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Friends

2012-01-31T06:59:00.001-08:00

The friends you make during childhood, boyhood and adolescence are the best, and those friendships are the longest lasting. Right? I must be a particularly lucky bloke, because friendship keeps coming my way even in my dotage. In the recent past, not only did I make a new friend, I also renewed contact with one who had been my mate back in 1960, all within a couple of days.

The moment I learnt that the Asian College of Journalism—where I teach Language and Style—was sending one batch of students to Thoothukudi as part of the Covering Deprivation project under which ACJ’s students travel to different parts of the country in some five or six batches, I eagerly volunteered to go there with the students as faculty supervisor. I had been a student of Subbiah Vidyalayam there in the year Flying Sikh Milkha Singh ran a brilliant 400m race at the Rome Olympics, with my father posted there as Agent of the Indian Overseas Bank. That is when I spent my idyll in the sun—literally—with our neighbours’ kids Subash, Nargunam and Ravi. The first two were brothers and Ravi was their cousin, and they were my and my brothers’ constant playmates.

Subash Hall Sargunaraj, for that was his full name, was a somewhat squat, solidly built athlete, around my age, which made him 13 or 14 that year. I came from a cricket family, with father, uncles, cousins and brothers as seriously interested and talented in the game as I was, most of them more gifted than I, though in the long run, I perhaps made better use of my resources.

Subash introduced me to the joys of track and field. For that golden year I learnt to long-jump, high-jump and triple-jump longer and higher than I could ever have imagined. I was still a distant second to Subash, but my distances/ heights were fast becoming respectable. Our house was within walking distance of the famous VOC College, though it was a really long walk, and we spent a vigorous couple of hours every evening on the sands bordering the college’s grounds. We followed the Rome Olympics with passionate interest, and were sorely disappointed when Milkha Singh so narrowly missed a medal at the Games.

The idyll came to a premature end when my father moved to Delhi to start a new job there and all of us went with him. I had to say goodbye to all my friends in Thoothukudi, including Ganesh, my classmate, his brothers and sisters, his parents Delhi Mama and Delhi Mami, Uday Shankar, son of sub-judge Bhavanishankar, another classmate NS Radhakrishnan, and most important of all Subash, his brother and cousins. Radhakrishnan moved to Madras soon afterwards and we remained in touch for a number of years, but I met Subash only once afterwards. It was probably in 1965 or so, when I was playing a match for Presidency College on the Marina grounds. He was in the city on a brief visit and he ran up to me fielding near the boundary and we exchanged a few words. I have yet to meet him since then, but I was able to trace him and he called me from Coimbatore where he lives when I was at Thoothukudi. It was quite easily the high point of the trip.

I also managed to locate the two houses at Chidambaranagar where we lived during our brief Thoothukudi sojourn in 1960-61, stare at Delhi Mami’s house, actually go to Subbiah Vidyalayam’s present school premises and meet the Headmaster and APC Shanmugham, Correspondent of the School—the latter a son of APC Veerabahu who had been my father’s friend—and even catch a glimpse of the old Indian Overseas Bank building on whose first floor my family spent a few days and nights before we moved to our residence at Chidambaranagar back in 1960.

All this was made possible by my new friend—Sriram, perhaps the most successful auditor in Thoothukudi, whose incredible affection and hospitality it was my privilege to enjoy during my visit to the pearl city.I have been in touch with Sriram through email over the past few years—ever since his daughter and my former student Harini told me in class that she was from Thoothukudi. Sriram has a phenomenal memory and appetite for making connections with people, digging into their family histories and bringing people together. Over the years I have known him, he has become an expert on my own family history, with probably a deeper knowledge of the various branches of my family than I have.

Even before I met Sriram—whom I telephoned on the first morning of my weeklong stay at Thoothukudi—he started sending goodies tro my hotel. On that first day, it was two large cakes, which I shared with the whole tour party. The next day, it was an enormous quantity of Tirunelveli halwa, followed on the morrow by some special Thoothukudi mixture, and then by some deilicous macaroons another pearl city special, so on and so forth. On top of all this I also had coffee and snacks at his place and lunch at a nearby mami’s mess as his guest. Thank you, Sriram for an unforgettable experience.

The Thoothukudi trip was also made memorable by a visit to my ancestral village Perunkulam, which happened to be right in our path, as we set out to study the problems faced by farmers depending on Tamraparani water for their irrigation, as a result of diversion to big industries and damage caused by effluents. My students were able to interact with Mr Ramanujam, who was once caretaker of our property, now gone, at Perunkulam and learn about his own experience as a farmer looking to the Tamraprani for water. But Perunkulam is quite another story, for another day.

Music keeps him alive

2012-01-30T03:32:00.000-08:00

“Look up the meaning of the Tyagaraja kriti Sangita gnanamu in the book there ,” the frail old man bundled up and blanketed in the chair in front of me said, a minute after I entered his bedroom in his nephew’s house inside Sankarnagar, Tirunelveli, when my friend Sampathkumar and I visited him earlier this month.

Near-nonagenarian and confirmed bachelor Tanjavur Sankara Iyer may be a very sick man today, needing the constant care of a loving nephew, his wife and his daughter, but his musical creativity and devotion to past masters including the Trinity remain undimmed. True to the words of Tyagaraja, he still pursues sangita gnanamu with fervent devotion, still composes his own bhava-rich compositions and still sings and teaches everyday. The object of his love and affection and guru kripa is his 12-year-old granddaughter Aparna, on whom he pins his hopes for the future.

For those unfamiliar with Sankara Iyer’s contribution to Carnatic music, I reproduce below a brief extract from a Sruti (issue 195) profile of the vidwan by Lakshmi Devnath:

Sankara Iyer is a highly respected vaggeyakara. His compositions have been a source of delight both to the vidwans and to the general public, but he himself speaks with great modesty about his works. “I should not be bracketed with the Trinity or other famous composers of the past. But I can say my compositions are rooted in sampradaya, as theirs are, while they cater at the same time to evolving needs without being light. Shall I say, my compositions are a bridge between the old and the new!”

Anyone who has listened to Sankara Iyer’s vocal concerts, lec-dems and his own compositions, will readily agree that he is indeed a bridge between the old and the new.

My planned interview with Sankara Iyer never took place, because, thrilled to meet visitors from Chennai, he was keen to demonstrate his granddaughter’s singing, and more important her ability to absorb his lessons on sruti suddham, raga lakshana, and clear enunciation of sahitya. He stressed the vital importance of the last of these aspects of music, but was quick point out that on his list of priorities, the raga overrode the Bhakti emanating from understanding of the lyrics. “The lyrics could be about Rama, Krishna or Karuppannasami; it’s the musicality that matters.”

We were fortunate to catch glimpses of his highly evolved sense of aesthetics through his profound enjoyment of the beauty of both verse and tune, whether by the Trinity, Sankara Iyer himself or Kalki Krishnamurti, whose Poonkuil koovum pooncholaiyil orunal, he taught Aparna with obvious relish. “What a wonderful poet!” he exclaimed.

When I reminded him about a T Viswanathan concert he had attended more than a decade ago at my Chennai home after which I dropped him home, he instantly recalled, “Muktha was in the audience, wasn’t she, and I remember she joined Viswa in a song whose words he momentarily forgot. In the car, you asked me if I would perform at your residence. What happened to that offer?”

That was indeed a doosra from the veteran. I had no answer to that.

Networked society

2012-01-19T22:10:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I received a phone call from Hyderabad on my mobile phone while having lunch at Maris, next to our office. Hari Mohan Paruvu, former Hyderabad medium pacer and author of a couple of bestsellers, wanted to know why I hadn’t replied to his email of a couple of weeks ago. Though I am rarely guilty of such bad manners, I had not even acknowledged receipt of his message. It was all the more unpardonable, as he had wanted some help from me.

This is what happened. I was travelling on vacation and had deliberately left my laptop behind. Though I did check my email on my phone, I forgot all about Hari’s missive at the end of the vacation. In the days before email, Hari’s handwritten letter would have awaited my arrival back home and I would have probably replied to him at once.

Things have changed, haven’t they? Everyone is so much more accessible, through email and text messages, conference calls and googlegroups. But do we really communicate? Do we remember birthdays, unless Facebook reminds us? Can we cut through the clutter and attend to the really important letters?

When I was a college student, I tried to write letters full of descriptions and anecdotes, humour and human interest. This was a valuable legacy I inherited from a family whose elders prided themselves on writing regularly to their loved ones and investing their letters with warmth and love.

One of the nicest compliments I received came from a friend, then a student at JIPMER, Pondicherry. He said that not only he, but also all his friends in the hostel eagerly awaited my weekly letter full of stories real and apocryphal. This good habit stayed with most of us before the communication revolution towards the end of the last millennium. I lived in Hyderabad and my brother in New Jersey, but my parents at Madras could count on both of us writing them every week.

9 December 1973. I was a 26-year-old bank officer, but still did not have a telephone at home. Suffering an acute toothache all night, I waited impatiently for dawn to break so that I could go out and find a drugstore to buy a painkiller. As I tried to start my Rajdoot motorcycle, the machine decided to punish me for not looking after it well and gave me a violent “kickback”-for want of a better word—opening up the back of my left foot.

Later in the morning, after a quick visit to the dentist, I rode to the Lal Bahadur Stadium where my team, State Bank of India, was playing a match, to inform my captain (he too did not have a telephone connection) that, with my already swelling foot, I could not play that day. Unfortunately, we had only eleven men at the ground, and I was forced to take part in the match. In excruciating pain all the while, I fielded near the boundary (you would have gathered by now that I was not the captain’s pet) all day long.

When I returned to the dressing room, it took me a good half hour of effort to take off my left boot, because my foot had swollen so much. I somehow managed to ride my bike back home, with changing gears proving a most painful exercise. I was furious with the game of cricket, Rajdoot, traffic police, dentists—in fact all of humanity, as I dismounted my steed.

“Congratulations,” the voice of my 2nd floor flat’s neighbour boomed, much to my annoyance. Even as I was mulling a caustic retort like “Thank you for enjoying my misery,” came his next words: “You are the proud father of a little daughter. We opened a telegram meant for you.” I hobbled upstairs, unable to contain my excitement, to a hero’s welcome at my neighbour’s, with his wife and kids greeting me with a delicious cup of payasam that Mami had made on receiving the good news from my in-laws at Bombay, where my wife had gone to deliver our first child.

For at least a couple of decades more, telecommunication continued to be grossly inefficient and inaccessible to most Indian citizens. I had to wait for nearly ten years after applying for a residential telephone connection. I remember the ridiculous scene of two different gangs of Indian Telephones employees descending on my seaside home in the distant suburbs one afternoon in the mid-1990s to install two different phones. One was my humble NOYT (Non Own Your Telephone!) and the other an OYT connection my employer had granted me. This seachange had come about largely as a result of the efforts of the dynamic Sam Pitroda who revolutionized Indian telecommunication.

Sorry, I must leave this story here. I have an urgent message from my next-door neighbour—who lives alone and has a chronic medical condition—asking me if I can get her a hard-to-find drug ASAP. I messaged her back a promise to look for it immediately. At the pharmacy, I will be stumped when the druggist asks me for the patient’s name. I have to text a message asking for her name, because I have it saved on my phone as “Neighbour1.”

Back to basics

2007-10-31T05:17:00.000-07:00

Cricinfo

July 25, 2001

The Ranji Trophy has undergone numerous changes since its birth way back in 1934, when it was a knockout tournament all the way with the champion of each zone taking on the other zone winners. There were only 15 teams in the fray in the first season. In the South Zone for instance, there were only three teams, Madras, Hyderabad and Mysore. Teams were added year after year and now we have 27 teams in the competition. The league-cum-knockout format was introduced in 1957-1958 and it continues to this day, except for the brief superleague interlude.

Until 1970-1971, only one team from each zone qualified for the knockout phase. During my playing days, two teams did, and this still ensured a reasonable level of competitiveness, because each zone had at least two good teams. We still faced some very easy opposition in our own zones, though the pursuit of bonus points made for some exciting cricket against the weaker teams. We had to be at our best, however, against the stronger teams to have any chance of appearing on the national scene. For individual players too, this was important, as there was no other way we could catch the selectors' eyes.

I believe the championship was really devalued when the three-team formula was introduced. Even in a zone where there are three quality teams, the intensity of the contests gets reduced considerably when a team knows it had done well enough to enter the second phase of the tournament.

For decades now, concerned cricket observers have been calling for some real reform in the structure of domestic cricket, so that India will stand a better chance of doing well on the world stage. There finally seems to be a very serious intention on the part of the BCCI to pay some attention to this problem. We hear talk of a two-tier system being introduced, with promotions and relegations between the two divisions. The idea is intrinsically sound in that it will make for more competitive cricket in both the first and second divisions, as the teams should be evenly matched. However, for the competition to be really meaningful in the higher division, all Test players must take part.

But aren't we creating a class system in Indian cricket, which may deny opportunities to deserving players, because they belong to teams in the second division? And how do we prevent abuses of the system to engineer promotions and relegations? These are questions some senior cricketers raised when I sought their views.

My own view is that every step should be taken to make domestic cricket more competitive and raise standards. A two-tier system may be an inevitable outcome of such an attempt, but more important is the need to prepare sporting wickets all over India and inculcate proper cricket values in our youngsters. Unless greater attention is paid by our coaches to basics like good running between the wickets, improving fitness and fielding levels, batting technique that can stand up to international conditions, and positive thinking in the team's cause, our domestic cricket is unlikely to throw up world class players.

If you can't get them, beam them!

2007-10-31T05:07:00.000-07:00

Sunday Express
January 27 2006

Curse, crib, chatter, chuck, claim for everything — that seems to be the order of the day in international cricket. Cricket, that game of infinite complexity, heroism and high drama, power, precision and artistry can slide into ugly gamesmanship, downright cheating and abysmal behaviour if the protagonists forget the unwritten tenets of the game. When misplaced machismo becomes more important than achieving excellence on the field, it degenerates into a crude circus. The Australians, for instance, set new records in aggressive appealing in their recent Test series against South Africa. The South Africans, needless to say, retaliated in kind.

It was hardly a couple of years ago that Australia made a conscious effort, under new captain Ricky Ponting, to improve their image. The Ashes defeat suffered at the hands of a rejuvenated England changed all that pretty rapidly, even if the series itself was fought in the best of spirits — until Ponting stormed off after being brilliantly run out by a substitute fielder. He made a hue and cry about England seeking undue advantage by resting tired bowlers and replacing them with athletic substitute fielders. Former Australia captain Bobby Simpson describes his compatriots' on-field behaviour thus: ‘‘It’s exactly how toddlers behave in an effort to tide over their shortcomings.’’

There are more recent examples closer to home. In the Lahore Test, Pakistani pace bowler Rana Naved sent down three bouncers in a row, and Virender Sehwag followed each like a mesmerised victim of the Pied Piper of Hamelin. Third time round, wicketkeeper Kamran Akmal went up in celebration, the bowler died a mini war-dance, and the rest of the Pakistani fielders joined in the frenzied celebrations.

At that time, a Rip van Winkle who slept through the first four days of the Lahore Test might be forgiven for imagining that Sehwag had made next to nothing or that India was off to a poor start. But a look at the scoreboard would have had him rubbing his eyes in disbelief. It read: India 410 for 1, Sehwag out for 254, Rahul Dravid 128 not out. This is in reply to an imposing total of 679 for 7 declared, no doubt, but the Pakistani bowlers had been put to the sword, subjugated in a manner unknown to them, not even when Sehwag made 309 on the last Indian tour of Pakistan.

Sehwag toyed with Pakistani pace as though he were playing tennis-ball cricket in a gali back in his hometown Najafgarh. The Rawalpindi Express hardly posed any danger to him, while Mohammad Sami and Rana Naved were made to look rather silly ball after ball, as three boundaries per over became a constant refrain through his rollicking innings. Sami and Akhtar looked ludicrous when they tried to unsettle Dravid and Sehwag with some crude aggro, the Indian skipper choosing to ignore their taunts with disdain and his partner imperiously waving away the offending pacemen.

And what of the hype that preceded the ongoing series? ‘‘Beware of Shoaib’’, screamed the headlines. ‘‘He has this deadly new slower one that rang the death knell for England’s Ashes-conquering batsmen.’’ ‘‘Pakistan are favourites at this time of the year,’’ warned the pundits. ‘‘The ball will dart around and the wickets will be fast and bouncy.’’ Danish Kaneria was a potent new threat, according to others, and he would prove a handful for the Indians. Commentator after commentator pontificated that genuine pace could work wonders where seam and swing might struggle. ‘‘Shoaib’s explosive pace will be the difference between the two teams,’’ they confidently predicted.

And what happened? Shoaib, unfortunately, has at the time of writing taken exactly one wicket in the series, at a cost of nearly 200 runs. The wickets have been sleeping beauties, and the Indian batsmen have made merry, undaunted by the hype surrounding Shoaib and Co., and the huge totals Pakistan have posted.

Almost the first thing Bob Woolmer did on arrival as Pakistan’s coach a little over a year ago was to take steps to tame Shoaib. Soon he had the spoilt brat transformed into a disciplined soldier who, in a couple of bursts of fast bowling, turned the England-Pakistan series on its head. The ICC’s new ruling on chucking made it easy for Shoaib, whose action is now legally above board, thanks to what Pakistani cricket writer Osman Samiuddin calls an inherent kink in his body, as in the case of Sri Lanka’s Muttiah Muralitharan. Samiuddin, in fact, demands to know why Shabbir Ahmed, another Pakistani quick now banished for a year for the third time by the ICC for chucking, should be penalised for not suffering from such an inherent kink in his body.

Shoaib can offer no such kinky explanation for his tendency to let loose beamers at innocent batsmen. Ask Ian Bell of England, Jacques Kallis of South Africa or Ramesh Powar of India how it feels to have a ball right directed at their heads. The answer can be no different from that of one of Brett Lee’s victims. At least the Australian has apologised every time he has come close to decapitating a batsman. New Zealand coach John Bracewell said, ‘‘It’s very hard to pick Brett Lee’s bouncer. It’s even harder to pick his beamer. It’s the fourth time this season (after Lee nearly guillotined Brendon McCullum) that he has beamed one of our guys, and he’s been apologetic every time he has done it. That’s a lot of apologies.’’

