Budhi is no more
Today's newspapers carry the news of Budhi Kunderan's death. What greater reminder of our mortality can there be! Who among all the cricketers I have watched had this aura of eternal youth, athleticism and drama in greater measure than the former Indian wicket keeper-opening batsman?
People who have not seen him cannot imagine the kind of impact he made on crowds. He batted like Rohan Kanhai, even played the falling sweepshot the West Indian invented. He once hit four successive fours off England's Dave Larter and three in the very next over from Barry Knight (I think) at Chennai's Nehru Stadium, as delirious fans--me included--watched and went into paroxysms of applause. He made those bowlers look like club cricketers that January morning 40 years ago. He was 170 not out at the end of the day, and we had never seen an opening batsman bat like that. The only innings of that era to compare with that knock was the near-hundred before lunch his friend and rival Farrokh Engineer was to play at Chepauk in 1967 against the likes of Wes Hall and Charlie Griffith.
That was not my first experience of the Kunderan effect. I was at the Tiruchendur temple with my parents and siblings in 1960, when we managed to listen to the running commentary from a transistor radio in a shop just outside the temple. Budhi was playing his second Test. He made a brutal 71 and 33 after being picked with no first class cricket experience by that genius of a chairman of selectors, Lala Amarnath. The bowlers to suffer at his hands were Alan Davidson, Ian Meckiff (of extreme pace and illegal action), Richie Benaud and Lindsay Kline. Australia crushed India in that match, but a new Indian star had emerged at the end of that game.
You may wonder at my use of Kunderan's first name. Yes, I had the pleasure of meeting him and playing against him, back in 1973-74, when he had settled in Scotland. He was such a gentle soul, with a lovely sense of humour and friendly ways, we, his very transient friends of the time, were soon on first name terms with him. It was a Moin-ud-Dowla Gold Cup match between Hidustan Breweries XI and State Bank of India. The Breweries squad read as follows, with perhaps a name or two missing: MAK Pataudi (captain), B K Kunderan, P Krishnamurti (wicket keeper) and Kailash Ghattani (all Indians), R B Kanhai and W A Bourne (West Indies), A Tennekoon, David Heyn, Duleep Mendis, Russell Hamer and Tony Opatha (all Sri Lanka) , and perhaps a spinner whose name I cannot recall now.
Budhi was playing as pure batsman and I don't think he scored too many runs. I, an unknown local boy, was originally part of the star-studded Breweries team, thanks to my friend and mentor Krishnamurti's initiative, but got shifted to the State Bank team, as I was an employee of the bank and skipper Hanumant Singh, egged on by Hyderabad's Syed Abid Ali, demanded my transfer to his team!
It was an extraordinary experience to rub shoulders with so many greats of the game, especially Rohan Kanhai and Budhi Kunderan, and actually share a dressing room with them briefly. Wonderful stories were told, and we heard that there was this bright new talent emerging from the West Indies we must watch out for--Vivian Richards. Some of the tales Budhi told about Indian cricket were hilarious, ludicrous even, but unfortunately quite unprintable.
I reproduce below parts of an interview of Kunderan that Wisden Asia carried a couple of years ago. It gives us glimpses of the man and the cricketer that he was.
Cricket's been my love. It's been my life. It's how I met my wife.
I have never been coached in my life. We learned our cricket by watching the big cricketers play in the maidans. We learned by making mistakes.
I always wanted to score as quick as possible. I always wanted to entertain the crowds. I always played as I played in the maidan.
My father didn't like me playing cricket. Without telling him, my mother altered his trousers and shirt and gave me my first whites. I scored 219 in my first time on a cricket pitch. My father saw my picture in the papers the next day.
The first Test I played, I had to borrow gloves from Naren Tamhane, who I replaced. I didn't have a proper pair of my own. All five days of that match I slept in the open in Bombay's Azad maidan, because the neighbours at home would make too much noise.
