Kousik Saha

He was a collector of neck-ties. At the same time he tied people into friendships. He was a bachelor, but was married to cricket. He would keep scores and statistics but his life was all melody.

Kousik crossed the Ganges tributary of River Hooghly and swam into my life. He brought with him a whiff of Dutch influence from his home-town Chinsurah. Impeccably attired, forever smiling, his punctuality and dedication to his chosen profession were lessons to imbibe. Cool, capable and composed he was a role-model to follow.

Our first meeting was at the iconic Eden Gardens way back in the mid 1990s. I happened to be handling the Under 16 Bengal hopefuls while he was designated by BCCI to be the official scorer of the match. Since then for more than 25 years he was the premier scorer from eastern India. How many Tests, internationals, and first-class matches Kousik has ‘scored’ would be mind-boggling to note.  Best would be to ask his protégé Sanjoy Dutta for the exact statistics.

As is the habit of most grey-beards, I remember telling the young scorer who came to me and self-introduced himself, “Well, I hope you understand the value of a scorer. A scorer is the original historian: he records all the details of a match from the first ball to the last. If you make a single mistake the facts of the match would alter and cricket history would change.”

I need not have told him anything at all. At the end of the 1^st day itself the young scorer Kousik gave me every indication of a sincere man full of innovation and enterprise. Apart from doing his very responsible BCCI job, he gave me a few sheets of paper with very relevant statistics relating to my Bengal team. I was astounded by his approach. Never before had I seen any scorer going beyond his duty to this extent.

In time the friendship strengthened. He kept giving me songs in a pen-drive by thousands. He kept me busy with unending supply of notes and stats to ease my job. In effect he was the man I looked up to the most. Although at least 20 years junior to me, I kept my ears and eyes open whenever Kousik was around. I can say with utmost sincerity that Kousik taught me the magic of statistics and how to derive benefit from it.

Once when I was upset with the late arrival at a match of a young player from a nearby district, Kousik called me aside, “Sir, there is a ‘rail-roko’ on. Samrat is probably held up on the way.” Samrat did reach the ground before the toss and played a dream innings. This is the kind of person Kousik was. Forever helpful but never seeking any credit.

Kousik began with pencils and erasers. In time he introduced coloured pens of varying hues. Then when the opportune moment came he was fully into digital systems of scoring. Nothing seemed to be a problem with him. No one ever heard Kousik complaining. No matter the poor facilities; no matter the awkward view of the ground; no matter the callousness of officials. Nothing ever perturbed this superlative scorer. He was the ‘go to’ man for any problems for scorers. He would help without ever thinking of getting anything in return.

Whether International matches or IPL encounters Kousik was an automatic choice as DLS manager. He had figures on his finger-tips. A magician on the computer. Despite hundreds of Tests and international appearances, to Kousik even an ordinary club match would evoke equal attention. Never believed in any casual, relaxed approach. Taught the art of scoring to whoever approached him for help and with queries. An absolute gem of a person, my dear friend Kousik was.

 Once when two young BCCI umpires were being misled by a former Bengal cricketer (Junior Bengal coach at the time) regarding the concept of a tie-match in an inter-state competition, scorer Kousik called me from the ground mentioning the mistake that was about to be perpetrated. Kept Kousik’s request and called to inform my match-referee colleague of the correct decision. Without Kousik’s intervention on time, can you imagine the uproar that would have occurred around the country?

Kousik hardly ever wore ties but he had a fabulous collection. Gave him some and promised him many more in time to come. He did not give me the time. Left us suddenly about two years back leaving me with a deep sense of regret.

Kousik, you were a pioneer in many respects. Excellent talents followed you to the scorers’ table from Bengal, particularly Gautam, Raktim, Bishwajit, Sanjoy and Ananda. You and your five peer-musketeers brought about a silent revolution in the art of scoring in Bengal. We shall always remember the yeoman service of these pioneers.