Shoaib has no such qualms. After hitting Bell, thankfully not on the head with a beamer, he went down to the crease and calmly inspected the damage, not showing the slightest remorse. The Pakistanis claimed it was a slower delivery that slipped out of his hand, and the media lapped it up, conveniently forgetting earlier occasions when the ball had ‘‘slipped out’’ of Akhtar’s hand — just as it did out of Waqar Younis’ during the 2003 World Cup, whizzing past Andrew Symonds’ head.

Under the present law, what we used to call chucking is legal — well, it is no longer chucking by the ICC’s definition, as long as the bowler has a congenital or acquired physical defect, or flexes his arm below an ICC-approved angle. Firing head-high full tosses is legitimate too, as long as you can imply to the world that the ball slipped out of your hand.

Of course, it is also perfectly acceptable for you to question a batsman’s parentage, insult his ancestors or girlfriend or wife, run down the wicket and glare at him, curse, point the way to the pavilion — if you can manage to do all that unnoticed by the umpire, TV cameras or the match referee, or if you happen to be Australian, to go by reports from their rivals on the field. To celebrate a dismissal in a manner that would shame a primitive reveller at a human sacrifice seems to be the birthright of every bowler, even if the scoreboard reads 500 for 3. Holding a half-volley and appealing for a catch is perfectly normal; just remember to add a touch of drama by running up to the batsman and waggle your finger at him. Demand that he walk on the strength of your word, as Michael Slater did to Dravid, and follow up that exhibition of arrogance with histrionics directed at the umpire. Make a desperate dive at the boundary line and wait for the third umpire to adjudicate on whether it was a boundary or not, even if you know for sure it is one.

Bad behaviour can be curbed by statute. Better still, selection committees the world over can pick men of character to be captains and role models. Rahul Dravid and Inzamam-ul Haq are examples of nice guys who don’t finish last. They set great personal examples, both in terms of their conduct on and off the field and the consistent excellence of their performance. They are also firm with their men, without crushing individuality. Michael Vaughan is another excellent man manager who has inspired his team to great eights of performance as well as sportsmanship.

Such traits can be infectious and spread around the cricket world. But the greater menace is the tampering with rules that has sought to change the very nature of the game. If dubious bowling actions are allowed to flourish and dangerous offences such as the bowling of head-high full tosses at velocities approaching 150 kph are overlooked, cricket will undergo a transformation in its fundamental nature. It will no longer be the spectator sport that generations of lovers of the game have enjoyed watching. It will became a gladiatorial contest, bereft of finesse and beauty. It just won’t be cricket any more.

The one bright spot in the ongoing chucking controversy is that bowlers with suspect actions, who have been handed reprieves under the new ICC rule, seem to be becoming less and less successful as batsmen learn to cope better with their bowling or as age catches up with the bowlers. Captains around the world tend to support such bowlers as long as they tend to win matches with them, but not a moment longer.

You don’t have to be a statistical expert, then, to come to the conclusion that the bowlers under the microscope over the last few seasons are no longer the match-winners they used to be. Maybe this is the time for all parties concerned to come together to review the whole situation without nationalistic fervour clouding the issue and come up with a definition of throwing that makes sense.

The present law does not. Beamers, intentional or otherwise, have no place in the game. Bowlers should be mercilessly outlawed if they indulge in that vile practice. And as for bad behaviour on the field, it will die a natural death if the cricket-lovers of a country come down heavily on their heroes, as Australian spectators have in the recent past. They have made their protest vocal and strong, and the administration is finally sitting up and taking notice.

The dark prince

2007-10-30T10:31:00.000-07:00

Wisden Asia Cricket

July 11, 2003

Batting for the Empire by Mario Rodrigues systematically demolishes the once-held notion that the celebrated cricketer Ranji was the finest ambassador India ever sent to England. With its striking cover photograph of Ranji at the batting crease, the book is sure to attract even the casual cricket lover, but it is meant really for an altogether more cerebral readership. It is a painstaking attempt to de-mythify Ranji the man, and a near-scholarly work.

Hardcore cricket followers and cricketers with an interest in the history of the game, if such a breed still exists, are rarely swayed by the larger-than-life personae the media creates around cricketers. To them the appeal of Ranji would be based on his feats on the field - that he played for England, scored a hundred on Test debut and captured the imagination of critics and fans alike with unequalled artistry at a time when his countrymen were a subject race and treated as such. Their respect for Ranji the player may not need the buttress of admiration for Ranji the prince, but even they will find disillusionment in the image of their hero - as despot, buffoon, schemer, spendthrift, unreliable borrower, and despicable toady of the British empire - that emerges from Rodrigues's hard-hitting biography.

Another category of readers likely to find the book illuminating is followers of recent Indian history, especially scholars with a deep interest in the affairs of the princely states, in particular the politics of the western Indian region of Kathiawar.

It is the sophisticated reader of recent vintage, owing much of his appreciation of cricket and cricketers to an increasing body of work by experts in fields other than cricket, who may actually read it from cover to cover, for readable the book surely is. This elite readership, familiar with the writings on Ranji of such reputed authors as Simon Wilde, Mihir Bose, Ashis Nandy and Ramachandra Guha, already knows that the 'Black Prince' was one of the greatest players the game has known but not quite the white knight that his hagiographers, English and Indian, make him out to be. Rodrigues's work offers them a wealth of information that will strengthen such an impression.

Rodrigues has succeeded in revealing Ranji in his true colours in his role of Jamsaheb of Nawanagar. It is obvious his research has been extensive, ranging from purely propagandist literature - both for and against - including the vernacular press and official mouthpieces of the state, to the more objective writings of cricket writers and historians. While we can hardly fault the systematic way he has gone about his job, we do get the impression sometimes that he takes a spade to a soufflé, piling on the evidence long after the jury have decided to return a verdict of guilty. And, while his acceptance of adverse criticism of the Jamsaheb by his detractors is generally unquestioning, he displays a constant streak of skepticism towards any praise of him or statements made by Ranji himself that show him in a good light.

Ranji's unswerving loyalty to the Empire, his total faith in hereditary rule and suspicion of democracy, his opposition to the freedom movement led by fellow Kathiawari MK Gandhi, his desperate attempts to perpetuate the Indian princely order, his claim that he and his nephew Duleepsinhji were "English cricketers", his refusal to play an active role in Indian cricket - all these and worse are pitilessly exposed in the book.

The last chapter includes this defence by Mihir Bose: "So if Ranji did not do much for Indian cricket it is because he did not think of India as a cricketing nation. He did not think of India as a cricketing nation because he could not conceive of India as a political nation. India as a political nation was born fourteen years after Ranji died and, had he lived, as his successors' actions show, he would have undoubtedly opposed it ... Had Nawanagar managed to get together a Test team then, I am sure, Ranji would have advised Duleep to play for Nawanagar. For inasmuch as a king is ever a nationalist, Ranji was a Nawanagar nationalist. He was, perhaps, a Rajput nationalist, if that term can have any meaning ..."

Rodrigues does not endorse this view. He refuses to give Ranji the benefit of doubt. His biography is an indictment that allows for few grey areas or bright spots, while painting a vivid picture of a dark prince.

India's non-playing captain

2007-10-30T09:28:00.000-07:00

Cricinfo

February 22, 2002

Sourav Ganguly is a puzzled man. He does not know why India loses the crucial matches. By his own generous admission, he would have won more such matches for India if he knew the problem. Our satellite channels faithfully telecast the Indian captain's wonderfully humble attempt at self-analysis, as if to acquit him of all charges of repeated failures as captain and player.

To be fair to him, though, the Prince of Calcutta was a little more forthcoming than that. He wondered aloud if inexperience was the root cause of India's continued inability to win matches, even against Nasser Hussain's scratch combination - though they were made to look like world beaters in India - under home conditions, with the help of incompetent umpires whose mistakes came in handy when the hosts were down. He was a trifle disappointed - and he said this with the appropriate expression of condescending indulgence towards the newcomers in the Indian eleven - that, after he had brought the side to the threshold of victory in the final one-dayer, the rest of the batting simply folded.

There was, thus, no hint of regret that he had thrown his wicket away playing a loose, even arrogant lap-shot instead of staying at the wicket until victory was achieved. How smug and selfsatisfied he looked, absolving himself of all guilt while putting his younger teammates on the mat! The selectors too seem equally smug.

Ganguly had not done badly, actually, according to chairman of selectors Chandu Borde. After all, he had won the Test series and drawn the one-day rubber against England. The captain's almost total capitulation as a batsman, especially in Test match cricket, does not seem to have worried him unduly.

The selectors must be pretty sanguine that the forthcoming Zimbabwe series will not tax the Indian players' technique or temperament unduly. One neat series win later, all will be forgotten and forgiven in the euphoria of victory, they seem to be reassuring themselves, to offer the least offensive explanation of their penchant for the status quo.

Not too long ago, there was some much-publicised rhetoric by the BCCI president declaring that those in charge of Indian cricket would be held accountable for the results they produced. In hindsight, it seems to have been no more than an attempt to get rid of John Wright and Andrew Leipus, the unwanted 'foreigners.' The captain, in contrast, seems to be immune from any such requirement. After all, was it not suggested by many, just prior to his sensational return to Test cricket in 1996, that Ganguly was Jagmohan Dalmiya's boy?

But Indian cricket has a way of making fools of everyone. For all we know, an Andy-Flower-inspired Zimbabwe could still spring a surprise or two, and by the end of the series, the selectors could face pretty much the same situation as they face today. And once again, they will decide to let sleeping dogs lie and play it safe with the selection of the captain and the team for the West Indies tour.

A diet of fish

2007-10-30T08:38:00.000-07:00

Cricinfo

October 23, 2001

Bertie Wooster thought his manservant Jeeves owed his brains to a regular diet of fish. But the super-valet also possessed a surfeit of gall, and I always believed that eating fish had something to do with that aspect of Jeeves' personality as well. Proof, if I needed any, of the merit of this theory was recently provided by the turn of events in Indian skipper Sourav Ganguly's cricket career.

The Prince of Calcutta is perhaps the last man to win a popularity contest, especially if the electorate were to consist of rival cricketers or the foreign media. (Of course, he also enjoys a special relationship with match referees, just in case you thought I had overlooked that minor detail.) His poor personal form against Australia did nothing to dilute his brash rejoinders to probing media men, who were seemingly bent upon showing him in a poor light. But that was probably helped by the fact that, under him, India won the series in one of the greatest fightbacks in recent Test history.

In Sri Lanka, Ganguly seemed to have been overwhelmed by events. As the Indians floundered and struggled in the absence of key players, the captain appeared to be deflated by adversity. His head dropped, and he had begun to mumble his replies towards the end of the tour.

But what followed soon after was sensational. The captain went home after the series, where I am sure he waded into home cooking; home being Kolkata, his diet was no doubt dominated by different varieties of fish, a Bengali's idea of a vegetarian diet. Well-rested, and buoyed up by the love of his near and dear, the skipper arrived in South Africa and straightaway demonstrated, by his utterances to the media, that he was back to being his best, cocky, confident self. The South Africans are not a hotshot team, he announced. He also hinted that India's spinners might pose a problem or two to the Proteas.

Ganguly did not stop with mere talk. He carried his arrogance into the matches. He belted the South African speedsters as if they were club bowlers rolling their arms over at Kalighat or Mohun Bagan. He was particularly severe on his rival number; rarely has Shaun Pollock been treated with such contempt. The numerous sixes that he has already taken off the South African captain's bowling are a clear message to him and his cronies, past and present, Pat Symcox and Allan Donald, who have been exhibiting clear symptoms of foot-in-mouth syndrome in their columns. Unfortunately, Ganguly's thrilling counterattack has been more than nullified by the poor performance of his team.

I was asked to compare Ganguly the captain with some past greats like former Hyderabad captain ML Jaisimha and his buddy MAK Pataudi. They were both remarkable captains, with a fund of cricket knowledge, and both were capable of acute strategic thinking. They were undoubtedly in the forefront of the 60s movement to rid Indian cricket of its colonial hangover, and they showed their fellows that India could actually defeat its former rulers on a cricket field.

Ganguly may still have some way to go before he can acquire the finesse and technical acumen of some of these past masters, but for sheer audacity and irreverence, he is streets ahead of any of his predecessors. Even skeptics like this writer, who came to scoff, cannot help but admire his refusal to be cowed down by opponents and critics alike.

Cricket, lovely cricket

2007-10-28T05:07:00.000-07:00

Thursday June 1 2006 18:09 IST
Sunday Express

Proudly wearing the rosette
of my skin I strut into Sabina,
England boycotting excitement
Bravely, something badly amiss.

Cricket. Not the game they play
at Lord’s, the crowd (whoever saw
a crowd at a cricket match?)
are caged, vociferous partisans
quick to take offence. England
sixtyeight for none at lunch.
‘What sort o battin dat man?
Dem caan play cricket again, praps
Dem should a borrow Lawrence Rowe!’

This poem, At Sabina Park by Stewart Brown, poet and professor of Caribbean studies, is a sample of the joyous impact of West Indian cricket on its crazy, partisan spectators. But long before Geoff Boycott and Dennis Amiss had arrived on the scene, to appear wooden by unfair comparison with the gifted Lawrence Rowe, thousands of fans had been hooked. By the three Ws, Sonny Ramadhin and Alf Valentine, Garry Sobers and Rohan Kanhai, Denis Atkinson and Clairmonte Depeiza (if only for one heroic stand that went into the record books), Wes Hall and Lance Gibbs.

The first time I followed a Test series involving the West Indies was when Australia toured in 1954-55; Clyde Walcott lit up Sabina Park with two outstanding innings of 155 and 110, yet Australia had won by an innings and 82 runs. That was the fifth and final Test, and Walcott had made 110 and 39 in the first Test too, on that same, lightning-fast pitch, against the pace of Ray Lindwall and Keith Miller and the wrist spin of Richie Benaud. Incredibly, Walcott also scored a century in each innings at Port of Spain (with Everton Weekes contributing 139 and 67 not out), amassing 827 for an average of 82.7 in the series. Still West Indies lost 0-3. It was at Bridgetown, Barbados, that Atkinson and Depeiza put on 347 for the seventh wicket to force a draw.

A young left-hander named Garfield St. Aubrun Sobers also made 35 not out and 64 in the final Test, compiling in all just 231 runs and taking six wickets in the series, in what was a modest beginning to the greatest all round Test career of all time. Notice of his greatness had already been served, the very first time he batted against the Aussies. Benaud was to recall years later that, fielding at gully, he had to run for cover, seeking protection from Sobers’s fierce square cuts!

Those were still the Dark Ages of West Indies cricket: no dark-skinned player could captain the team. That had to wait until Frank Worrell was handed the reins for the 1960-61 tour of Australia, a historic series that brought the crowds back to Test grounds, after controversies and dull county cricket had driven them to other sports.

Worrell and Benaud were the rival captains involved in what was to be a major diplomatic victory for cricket — for the spirit in which the series was played, but also in the game’s first tied Test at Brisbane. The West Indies were gallant losers of a closely fought series and might have fared better but for a contentious umpiring decision that cost them a victory in the fourth Test. Australia scraped through with a two-wicket margin in the final Test, to emerge as a 2-1 winner of the series.

Two grand innings of 125 and 168 confirmed Sobers’ burgeoning stature as the world’s leading batting talent, after his world record 365 against Pakistan, but he was yet to achieve the phenomenal success that prompted John Arlott to declare: ‘‘No aspect of his cricket has been more amazing than his capacity for combining quality and quantity of effort; it is as if a single creature had both the class of a Derby-winner and the stamina of a mule.’’

Sobers was also still some distance from burying the ghosts that haunted him after his dear friend and co-cricketing star Collie Smith had died in a car accident with Sobers at the wheel. In his autobiography, Sobers confessed that after that shocking loss, he steeled himself to bat and bowl and field for both of them. How the cricketing nations of the world had to pay for that resolve!

Worrell was the great binding force, the calming influence on a team of brilliant but mercurial individuals. He took Sobers under his wing and groomed him to be his successor. By the time Sobers led his team to India in 1966-67, he had been unofficially crowned the greatest all rounder, and we in India were treated to some wonderful samples of his genius. Hall was a fading colossus, and so was Charlie Griffith, but Gibbs was still a force to reckon with. Basil Butcher, Seymour Nurse, David Holford — Sobers’s cousin and partner in a couple of historic rearguard actions — Clive Lloyd and Jackie Hendricks made up a powerful batting combination.

Another crowd favourite in India as elsewhere was Rohan Babulal Kanhai, the man who matched Sobers knock for knock in daring strokeplay that disguised technical excellence of the highest order. There was a keen rivalry between these two heroes of West Indian cricket, but it was tempered by a chivalry natural to both of them. It helped them to come together to make common cause on several occasions. If Sobers’ run as captain came to an unhappy end after his sporting declaration resulted in a series defeat against a touring England in 1972, Kanhai’s reign began with a series defeat to Australia despite great personal form, aided by the brilliance of Lloyd. One Garfield Sobers was sorely missed, though, as he was out of the series, mysteriously injured.

Sobers and Kanhai combined briefly to post huge personal and team totals in the 1973 English summer, but the new generation was already upon them, with the elegant left-hander Alvin Kallicharran playing several delightful innings and the ursine Lloyd launching murderous assaults against the world’s best attacks.

The Indian tour of 1974-75 was Lloyd’s first as captain. A batting sensation answering to the name of Isaac Vivian Alexander Richards was unveiled on this tour, and Lloyd himself gave evidence of his enormous power in the final Test at Bombay. The West Indies won 3-2, but not before India put up a hard fight, levelling the series 2-2 at Madras. None noticed yet, but the greatest battery of fast bowlers in the history of cricket was in the process of being assembled. It took an abject whitewash in Australia — after Roy Fredericks played a pulsating innings in the Perth Test, the only one West Indies won on that tour — and a magnificent win by India chasing 404 at Port of Spain the following season, for Lloyd to marshal his fast bowling resources into a fearsome quartet, an unprecedented combination in Test cricket.

