Sunday, May 28, 2006

The Mumtaz magic

This is your last chance Taz. You'd better give it all you've got. I don't know what you'll do, but you must get wickets. If you don't, I'll have no choice but to drop you for the next game at Madras.

Abid Ali, the Hyderabad captain, spoke these words in a matter of fact voice, but his heart was heavy as he uttered them, because the man he was addressing was the seniormost player in the eleven after the captain himself. He had been told in unequivocal terms by the selectors that his senior left arm spinner was on trial.

Mumtaz Hussain, the recipient of the bad news, was close to the end of a distinguished career in which he had taken 173 Ranji Trophy wickets at less than twenty runs apiece. He had been a vital part of the Hyderabad spin attack, forging a successful partnership with off spinner Naushir Mehta, no longer a member of the team, having been replaced a few years earlier by me. The occasion was a Ranji Trophy match against Kerala at Kollam.

Initially depressed and dejected, Mumtaz decided on calm reflection, that it was time to unveil the rare bag of tricks he had kept hidden from public view for over a decade. In his Ranji Trophy career, he had stuck to bowling left arm orthodox spin, never attempting the seemingly infinite variety he had unleashed on unsuspecting batsmen in the inter university matches for the Rohinton Baria Cup in the late sixties. He then had the standard left arm spinners stock delivery which left the right hand batsman, he bowled a chinaman using his wrist, a googly from the back of the hand, and both these deliveries with a finger spin action for variety. Batsmen were completely foxed by his changes of grip and action, or the lack of either, as they misread ball after ball, until they were bowled, caught, lbw or stumped, simultaneously looking very, very foolish indeed.

One famous victim was Sunil Gavaskar of Bombay University in 1970. He describes in his autobiographical 'Sunny Days' how he shouted to his partner Ramesh Nagdev, "I can read his googly now!' only to be stranded outside his crease, completely fooled by one that looked like a perfect Chinaman but went the other way. Wicket-keepers were not immune to the Mumtaz magic either. They had to resort to secret signals to anticipate what would come their way from a Mumtaz Hussain in midseason form.

The first innings was over at Kollam and Kerala was heading for defeat. Not bringing Mumtaz on even for a solitary over in the first innings, Abid Ali was now tossing the ball, barely seven or eight overs old, to the left arm spinner. He dearly wanted his old teammate to perform well today and save him the embarrassment of being dropped.

In his very first over, Mumtaz's attempted a chinaman, despite the newness of the ball. The ball pitched short but the batsman did not take advantage of the long hop. Very soon, Mumtazs length improved reasonably but more important, he bowled a few unplayable deliveries and ended up with a bag of six wickets, though his loose deliveries were hit to the boundary.

The next stop for the Hyderabad team was Chepauk, Madras. The Tamil Nadu batting line-up was formidable, with V. Sivaramakrishnan, V. Krishnaswami, T. E. Srinivasan and Abdul Jabbar prominent in it. Once again Mumtaz displayed his wares, for the second time after his university days. He was now up against a foe of great talent. There would be no meek surrender this time. He could not find the edge or a defensive blade as often as he encountered in the previous match.

Once again Mumtaz claimed five utterly bamboozled batsmen, including Sivaramakrishnan, who went chasing a delivery outside the off stump like one hypnotised, and Krishnaswami, who was bowled trying to withdraw his bat.

There was a brief moment in cricket history when fame and fortune flirted with Mumtaz Hussain, teasing him and cheating him in the end. He had just completed taking 48 wickets for the season in Rohinton Baria, a record until then, and had been included in the Board President's team to play against the touring West Indies led by Gary Sobers. The other left arm spinner in the squad answered to the name of Bishan Singh Bedi, a young bowler of immense promise. The chairman of selectors was former Test off spinner Ghulam Ahmed, intent on being seen to be scrupulously fair as a selector. When it came to a choice between Bedi and Mumtaz, the local boy naturally lost out, or so the story goes.

Ghulam Ahmed's decision was justified by subsequent events, as Bedi took six wickets in the match and went on to become arguably the world's greatest left arm spinner of all time. But had fate been kind to the Hyderabadi in selection terms, Mumtaz Hussain's cricket career would have taken a slightly different course, then what might have been Mumtaz's future in the game? When Indian batsmen found him practically unreadable, what chance did batsmen overseas enjoy of surviving his wiles and tricks? Had he played against West Indies at Fateh Maidan the day Bedi made such an impressive showing, perhaps the Hyderabadi would have made a sensational impact on the world stage?

