experienced players were all in tears. Some in sorrow; some in joy. But no warrior could find the energy to leave the arena of battle. Both the teams had fought and given their best for their respective motherlands.

Finally Munir Dar rose, walked up to Shankar Laxman, picked him up and embraced, “What were you doing there? Do you realize you could have died from those bullets? Never seen a hockey goal-keeper dive and fly as you did.” Tears streaming, Laxman embraced, “I wanted to die against you on the hockey field ever since that defeat at Rome.” Tears welled up as opponents embraced. Both the teams realized that they had taken part not in a hockey match but in something much more: honour of their motherlands. The spirit of sport was laid bare in profusion. The skills of hockey, no less. There was no disgrace in defeat; no euphoria in victory.

At the victory podium, the Pakistan team requested India skipper Charanjit Singh to allow Laxman to take the gold medal first! Magnanimous captain Charanjit was willing but the Olympic Committee quite rightly pointed out that the formality must be maintained. Laxman followed Charanjit to the medal ceremony. At the end of the match when asked about the loss to India, the Pakistan captain said, “No, today we lost to Shankar Laxman, no one else!” That’s the kind of reverence he earned from hardened opponents.

After serving the country for ten years, finally in 1966 at the Asian Games he was given the captaincy of national hockey team. India regained the championship that they had lost to Pakistan in 1962. The poor man finally received the honour that he deserved.

Born at Mhow in Madhya Pradesh in 1933, he did not have the luxury of attending schools. He spent more time in the poverty-stricken neighbourhood watching seniors at play and trying to copy them with his friends. In time he was lucky someone identified his talent for hockey. After a few years with some informal clubs, the tough youngster was found fit to join the army. The armed forces thankfully encouraged sporting activities and in next to no time Laxman found his métier at hockey. After that there was no stopping the determined boy from the back-streets of Mhow.

The great Dhyan Chand had the highest respect for Laxman, “In 3 successive Olympics, Laxman was beaten just once!  Just once! A miracle-man, indeed. Apart from his amazing courage and undoubted skills, his greatness was that he never tried to be spectacular. His only mission was to save India’s citadel. Nothing else mattered to him. He was a true jawan. Jai Jawan. Jai Hind.”

During an interview in the 1980s, the phenomenal Leslie Claudius once remarked to me, “With Shankar Laxman guarding your goal, you felt confident of victory. The opposition was in awe of this innocent and simple soul. Even at practice sessions he was almost unbeatable. His trademark smile acted as a tonic for all of us. He was much junior to me but delightful company with his rural jokes and pranks.” This aspect of Laxman was totally unheralded and unknown.

After retiring from his favourite sport of hockey at which India dominated as long as he played, Laxman was back to square one. He was born poor and now again he was back to penury. To add to his misfortune, suddenly a small injury flared up to reveal the dreaded disease of gangrene. Despite the awesome pain, the soldier in him soldered on and did not want to tell the world his problems.

The family was not in a position to pay the medical costs. Much later, when the erstwhile Holkar royal family came to know, it was said that Madhav Rao Scindia rushed to his aid with a blank cheque. But by then the doctors had proclaimed that both the legs would have to be amputated from the thighs. The news stunned everyone except the person involved. He heard of the problem but kept his cool. He still looked every inch an army jawan and every inch the best goal-tender in the world. In appearance and spirit he was the same Shankar Laxman.

This poignant moment of his life was related to me by Pranay Mondkar, a genuine sports enthusiast from Mumbai, and I wish to share it with the world.

Scindia was visibly moved. He knew not what to say or do. He understood the plight of the family. He was moved to say, “Sir, we do not want those legs to be amputated. Those two legs of yours have saved hundreds of goals for your country. We must try to save them somehow.”

But Shankar Laxman, ever the warrior, simply shook his head and firmly said, “No. No surgery can save my legs. No amputation can save my spirit. Let me die a warrior’s death at my Kurukshetra. I want to die bleeding.” Only a real warrior can say this. No wonder his middle name was ‘Courageous’.

The history of Indian sport has to be rewritten and these patriots be given their rightful recognition. In a country devoid of genuine sports culture, what can we expect? In a country where crime-stained sportsmen become parliamentarians; where ignorant and arrogant sportsmen hold major posts; where back-stabbing, match-fixing and bribery are passwords for sportsmen; where sport has become a refuge for self-seekers,  who will have the time for Laxman?

What is the value Shankar Laxman’s sacrifice for his motherland? For our own motherland?  Will his soul ever be able to rest in peace?

 

 

Udham Singh

He played in four Olympics, won three gold and one silver medal yet hardly anyone remembers his name! If you do recollect the name of the hockey legend then you are a genuine hockey enthusiast.

In modern India very few hockey administrators or players would be able to identify him or say anything substantial about him. Sport journalists are not known to be very keen on sport history. They have little to do with him because Udham Singh would not resort to falsehood or gimmicks for self-publicity.

Udham Singh – unparalleled in skill and stamina – is said to have lived and died with his boots on and his hockey stick in hand. People who followed the trail of Indian hockey after independence remember this name because it seemed to be in every possible Indian team from the late 1940s. Wherever India went and won gold medals, Udham Singh’s name was bound to be present.