It is precisely the manner in which the fearsome foursome was developed that took away for me the lustre and gallantry of West Indies cricket. Michael Holding, Wayne Daniel, Bernard Julien and Vanburn Holder unleashed a barrage of short balls on the hapless, helmetless Indian batsmen, often bowling round the wicket on a ridge around leg stump and traumatising them with viciously intimidating bowling. The tactics showed Lloyd in a poor light, desperate to maintain a winning record.

It was also the start of the total dominance of world cricket for over a decade by Lloyd and his men, the great fast bowlers backed by the greatest batsman in the world, Richards, and the captain himself, still as destructive as ever. Gordon Greenidge, Desmond Haynes, Kallicharran, Larry Gomes, Derryck Murray, Jeffrey Dujon, Malcolm Marshall, Andy Roberts, Joel Garner, Colin Croft and Keith Boyce were some of the names to etch themselves permanently in the memory of the West Indies cricket fan.

An ugly side of West Indies cricket was revealed, at least in the eyes of ‘‘the victim’’, when Kerry Packer’s coup d’etat in 1977 resulted in all the leading West Indies players joining his ‘‘circus’’. Kallicharran refused to toe the Packer line and was rewarded with the West Indies captaincy, but he was unceremoniously axed when Lloyd and the other Packerites returned to official cricket. Kallicharran cried foul and even claimed that his Indian origin worked against him in the inter-island politics of West Indies cricket. Similar murmurs had been made by the other great East Indian icon, Kanhai, in his playing days. During the Richards era, the murmurs were louder and clearer, with the captain charged with racial prejudice in the team composition he favoured.

This was a far cry from the early days of West Indies cricket, when it was a disadvantage to be black, as in West Indian society. According to C L R James, for the dark man, ‘‘the surest sign of…having arrived is the fact that he keeps company with people lighter in complexion than himself.’’

To me, the golden period of West Indies cricket was not the era of Lloyd, Richards and the four-man pace battery, but the journey that began with Worrell’s historic tour of Australia with his gallant men, and ended with Kanhai and Sobers (almost) bowing out in style with individual scores of 157 and 150 not out in the Lord’s Test of 1973. (The next series was their last together — at home — an anticlimax for both.)

It was a time when the team was united as never before, and it set the pattern for Lloyd and Co. to follow. Under Lloyd too, West Indies played their cricket fair most of the time, though harder than any team before or after. The blot on their record of sportsmanship was provided by that ugly Test at Jamaica against India and the tantrums of their bowlers in the face of poor umpiring in New Zealand.

Richards ranks with the best batsmen of all time, as does Brian Lara; while Richards was part of a champion side, Lara belonged to a struggling, loose conglomeration of no-hopers most of the time. As captain, neither has succeeded in inspiring the West Indies to great heights. That honour must go solely to Worrell, Sobers and Lloyd.

And on it goes, the wicket slow
as the batting and the crowd restless.
‘Eh white bwoy, ow you brudders dem
does sen we sleep so? Me a pay monies
fe watch dis foolishness? Cho?’

So I try to explain it in my Hampshire
drawl about conditions in Kent,
about sticky wickets and muggy days
and the monsoon season in Manchester
but fail to convince even myself.

Will chucking become legal...?

2007-10-28T03:38:00.000-07:00

First published Cricinfo

August 22, 2001

It was in the sixties that the chucking controversy first erupted in Test cricket. Not many tears were shed when Ian Meckiff and Gordon Rorke of Australia were dubbed chuckers by players and press alike. What happened to Geoff Griffin of South Africa was somehow more tragic, because the young fast bowler's career was cut short by umpire Sid Buller calling him repeatedly in a Test at Lord's in 1960, as also the exhibition match that followed it. The tragedy could have been avoided if the fast bowler had been called early in domestic cricket and given a chance to correct his action before he came to international cricket.

Contrast the no-nonsense attitude of those times towards bowlers with illegal or doubtful actions with the softer approach today, especially on the parts of the cricket boards to which the bowlers in question owe allegiance. Umpires who call them are subjected to the minutest scrutiny, even closer than the bowler's action is. A big hue and cry is raised by both officialdom and fans of the bowler's country and the matter is turned into an international issue. All kinds of explanations are offered for the optical illusion that millions of viewers simultaneously experience, from the bowler being dropped on his head as an infant to speculation as to whether or not every bowler that was ever born chucked the odd one, so what's wrong with a few throws once in a while?

The topic of chucking is an intriguing and entertaining one, the subject of many a lively discussion among cricketers, cricket-fanciers and that strange animal, the cricket writer, to whom a bent arm is worth hundreds of words of undying prose. At just such a debate the other day, some of us wondered aloud whether chucking would be legalized soon. All kinds of new scenarios were visualized. A new type of dismissal was envisaged: Batsman A run out by Bowler B. Another speculation was the possibility, mooted by the baby of the team of journalists in conversation, of new legislation that would permit one throw per over.

All this reminded me of a simple stratagem through which captains of yore protected their precious strike bowlers (read chuckers) from umpires hellbent on calling them. They simply brought the called bowler on from the other end in the hope the umpire there would take a lighter view of the offending action. And they often got the desired result. Even if the bowler never again played another first class game, he had by then won at least one match for you.

I was also reminded of a one-man crusade against chucking launched in the seventies. Indian umpire Piloo Reporter made it his mission to eradicate chucking from Indian domestic cricket. He called quite a few bowlers bowlers everyone knew were chuckers but none dared to call - in the Ranji Trophy matches in which he stood. And the trick of changing the bowler's end did not work with him, because he was perfectly capable of no balling a bowler from his position as straight umpire, if the square leg umpire chose to ignore an illegal action. While I can promise you none questioned Reporter's integrity for taking that courageous step, I am not sure he would get off so lightly today.

Star-Crossed: An Excerpt

2007-07-21T17:36:00.000-07:00

Star-Crossed
A novel by Ashokamitran
Translated by V Ramnarayan
An excerpt

Price: Rs. 150
ISBN: 978-81-8368-283-1
To buy online, click below
http://indiaplaza.in/search.aspx?catname=Books&srchkey=title&srchVal=star-crossed

One of the vehicles returning to Chennai from the Mamandur outdoor shooting stint came to a halt outside the Army recruitment office at Teynampet. Sampat got down and said to the driver,

‘You carry on, I’ll be at the office in just ten minutes.’ ‘The assistant director is saying something to you,’ Munuswami alerted him.

‘Yes sir?’ Sampat asked Rajgopal.

‘Do you know we are going straight to the studio?’ Rajgopal spat the words out, gnashing his teeth.

‘I will join you there sir. I’ll have a word with some of my relatives who have come from my home town.’ He turned to Munuswami and said, ‘Please inform Boss as well.’ The car then resumed its journey.

Sampat turned into the lane next to the peanut shop and reached home. Workmen were replacing the tiles on the roof. A scorpion fell from the roof with a thud. Immediately, one of the work smashed it. It was a house of mud walls. The 33 residents shared one common courtyard open to the sky. That was their only source of light.Parvati was out there, tying a plastic ribbon to her hair. ‘Where’s your mother?’ Sampat asked her.

Parvati sweated profusely. ‘She’s gone to the Alangatha temple,’ she told him.

‘You are all coming to watch the film shooting today, aren’t you?

‘We’re coming, we’re coming. She’ll be back soon.’

Just then, Parvati’s elder brother Umapati entered, his hair all oiled and plastered.

‘When did you come? When did you come sir? Have they already finished shooting? You promised to take us to watch the shooting.’

‘Come on, I have come here to inform you about it. Where’s Thangavel? I asked him to bunk school today.’

‘It’s he who has taken Amma and the others to the temple,’ said Parvati.

Sampat told Umapati, ‘Look here, as soon as Thangavel returns, you leave here so that you reach the studio at 12.30 sharp. Thangavel knows the place. Today’s shooting is only for half an hour. If you tarry to measure the height of the buildings on the street, we’ll have finished shooting, packed off and gone home to sleep.’

‘Don’t worry, we’ll be there on time,’ Umapati assured him.

‘Will Jayachandrika be there today? Parvati asked.

‘How does it matter who’s there? All we want is to watch a film being made before we go back home, that’s all,’ said Umapati.

Sampat warmed to Parvati. ‘Only Jayachandrika will be shooting today.’

Parvati broke out in a sweat again. ‘I’m off’, Sampat said, ‘Make sure you leave exactly at twelve o’clock and come to the studio.’ He stopped in his tracks and addressed his next remarks to Umapati. ‘Hey listen, try and put on some decent clothes when you come to the studio. Keep your red linen shirt for after you go back to your village.’

In his anxiety to return quickly to the studio, he saw a taxi in every car that passed by. He spotted Madurai standing under an acacia tree. Sampat walked past him hoping he would see him.

‘Sir, you are going past me, not even looking at me?’ Madurai said.

‘I am in a hurry. I’m looking for a taxi.’

‘Why do you need a taxi, brother? Get into my car.’

Madurai’s car, which he ran as an unmetered private taxi, was a 1949 Ford. Sampat got in. After the car had gone some distance, Madurai said, ‘Why don’t you hire my car for a week or ten days?’

‘We complete this month’s shooting schedule today. I’ll arrange for the company to hire your taxi for next month’s shooting,’ said Sampat.

‘Pay me Rs. 25 per day and I’ll happily sign a receipt for Rs. 30. Please recommend me to Iyer.’
Madurai dropped Sampat near Vinayaka Studios, gave him a big salute and left. Sampat went past the reception area of the studio and entered the last room of the asbestos building. That was the room Vinayaka Studios had let out to Chandra Creations. Das was sitting there in the midst of a table, ten folding chairs, steel trunks, a variety of aluminium tiffin carriers, some brass vessels, a small basket of rotting apples and oranges. When he saw Sampat, he said,
‘Manager sir wants you to bring him lunch.’

‘Is there a car available?’

‘Syed’s car. Murugesan went to the heroine’s bungalow immediately after he came back from outdoor shooting.’

‘Did the manager give you any money for the lunch?’

Das handed over fifty rupees to him. Sampat put the money in his pocket, arranged the car, and told Das, ‘Put the tiffin carrier in the car. I’ll come back after I finish my work at the studio office.’

‘Isn’t your family visiting the studio today?’

‘Yes, they are all going back to the village tomorrow.’

‘I forgot to tell you. The dance master is using Syed’s car.’

‘Who gave him the car?’

‘He has informed the manager. Said he would return in ten minutes.’

Somewhat mollified by this statement, Sampat went to the programme office.

The programme room was all cramped and stuffy like programme rooms everywhere. Employees and visitors alike had to twist their bodies and find a seat somewhere within it. Three spears and four swords leaned over a wall in a corner.
Sampat peeped in, opening a spring half door.

‘Who are you? Don’t you dare enter here,’ the programme manager shouted.

Sampat overcame his hesitation. He said, ‘Why are you losing your temper, sir?’ and went and stood close to the manager.

‘How could you take away glass tumblers from this cupboard without my permission, that too in my absence? Out of the four glasses you removed you broke four. I am going to report the matter to your Mr Nataraja Iyer.’

‘It was he who asked me to borrow the glasses from your office.’

‘You don’t return empty glasses when you borrow glasses, do you?’

‘Now, you are talking…’

Natarajan came in. He nodded his head and started dialling a number with a great show of purpose. He just then noticed Sampat.

‘Haven’t you left yet to buy food?’ he asked him anxiously.

‘I’m going in a moment sir. It seems you let Ramlal take Syed’s car. I’ll go as soon as he comes back sir.’

‘It’s already 12.’ Natarajan could not get through to any of the numbers he was trying to contact.

‘Who is it, Jayachandrika?’ the programme manager asked.

‘Yes.’ Natarajan seemed to be disturbed. He turned to Sampat and said, ‘Why are you still here?’

‘I have a little bit of work with him,’ Sampat said, pointing at the programme manager.

The programme manager was about to explode with rage. ‘Look here Nataraja Iyer! You hobnob with ill-mannered urchins if that’s what you want to do. I don’t want them in the studio.’

‘Whom are you calling an urchin?’

‘Sampat, what’s all this?’ Natarajan asked in a loud voice.

‘He’s so insulting. Who’s he calling an urchin?’

The programme manager called out: ‘Hey ! hey!’

Natarajan lifted his hand irritably. The number he was trying to reach was still busy. ‘There’s no alternative to this damn telephone in this studio,’ he said.

A moment of silence followed. Then Sampat told the programme manager, ‘I’ll be late sir, please sign that permission slip for me.’ He now spoke in a different tone.

‘What permission?’

‘I am bringing six visitors to the studio.’

The programme manager was staring at the table. ‘Why do you need any permission? Even the gatekeeper gives you a double salute, though he ignores me completely.’

Natarajan’s brow was now somewhat less creased with worry.

Sampat did not reply. The programme manager said, ‘Where’s your slip?’

Sampat riffled through a number of paper slips on the desk and handed one of them to the manager. When he went out signed permission slip in hand, Natarajan said, ‘It’s already late Sampat. You’d better leave with the tiffin carrier.’

‘Sir, I need thirty rupees more,’ Sampat asked hesitantly.

Natarajan said, ‘Didn’t I give you fifty rupees?’

‘That will be just about enough to pay the Woodlands bill. Ghosh wants food brought from Deluxe Hotel for him and Ramlal Master. Sound recordist Daniel always likes to have soup and sandwiches from Buharis.’

Natarajan muttered, “I need to be at the bank by 2 o’clock.’ He then took out thirty rupees from his wallet and gave it to Sampat. When Sampat came out of the room, Natarajan told the programme manager, ‘The sound engineer will fall ill unless he has soup from Buharis and chicken, whenever he shoots here.’ He did not expect a reply to this quip. Sampat lingered for a while more before leaving on his errand. Just as he expected, Natarajan called him once again.

‘Bring some food for the manager too,’ he told him. ‘No need for that,’ the programme manager said. Natarrajan pretended not to hear him. He concentrated on his telephoning act. Sampat went in search of Syed’s car.

Syed’s car stopped in front of Floor No. II. Ramlal got down, the corner of his mouth spilling red.

The scented paan he was chewing overpowered the people around him with its strong aroma. Sampat told Syed, ‘Bhai, don’t go anywhere. We’ll have to bring food now.’

The Chandra Creations set had been put up on Floor No. II. The sound recording van stood in front of the big swinging door. Seated next to it on folding chairs were cameraman Ghosh, Jagannath Rao and a few others. Ghosh said, ‘Hey Sampat! Has our leading leady gone to get her make-up done?’ ‘She hasn’t come yet,’ said Sampat, ‘the manager is trying to reach her by phone.’

Ghosh cleared his throat and spat. Jagannath sat smoking quietly.

Sampat entered the floor. A river scene with a tree and a few shrubs had been fabricated. A variety of paper flowers had been strung on the trees and shrubs. Lights small and large had been arranged on the crisscrossing wooden rafters above, all ready for the shooting. The light boys, carpenter and the odd job men were seated on the floor chewing betel leaves. Sampat spotted Munuswami and told him, ‘I am going out to bring food. Seven or eight of my family will come to the studio to watch the shooting. Please give them vantage seats.’

‘I’ll take care of all that. But, have you got the permission slip? Otherwise the receptionist can create problems.’

‘I have the permission slip.’

‘We only have half an hour’s work once the heroine comes. After that we can at least stretch our feet in the office. Location shooting does play havoc with the body.’

From outside could be heard the voice of the director calling ‘Rajgopal! Rajgopal!’
Munuswami went on with his lament, ‘We should have called the lady here. That way, we could have finished our work by now. We could have avoided all these light boys having to wait so long.’

One of the light boys asked Munuswami, ‘It’s only rarely that we get to work overtime for an hour or two on the morning shift in this godforsaken studio. Why do you want to sabotage that?’
Just then, Jagannath Rao came in. ‘Isn’t Rajgopal there?’ he asked.

‘No sir,’ said Munuswami.

‘OK, Sampat, why don’t you go check if the studio is free?’ Jagannath Rao said.

‘It is free sir. I checked it out on my way here.’

‘ Right then, inform the operator and the editor and ask them to keep the rushes of the last shot ready. Let’s project it once.’

When Sampat came out, he found Ghosh trying to punch Ramlal in his stomach. Unmindful of his long pyjamas collecting dust from the floor, Ramlal was demonstrating his Egyptian dance as best he could. ‘Have the rushes projected in the theatre,’ Ghosh told Sampat as well.
Sampat got into Syed’s car. Syed stopped the car in front of the Chandra Creations room.

‘Iyer came again and bawled at me,’ Das said, and started to load the vessels in the car.

‘We’ll bring the food in just ten minutes,’ Sampat told him, ‘I have already ordered twenty meals from Woodlands.’

The tiffin carriers didn’t move, but the brass vessels made a racket as they clashed with one another in the jerky movement of the car.

‘Just a minute,’ Sampat said. He got off the car and went to the first floor of the studio’s projection theatre. He instructed the operator there and went on to the editing department.

That part of the studio was airconditioned. Editor Pitambaram was swearing violently at someone. He turned to Sampat and asked, ‘I say, when did you come back from the outdoor shooting?’

‘We were back as early as 10-10.30. The director wanted to see the rushes. I have just instructed the operator.’

‘So there’ll be no indoor shooting today?’

‘It is scheduled. Hasn’t started yet.’

‘That female hasn’t come in. Isn’t that the problem?’

Sampat’s response was non-committal. ‘May I go now, sir?’

Pitambaram called out: ‘Come here you ass!’ A well dressed young man came in, his face a hard mask.

‘You lazy bum! You think you’re doing great if you wear a white shirt and pants, you donkey! Move all the cans we assembled yesterday to the theatre, you sleepyhead!’