These questions are merely hypothetical and not for a moment is it being suggested that Mumtaz was a greater bowler than Bedi, but it remains an unsolved mystery of domestic cricket why the former gave up his delightfully mysterious wares, and toed the line as an orthodox spinner in Ranji Trophy cricket, untouched by the greatness that might have been his, had he chosen the other path. Was he told to do so by his captain and seniors in the interest of economy and accuracy, as claimed by his teammates or did he do so of his own volition as some others have suggested? What heights might he have reached had he continued, when he could resume his old magic from where he left off after a gap of ten years, without any substantial loss of effect? Mumtaz Hussain is no more today, a victim of cancer.

Essentially happy go lucky, he had more than his share of woes in his short life of 52 years. The loss of a daughter a few years ago was a grievous blow. Yet the enduring image of my old team mate and colleague is that of a man of a cheerful disposition, given to grinning wickedly at batsmen he had fooled.

The Khan clan

Every now and then in cricket, you come across truly humble folk from a working class background, who are also outstanding cricketers, quite unaware of the awe they command from fellow players and cricket lovers. The Khan family of fast bowlers of Hyderabad are an example of such quiet achievers.

The elder Khan, the tall and rangy Ibrahim Khan, was Khan Saheb to all of us, a man we respected as an elder and veteran cricketer of the past. He had been a member of the Hyderabad team which won the Ranji Trophy in the 1937-38 season. He had played an important role in that historic victory achieved by winning a single match, thanks to a string of walkovers. He had taken wickets in both innings of Nawanagar.

The other Khan Saheb was his eldest son Habib Khan, who opened the bowling for Hyderabad and Railways in the Ranji Trophy. Back in the seventies, he was still quite a force to reckon with in the Hyderabad league, turning his arm over for South Central Railway. He bowled off a smooth runup, a simple, economical action and nice flowing follow through. He was a tall man and extracted plenty of bounce from most pitches. On matting wickets, he was quite deadly. He was a simple soul, extremely modest and always smiling and friendly. There was something slightly deferential in his manner, and old-fashioned Hyderabadi courtesy marked his every utterance and action.

I remember one of the last matches Habib Khan played in local cricket. It was at Fateh Maidan and though I remember we were pitted aginst each other, I cannot recall the occasion. I was not known for my batting prowess and in that match I contrived to hook a short-pitched delivery from Khan Saheb to the boundary. In the evening, after the game, Habib sauntered over to where I was sitting and said, "Bus, ab bahut ho gaya! It's time for me to hang up my boots, if batsmen like you can hook me," with just the hint of a smile lighting up his sad eyes.

Another sad occasion involving Habib Khan was when Hyderabad beat Railways in a three-day pre-quarter final match in the Ranji Trophy at that same venue. He was the manager of the Railways team, and when his team took a 220 run first innings lead, he beamingly told us he had made arrangements for them to travel to wherever they were scheduled to play the next match. Unfortunately for railways, we made an incredible recovery in the second innings and won the match. Khan Saheb was really crestfallen and my heart went out to him.

Habib's two younger brothers were also impressive quick bowlers. Majid Khan was quite pacy and a dangerous customer on matting. I was once out caught first ball in a junior match, the daredevil wicket keeper A A Asif standing up to Majid (only a madman would do that) but the umpire said not out. I am ashamed to say that I stood my ground. The next ball was another express delivery and the result was identical, the umpire once again saying not out. This time around, I walked.

Majid enjoyed considerable success at the junior level but did not progress much as he had a doubtful action, but the youngest brother Sardar Khan was probably the most successful of the siblings, as he played for Railways in the Ranji Trophy and Central Zone in the Duleep and Deodhar Trophies in the seventies. He had an action similar to that of the Sri Lankan bowler Malinga, very round arm. He was quite pacy too, and managed to extract considerable bounce. He picked up quite a handful of wickets in the Ranji Trophy as well as the zone matches for a couple of seasons before fading out of the scene, once he lost some of his pace and batsmen learnt to cope with his unusual release.

The Khans were a talented family of cricketers, two generations of honest, hard working fast bowlers, who toiled away on unresponsive wickets, enjoying precious little by way of recognition or reward. They were a fine bunch of sportsmen, well behaved, modest and always willing to give a hundred per cent. It was a pleasure to play cricket with them and interact with them.

Abject surrender

It was my first season in the Ranji Trophy. Those who did not play for Hyderabad in the 1970s can never know the heady feeling belonging to that glamorous outfit could give you. It was almost as high profile a team as the Indian team, with M L Jaisimha leading the side and the other nawabs of Hyderabad cricket, Mansur Ali Khan Pataudi, Abbas Ali Baig and Syed Abid Ali giving it an aura quite incomparable in the annals of domestic cricket.