There was a time when only a handful of reliable scorers were available at Calcutta club circles. Many did not know even the basics. Thankfully today we have outstanding scorers at every level in Bengal, thanks to the coaching sessions at CAB.

Pioneer Kousik, you were the initiator of this fantastic transformation. Your contribution to Bengal cricket will never be forgotten. God will always be with you.

 

 

 

Karni Singh, the rifle-shooting legend

India’s first gold medal in an Olympic individual event came in rifle-shooting. Abhinav Bindra achieved the ‘impossible’ at Beijing in 2008. Earlier at Athens in 2004 Rajyavardhan Singh Rathore became the first Indian to claim an Olympic medal (silver) in rifle shooting for India. Both were exceptional achievements in a nation where rifle-shooting has never been a popular sport.

Jaipur, Udaipur, Jodhpur and even Jaisalmer are the major ports of call in the land of Rajputana. But when it comes to rifle-shooting it is however Bikaner that is at the pinnacle of the crown. The Rajputs have displayed exemplary standards of bravery over the centuries. We have been brought up on the stirring heroic deeds of Rana Pratap and his equine companion Chaitak. It stands to reason that Rajputana would produce India’s first hero at the rifle-shooting range.

The man happened to be none other than the erstwhile Maharaja of Bikaner, Karni Singh. He lost his State at the time of merger of Indian princely States to the Indian Union. He lost his ‘privy purse’ when the concept of royalty was abolished for good. Yet no obstacle seemed to deter the determined raja. Karni Singh was a maharaja in the real sense of the term. The gentleman was the monarch of all that he surveyed at the shooting-range as well as off it.

His presence breathed of royal lineage at its best. Humble and genteel of manner, the strong and handsome man spoke in a soft, cultured tone. He gave the distinct impression of a man who was in no hurry or worry. Nothing, just nothing could leave a crease on his broad forehead. His immobile face hid a man of passion, a man of conviction, a man of utmost gentleness. No one ever saw him betray any emotion. Impassive in bearing; highly charged in action.

When he held the World Championship runner-up trophy, did we see a faint suggestion of a smile? When he had the Asian gold medal around his neck, did we notice a tear of joy? When he lost a hard-fought struggle in a competition, one would think he was the winner in the way he would walk upright and confident to his opponent to shake the latter’s hand. He would give a courteous nod to the officials and leave the range. No emotion would surface from the erstwhile royalty of Bikaner, Karni Singh.

It is said that when Karni Singh travelled abroad with the Indian contingent to participate in international competitions, the rifle-shooters appeared to be the most cool and composed group. Karni Singh was their mentor, guide, captain and compatriot. He drilled into his team the concept of ‘India first. India last. Nothing in between.’ Rarely, if ever, did the Indian rifle-shooters let the country down.

The patriot in Karni Singh drilled into his team members that every contest was a fight in the nation’s honour. There would be no compromises. Even defeat would be valiant. Karni Singh’s men never even whispered any excuses for their losses. They went down fighting with grace, dignity and valour. Karni Singh, who was used to living in palaces and in regal comfort, was totally at home in the Olympic villages with his fellow participants.

Karni Singh represented India in no less than five Olympic Games between 1964 and 1980. This by itself is an achievement very, very few would ever achieve or surpass. Whether the event was trap and skeet or clay pigeon, he was a master in every discipline.

He was the undisputed champion of India as he  left our shores for Rome, Tokyo, Munich, Montreal and the Moscow Olympic Games. He figured in as many as five World championships as well. In between he was a perpetual winner at the numerous Asian Games and Commonwealth Games he contested.

 When we were young and not so young the name of Karni Singh of Bikaner seemed to reverberate in our ears. The swarthy shooter’s right chin resting on the rifle-butt and his left eye closed as he aimed his weapon at the target was a familiar picture in our favourite weekly magazine Sport & Pastime. He was the man everyone looked up to for a certain medal. Hardly ever did he disappoint his countrymen.