With no change of expression, the young man picked up the round tin boxes and took them away.

‘Sir, how about your lunch?’ Sampat asked.

‘I don’t want a meal. Try and get me some puri-kurma, stuff like that.’

‘Ok sir.’

‘Get that pieface a proper meal. He hasn’t eaten the whole morning.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Where are the cigarettes?’

‘I’ll get you some on my way back sir.’

Sampat ran and got into the car. Syed started the car and zoomed forward. When they were about to pass the studio receptionist, Sampat said, ‘Bhai, hold on for a moment.’ Syed applied the brakes hard and all four wheels squealed to a stop. Sampat got down and ran to the receptionist’s desk. Just then, a car entered the studio gate and went past them. Sampat stood still for a moment. He then handed over the entry permit for his relatives to the receptionist.

‘Isn’t that your boss who went in?’ the receptionist asked Sampat.

‘Yes, it’s our Reddiar. Send my visitors on to Munuswami. He’ll take care of them,’ he told the receptionist and ran back to the car. ‘Hurry,’ he told Syed.

‘How can I hurry if you stop every ten feet?’

The car had really come to a stop. It didn’t start for a while. Just as Sampat was about to get down and give it a push, the boss’s car went past them once again, this time from inside the studio out.

‘That was the manager, wasn’t it?’ Syed asked.

‘He said he had to go to the bank. Maybe he’s also going to Jayachandrika’s house,’ said Sampat.

He got down.

‘That woman is always late,’ said Syed and made some violent attempts to start the engine. The car finally started.

The service at Woodlands was pretty quick. They packed the tiffin carriers in no time. While the plantains and beedas were being counted out, a waiter took Sampat aside and gave him a cool glass of badam milk. ‘Did you give the driver a glass?’ Sampat asked.

‘The manager is watching.’

As Sampat was leaving, four of the hotel staff deliberately came into his line of vision. Sampat had been able to get one of them a three-minute part in a film.

‘What brother, shall we straightaway go and collect the non-veg food or shall we first drop off all this food at the studio?’ Syed asked.

‘Let’s go to the studio first and then to Deluxe Hotel,’ said Sampat.

Syed drove the car straight to the lunch room. The car gave off a strong aroma of food, thanks to spilt rasam and sambar.

It was piercing hot. As Sampat looked around to find someone to unload the food vessels, Munuswami came out from the lunch hall. ‘You are just in time. Everyone’s waiting for lunch,’ he said.

‘What about the shooting?’ Sampat asked.

‘The director postponed it to after lunch.’

‘Then…’

Munuswami interrupted him. ‘Your relatives have all come. I have arranged for them to be seated on benches under the peepul tree.’

‘Not that… what about the shooting?’

‘Jayachandrika hasn’t come yet.’

While the Woodlands food was being unloaded, Sampat went to the peepul tree. Parvati, Umapati, their mother, mother’s mother, and younger brother Thangavelu were all sitting on the bench, their postures suitably deferential.

Umapati wasn’t wearing a red shirt. Parvati’s hair wasn’t tied up with a ribbon. They both seemed to be in two minds about whether to smile at Sampat or not. Sampat told them, ‘The shooting should start in about half an hour. Please wait here.’ Parvati perspired profusely.

‘Is it true someone called Jayachandrika hasn’t turned up yet?’ Parvati’s mother asked. This irritated Sampat. Ignoring the question, he asked, ‘Are you comfortable? Can I get you some water or something?’

‘We’re fine, you don’t trouble yourself in the midst of all your work,’ said Parvati’s mother.
Sampat left them there and went back to the ‘tiffin hall.’ On the way, he spotted the director and some underlings, looking anxious.

When he reached the tiffin hall, he found the car missing. Only Ghosh was there. Sampat had a sinking feeling in the stomach. There was no sign of Munuswami or Das.
Sampat came to the programme office all aflutter. He found the car there. Syed was standing there in his best deferential manner, holding the handle of the rear door.

‘What is it?’ Sampat asked.

‘The boss is in there,’ Syed told him in a low voice, pointing to the programme office.

‘Where’s Murugesan car?’

‘No sign of it so far. Jayachandrika hasn’t come in yet. When last seen, the manager went in search of her. He too hasn’t come back. That’s why the boss is on the phone.’

‘Why don’t we go and get the Deluxe food?’

‘Boss wants the car. You should stay here too, if you ask me.’

Das came running from nowhere. ‘Das’, Sampat called out.

‘Yes?’ said Das.

Sampat gave him a list and money and said, “Take a taxi and buy all this stuff.’

Das would normally have muttered his protests. But just then Reddiar came out of the programme office—so fast that the spring doors of the room swung open and shut several times.

Syed opened the backdoor in a flash and waited.

Das ran away. Sampat stood rooted to the spot, watching Reddiar motionlessly. Reddiar, whose physical appearance commanded respect from everyone in his presence, stood in the sun, not knowing what to do. Then seeming to come to a decision, he got into the car. Once again, Syed closed the door within the blink of an eye, sat in his seat and started the car.

Reddiar looked back through the car window from his seat. He nodded his head towards Sampat. Sampat quickly came and stood by his side.

‘Get in,’ Reddiar said to him. Sampat sat next to Syed.

Syed put the car in gear and waited. ‘Go to Jayachandrika’s house,’ Reddiar said.

The car started.

Introduction to a novel by Ashokamitran

2007-07-21T17:33:00.000-07:00

Star-Crossed
A novel by Ashokamitran
Translated from Tamil by V Ramnarayan
Price: Rs. 150
ISBN: 978-81-8368-283-1
Available online
http://indiaplaza.in/search.aspx?catname=Books&srchkey=title&srchVal=star-crossed

Star-crossed is a novel about the world of Tamil cinema minus the glamour. It takes a keen look at the lives of filmmakers, technicians, producers and actors. Turning the spotlight on the fringes of the entertainment world, Ashokamitran exposes the daily trials and tribulations of a cast of character none too familiar to those who equate the world of celluloid with the proverbial dream factory.The story revolves around the several minor cogs in the wheels that make film production in the studios of Madras go round. An elaborate, albeit chaotic, machinery consisting of people, services and equipment, goes into action everyday, based on a flimsy foundation of ad hoc financing and superstitions peculiar to the industry. The whole situation is a tragicomedy of people with dreams in their eyes and hearts, and their manipulation by the forces of commerce and greed.

The novel starts with Natarajan, a production manager in a Kodambakkam studio, organising a team of people for a stint of outdoor shooting in the early hours of a typical Madras morning. Reddiar and Rama Iyengar, film producers both, Sampat, an errand boy; Rajgopal, a wannabe manager of sorts; Chitti, an editor’s assistant; Manickaraj, a supplier of stock shots to film-makers and Somanathan, an aspiring screenplay writer are among several bit players whose ordinary lives provide a stark contrast from the magic they help create on scren.The story abounds in action and we see people running about doing their jobs, but, as the novel proceeds, we realise all the sound and fury signify nothing in the lives of so many that depend on the film industry for their livelihood. We move from one climax to the next, one anticlimax to another. To quote one of the characters in the novel, “There are no permanent or temporary jobs in cinema. Every job is permanent. And temporary!’ The hype, the uncertainties and the personality cult that surround Indian cinema are brought to life in this realistic tale laced with humour and compassion.

The original Tamil title, Karainda Nizhalgal, conveys the tragedy and uncertainty inherent in the lives of these providers of mass entertainment, whose fortunes rise and fall or sink altogether with the making of a film. Simply told, the novel provides poignant expression to Ashokamitran’s empathy for his flesh and blood characters, based no doubt on his own experience in the film world of Madras.

About the author
Ashokamitran has been an internationally recognised Tamil writer of fiction for decades, known for the wry detachment and spare prose of his writing. His novels have been translated into English, Tamil, Telugu and other languages. He won the Sahitya Akademi Award for his collection of short stories entitled ‘Appavin Snehitargal’ (Father’s Friends) in 1996.

Flame of the Forest

2007-06-10T00:09:00.000-07:00

Evening raga

2007-05-24T23:37:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, 24 May 2007, a dear friend and mentor more than 25 years my senior, breathed his last. The death of R Ramachandran, the man who founded the south Chennai sabha Hamsadhwani and made a brilliant success of it has created an irreplaceable void in the world of Carnatic music. Like many other music lovers, musicians and friends and admirers from every walk of life, I am devastated. I reproduce here a tribute I wrote of him some years ago, which appeared in the portal Chennaionline..

Some people never retire. Some start a second innings after they have completed long years of service in their chosen profession. ‘Hamsadhwani’ Ramachandran is one of those rare birds to make an impressive success of their first innings and a roaring one of their second. R Ramachandran or RRC as he is known to one and all was a veteran journalist when I first met him, back in the early eighties at the office of ‘Sruti’ magazine. It was, in those days and for long afterwards, an exciting adda where people interested in music and dance came to chat, discuss, debate, occasionally come to verbal blows, under the informal chairmanship of the editor, N Pattabhiraman, my uncle. RRC was initially a guest of P N Sundaresan, Pattabhi’s eldest brother, and a former colleague at ‘The Hindu’. Keenly interested in cricket, RRC straightaway decided to adopt me as one of his younger friends. Come to think of it, most of his friends are young, and the few among his contemporaries are bound to be young at heart as he himself is.

When RRC retired from ‘The Hindu’, as its chief sub-editor, if I remember right, he had been a journalist for well nigh three decades, including some years in ‘Free Press’, ‘Economic Times’ and the ‘Indian Express’. Throughout that period he had been a champion of the downtrodden and his political views were Left of centre for all that he was an admirer of such stalwarts as Rajaji whose persuasion was of a completely different hue. He was a fiery trade unionist too - I mean in the moral sense, not knowing if he ever held office -and even courted imprisonment once while trying to obstruct his bosses from producing the newspaper with the entire workforce on strike.

These qualities were very much in evidence during the time I had the honour of being his colleague in an evening daily in the early nineties soon after his retirement from ‘The Hindu’. With the young team there (with the exception of RRC, and a couple of others including yours truly) he shared his vast experience cheerfully. He often lightened the deadline-induced tension of the office with his bright smile and constant encouragement.

And he was positively inspirational when a mindless management, aided and abetted by a spineless editor, demanded apologies from all of us for an imagined slight to the “MD’s wife”. He and some of us resigned in a bunch, but not before RRC had told the editor, in the gentlest of voices and with the most benign of smiles, how ashamed he was of having to share a room with such a moral coward.

Never afraid of celebrities, RRC rubbed shoulders with the high and mighty with the practised ease of a politician, though never with an ulterior motive. Even in his student days, he did not hesitate to approach the eminent personalities of the time with invitations to address student audiences - a practice he continued when after retirement he started one of the most successful sabhas of Madras - Hamsadhwani.

A great admirer of Nani Palkhivala and his speeches on the Union Budget, RRC organised similar speeches at ‘Hamsadhwani’, to offer members a break from the music. I even had the pleasure of speaking at a function at the sabha to felicitate Tamil Nadu’s representatives on the Indian team that took part in the 1999 cricket World Cup in England.

As I said before, RRC had, and still is, in the midst of a great second innings as the secretary of ‘Hamsadhwani’, the south Chennai sabha he founded, which enjoys immense popularity among rasikas and musicians alike. It is a place where performer and listener alike are made to feel important and welcome. The resultant ambience, enhanced by the open-air theatre, often produces music of excellent quality. And every time the sabha organises an unusual event, the support for the occasion is total, from members, sponsors and VIP guests alike. Not long ago, RRC’s own sathabhishekam was celebrated by his team of office-bearers on a grand scale, and the encomiums came from far and wide.

Today, as he prepares to honour the memory of the late Semmangudi Srinivasa Iyer, with a ‘Hamsadhwani’ concert by T N Krishnan, accompanied by Umayalpuram Sivaraman, to be followed by an audio-visual presentation of the Sangita Pitamaha in full flow, RRC is as full of energy and enthusiasm in the evening of his life, as any youngster.

Karmayogi

2007-05-19T06:49:00.001-07:00

My biography of R K Swamy a self-made advertising icon of the 20th century is scheduled to be released on 29 May at Chennai. Now that it’s official, I can broadcast the following piece I wrote some time ago to the world.

To my eternal regret, there have been a few extraordinary personalities my essential reserve has prevented me from getting to know better, although the opportunity presented itself time and again — R K Narayan, Semmangudi Srinivasier and Kalakshetra’s Sankara Menon were examples.

There are others you wish you had had the chance to get to know better; you came into contact with them just once or twice in your life and that from a distance, and later heard fascinating, even inspiring accounts of their lives from those who knew them well.To this category belonged the late R K Swamy, the advertising legend from the south who made history by establishing the first all-India advertising agency based in Chennai, and took it to the Top Five in record time. A writing project brought me in contact with many members of the RK Swamy BBDO ‘family’ – that’s how the employees and associates of the agency are fondly called by all concerned — and it was a memorable experience to listen to their accounts of this unlikely adman, a completely self-made person from a poor, orthodox Iyengar family of Kumbakonam.

Straitened circumstances took Swamy’s parents to Bombay to seek a livelihood there in the late 1920s, and that is where Swamy’s career in advertising began, when he and his brothers were forced by circumstances to go to work when they should have been entering the portals of college. Unschooled the siblings might have been, but certainly not uneducated, as all of them, especially Swamy, became voracious readers and highly intelligent survivors in the university of life, to put it rather dramatically.

Joining the international agency, J Walter Thompson, as a translator of Gujarati advertisements (!), Swamy grew rapidly in the organisation by sheer devotion to work and extraordinary display of initiative that led him to impress his boss Edward Fielden with a thoroughly researched report on the tobacco market in India commissioned by a British client of JWT.

As he rose in the agency, Swamy absorbed the best values practised by Fielden and added his own sense of honesty, integrity and fair play to his work, so that all his work came to be synonymous with solid research and hard facts. No tall claims were made, and no product was sought to be sold on the strength of smart copy or attractive visuals alone. A man who never went to college, he also earned a reputation for his proficiency in English.

Having earned his spurs in Calcutta and Bombay, he persuaded his boss to transfer him to Madras where he opened the JWT South office in 1955. Building a brilliant young team around himself and Umesh Rao, the creator of the Air India maharajah, he created advertisers out of Madras companies traditionally notorious for their reluctance to embrace the medium of advertising. He soon conquered Madras and his branch was the most profitable in the whole of JWT India which later became Hindustan Thompson Associates or HTA on Indianisation.

How Swamy walked out at age 50 to create his own agency, when the HTA management overlooked his obvious credentials for the top slot in India in favour of outsider Maurice Mathias, is now part of the lore of Indian advertising. Friends and relatives wondered if he had made a risky, quixotic decision that could lead to disaster, but Swamy made a huge success of his new enterprise - by always taking the path less taken.

He pioneered public sector advertising in India, he took on large bodies like the Indian Newspaper Society fighting them on matters of principle, and became a powerful spokesman for the whole industry. One of the earliest in advertising to practise modern management principles in the industry, he was a pious man, who played a major part in the revival of temples and gave generously for worthy causes. He was one of the first businessmen in India to anticipate the advent of globalisation and enter into partnership with a large multinational agency. Person after person I met in the course of my work expressed their deep admiration and respect for this many-sided personality who single-mindedly pursued excellence in all he did. One of them, a former CMD of a multinational corporation said of him:

“Everything he did had to be for the good of the country. He had an exceptional feeling for the poor, for the downtrodden. He was a very spiritual person, a karmayogi.”

Dad's army or brat pack?

2007-04-22T08:48:00.000-07:00

By the time you read these lines, the Indian team to tour Bangladesh will have been announced. To go by media reports, there will be an accent on youth when it comes to picking the one-day squad but no such emphasis is likely in the composition of the Test team. Pundits will prognosticate on how India will regroup its forces to shake off the psychological shackles the World Cup disaster has imposed on the team, and millions of fans will wait with bated breath to see how new coach Ravi Shastri is going to restore the morale of India’s beleaguered troops while at the same time encouraging them to enjoy the game. Both a sensation-hungry media and fans ranging from toddlers to octogenarians will at once clamour for youth and the continuation of the status quo. Some will swear by Tendulkar and others by Ganguly, and yet others will demand a complete overhaul. The cynics will of course bet their last penny that every match India plays is a fixed game.

The risk with fielding a new look side against Bangladesh is that it could result in inflated performances by the young inductees in subcontinental conditions in the face of friendly opposition. That Bangladesh is not yet capable of testing India’s best, at least in Test match cricket, is inarguable, despite India’s setback in the World Cup. On the contrary, to go with the tried and tested—some would say jaded—for this series could enable the over-the-hill to prolong their careers, to the detriment of others on the threshold of the big league. A situation in which so many qualify for membership in Dad’s Army could have been avoided by the gradual induction of young talent and the staggered easing out of the seniors of the team.

Much is made of this business of inducting youth as though it were an invention of the 21st century. Indian selection committees have always been more adventurous than their counterparts elsewhere. Vijay Mehra, the Delhi opening batsman, was only marginally older on debut back in the sixties than Mushtaq Mohammad of Pakistan was when he became the youngest Test cricketer in the world. Mansur Ali Khan Pataudi became the youngest Test captain in the world when he took over from Nari Contractor in an emergency. Some of these experiments succeeded while others, predictably, failed. Young A K Sengupta was battered and bruised by Hall and Gilchrist at Madras when he was pressed into service while still in his teens as Test opener following a hundred against the touring West Indies in 1959. Of spin bowling’s famous four, Venkataraghavan and Chandrasekhar were teenagers, Bedi was 20 and Prasanna 22 when they made their respective debuts for India.