The second Test I played, I scored about 16 runs in the first over, opening the batting. The Australian commentator Michael Charlton came to me and said `Do you realise you're playing Test cricket?'
Cricket's taught me that life is a team game. To survive in life, you've got to back each other, you've got to help each other; it's a give and take.
I credit Lala Amarnath with building the bright young team of the sixties. He wasn't the type of selector who would go for only the `correct' players.
Salim Durani was a great, great cricketer. He could have been the greatest allrounder we ever produced. But he wasn't a very stable person. And a little lazy.
Pataudi, in my view, wasn't a players' captain. He was aloof and domineering. I think Jaisimha was very unlucky not to become Indian captain.
Farokh Engineer and I had a healthy rivalry. We had a similar attitude to life, to cricket, and we shared rooms on tours. But I average one point more than him. That means something to me.
I've even opened the bowling and batting in a Test match. When the captain asked me `What do you bowl?' I said `I don't know.'
Chandrasekhar was the hardest spinner I kept to, especially on wet wickets. Bedi had a beautiful action. But no one can really compare to Vinoo Mankad.
I think keepers today are more agile than in my time. Players today, when they catch the ball they react as if they've never caught a ball before.
The best part about touring is making friends. You want to remember. And you want to be remembered. I still get letters from people I've met 40-45 years ago. To me that's what it's all about.
I met my wife on the England tour of 1967. In those days we'd save our allowance of a pound a day so after two weeks we could afford a new bat.
My family is my biggest happiness. My wife is my greatest joy.
I was disgusted with the cricket politics here so I quit at 30. And when my company refused to give me leave to play league cricket in Scotland, I just moved for good. I played for Scotland at 42.
The biggest challenge of my life was establishing myself in a strange country. You land up there with nothing in your pocket and you got to start your life again with a wife and a kid.
I get the feeling this will be my last trip to India. I'm here to say goodbye to my homeland.
I'd like to be remembered as someone who enjoyed his life and his cricket. As an entertainer. As a jolly good fella. `Nice to have a friend like Budhi.' That kind of thing.
This piece first appeared in the March 2004 issue of The Wisden Asia Cricketer.
© Cricinfo
People who have not seen him cannot imagine the kind of impact he made on crowds. He batted like Rohan Kanhai, even played the falling sweepshot the West Indian invented. He once hit four successive fours off England's Dave Larter and three in the very next over from Barry Knight (I think) at Chennai's Nehru Stadium, as delirious fans--me included--watched and went into paroxysms of applause. He made those bowlers look like club cricketers that January morning 40 years ago. He was 170 not out at the end of the day, and we had never seen an opening batsman bat like that. The only innings of that era to compare with that knock was the near-hundred before lunch his friend and rival Farrokh Engineer was to play at Chepauk in 1967 against the likes of Wes Hall and Charlie Griffith.
That was not my first experience of the Kunderan effect. I was at the Tiruchendur temple with my parents and siblings in 1960, when we managed to listen to the running commentary from a transistor radio in a shop just outside the temple. Budhi was playing his second Test. He made a brutal 71 and 33 after being picked with no first class cricket experience by that genius of a chairman of selectors, Lala Amarnath. The bowlers to suffer at his hands were Alan Davidson, Ian Meckiff (of extreme pace and illegal action), Richie Benaud and Lindsay Kline. Australia crushed India in that match, but a new Indian star had emerged at the end of that game.
You may wonder at my use of Kunderan's first name. Yes, I had the pleasure of meeting him and playing against him, back in 1973-74, when he had settled in Scotland. He was such a gentle soul, with a lovely sense of humour and friendly ways, we, his very transient friends of the time, were soon on first name terms with him. It was a Moin-ud-Dowla Gold Cup match between Hidustan Breweries XI and State Bank of India. The Breweries squad read as follows, with perhaps a name or two missing: MAK Pataudi (captain), B K Kunderan, P Krishnamurti (wicket keeper) and Kailash Ghattani (all Indians), R B Kanhai and W A Bourne (West Indies), A Tennekoon, David Heyn, Duleep Mendis, Russell Hamer and Tony Opatha (all Sri Lanka) , and perhaps a spinner whose name I cannot recall now.