 For 15 long years, between 1949 and 1964, he was an indispensable member of the Indian hockey team when all-conquering India was feared by every nation in the world. No other Indian hockey legend, not even Richard Allen (3 Olympics), Dhyan Chand (3 Olympics) and Leslie Claudius (4 Olympics) wore the Indian jersey as long as Udham Singh did.

While sportspersons with a sole Olympic appearance develop a jaunty gait, it is mind boggling to note that Udham actually participated in four Olympic Games: Helsinki in 1952, Melbourne in 1956, Rome in 1960 and Tokyo in 1964. According to conscientious sport researcher K Wadhwaney, “Udham Singh would also have been considered for the London Olympics in 1948 if he had not broken a finger in the trials at Bombay just prior to the team selection.”  That would have meant five Olympics and five medals. Mind boggling, to say the least.

Udham took the disappointment with a shrug of his broad shoulders. Even as a teenager he had the temperament and the maturity to realize that life was a perpetual struggle of many ups and downs. He concentrated on the domestic hockey scene. Next year he was in the Indian team to play ‘friendlies’ against Afghanistan. And from thereon in 1949 the juggernaut of Udham Singh continued…

Players who have been to just one or two Olympics are feted with awards and funds. Even players who have not done anything worthwhile are recipients of various national awards and influential posts. Yet this man who has won four Olympic medals, yes four, is a forgotten name in his own country.

Udham Singh won Olympic gold medals at Helsinki in 1952, at Melbourne in 1956 and at Tokyo in 1964. In between from Rome in 1960 he returned with furrowed eyes and in deep frustration with the silver medal, “We all felt like committing suicide. But then we told ourselves that we must avenge this defeat in the next Olympic. Through hard work and honest effort, we achieved that at Tokyo in 1964.” The ‘spirit of sport’ exemplified in the simplest of terms. That’s the magic of Udham Singh: straight and simple.

Nimble and fleet-footed Udham Singh was exemplary with his body feints and skilful dribble. As the left -inside in a combination of five-forwards, he was pivot who made life easy for the strikers. His exceptional ability with the stick held addicts spellbound. He was a master of his craft. He was the play-maker, the architect who created openings for the legendary Balbir Singh and other strikers to score.

He never got the publicity that many of his other deserving peers got. He did not have the flash of glamour. He was the quiet operator who thrived on his skills. His distribution of passes and deft placements drew repeated applause from all around. He would do the difficult job of wriggling through the opposition defence and then unselfishly pass to a fellow player who was unmarked or better placed.

Born at Sansarpur in Punjab in 1928 he grew up in an environment of hockey. Top-quality hockey players used to come from Sansarpur and still do so. Very rightly Sansarpur is known as the nursery of Indian hockey. Udham’s great quality was that he was a quiet learner, extremely hard-working, very bright and a man of equable temperament. He did not believe in fixed practice hours. He would go on and on…’till the cows came home’.

Off the field he was extremely popular with all age groups. He had an easy charm which attracted attention.  Possessed a fantastic sense of humour. Not shy of being the butt of his own jokes. His ever-helpful approach to life endeared him to every player who played with or against him. ‘Udhi Paaji’ was the person to go to for any problems.

A vital member of the Indian senior teams from 1949, he was once selected by some jokers in IHF to lead the junior Indian team to a youth hockey festival at Warsaw in 1955! “What is a man of 27 doing with teenagers?” asked some foreign reporter. Flashing his endearing smile, Udham reasoned in his inimitable Punjabi wit, “I too played with 27 year-olds when I was 19!”

Udham never led India in any official tournament. His only scope of India captaincy was on the ‘friendly’ East Africa tour in 1959. It appeared that he was officially the permanent vice-captain! Perennial deputy to players even ten years his junior. Nothing seemed to bother him. Thoroughly relaxed he would be no matter the situation, opposition and conditions. He played in different climes all over the world earning compliments for his wonderful skills and co-operative manner. Never once did he lose his temper on or off the field.

In 1965 the Indian Hockey Federation and the Government of India woke up to find that although many youngsters were given the Arjuna award for hockey, the name of Udham Singh was missing from the list! He became an awardee that year. But little did it matter to him. He deserved a much higher award.

How can you equate a man with 4 Olympic medals with men who have barely won one? Unperturbed, Udhi, as he was popularly known, remained attached to hockey by helping the youngsters of his native State, Punjab, and of his alma mater DAV College, Jallandhar.

The magical contribution of Udham Singh continued even after his retirement from active hockey. “From his stable,” according to Wadhwaney,” appeared top-quality players like Ajitpal Singh, Harmeek Singh, Surjit Singh and others.” Numerous players have credited him with guidance when they were young as well as when they had matured. He himself, however, never claimed any credit.

 But, sad to relate, Udham Singh’s name got relegated to the footnotes of India’s hockey history. He died in 2000 at his favourite hometown of Sansarpur in 2000 at the age of 72.

At a time when non-medalist Olympians are being felicitated, it is a shame that we have conveniently forgotten one of our genuine heroes. Like Leslie Claudius, Udham Singh happens to be the only Indian hockey player with 4 Olympic medals, three gold medals and one silver. No other Indian hockey player has served the nation for as long as he did. No less than 15 years.

But then in Indian sport who cares for genuine gold? We are more engrossed with the gloss of artificial jewellery. That’s the real picture of Indian sport