India had to wait almost another decade before a selection committee once again gave youth prominence. Under Vijay Merchant’s chairmanship, revolutionary changes were made, some of them daring trials involving youth. G R Viswanath and Eknath Solkar were discoveries of this period, though the likes of Ashok Gandotra and Ambar Roy fell by the wayside. Questions were asked when Viswanath made a duck in the first innings of the 1969 Kanpur Test, but he made up magnificently in the second with a fearless 137 that included 25 boundaries. Solkar went on to become one of the best short legs in the world, besides consistently performing above his ability with both bat and ball on the international arena. He even opened the innings and scored a Test hundred. Incredibly, he opened the bowling too, his innocent swing repeatedly foxing Geoffrey Boycott, at the time the world’s best opening batsman.
The spin quartet dominated Indian cricket for nearly two decades. Those of us who happened to be pursuing the craft of spin bowling during that period simply had no chance of making it to the national team. The two most famous bowlers to miss out, Padmakar Shivalkar and Rajinder Goel, left armers both, were good enough to play for any country. It is nobody’s case that they should have replaced Bishan Bedi, arguably the greatest left arm spinner of all time, but there should have been an attempt to play them at least in a domestic series, without jeopardizing India’s chances.

The most spectacular example of a precocious talent coming good has of course been that of Sachin Tendulkar, who debuted at the age of 15 and went on to become one of the greatest batsmen of the world, though he did not achieve instant success. More often than not, however, a youngster who has not gone through the mill of domestic cricket fails to come to terms with the high altitude of international cricket. Again, more often than not, the selectors, instead of showing patience with the young prodigy of their choice, dump him in the face of widespread criticism. The young discard has now to make his way back through the Ranji Trophy and the like, but finds himself an alien among people of his own state. Former Indian opener Aakash Chopra, a surprisingly gifted writer, thus describes one of these members of the brat pack in a magazine article:

“The iPod belted to his side, the Oakleys covering his eyes, the studied nonchalance that is supposed to say, ‘Look at me, I am an India player,’ is part fear, part bravado. I go up to him and we chat. Like everyone else, he does not want to be here. Unfortunately, unlike those of us who have played domestic cricket for years before getting to play for India and being axed for various reasons, he is not used to being here. There is an unstated resentment at his fate, which he shows in the way he plays domestic games—he is clearly not trying as hard as everyone else.”
Chopra then compares the attitude of the Test discard with that of a champion performer in the Ranji Trophy who has never played for India. “He is cynical and bitter. He has never played for India, and probably never will, but he has done sterling service for his state, and now, on his ground, he is ignored for a youngster who has played for India but might well never do so again. There is a difference, one all of us are aware of.”

“Many youngsters who have been dropped from the Indian side seem to struggle to motivate themselves while playing cricket,” Chopra continues. “Inevitably, if they do not see success soon, many will give up.”

Aakash Chopra himself has been a victim of a system that rarely rewards the solid performers and team men rather than the flashy individualists. Surprisingly preferred to the in-form Sadagopan Ramesh on the Australian tour of 2001, he showed character and a strong will opening the innings in the company of Virender Sehwag and giving India firm starts in the Test series. He didn’t last very long in Test cricket, the selectors showing little patience with him, and dropping him for the third Test of the 2003 Pakistan tour, preferring a non-regular opener in young wicket keeper Parthiv Patel. Patel was himself a typical example of the kind of youngster Chopra talks about—someone who pitchforked into international cricket without having to prove himself at the domestic level.

In fact the opening batsmaen’s slot is the one position the Indian selectors have treated with scant respect, for all that it is perhaps the most crucial one in the team. Ramesh and Shiv Sundar Das were an excellent pair never allowed to settle down, thanks to the selectors’ totally avoidable penchant for experimentation. Many opening batsmen came and went—from Sanjay Bangar and Connor Williams to Debang Gandhi and Gautam Gambhir. Most of these players did perform reasonably well, but none of them was allowed to stay long enough to stabilize himself. Gambhir has been the most recent victim of this shortsighted, and often inexplicable, policy. Now replaced in the one-day squad by Robin Uthappa and, the Delhi lefthander has little chance of making it to the Test eleven, where Wasim Jaffer has been impressive if not highly consistent. His only hope is to replace Virender Sehwag if and when he is demoted in the batting order or dropped.

The youth versus experience debate should have no place in BCCI’s scheme of things. The idea should be to pick the best team available, ideally a judicious blend of both mature heads and quick legs, a balance between flair and the right attitude, and an overall insistence on fairness all round. A Sachin Tendulkar happens but once in a century; a Parthiv Patel should not have happened and should not happen. The unseemly haste to blood him played havoc with a number of careers—remember a feisty little competitor called Ajay Ratra, who was smart behind the wickets, but also scored a match saving hundred in the West Indies? Patel has equally been a victim—after the first fine rapture, it’s been downhill for him, and he is hardly 22.

It’s in the spin department that India has seemingly shot herself in the foot. Anil Kumble has retired from one-day cricket to concentrate on Test cricket. We have taken him on two World Cup campaigns and dropped him at the vital moment when he could have made the difference between defeat and victory. On both occasions we have paid a heavy price, but why did the selectors pick him in the first place if they were not sure of playing him in all the important games? Wouldn’t they have been better off with off spinner Ramesh Powar in the squad? And whatever happened to the promising leg spinner Piyush Chawla? Should not someone of his undoubted talent be understudying Kumble on tours and preparing to take over from him when the time comes? Or is he a spent force already, like so many youngsters identified not long ago in the bowling department and subsequently discarded?

The selectors have their task cut out. If they pick the ‘best’ Indian side for the Bangladesh tour, not inducting young blood, they will have no new material to consider for the forthcoming tours of Ireland and England. If they pick a young team and it clicks, then they will have a different dilemma of whom to drop from the youngsters, and whom to bring back from the old guard. And with the media constantly looking for masala, I don’t envy them, but urge them to err on the side of experimentation.

(Published in Sunday Express, 22 April 2007)

Dream XI

2007-02-03T03:22:00.000-08:00

People are talking about India's chances in the World Cup. A TV channel called me to ask me about my dream eleven for the World Cup. I asked my questioner, 'Do you mean my dream Indian XI?' He said, 'Yes, of course.' I told him I didn't dream about Indian cricket, but if he wanted my opinion on the probable team, I could try to make a list. I got stuck midway, as my eleven had too many fast bowlers and too many batsmen in it. I said Sehwag would probably be back and the silence at the other end was deafening. In an anxious voice, my friend asked me whether I would include Munaf Patel in the side. I said why not, if he can prove his fitness, as he did so well in the West Indies? I didn't realise it was a trick question. There was a flurry of queries about why was so and so missing in my list while such and such found a place in it. I decided to have a coughing fit and terminate the interview.

It set me thinking. These are the same people who called for heads to roll barely a month ago. People who wanted variable pay to be introduced for our pampered cricketers, based on performance. 'Tendulkar has proved his critics wrong,' blared the headlines, as soon as he completed a hundred against West Indies. The same column had called for his exclusion just days earlier.In the case of Dada, everybody who had rejoiced in his axing last year, now joined his diehard fans--mainly Brinda Karat and Sharmila Tagore (or was it Nafisa Ali and Aparna Sen, I forget)--in telling the whole world, ' I told you so.'

The worst amnesia seems to have afflicted the selectors who have made Tendulkar vice captain clean forgetting how long ago and why he relinquished the captaincy.

Prince of Banswada

2006-12-04T09:08:00.000-08:00

‘Chhotu there wants you to go and bowl in his nets,’ the man I had watched lead India from afar told me, his face an impassive mask, completely oblivious of the shattering impact of his words. He was the Nawab of Indian cricket, Mansur Ali Khan, and until the previous moment my captain for the next three days. I had been catapulted from the Hyderabad league to what was beginning to assume international dimensions, a first round match in the Moin-ud-Dowla Gold Cup, between Hindustan Breweries XI and State Bank of India. I, a lowly reserve player in the local SBI team, had been picked for the star-studded Breweries XI that included Pataudi (captain), Rohan Kanhai, Budhi Kunderan, and a number of Sri Lankan stars in Anura Tennekoon, David Heyn, Russell Hamer and Tony Opatha. For that singular honour I owed a huge debt of gratitude to my senior in the bank’s local team, Indian wicket keeper P Krishnamurthy, who had recommended my name to selector P R Man Singh.

But now, my dreams of turning out for an international eleven came crashing down as I learnt from Chhotu, aka Hanumant Singh, former India batsman and the captain of the all India State Bank team, that I was to defect to his team. I, who was not even a regular in the local SBI team, was hijacked by the national bank squad, thanks to all rounder Syed Abid Ali, who had alerted Hanumant to my presence amidst enemy ranks.

The blow was softened somewhat as I bowled to class batsman after class batsman in the SBI nets. Hanumant himself was the hero of my teen years when he launched an incredible assault against Bob Simpson’s Aussies before Norm O’Neill caught him brilliantly on the boundary for 94 at the Corporation Stadium, Madras. And there were little Gundappa Viswanath, Abid Ali, Ambar Roy, Gopal Bose, Syed Kirmani, V S Vijaykumar and Madhu Gupte, all making for a formidable batting line-up.

Hanumant, I found out was a shrewd captain, but his skills were not tested, as, helped by great batting by his top order, and ineffectual bowling by the opponents on a friendly pitch, State Bank made over 400 runs. (My contribution was a stylish zero). When the Breweries batted, I bowled the last over of the day, beating Rohan Kanhai outside the off stump with my first ball at that level. It was an ordinary delivery, but the great West Indian was rather rusty from a long layoff.

Then the heavens smiled on us and laughed a rather cruel laugh at our opponents. A sharp overnight shower rendered the wicket wet and soft, and when the sun shone on it in the morning, the drying surface was quite unplayable. I twiddled my thumbs going from mid-off to square leg between overs while the other off spinner Arun Ogiral grabbed five wickets. By the time I came on to bowl, the wicket had dried completely and I managed to get a couple of tailend wickets. I had done nothing spectacular, but did not disgrace myself either. We won the match comfortably.

With that win, State Bank entered the final of the Gold Cup, where it would run into UFoam XI, led by M L Jaisimha, and including a number of top performers like Brijesh Patel, P Sharma, Prasanna, Chandrasekhar, Mike Dalvi and so on. I was eagerly looking forward to the final and bowled long and hard at the nets the evening before the match. So, pleasantly tired after my exertions, I was delighted to accept an invitation from Chhotu to have a glass of beer at his room. The players stayed at the ground those days, and the rooms, belonging to the Fateh Maidan Club, had sitouts enjoying a superb view of the cricket. I joined Hanumant in his balcony after a shower in the dressing room.

Even before I started enjoying the cold beer, the captain dropped a bombshell. As our ace left arm spinner Rajinder Goel was available for the final, he was dropping me. ‘You are a far better off spinner, but Arun has just taken five wickets, and poor chap, he could do with some morale boosting, after being dropped by his state.” Hanumant went on to predict a bright future for me and even wagered that I would soon be picked for Hyderabad in the Ranji Trophy.

It was a crushing blow, being dropped from the team just when I was beginning to believe my cursed luck in cricket had finally begun to change. I did not know it then, but this was to become a pattern in the rest of my cricketing years. Every time I thought of hanging up my boots, there came that unbelievable break and for a while I enjoyed the rarefied atmosphere of success. But the moment I thought I had arrived, fate had a habit of cutting me down to size, as if I needed to be told repeatedly that life wasn’t a bed of roses.

But this is not about my cricket. It is about that prince among cricketers of that generation, Hanumant Singh, who thought it was important to spend a whole evening talking to a younger cricketer he was about to drop from his team. Not only did he offer balm to my wounded spirits, he also took me on a conducted tour of the finer points of cricket, with special reference to off spin bowling, my field of specialisation. What I learnt that evening about my craft was more than a lifetime of learning, formal and informal. For Hanumant was an all round expert on cricket, and a storehouse of its history, especially, Indian and central Indian. His first hand accounts of the daring deeds of C K Nayudu not only entertained but also educated.

I met Hanumant again a couple of years later at a Duleep Trophy match at Bangalore. He was leading Central Zone, and I was a reserve player in the South Zone squad, with two other off spinners, Prasanna and Venkataraghavan in the playing eleven. He was delighted that I had received recognition as he predicted, though a season later than his prophecy.

My last meeting with Hanumant was a couple of years ago, once again at Bangalore, at the National Cricket Academy, which he headed. He was as always dedicated to his task, and had many great ideas for our young cricketers. Unfortunately, his old-fashioned insistence on discipline, decorum and sincere effort did not go down very well with some cricketers whom the media seemed to back. In this matter, I am not sure Hanumant received the support he might have expected from the cricket board.

In his playing days Hanumant Singh received the roughest treatment from the selectors and the board. For someone of extraordinary talent, he played only 14 Tests, and never toured anywhere after his impressive showing in England in 1967. Every time the Indian team was picked to go abroad, Hanumant was found mysteriously unfit, once with a congenital condition which had never troubled him! He never complained and he hated it if young cricketers did, about their own bad treatment at the hands of selectors. He believed in doing his job without expectation of reward, and he expected youngsters to do the same. He worried about them, especially if they did not realise their potential, or did not know how to channelise their talent. Knowing him, I am sure he worried about some of his wards to the very end.

Noises off

2006-11-23T01:44:00.000-08:00

Here’s a slightly edited version of a piece I recently wrote for Sruti magazine.

A recent concert of T M Krishna—through no fault of his—had the audience running for cover from the explosive decibellage of voice, strings and drums. The volume levels were unprecedented even for a city inured to unwholesome assaults on the listener’s eardrums in the name of amplification considered de rigueur in the urban milieu of large halls with non-existent sound engineering. Sadly the concert was taking place at the Music Academy auditorium, once famed for its perfect acoustics designed to accommodate mikeless concerts—before alterations to its structure changed that somewhat—but generally accepted as one of the better halls in the city for listening pleasure.

This was one of the first issues Sruti decided to address on the eve of the greatest spectacle of Carnatic music on the planet—the Chennai music season, which used to be called the December season before it expanded forwards and backwards some years ago to straddle the calendar in a fusillade of concerts. We decided to pose a number of questions and invite responses from all parties concerned, with the hope that we can start a process leading to a whole new aesthetic experience: Why are audiences subjected to murder by sound by people who should know better—practitioners of nadopasana one and all, from musicians to mikemen to sabhanayakas, to steal a couple of phrases from Sruti’s founder? Why do musicians regularly agree to perform under acoustically unsatisfactory conditions, musicians who are used to the state of the art in sound systems on their travels abroad? Why do listeners put up with tympanum threatening noise instead of the divine music everyone promises Carnatic music really is? Why are organizers of concerts impervious to criticism and apparently reluctant to invest in equipment and personnel that can ensure such an experience? Why is a sound test at the start of a concert such a rare occurrence, if ever attempted in Carnatic music?

Not long ago, The Hindu commented editorially: “There is little doubt that the standard of acoustics at most venues falls short of a minimum assured quality. Improvements in this technical area will go some way in sustaining interest in live performances as a socially worthwhile experience in the age of mass-produced compact discs. Moreover, acoustic quality is a real concern to artistes, since the overall impact of a performance depends on the symmetry between appropriate amplification and feedback on the stage. Debate on some of these wide-ranging issues will shape the future of Carnatic music in the 21st century. At the same time, it is vital for the mega event — the extraordinary Chennai music season — to retain the character of a self-regulating enterprise, something it has managed to do over many decades.”

Back in the 1990s, Semmangudi Srinivasa Iyer told Sruti: “...it is neither necessary nor desirable to have separate mikes provided to the accompanists. A single mike should do, preferably the sensitive kind that is hung from the ceiling. Where is the need for a forest of mikes planted on the platform in front of the artists taking part in a concert?"

“The number of loudspeakers used and their placement also contribute to the quality of sound. ..It is better to use several smaller speakers and place them judiciously around so that each part of the hall gets to hear the musicians as if there were no amplification."

“Ideally, of course, I would like the kutcheri to take place in a small air-conditioned hall without any sound amplification.”

“Violinist Yehudi Menuhin, on a concert tour of India, laid down a few conditions at the Swati Tirunal Sangita Sabha, Trivandrum. There should be no amplification; all doors should be closed once he started performing; all fans should be switched off; no member of the audience should be permitted to move about during the performance; so on and so forth.” Menuhin was heard clearly at every part of the hall throughout the concert, Semmangudi continued.

Vocalist Vijay Siva spoke up for the right use of technology (Sruti December 2001). State of the art microphones could help to get the purest sound reproduction in recordings and also in the auditorium.

When we asked vocalist Sanjay Subramanyam for his views on the standard of acoustics in Carnatic music cutcheris, he wondered aloud if instead of writing about the unsatisfactory situation, someone would take the initiative in organizing a workshop by an international acoustics expert on proper sound management at concerts. He said that he never let poor acoustics or other inconveniences affect his performance on the concert platform. “I focus on my job—that of singing—regardless of the conditions. The only thing that can bother me is the recalcitrance of my voice if and when I run into such problems.”

Speaking in a similar vein, Aruna Sairam had not long ago informed a small private audience that she would be willing to participate in any effort to educate sound engineers on the best contemporary practices in acoustics for music concerts. She was replying to a query from a Hindustani music aficionado about the high noise levels in Carnatic music concerts.

Audiences, sometimes even music critics, believe that the musicians are accessories after the fact, often the instigators of the excesses perpetrated by the soundmen. P Orr wrote in Sruti, February 2001: “Poor acoustics is characteristic of a majority of the sabhas. Many don’t have really top class sound amplification systems and arrangements either. ..The musicians performing on the stage are the ones who usually tell the sound technician what to do. They always ask the volume to be jacked up.”

Young vocalist Savita Narasimhan clarifies that the musician on the stage rarely asks for the volume to be turned up for the listeners. He or she is actually asking for help with the feedback (or fallback) so essential for the performer on stage. “Often the vocalist cannot hear the percussionist or violinist and vice versa. The musician’s request to increase the volume of the monitor is misunderstood and the technician increases the volume for the audience.” In the West, mikes are provided for the vocalist as well as the accompanying instrumentalists and the amplification is perfectly balanced. The result is aesthetically pleasing. For instance, even in concerts where two microphones are provided for the two sides of the mridangam, the overall balance is maintained perfectly, and the percussion does not drown the voice. It is this balancing, giving due weightage to different types of voices and instruments, that is vital for correct sound amplification.