According to sports researcher Kishin Wadhwaney, in 1962 at Cairo in the 38^th world championship, after a series of marathon duels it was a tie for the first place (295/300). Unfortunately in the shoot-out tie he missed the bull’s-eye. The world title slipped from his firm grasp literally just by a whisker. In time he was to win numerous international contests, but the world number one title eluded him forever.

But that did not deter him in the least. On the contrary like a true sportsman he concentrated more and more on his skills and on his training. No palace luxury ever beckoned or distracted the strongly-built Rajput warrior. At his Bikaner palace he, of course, was fortunate to have had his own shooting-range, where he would spend hours in absolute isolation.

 But just to have the best of facilities is not enough, one has to have many more sterling qualities to become and remain a champion. That is precisely what this erstwhile maharaja had. He knew no rest. He practiced and practiced.  Never believed in lolling in luxury. Or in lecturing others. He hated sermonizing. Rather like a true gentleman he concentrated on his own practice and helped whoever needed his support. Indian shooters have received his help in more ways than one can mention. His personal shooting-range was always kept open for anyone who wanted to use it. It was claimed that he had lost the key to the entrance gate!

In the early 1970s he dazzled the rifle-shooting world by claiming three elusive crowns in one year: Welsh Grand Prix, North World Cup and North Western Cup. According to the late scholar-sports-writer Kishin Wadhwaney, he happens to be the only shooter to have achieved this phenomenal feat of claiming these three highly coveted international titles in one year.

Readers would be delighted to learn that Karni Singh Bikaner was a great advocate of women’s liberation in independent India. He joined no marches. He made no radical speeches. Did not believe in media support. He acted in style and splendor. He was the first person in the world to select a lady in a team-event along with men in an international rifle-shooting event.

In the Asian Championship in Seoul in 1971 he picked the young Bhuvaneshwari Kumari of Kotah to partner him and Maan Singh in the Indian team. They won the bronze medal in the clay-pigeon team event. Thus India became the first country in the world to have a lady in the national team, which till then was considered to be an exclusive male preserve. This phenomenal issue has hardly been highlighted.

Even as late as 1982 at the Delhi Asian Games, Karni Singh Bikaner was a member of the team that bagged the silver medal. Still his appetite was not satiated. In 1984 he ran through the much younger and fitter opposition to win Welsh Grand Prix and the North West Cup yet again! Again another first in the world to repeat the feat.

How did he manage to traverse a period of over two decades in a highly competitive sport is a matter of wonder. No condition upset him. No opposition troubled him. No situation was beyond him. Amazing indeed to find how he overcame fitter and younger players. How did he adapt to the changing techniques is a matter of serious conjecture.

In 1982 he wrote a book From Rome to Moscow. One so-called researcher borrowed my copy and vanished. Unfortunately the book was not well distributed. Copies are difficult to find. If any reader can help me with a copy, I shall remain ever grateful.

Once when asked about his phenomenal performances, the modest and reticent Bikaner gentleman could only say, “The love of sport has taken me around the world on the wings of Air India, the airline that loves sportspeople!” Can sport and India think of a better ambassador?

The Tughlaqabad Rifle-Shooting Range has been renamed after the erstwhile Maharaja of Bikaner, Karni Singh, by the Sports Authority of India in a most befitting tribute to a legend who is synonymous with rifle-shooting in India. In 1961 he was also the first recipient of the Arjuna Award when the award was given to men of genuine distinction in sport.

Apart from his exceptional ability as a sportsman of international eminence, Karni Singh was an academic doctorate and later served the nation as a Member of Parliament. He was a brilliant orator; perpetually highlighting the causes of women and the economically distressed. Never shirked his responsibility as a parliamentarian. When asked about his regular and active presence, his gentle reply was, “Well that’s my job. I am only trying to do justice to the faith the people have reposed on me.”

A role-model, completely forgotten in the land of his birth and achievement. My salute to him.

 

 

 

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.