When we assembled at the Wankhede Stadium in January 1976, we were still euphoric from our incredible victory over Railways in the pre-quarterfinals after yielding a first innings lead of 220 runs. The day after we arrived in Bombay by train, I went to Mulund to spend the morning with a cousin and came back just in time for practice. I didn't know it then, but I was perilously close to being dropped for the match in favour of the other off spinner Noshir Mehta, though I had had a good season so far. He had been out of action ill, and the team management discussed bringing him back for this match. To make matters worse for myself, I bowled badly in the nets, tired from the long ride by suburban train to reach Wankhede. I remember Jaisimha letting me have a fusillade of harsh words when I blithely assured him I would bowl OK in the match next day.

Came the morrow, Hyderabad kept its faith in me, Bombay skipper Ashok Mankad won the toss and elected to bat, and just as I promised Jaisimha, I managed to find my rhythm straightaway when called upon to bowl after about an hour's play in the morning session. The promising Bombay University lad Vijay Mohan Raj was my first victim caught behind by Vijaya Paul deputising for P Krishnamurti, away in New Zealand with the Indian team. Lefthanded Vijay Mohan Raj nicked one to the keeper and pretended he had missed the ball altogether in typical khadoos Bombay style, but luckily for me, the umpire was not fooled.

The Bombay team that day had a number of newcomers and soon I was dominating the batting despite impressive contributions from opener Sudhir Naik and skipper Mankad. Both their dismissals gave me great satisfaction. In the case of Naik, it was one of those rare dismissals resulting from a plan that actually succeeds. The beauty of it was that my captain Jaisimha and I were in perfect non-verbal communication, with the skipper slowly but steadily moving over after over into a position at midwicket where we both wanted him. We managed to lure Naik into mistiming an ondrive, the flighted delivery drawing him forward and dropping just short of where he expected it to be, and Jai was by now standing precisely where the miscued ondrive was landing.

Ashok Mankad was a master batsman in Indian conditions, against spin in particular. That I was able to get past his impeccable defence and force him to edge one to backward short leg was a matter of great satisfaction to me. His younger brother Rahul Mankad, making his debut, charged out to the first ball I bowled to him, but the ball dipped and spun viciously to ricochet of his bat towards short leg Jyotiprasad who threw the stumps down. Rahul was run out without attempting a run! Here was a wicket which was morally mine, at least partially, though it was Jyoti's brilliant reflex action that really dismissed him. Sandip Patil, also making his debut, was out to the same bowler-fielder combination, again off the first ball he faced, but he was out caught by a short leg fielder in the same class as Eknath Solkar.

When the ninth Bombay wicket fell, with seven of them falling to me, Jaisimha walked up to me and instructed me not to get the last man out! He wanted to prolong the Bombay innings to close of play so that our openers would not have to come out to play out an awkward few overs that evening. I did not know how to bowl not to get a wicket and the aggressive tailender Abdul Ismail made merry at my expense. I was also tired from bowling more than 30 overs on the trot in hot, humid weather. Bombay were eventually all out for 222, with my bowling analysis reading 35-7-68-7.

It was a proud moment for me, but the Times of India correspondent had a slightly different view of the proceedings from the general perception that we had bowled Bombay out on a perfect first day wicket. Among other things, he said that I was helped by an unusual Wankhede wicket which took turn surprisingly on the first day, and that I stopped flighting the ball the moment Ismail launched into my bowling. Thus are reputations made and broken by our experts of the fourth estate!

We took a lead of 59 runs. Hyderabad had won the Moin-ud-Dowla Gold Cup that season, and I claimed in a boast to my friend Mumtaz Hussain that as I had brought the team luck, we would also win the Ranji Trophy, now that we had gained a first innings lead. 'You don't know Hyderabad cricket Ram, we can still lose this match,' Mumtaz said, dampening my enthusiasm. I was really upset with this negative approach, but Mumtaz's words proved prophetic and we lost the match, thanks to a combination of negative tactics, timid batting and total lack of self-belief.

In the second innings, when Ashok Mankad launched a fierce offensive after the loss of a few early wickets, we employed medium pacers from both ends, set ultra-defensive fields, but could not stem the flow of runs. Mankad made a glorious century and declared, leaving us just over three hours of batting. We folded up without a fight against bowling that never rose beyond the accurate. Leg spinner Rakesh Tandon took six wickets, at least three of them with full tosses or long hops, and veteran Padmakar Shivalkar mopped up four more, to leave us losers by 70 odd runs. It was abject surrender of the worst kind. Mumtaz was right and my dreams came crashing down.