That brings us to the need for sound checks before the start of a concert. How often do we see artists reach the venue in time to carry them out? Is it their fault that they don’t?

We’ll soon be witness to the frenetic programming of the “season” in which each sabha will pack three to four concerts into each day of the festival. The artists of one programme will ascend the stage barely minutes after the previous performers have left it. What kind of sound check can be done in the time available? And, increasingly, sabhas seem to despatch their sound engineer—if such an animal exists—to some unknown destination minutes before the concert begins, not to surface until the end of the programme.

Is it time then to organise workshops on aesthetically acceptable acoustics in Carnatic music to be conducted by experts in the field of sound management? For every self-respecting sabha to hire a full time acoustics engineer available round the year or at least during concerts to ensure listening pleasure? For auditoria specifically designed for music concerts to be built or for existing halls to be redesigned to suit the purpose? For audiences to behave themselves as they are forced to everytime a Yehudi Menuhin or Zubin Mehta descends on us?

Kalanidhi

2006-11-23T00:36:00.000-08:00

Madurai T N Seshagopalan is this year’s Sangita Kalanidhi, to be crowned by the Music Academy, Chennai in December 2006. This is what I wrote about him 23 years ago.

T N Seshagopalan: Mirror to his audience
(Excerpts from a profile by V Ramnarayan, Sruti, December 1983 (Issue no. 3)

Madurai T N Seshagopalan is confidence personified; he possesses the quality in abundance. He exudes it in every word he utters in conversation just as he does in every syllable he renders in concert. He is thirty-five, a man of conventional good looks, sharp intelligent eyes that can assume a certain dreaminess on occasion, cherubic countenance, long hair, often rather unkempt, medium height and an apparent propensity to put on weight, an ease of manner and friendliness, and an active mind which seems to tick all the time. His Tamil betrays his background, which is non-metropolitan; it is therefore a chaster brand of the language than most Madrasis can achieve. A ready humour, sometimes mischievous but without malice, a quick sense of repartee and a degree of articulation proclaim straightaway that here is an unusually cerebral young musician, who knows where he is heading and will do everything in his power to make sure he will reach there.

Seshagopalan might well have been lost to the world of classical music but for some chance encounters with men of foresight and forethought at a crucial period of his life. He appears to have been singularly fortunate in his schoolteachers. Many of them were musically inclined and saw in Seshagopalan an unusual talent, which needed care and nourishment.
Seshagopalan was born on 15 September 1948 at Nagapattinam. His father Nambi Iyengar was then employed as a drillmaster in a school there. His father and mother both hailed from Tirunelveli district. While mother Tiruvenkatavalli belonged to a village called Anantakrishnapuram, Nambi Iyengar was from the village Tirukkarunkudi, the home of the famous business house of T V Sundram Iyengar and Sons, whose headquarters were located in Madurai. TVS & Sons helped Seshagopalan’s father to set up a business at Madurai to which place the family moved in 1952, when TNS was four years old. Around this time it was that
Seshagopalan first showed musical promise.

There was no doubting Seshagopalan’s talent even as a child; he gave it expression through singing semi-classical bhakti verse, but not until his sixteenth year did he have his first lesson in classical music. The boy Seshagopalan was quite famous in Madurai and other district centres as an accomplished lead performer in devotional music concerts in which he sang verses from Tiruppugazh, Tiruppavai and Tiruvempavai, the devarnama of Purandaradasa and so on. Even before he was ten years old, he was a supplementary breadwinner of his father’s household.
In Seshagopalan’s own words from that profile:

The person whose deeds and words had the most far-reaching effect on my life was Kodoor Rajagopala Sastri whom my father had befriended when I was about eleven. This gentleman from Rameswaram was not only a music lover but counted among his personal friends such giants as Ramnad Krishnan (vocal), Lalgudi Jayaraman (violin) and C S Murugabhoopathy (mridangam)—the trio who performed at his wedding. Rajagopala Sarma was mainly responsible from my changeover from devotional to classical music. The man had foresight; he was a deerghadarsi. He was the first man to suggest I be given formal training to become a concert vidwan of Carnatic music. He predicted a bright future for me. Another person who had some inkling of the future was Sri V Pushpavanam, headmaster of the Sethupati High School where I studied from Form I to Form VI. He was a source of encouragement, offering me every chance to go on stage and parade my talent while at High School. He would sometimes wonder aloud if I would become famous one day as Madurai Seshagopalan just as Madurai Mani did. In fact Sri Pushpavanam who belonged to the Koteeswara Iyer parampara was distantly related to Madurai Mani. Our drillmaster Paramasivam also took a great deal of interest in my music. He and my schoolmates always had a good word for me and were proud of my singing ability. Quite often I wrote songs myself on national figures and the freedom movement of the past, set the songs to some familiar tunes from films as bhajans, and sang them on the stage. There was a song on Nehruji which I sang to the tune of a very popular song from the Hindi film ‘Madhumati.’

My guru (C S Sankarasivam) knew how to bring out the best in you. No doctrinaire approach governed his teaching. His was a voice that was not amenable to brikas. It was best suited to slow elaborations, a solid rock-like voice. But this didn’t prevent him from helping me exploit and develop my natural capabilities. He was quick to assess your plus and minus points and work on their improvement or diminution as the case may be. He never curbed your originality.
I owe all my proficiency in chowka kala to him.

Seshagopalan’s early apprenticeship in music, in the time-honoured gurukula tradition, is amusing to recollect. Here was this vidwan who was a friend of his father’s, their fondness for betel-chewing bringing them together. During one of these sessions of mastication, the vidwan suggested Gopu (Seshagopalan) be put in his care to be groomed as a musician. Soon the boy was packed off during the summer vacation to the Vadyar’s house. There, his duties consisted mainly in running errands, washing clothes and pressing his poor, tired master’s feet as he reclined on his favourite easychair. Seshagopalan wasn’t quite insightful enough to understand the significance of these aspects of the gurukula system—not quite unique by any means—and so he decided to find his way out diplomatically. He told his father that his throat hurt a great deal from constant singing, something with which he had very little to do at the guru’s house. This ruse worked like magic, for Gopu’s father felt the boy’s health was paramount and terminated the arrangement, although the chewing sessions continued.

There is in this youthful veteran the kind of narcissism one often associates with the artists, but attenuating this is his informed appreciation of the several giants who preceded him in this field as well as his own peers and seniors, and ready to acknowledgement of help and encouragement received from various persons at different stages of his career. He goes to any length of trouble to mention every one of them by name, however far removed from the limelight they may be. There is no mistaking his guru bhakti and the depth of his gratitude to his master. Again, there is no deliberate show of becoming modesty, no pious self-deprecation, no pretence of running down his own achievements; nor is there any obvious lack of humility. His assessment of his own ability and successes seems realistic without giving rise to serious suspicion of an excessive self-love.

Out of the Sruti box

2006-11-22T09:04:00.000-08:00

It was a crazy idea. My uncle Dr N Pattabhi Raman, just retired from the UNDP, wanted to start an English magazine on classical music and dance from Chennai. But in my wife Gowri and me, he found two young assistants who did not run away from crazy ideas, though Gowri took some convincing when it came to recruiting her as a major contributor of articles. Working then on her PhD in comparative aesthetics, she said, “I can only write examination papers.” But Pattabhi did not easily take no for an answer, and she eventually yielded. Slowly, more members of the extended family and other animals joined us in this mad project and Sruti hit the stands in October 1983.

It was an outstanding issue, with D K Pattammal and U Srinivas on the cover, one a stalwart of the great Carnatic tradition and the other a sensational child prodigy. Pattabhi’s family was well represented in the bylines: Gowri wrote the first part of a two- part biographical sketch of Pattammal—‘the trailblazing traditionalist’—Pattabhi himself wrote an analytical piece, I profiled a number of child prodigies (former as well as recently discovered) from S Balachandar and T R Mahalingam to E Gayathri and Ravikiran, my sister Dr Sarojini Parameswaran wrote a scientific piece that tried to explain the phenomenon of prodigies, and my daughter Akhila, barely nine then, did a mini-interview of 13-year-old Srinivas!

The first issue, and those that followed, had tremendous variety, and considerable depth, but did not lack in humour. Sruti paid generous tributes to past masters but did not ignore the brilliant practitioners of Carnatic music of the day. It loved to puncture bloated egos and lampoon the foibles of musicians, administrators and sabha secretaries. It did not spare critics either. Many loved it; some thought it was an upstart that would not last long. Semmangudi Srinivasier received the first copy if I remember right, and he, at least in private, expected it fold up within months. He did not know Pattabhi then, though soon afterwards, on a road trip to his home village they made together, he really got to know that the editor was made of sterner stuff. He himself became the subject of one of Sruti’s classy publications other than the magazine. Though he did not always appreciate all of the magazine’s contents, he came to respect and approve of it.

Those were heady days. Pattabhi made his home Sruti’s headquarters and many, many people devoted to the cause of Carnatic music dropped in there regularly, and the quality of the resultant discourse was uniformly high, though on occasion delightfully gossipy. T Sankaran, S Krishnan, Pattabhi’s own brothers Sundaresan and Venkatraman, S Ramaswami, formerly of Burmah Shell, R Ramachandran—later of Hamsadhwani fame—and many more gathered there and the atmosphere during most of these meetings was quite electric. For someone like me, cutting his teeth in music journalism, it was a fantastic learning experience.

New wave Chennai season

2006-10-12T04:43:00.000-07:00

One of the worst features of the Chennai music and dance scene over the years has been the ugly distraction provided at cutcheris by the ubiquitous advertisement banners and stage backdrops, the price the audiences perforce pay for sponsorship of these concerts by business houses.

The sabhas too love to splash their names in bold print and garish colours and the result is a complete lack of aesthetic appeal. Sruti magazine is one agency that has been highly critical of such trends but its voice has rarely been heeded.

The sabha secretaries invariably blame it on the need to give their patrons visibility and mileage in return for their generous support, without which the conduct of concerts and festivals would not become viable.

In recent years, The Other Festival, Anita Ratnam's pioneering venture featuring performances from diverse streams of dance, theatre and music from all over the world, has broken away from some of our hidebound conventions of theatrical presentation, achieving an altogether refreshing new aesthetic experience. Her Arangham Trust has succeeded in persuading sponsors not to insist on banners and other promotional displays at the concert venue.

Last year, The Hindu Friday Review music festival too presented a new look festival ambience far removed from the old sabha culture.

But change invariably brings new problems with it. The sponsors have to be appeased in other ways than the tried and tested formula of gaudy banners. So we had a master of ceremonies who did a daily spiel on the grandeur of the fare offered, but not before extolling the generosity of the sponsors "who made it all possible". He coaxed and cajoled the audience to put their hands together in applause, and thought up novel ways of asking them to switch off their mobile phones. We also watched the wondrous spectacle of commercials before the concerts and during the interval - brilliantly produced and orchestrated, but not quite what the regular concert-goer expected. The Other Festival too provided similar diversions.

The day may not be far when the ad agencies of Chennai invade our sabha halls with their sophisticated, "state-of-the-art" promotionals before and after concerts. Before long we may even listen to announcements that a certain alapana or ragam tanam pallavi was brought to us courtesy so and so sponsor.

Word pictures just as exciting as TV visuals

2006-10-01T09:04:00.000-07:00

The first Test match I listened to was the Brisbane Test in 1954. Len Hutton won the toss, put Australia in, and England got beaten by an innings, after the baggy green caps scored more than 600.

Incredibly, England swept the series thereafter. An avid England fan then, I was transported to seventh heaven by the acts of derringdo of young Colin Cowdrey and elegant Denis Compton, but more than the efforts of any other individual, by the fantastic fast bowling unleashed by Typhoon Tyson.

Later, as this love at first hearing became a full-blown passion, it became both a challenge and an adventure to twiddle the knobs on the old valve radio at home to get BBC just right and listen to Test Match Special. The word pictures of EW Swanton and John Arlott were as vivid as the most spectacular camerawork of Channel Nine today.

Yes, we all followed Indian cricket on the radio. Somehow, it was never so exciting, for two reasons. One, India was not the strongest Test outfit of the day, and Test matches tended to be one-sided affairs in which India usually got thrashed. Secondly, the standard of Indian radio commentary was nothing to write home about. Almost every ball was 'a well-flighted delivery' and batsmen usually 'played forward.' Not until transistor radios at cricket grounds exposed the gap between the cricket on view and the commentator's version of it, did we realize that perhaps the men behind the mike did not enjoy the best view of the game.

That was the time when newspaper reporting of Test cricket was arguably at its best. Some fine writers covered Test matches, Jack Fingleton of Australia, the best known of them, and they were not hampered by having to write on events the reader had already watched ball-by-ball on TV, and still make it interesting. For a young cricket fan, nothing was more eagerly awaited than the morrow's newspaper account of a Test match. What was left unsaid was often as exciting as what was said, and filling in the gaps through mental pictures of your favourite hero was one of the pleasures of following cricket in different parts of the world. For example, Fingleton's account of the first tied Test in history was perhaps more evocative and thrilling than any footage of the game.

Today's splendid TV coverage has brought in millions of new cricket enthusiasts, who are able to acquire a fair amount of cricket knowledge thanks to the stunning visuals and the observations of some of the great cricketers of our times. It is wonderful to be able to observe from behind the bowler's arm the science and art of our foremost bowlers and batsmen. To watch the acrobatic fielding feats of the best of our times is no less thrilling.

Cricket coverage by the worldwide web is perhaps the most personal connection you can have to the action. Here, not only can you listen to or read the expert opinion on the day's play, you can also tell the world what you think of it all. It is already a superb source of cricket data and pictures as well as a treasurehouse of all manner of cricket trivia. The potential for comprehensive coverage and scientific analysis is huge, and so is the scope for getting insights into what makes your favourite stars tick.

First published by Cricinfo on 15 September 2001

Mayhem on the Marina

2006-09-25T07:07:00.000-07:00

Every visitor to this city is impressed by its wonderful Marina Beach. Over the years, before the tsunami, it braved numerous depredations and retained its beauty despite epidemics of culture, patriotism, religion and politics. These noble virtues find expression on the Marina in its many memorials, stages temporary and permanent, pandals temporary and permanent, slums, slum clearance board offices and homes, statues, picnickers and sightseers, preachers, demagogues, healers and the peddlers of a million varieties of merchandise. Ugly buildings have replaced ugly buildings on one side of the promenade, and uglier buildings have displaced grand old buildings.

The Presidency College cricket ground, once a sylvan setting where heroic battles were waged by dyspeptic Europeans and tufted Tamils alike, for long vied with several other dungheaps in the metropolis for the top spot among open-air lavatories in the continent. A recent initiative by the Amalgamations group has been the first step in giving the ground a facelift.

Until the recent restoration of the Senate Hall of the Madras University, the DIG's office stood in solitary splendour among buildings on the verge of demolition, saved in the nick of time by conservationists, the threat of adding several storeys to itself warded off at least for the nonce. Presidency College, unlike its sorry cricket ground, received a so-called facelift, barely in time to escape the demolition squad's bulldozers. The AIR building looks as hideous as ever, no earthly hope of its façade being improved, visible anywhere in the distant horizon. The ghastly modern lighthouse across the road continues to frighten innocent bystanders who happen to drift beachwards of an evening.

Life goes on on the Marina; with a small rider. The traffic gets more exciting all the time. During Amma's earlier regime, we were all used to long waits while her security men played guessing games as to where she would appear from, once they knew she had left Poes Garden to go the Secretariat. The whereabouts of our Kalaignar hold no suspense to the police or the public, but there was a time he too thought nothing of bringing traffic to a grinding halt because he was late to work.

With the Chief Ministers, the ordinary, tax paying motorist or roaduser of any other description for that matter, knows exactly where he stands - usually by the wayside as these supreme beings whiz past us at the speed of light. It is with the lesser functionaries with officious looking number plates (1111, 5555, 9119, 6000 etc.) that we do not know where we stand or must take cover as they strike terror in the hearts of all and sundry during peak hours. Most of them, in fact all of them, have colour-blind drivers who cannot see yellow lines. They create an extra lane to the right of all traffic heading towards the Secretariat. We all know how brilliantly proactive they can be once they reach there and how electrifying their action on thousands of pending papers bound in red tape. Naturally, we cannot expect these, our gods on earth, to follow rules meant for lowly sinners like you and me.

One of my friends, a driver in a private company assures me that there is a clause in special driving licences issued to these privileged classes which empowers them to kill up to nine people in road accidents. He says it with a wistful sigh, giving meaningful looks at cyclists, autorickshaw drivers and scooterists, and I'm sure he cannot be wrong - especially after watching the mayhem on the Marina all these long years.

Jaga

2006-09-25T06:58:00.000-07:00

Jagatheeswaran, Jaga to all his friends, died shortly after this tribute appeared in Chennai Online some years ago.

"I'll call him Eswar in this little appreciation, because he hates publicity and would feel extremely uncomfortable if I were to use his real name. He is a rare human being, a genuine lover of music who knows how to celebrate music and musicians and has for years silently supported the music he loves. When I last visited him, he was recovering from a long and debilitating succession of illnesses. At the best of times a slightly built man, now he was skin and bones, looking frail and helpless, curled up in his bed. He was deeply depressed; his poor health had rendered him so. Just home from a long spell at a nursing home, he was convalescing, but the path to total recovery was slow and arduous.

The one thing that kept Eswar going through this period of sickness and rehabilitation was Carnatic music. There were three little cassette recorders on his bed placed at different positions, so that he could reach for one of them without exerting himself, whichever way he had turned as he tossed around restlessly. Wonderful music was flowing from one of the players on the day I visited him - a recording of a sixties cutcheri of Semmangudi Srinivasier, T N Krishnan and Palghat Mani Iyer.