Budhi was playing as pure batsman and I don't think he scored too many runs. I, an unknown local boy, was originally part of the star-studded Breweries team, thanks to my friend and mentor Krishnamurti's initiative, but got shifted to the State Bank team, as I was an employee of the bank and skipper Hanumant Singh, egged on by Hyderabad's Syed Abid Ali, demanded my transfer to his team!
It was an extraordinary experience to rub shoulders with so many greats of the game, especially Rohan Kanhai and Budhi Kunderan, and actually share a dressing room with them briefly. Wonderful stories were told, and we heard that there was this bright new talent emerging from the West Indies we must watch out for--Vivian Richards. Some of the tales Budhi told about Indian cricket were hilarious, ludicrous even, but unfortunately quite unprintable.
I reproduce below parts of an interview of Kunderan that Wisden Asia carried a couple of years ago. It gives us glimpses of the man and the cricketer that he was.
Cricket's been my love. It's been my life. It's how I met my wife.
I have never been coached in my life. We learned our cricket by watching the big cricketers play in the maidans. We learned by making mistakes.
I always wanted to score as quick as possible. I always wanted to entertain the crowds. I always played as I played in the maidan.
My father didn't like me playing cricket. Without telling him, my mother altered his trousers and shirt and gave me my first whites. I scored 219 in my first time on a cricket pitch. My father saw my picture in the papers the next day.
The first Test I played, I had to borrow gloves from Naren Tamhane, who I replaced. I didn't have a proper pair of my own. All five days of that match I slept in the open in Bombay's Azad maidan, because the neighbours at home would make too much noise.
The second Test I played, I scored about 16 runs in the first over, opening the batting. The Australian commentator Michael Charlton came to me and said `Do you realise you're playing Test cricket?'
Cricket's taught me that life is a team game. To survive in life, you've got to back each other, you've got to help each other; it's a give and take.
I credit Lala Amarnath with building the bright young team of the sixties. He wasn't the type of selector who would go for only the `correct' players.
Salim Durani was a great, great cricketer. He could have been the greatest allrounder we ever produced. But he wasn't a very stable person. And a little lazy.
Pataudi, in my view, wasn't a players' captain. He was aloof and domineering. I think Jaisimha was very unlucky not to become Indian captain.
Farokh Engineer and I had a healthy rivalry. We had a similar attitude to life, to cricket, and we shared rooms on tours. But I average one point more than him. That means something to me.
I've even opened the bowling and batting in a Test match. When the captain asked me `What do you bowl?' I said `I don't know.'
Chandrasekhar was the hardest spinner I kept to, especially on wet wickets. Bedi had a beautiful action. But no one can really compare to Vinoo Mankad.
I think keepers today are more agile than in my time. Players today, when they catch the ball they react as if they've never caught a ball before.
The best part about touring is making friends. You want to remember. And you want to be remembered. I still get letters from people I've met 40-45 years ago. To me that's what it's all about.
I met my wife on the England tour of 1967. In those days we'd save our allowance of a pound a day so after two weeks we could afford a new bat.
My family is my biggest happiness. My wife is my greatest joy.
I was disgusted with the cricket politics here so I quit at 30. And when my company refused to give me leave to play league cricket in Scotland, I just moved for good. I played for Scotland at 42.
The biggest challenge of my life was establishing myself in a strange country. You land up there with nothing in your pocket and you got to start your life again with a wife and a kid.
I get the feeling this will be my last trip to India. I'm here to say goodbye to my homeland.
I'd like to be remembered as someone who enjoyed his life and his cricket. As an entertainer. As a jolly good fella. `Nice to have a friend like Budhi.' That kind of thing.
This piece first appeared in the March 2004 issue of The Wisden Asia Cricketer.
© Cricinfo
posted by Ramnarayan at 7:47 PM
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