Until a few months earlier, Eswar's small ground floor flat was the regular venue of chamber concerts he arranged every month. A must on his monthly calendar was a recital by P S Narayanaswami, a fine vocalist from the Semmangudi stable, and one of the most liked and sought after teachers among today's young stars as well as aspiring young musicians. At these intimate performances by 'Pichai Sir' as he is known to one and all, the audience list usually reads like a roll call of honour at the Music Academy. Regular listeners include Sanjay Subrahmanyan and his wife, Unnikrishnan,Vijay Siva, Manoj Siva, Sriramkumar, Shashank and his family, Ranjani and Gayatri and their parents, Eswar himself and a number of PSN's disciples, besides the two providing vocal accompaniment on the day.

There is much interaction between the performers and the audience, with the musicians among them sitting within handshaking distance of the artists and encouraging by gesture and voluble appreciation. Often it's a case of Listeners' Choice and the opportunity to listen to certain nuances of particular compositions or ways of improvisation unique to his school. While the whole experience is emotionally satisfying for the lay listener, for the musicians, accompanying as well as listening, it is an academic exercise as well, serving to help fine-tune certain aspects of their music.

Eswar has been organising these concerts with great love and care, often making his own requests as to the composition of the performance. Besides Pichai Sir, other musicians who regularly attend these soirees have also performed at Eswar's drawing room. I have heard memorable recitals by T M Krishna and Sanjay Subrahmanyam there for instance. The audience is usually around 25-30 in number and can on occasion fall below ten, but that has never made any difference to the quality of music at this very special venue.

Though a south Indian, Eswar was born abroad as were his parents, and shifted permanently to India only in the recent past. Hailing from a family rich in music, he is himself a trained musician and has a very sound knowledge of music theory. A professional in the service sector, he retired a few years ago following a setback in health. A frequent visitor to Madras during the music season in the years past, he decided to settle down here and could be seen regularly at concerts, before his recent illness.

I was delighted to see Eswar at a small temple concert a couple of weeks ago. He could not stay till the end as he grew very tired, but he was totally absorbed in the music while there. The day he recovers fully and goes back to his regular routine, the many musicians who like and respect him will be happy for him -- and Carnatic music."

Ashokamitran’s Madras (and mine)

2006-09-25T06:48:00.000-07:00

There was this unusual event at the Madras Book Club last month, featuring four books at one go. Of the four, a little book in Tamil by Ashokamitran, “Oru Parvaiyil Chennai,” was my favourite, for its brevity, its wry humour, and its understatement. It was a collection of short essays, each presenting a vignette of some part or aspect of old Madras, originally written as a series for a portal.

The speaker who introduced the book , B S Raghavan, IAS (retired), known for his ability to hold the interest of audiences of varying hues, was at his witty best while pretending to pooh-pooh the author’s unwitting claims to antiquity by reminding him he had seen Madras 70 years ago, while Ashokamitran had set foot in the city a mere 50 years ago. He effortlessly switched back and forth between Tamil and English, and created enough interest in the book amidst the audience to ensure a sellout that evening. When he began to list the book’s omissions, however, he gave the impression of expecting too much from the slim volume.

Raghavan’s remarks reminded me of a gem of a retort S R Madhu, my predecessor at a small advertising agency, delivered some years ago to a client who wanted a wealth of information to be made available in a brochure we were producing for him. “Mr Mehta”, he told him with the sweetest of smiles, “This is a brochure, not an encyclopaedia”. Today, Ashokamitran’s facial expression at every mention of personalities he had overlooked in his book, said it all.

The book event was still fresh in my mind as I drove past Tyagaraja and Jayanthi cinemas at Tiruvanmiyur on my way home. Memories of another day came in a rush as I recalled the ‘touring talkies’ days of these two theatres. They were both tent theatres of the type common in rural India, never staying at one place for more than a year at the most-to fulfil some licensing requirement, I’m sure. Watching movies at those makeshift venues could be great fun and full of surprises. An example was the possibility of a film being restarted from the beginning after it had run for a few minutes, to oblige some influential patron. Late for a show one evening, I found out that my companions, IIT students all, were such VIPs.

It was a weekend and we were offered a double delight, an English film followed by a Tamil one! It was a James Bond film, Casino Royale, and for a while, we were quite sure that the projector operator had got his reels mixed up, as the movie had many different James Bonds, including Peter Sellers and David Niven, and if I remember right, even a female Bond, until we realized it was all part of the script.

Another South Madras institution of the past was Eros cinema, which was first converted into a kalyana mandapam and later into a posh automobile showroom. (For a short while, the kalyana mandapam continued to display the Eros sign, and I was disappointed when it was replaced by a more respectable name)! My most unforgettable memory of Eros theatre was that of trying to walk out of a particularly bad Hindi film in the 1970s barely 15 minutes into the movie. I found the exit gate locked and the watchman refused to open it! When I cleverly started to scale the wall, he literally begged me to stay on, assuring me that the film would get quite exciting after the interval!

(First published on 4th June 2003 by the portal Chennai Online)

MS

2006-09-09T00:45:00.000-07:00

My earliest memories of M S Subbulaksmi are of concerts at RR Sabha back in the late fifties, when I, Carnatic music ignoramus though I was, could not help being mesmerised by her glorious voice, especially her tremendous reach in the higher registers. She was relatively young, and her voice was still evolving into the majestic form it achieved in her mature years.
The first time I saw her at close quarters was some ten years later at Vasant Vihar, the Greenways Road home of the Krishnamurti Foundation. It was at a mellow, meditative concert for the benefit of Jiddu Krishnamurti, and the fortunate few who had gathered there were able to catch a glimpse of greatness up close. Like everyone who has come into contact with MS, I was struck by her simplicity. Equally striking was the beauty, vivacity and humour of her brilliant vocal accompanist, Radha Viswanathan.

My next memory of MS is from a cutcheri at the University Centenary auditorium in 1969. I was seated next to the girl who was to become my wife soon afterwards and her mother, though none of us knew it then. By sheer fluke, I guessed a raga right—it was a close shave, because I debated between two choices, and mentally tossed a coin before stumbling on the right answer—and that must have impressed my companions.

Gowri and I were married not long afterwards, and that is what brought me into the privileged circle of those fortunate enough to know MS on a personal level. It was a fantastic experience to listen to her music in a private ambience, without instrumental accompaniment or amplification. Amazingly, during home visits or at the oonjal at weddings, she would happily sing alone or lead a chorus with no concern for the level of accomplishment of her accompanists. On rare occasions, I heard both MS and Semmangudi in such intimate gatherings. This is a blessing that I have enjoyed, along with other members of my family, as long as they both lived..

One unforgettable experience was listening to MS at the grihapravesam of our present home in 1993, when she sang sitting on the rough floor of a house still-under construction. She was in magnificent voice and the whole room was surcharged with emotion as her sonorous tones filled the place with an aura of sheer devotion. My thoughts were full of my father who had passed away months earlier, and it was a rare moment of sublimation such as I had never experienced before.

In the early days of our marriage, Gowri frequently nudged me to compliment ‘Kunjakka’ at the end of her concerts. Naturally, it took me a long time to gather the courage to do that—imagine walking up to a legend of our times and appreciating her performance. When I actually did it the first time, her acceptance of the compliment was so spontaneous and genuine that it was difficult to believe I was talking to someone of her eminence.

In the last decade of her concert career, when poor health prevented the peerless Radha from providing her vocal accompaniment, Gowri had the honour of assisting her. While both of us considered it a proud privilege, as anyone in our position would have, MS never failed to thank me whenever I met her, for “allowing Gowri to help her”. Though we found it extremely embarrassing, we were also touched by her concern for us and her extraordinary humility. To seek and receive blessings from MS and Thatha (Mr Sadasivam) on those occasions was to pause from the frenetic pace of our lives and experience a great sense of peace and calm.

Abhinav

2006-09-09T00:38:00.000-07:00

Abhinav is one of those rare people who have had books written about them. Here, he's seen with his mother during his MA (English Litt) convocation, when he was awarded a gold medal by Loyola College. Gowri wrote two books called Abu's World and Abu's World Again, both of which featured Abhinav.

Here are some extracts:
http://www.chennaionline.com/festivalsnreligion/Festivals/navarathri/navaratristory.asp

Akhila

2006-09-09T00:21:00.000-07:00

Sunday, 27 August 2006, was a great day. It’s the day my daughter Akhila received her PhD. At a commencement ceremony at Ohio State University, Columbus, Ohio. Of all the dumb things I have done in my life, my failure to be present by Akhila’s side on the occasion takes the cake. I can never kick myself hard enough for this act of omission. The saving grace is that Gowri Ramnarayan, PhD., was there basking in the wonderful glory of a daughter’s achievement that nothing on earth can equal.

Akhila, I am proud of you, because you wear your scholarship so lightly—come to think of it, so does your mother, hers. In all these years of childhood and adolescence and your adult years away from us, you have never asked for anything, never complained. You have led a Spartan student life, pursuing your studies with passion, but never losing touch with people, always standing up for the underdog, collecting the most unusual assortment of friends around you, based not on their accomplishments but on their essential humanity. You have remained unspoilt, sensitive, healthy. You have led a simple, uncomplicated life. Through it all, you have grown intellectually and morally, taking a stand on all that matters on this planet.

Dr Akhila Ramnarayan, this is your moment. Enjoy it, savour it, treat yourself. You deserve it. We love you—all of us who have watched you grow from that very special, gifted child of 32 years ago into the fine, upstanding woman you are today.

Chennai Online

2006-08-04T05:13:00.000-07:00

Here's an old column I wrote for the website chennaionline.
http://www.chennaionline.com/Columns/chennaichat/index.asp

The best after Subhash Gupte

2006-08-04T05:08:00.000-07:00

News of Baloo Gupte’s death a couple of months ago at the age of 70 brought back memories of two unconnected incidents. The first was a swashbuckling innings in December 1964 by M Lakhi of the Madras Cricket Association Colts, during which the burly lefthander hoisted the leg spinner out of the small Cross Maidan ground at Bombay for three huge sixes. Lakhi was a promising all rounder of Madras then and Baloo was the less known Gupte, playing cricket under the shadow of elder brother Subhash Gupte, whom Sir Garry Sobers rates as a better
wrist spinner than Shane Warne.

The second incident involved that great ambassador of cricket from Barbados, when he was in Chennai a few years ago to assist VV Kumar at the MAC Spin Academy. One evening during that visit, Sir Garfield entertained a group of members of the Madras Cricket Club‑‑fortunate enough to be invited by the club’s secretary to join him at dinner—with some delightful cricket stories, real and apocryphal. Of course, most of the awestruck audience used the opportunity to ask their distinguished guest all manner of questions to gain an insight into his views on cricket and life in general. One of them, Mahidhar Reddy, a keen cricket enthusiast, actually fell at the great all rounder’s feet in typical south Indian namaskaram, reserved for the elderly and the great. (I mention this here, as Mahidhar was quite upset with me for not mentioning his act of obeisance in an earlier account of our encounter with Sobers). Unfortunately, Sobers’ wonderful anecdotes cannot be repeated here as the author forbade us from doing so, stating they were not for public consumption. “You know, an evening like this with me would have cost maybe a thousand pounds at a subscription dinner in London,” he said half-seriously.

Sometime during that evening, Sobers asked us who we thought was the best orthodox Indian leg spinner after Subhash Gupte. Was it Baloo Gupte?

Sir Garry became thoughtful when some of us answered in a spontaneous chorus, “No, it was VV Kumar.” “Why do you say, so?” he asked, “what made VV such a good bowler?” Each of us had his own answer to that question. VV’s phenomenal accuracy, quite unusual for a wrist spinner, was mentioned. His determination to get on top of any batsman who played him well was another plus point we brought up. I gave my own personal example, of how he haunted me at the nets for a whole season, after I, a mere tailender, managed by sheer fluke, to play some attacking shots successfully off his bowling one evening at practice.

Others described how VV made the ball hang in the air, confusing the batsman as to whether he must go forward or back to negotiate his flight and spin. Someone mentioned his two different googlies, and another his domination of the top batsmen in the South Zone, until one rare day, when V Subramanyam of Karnataka tamed him to make a double century in the Ranji Trophy league. We remembered how he teased batsmen, enjoying the challenge of trapping them at their own strong points. For instance, he loved snaring strong sweepers on the sweep shot, even if it meant giving away a few boundaries in the process. We told Sobers how VV was equally good at traditional as well as one-day cricket, in which version he could bowl more economically than the quicker bowlers and the finger spinners.

In the end, Sobers was quite convinced that Kumar was India’s best leg spinner after Gupte, and but for the unorthodox genius of BS Chandrasekhar, might have had a long innings as a Test bowler, instead of the two appearances he actually made in international cricket. “Let me share a secret with you,” he said, “I had already guessed how good VV must have been in his youth after seeing him at his own coaching camp. And I think he’s the most improved bowler at the camp!”

Cricinfo and I

2006-07-26T09:23:00.000-07:00

Talking to a group of young students, I had occasion to make a passing mention of Subhash Gupte, the great Indian leg spinner Sir Garry Sobers rates above Shane Warne. I later remembered that I wrote a tribute to Gupte soon after his death for Cricinfo. Here is the link to that column for anyone who wants to read it.

http://www.cricinfo.com/link_to_database/NATIONAL/IND/NEWS/RAMNARAYAN_COLUMN.html

Dear reader, I hope you are so badly hooked that you will plunge in and read the rest of the pieces I wrote for Cricinfo too.

Good luck!

Cricketers on song

2006-07-09T04:25:00.000-07:00

Cricketers in the late 1970s carried portable 'two-in-ones' in addition to their cricket kit, in order to listen to film music and ghazals, inspired largely by B S Chandrasekhar's obsession with Mukesh's songs. Though we had few singers in our midst, there was always more than a passing interest in music in the dressing room.

Among the three or four stars I call the nawabs of Hyderabad cricket, I do not remember anything musical about the stylish Abbas Ali Baig, a man made famous by a scorcher of a kiss a young female fan planted on him when he reached fifty against Australia at the Brabourne Stadium. (The incident, in fact, led commentator Vijay Merchant to exclaim, "I wonder where all these enterprising young ladies were when I was scoring my hundreds and two hundreds.")

But the former Nawab of Pataudi had a keen ear for music. His preferences included Hindustani classical, but also music of a lighter variety, as his frequent and stentorian rendering of Mehdi Hassan's popular ghazal "Gulshan, gulshan" in the dressing room suggested. Abid Ali was no Harry Belafonte, but he belted out calypsos in the most uninhibited manner, especially one that started, "The great India bowler, Abid A-a-li."

The skipper, ML Jaisimha, had a superbly masculine voice, and he could do an impressive imitation of Frank Sinatra. On two occasions, I was to witness bravura performances by this most elegant of cricketers - once taking over nonchalantly from a live band in a fashionable Bangkok restaurant and, years later, at the V Sivaramakrishnan testimonial dinner at the Connemara, when he struck up an improbable duet with Sunil Gavaskar.

An accomplished singer in the Hyderabad team of the 70s was opener Maheshwar Singh, who specialised in the songs of Jagmohan, a crooner of KL Saigal's vintage. Maheshwar was a regular performer at cricketers' get-togethers, where many otherwise timid bathroom singers opened up because the spirit of the singer, rather than his virtuosity, mattered in these gatherings, and everyone was assured of hearty applause.

Bombay left-arm spinner Padmakar Shivalkar was a first-rate singer of Hindi film songs; so was Vijay Manjrekar in an earlier era, son Sanjay carrying on the tradition most admirably.

Decades ago, I played for Rajasthan Club in the Kolkata league. My partner in the slips was the late Ravi Kichlu, who played Ranji and Duleep Trophy cricket as an opening batsman. One half of the Hindustani classical vocalist duo known as the ‘Kichlu Brothers,’ Ravi was a gentle senior who put me, the baby of the team, at ease, and even entertained me to snatches of khayal singing in the slip cordon.

In Tamil Nadu - Chennai in particular - there has been a fairly close affinity between musicians and cricket, especially in the form of a fanatical following of the game among Carnatic musicians. Quite a few of the top young musicians of today have either played the game fairly competitively or have parents or close relatives who have done so. The best known among these is vocalist Unnikrishnan, who was a promising young batsman at the college and league levels before he decided to concentrate on his singing.

Left-arm spinner Bhargav Mehta, who took 14 wickets in a Rohinton Baria final against Bombay University, was an accomplished vocalist on the college circuit. SJ Kedarnath, a former State Bank of India opening batsman of considerable merit, is a trained "mridangam" player, but of much greater entertainment value is his wonderful talent for mimicry. Not only can he do some rip-roaring takeoffs on Tamil Nadu celebrities like VV Kumar or S Venkataraghavan, but he can also render perfectly acceptable imitations of past masters of Carnatic music like MD Ramanathan or even DK Pattammal.

(Adapted from Cricinfo, March 8, 2002)

Curdrice cricket

2006-07-09T03:12:00.000-07:00

NOT long ago, four Chennai cricketers were barred from playing any further games for the season, following unacceptably aggressive on-field behaviour during a league match. Their ‘sledging’ prowess would have put the worst excesses of the Australian Test team to shame. All four suspended players belonged to the fielding side, the umpire who reported the incident to the cricket association finding the opponents innocent of any misdemeanour. ‘They were perhaps cleverer than those who got caught,’ the cynics said. ‘Chances are that they too mouthed obscenities, insulted the opposition, and questioned their parentage; only they did it out of the umpires’ hearing, to go by the general trend of behaviour on our cricket grounds.’

What a far cry this scene is from Madras cricket of yore. Just to give you an idea of the kind of spirit that pervaded the game as it was played here in the fifties and sixties, even the seventies, let’s join the action in the first ball of a limited over match back in the sixties. The new ball bowler K.S.S. Mani is known for movement and intelligent variation rather than speed. The batsman is R. Vijayaraghavan, an entertaining stroke-maker. To ‘Viji’, if a ball is there to be hit, it is meant to be hit, even if it is the first ball of a match. Mani’s first delivery is an inswinging half volley, and Viji flicks it imperiously over square leg for six. The crowd is on its feet, but look at Mani’s reaction. He runs to the batsman and pats him on his back, shouting, ‘Great shot da, Viji.’ Though such extreme acts of sportsmanship were not a daily occurrence, most of the cricket of the time was played in a spirit of friendly combat.

Cricket was initially an elitist pursuit, learned originally from the British by the landed gentry and educated upper crust and then percolating to the middle class. It was Buchi Babu Nayudu, a dubash well-versed in the ways of the ruling British at the turn of the century, who first assembled an Indian outfit capable of beating the ‘European’ at his own game. Soon the game spread far and wide in Madras – from Purasawalkam to Perambur, Triplicane to Mylapore and beyond, with caste Hindus and Anglo-Indians the most prominent practitioners of the game.

‘Curdrice cricketers’ was the epithet still reserved for Madras cricketers of my time, especially of the Brahmin variety (who probably form a substantial percentage of the cricket playing population of the city even today), though the demographics of the game was gradually changing, with many of the Anglo-Indians leaving India, and more and more of the ‘backward communities’ taking to the game with each succeeding generation. It was a sarcastic reference to the soporific effect of the staple diet of the majority back then. We were said to lack the steel for stern battle, our artistry and skills no match to the aggression of cricketers elsewhere.

Brilliant strokemakers and spin bowlers in local cricket, we were considered no-hopers when it came to locking horns with the more robust if less stylish combatants from Delhi or Bombay. Fielding was at best an unavoidable nuisance and the slips the preserve of seniors, with the babies of the team banished to the distant outposts of long leg and third man. Fast bowling was too close to real work, left best in the hands of those endowed with more brawn than brain.

League cricket then was relatively informal. There was no registration of players by the clubs, and you could walk in a few minutes before the toss and join the eleven. There was much banter and fielders and batsmen often traded jokes or gossip, with the umpires sometimes joining in. The action rarely approached the frenetic and the accent was invariably on style rather than substance. The spinner who did not turn the ball and the batsman of dour defence or crude power were treated with contempt by all these different constituents of the game in my youth.

To give you an idea of the cricketing values of the period, I – as an off spinner – was warned by at least one umpire that he would refuse my appeals unless I flighted the ball! To him, how I bowled was more important than taking wickets.

On most grounds, the shade of a large tree served as the dressing room and facilities were generally primitive. Lunch involved a hurried dash to Ratna Café, Udipi Sukha Nivas, Shanti Vihar, Udipi Home or Dasprakash and back, depending on the venue of the match. The effects of the blazing sun were countered by glasses of unboiled, unfiltered and often multihued water stored in mud pots or brought in buckets that resembled relics dug out by archaeological expeditions.

Most Madras cricketers were unable to afford high quality gear. In fact, you needed contacts abroad or access to visiting Test cricketers to buy bats and other gear from them at fancy prices. A Gunn and Moore, Gray Nicolls or Autograph bat could cost upwards of a hundred rupees and that was a lot of money for the average cricketer. The gloves, leg guards and shoes worn by most of us often performed a psychological rather than protective role. At the lower levels of cricket it was not unusual for batsmen to wear a single leg guard rather than a pair because that was all the team could afford. The bats could be handcrafted things of beauty, but they did not possess the carry of contemporary bats that can send a top edge out of the ground.

Despite these constraints or possibly because of them – for they served to make playing cricket seem an adventure, a privilege earned by the worthy, not something handed to you on a platter as it is today – the enthusiasm for the game was plentiful and infectious among players and spectators alike, not to mention the men behind the scenes like club secretaries, scorers and markers. Of humour, there was never any shortage and the spirit of competition was always softened by a sense of camaraderie that went beyond team loyalties.

Madras cricket of those days had its share of characters. P.R. Sundaram, a first rate fast medium bowler and an entertaining wielder of the long handle, was also one of the funniest men seen on a cricket field. He kept up a fairly constant chatter on the field, and was not above laughing at an umpire after he had given a dubious decision. He once informed an official after he had lifted his finger in response to his own loud appeal, that the poor batsman had not played the ball on its way to the wicketkeeper. On another occasion, he bowled a googly as his opening delivery of the match and laughed with his arms akimbo at the batsman who had been bowled shouldering arms.

Some others raised a laugh without intending to. There was ‘Kulla Kitta’ Krishnamurthy--he opened the innings for Crom-Best Recreation Club, one of numerous short statured players known by that nickname over the years--who, dismissed off the first ball of a match once, told the incoming batsman as they crossed: ‘Be careful. He moves the ball both ways.’ ‘Dochu’ Duraiswami bowled a series of full tosses in a junior match at the Central College ground in Bangalore and later declared to his teammates: ‘I have never bowled on a turf wicket before.’

Opening batsman Balu sat up all night reading Don Bradman’s ‘The Art of Cricket’ with every intention of putting precept into practice, only to be run out first ball next morning, his partner’s straight drive brushing the bowler’s fingers on the way to the stumps, and catching him out of the crease!

‘Clubby’ Clubwalla was another character the crowds loved to boo, for his slow batting and fascinating contortions whether batting at the top of the order or bowling his alleged off spin with a most complicated action. He was a stonewaller par excellence who once made 37 runs in a whole day of batting.

There were other unforgettable characters. Probably the best known was K.S. Kannan, the veteran all-rounder who became one of the best-loved coaches of the state, more famous for his original English than his undeniable cricket skills. For a man who was fluent in Tamil, his mother tongue, but could barely pass muster in English, he loved expressing himself in the Queen’s language, with invariably hilarious results. ‘Give me the ball to him,’ he would tell one of his wards, and ‘ask me to pad up one batsman.’ ‘Thanking you, yours faithfully, K.S. Kannan,’ were the famous last words of a speech he made at a school function.

In recent years, the stylish right hand batsman T.E. Srinivasan has been famous for his wit and eccentric behaviour. On an Australian tour, his only one, T.E. allegedly told a local press reporter, ‘Tell Dennis Lillee T.E. has arrived.’ On the same tour he persuaded a security official at a Test match to warn innocent Yashpal Sharma that he would be arrested if he continued to stare at the ladies through his binoculars. Yashpal’s panic and the resultant roar of laughter from the Indian dressing room caused a stoppage in the middle as the batsman Gavaskar drew away annoyed by the disturbance.

League matches often attracted crowds in excess of a thousand and the 30-overs a side Sport & Pastime (later The Hindu) Trophy final invariably drew five or six thousand spectators. Many finals were played at the Marina ground on the Beach Road, now Kamarajar Salai, which wore a festive appearance on such occasions, with every seat in the gallery taken, every treeshade occupied and dozens of cars and scooters parked on Beach Road, providing a vantage view of the match from just beyond a low wall. If you were patrolling the boundary line, you could eavesdrop on the most knowledgeable cricket conversations among spectators who knew not only the finer points of the game but also the relative merits of all the league teams and their players backwards. You could even receive some useful advice gratis, but God save you if you misfielded or dropped a catch!

Devoted spectators sometimes went from ground to ground watching more than one match in a single day. ‘IOB 73 for 4 at Viveka, State Bank 100 for no loss at Marina, Jolly Rovers 82 for 2 at Pachaiyappa’s,’ one of them, a league cricket fanatic of many years’ standing, would announce even before parking his scooter. Quickly collecting the scores at this new venue, he would troop off to provide similar information to players at another ground anxious to learn how the competition was faring elsewhere. Today, coaches and managers carry cell phones and information is exchanged instantly and effortlessly by all the protagonists involved in the chase for match points.

A Ranji Trophy match between Tamil Nadu and Karnataka or Hyderabad could draw a crowd of 20,000-30,000 paying spectators. A match at Chepauk, with all its historic association with the ‘Pongal’ match of yore, was a most enjoyable spectacle, watched by somnolent vacationers seated under the trees surrounding the ground. That was before the concrete cauldron that today effectively reduces cricketers to dehydrated invalids in a matter of hours came to dominate the landscape.

It was an occasion to pack your puliyodarai and thair sadam and set out on a day-long excursion to catch up with old friends, and in their company, dissect the doings of the protagonists of the drama being enacted before you, to applaud or barrack bowlers, batsmen and fielders.

Madras crowds are not only knowledgeable but generally hard-to-please as well. They will never accept Anil Kumble as a better bowler than their own V.V. Kumar, a wrist spinner in the orthodox mould unlike the Karnataka express googly specialist. Gundappa Viswanath of the steely wrists and the nonchalant artistry ranks higher with them than Sunil Gavaskar, for all the Little Master’s achievements and peerless technique.

Oldtimers even today experience goosebumps when they recall a magnificent innings of 215 played at Chepauk by the Ceylon stylist Sathasivam in 1940. According to many, no better innings has ever been played at Chepauk. But post-War cricket enthusiasts rate G.R. Viswanath’s unbeaten 97 against West Indies in January 1975 as the greatest innings in living memory, better than the best Gavaskar and Tendulkar knocks played at the same venue – and there have been plenty of those at Chepauk. The Triplicane crowds still wax lyrical about E.A.S. Prasanna’s deadly spell in 1969, when he had Australia reeling at 24 for 6, and will be the first to admit that their own local hero Venkataraghavan could not have hoped to equal the magic of that afternoon.

That is the one feature of the Madras crowd that you will rarely find elsewhere in India – the ability to transcend regional, even national bias to appreciate true sporting endeavour and artistry. This sportsmanship was never more in evidence than when the Pakistanis under Wasim Akram did a victory lap at the end of a pulsating match India almost won in 1999. I remember the drama of that afternoon as though it happened yesterday. The crowd had been roaring its approval all morning as Tendulkar led an incredible assault on the rival bowling, supported by the gallant Nayan Mongia. Unfortunately, with victory seemingly within easy reach, Sachin succumbed to the strain of the painful back injury he had been carrying throughout the innings, and soon it was all over for India.

There was a stunned silence, as if the huge crowd was still waiting for a signal from the small but significant saffron brigade in the stands that had been shouting anti-Pakistan slogans on the last day of the match (Bal Thackeray had earlier called for a ban on the tour). Like many others in the pavilion terrace, I looked back anxiously at the leader of the group, who, after what seemed like an interminable wait, gave the thumbs up to his followers. They burst into applause and the rest of the stadium joined in thunderous ovation as the victors did their triumphant march around the ground. It was a moment to make every Indian proud.

(Excerpted from SEMINAR March 2004)

Murrays Gate Road

2006-07-09T02:59:00.000-07:00

SOME THINGS haven't changed from the Madras of 50 years ago to the Chennai of today. The name of the street where I grew up, for instance. Murrays Gate Road has remained Murrays Gate Road, and our old house, Suprabha, remains there pretty much as I remember it.

Those were the days of fresh milk being delivered at your doorstep. The quiet stillness of sleepy afternoons was punctuated by the buffalo's grunts and groans, even as her master by expert sleight of hand, emptied the cylindrical receptacle to show you it had no water in it, yet managing to dilute the milk.

The dawning of festival days was heralded by the family barber producing unearthly sounds on a battered nagaswaram. Domestic help splattering the front courtyard with cowdung solution was a daily ritual.

Journalist uncle Sundaresan's attempts downstairs at grabbing much needed sleep during the day after doing night duty were invariably scuttled by the noise of thudding feet as we siblings and cousins played deathless test matches between England and Australia in the corridor upstairs.

In the afternoon, the action shifted to the compound and by evening, to the ground across the street.

The ground was a huge expanse of land where today you see Venus Colony. It was remarkably level. The wicket was hard and even, the result of several people and cattle using it as a shortcut between Venus Studios and Murrays Gate Road.

On rainy days, quite a nasty rough was created by the hoofmarks of buffaloes returning from grazing beyond country or long-on. These rarely created any problems for the batsmen as few of the bowlers could land the ball on those spots on purpose.

The street had its share of celebrities, major and minor, besides the number of amateur cricketers there that went on to play competitive cricket at school, college, league and first class level.

Of the extended family, the late P. S. Ramachandran who lived on Eldams Road, played for Madras as a fast bowler in the very first Ranji Trophy match way back in 1934. The family produced many other cricketers of merit.

Arguably the most celebrated of the regular visitors to our neighbourhood was Sathya Sai Baba. He was a guest of one of our neighbours, though we knew nothing about him beyond his quaint hairstyle and that he travelled in luxury in a Mercedes Benz if my memory is not playing tricks.

Another famous person endeared herself to the children of our street with her unaffected ways and unfailing courtesy. K B Sundarambal, a singer of film songs, had made an indelible impression on young minds with her portrayal of Avvai, the great Tamil poet of ancient times.

A Bhim Singh, the successful Tamil film director, was another distinguished resident. His sons Narendran and Lenin were to become our playmates in the Sixties.

The highest point of their lives for most of the residents was the time the Sage of Kanchi accepted pada puja from individual households on our street. To see him at close quarters and receive his blessings was a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

Itinerant visitors included the Chinese seller of muslins and silks who carried his merchandise on the carrier of his bicycle and Karim with his wondrous cache of scents and perfumes.

'Anugundu Ayyavu' of wild hair, bloodshot eyes and eccentric clothing, suspenders, hat and all, regaled us with tall stories once we got used to his appearance. His claim to fame rested on the bit parts he played in the movies.

And there was this salesman of cheeppu, kannadi and colour kumkumam, with his variegated stock of multihued powders.

The Murrays Gate Road of then was a quiet place all right, but it was a happening place for the kids on the block. We were always in and out of each others' houses playing an unending variety of games from cricket and ball badminton to hopscotch and gilli- danda, depending on the time of the year.

I am sure anyone who ever lived or played in the neighbourhood carries memories of a remarkable childhood.

Beyond cricket

2006-07-09T02:55:00.000-07:00

"OUT OF 24 hours, you spend six hours on the cricket field. What do you do with the rest? Do you read? Go to the theatre? Listen to music? You must have a life beyond cricket. Cricket is a game that demands intellect, maturity, independent decision making ability, and all this, you cannot acquire by merely playing cricket."

This was Bishan Singh Bedi, left arm spinner extraordinaire from Indian cricket's fabled past of 30 years ago. He was addressing a young spin bowling prospect, during a practice match arranged at Chennai to provide exposure to slow bowlers who had arrived from Australia to polish their art with the help of India's past masters. The visitors belonging to the Australian Cricket Academy were in Chennai, courtesy the MRF Pace Foundation, to learn a few lessons from great spinners like Bedi and Erapalli Prasanna. This has obviously been seen as a successful experiment, as the ACA has been sending its boys here for the last couple of years.

Between watching the match in progress and making notes on his wards' performance, Bedi was dipping into a book on leadership. He also found material relevant to his theme of the inter- relatedness of sport and other facets of life in The Hindu's Folio on 'Reaching Out' and encouraged his trainees to read it, as part of a mind-expanding exercise.

The sardar is a firm believer in the key role that the psychological aspects of cricket play in the success or failure of a player or a team. "I am not spending too much time on technique with these boys," he says. Instead, he is concentrating on instilling self-confidence in his young pupils, the ability to reflect calmly when under siege, and thinking a batsman out. The thought processes and confidence level of each bowler are reflected in his field placings, for instance. An off spinner who needs a sweeper cover is obviously lacking in self-belief, and he has just told the batsman and the whole world that he is making contingency plans for bad bowling. In his playing days, Bedi was a practitioner of yoga to stay physically and mentally fit and he had a few followers among international cricketers, wicket keeper Alan Knott of England one who took serious lessons from him.

All round knowledge and thinking ability are essential not only for sportsmen but also for sports administrators, says Bedi. Illustrating what can happen when these are absent, he recalled how India foolishly agreed to a proposal by England that as part of the playing conditions of India's tour of England in 1979, the number of fielders on the onside would be restricted to five. This spelled disaster to the Indian spinners, especially the off spinners, as it forced them to have one fielder more than they needed on the offside and one fielder too few on the legside. What is worse, they were simply unused to a field like that, and could not make the necessary adjustments to bowl well in the Test series.

Bedi was constantly challenging the boys to think for themselves, and to articulate their views on a variety of topics. "What is the difference between joy and happiness?" he asked one of them. The boy made a brave attempt and Bishan was quick to appreciate the effort, but he provided the answer himself, to set the youngster thinking on the right lines.

"Imagine your father has bought you a new car for your 21st birthday. How do you feel when he hands over the keys to you? Don't you feel joyous and excited? But what happens after a couple of months? You are still happy to drive a car, but that sense of unbridled joy will be missing, won't it?" he asked. "Enjoy your cricket. Don't let the joy factor disappear. That's the key to a successful cricket career," India's greatest spinner advised the spinners of the future.

(First published in The Hindu Metroplus in May 2001)

Valmiki Nagar

2006-07-09T02:51:00.000-07:00

"WHY DON'T you buy a plot of land in Valmiki Nagar? It's only Rs. 30,000 per ground," my friend had said. I was sorely tempted, but I let the opportunity pass.

This was in 1981 if I remember right, but I first visited the lovely seaside suburb south of Tiruvanmiyur way back in 1962, my last year at school, when my classmates and I were invited to tea at our school principal's house, 'Saradindu'. Kalyan Miss and her twin sister Anand Miss were perfect hostesses and we boys, all eight of us - that's how big our class was - waded into the sumptuous spread like soldiers back from the trenches.

There were few houses in the neighbourhood then, and 'Saradindu' was a single-storeyed, spacious, airy bungalow with a huge compound and plenty of vegetation around it. A swim in the sea was an exciting bonus, followed by some sage advice from Mr. Subramaniam, the principal's father.

Eight years later, Valmiki Nagar had not changed much when my wife and I went there on a holiday, courtesy our Spanish friend Maria, who lent her house on Third Seaward Road.
It was still a sleepy suburb, with the bungalows few and far between, occupied by IAS officers and other distinguished personages of Madras.

To reach Valmiki Nagar, you took the village road past where Kalakshetra is now situated and crossed the agraharam of the Marundeeswarar temple. Lotuses floated in the temple tank, which actually had water those days. All the buildings around the temple were old, village houses that you found in temple squares everywhere.

Tiruvanmiyur itself was still very much a village, with the bus terminus located on North Mada Street, the large one on the main road still belonging to the future. Jayanti and Tyagaraja were then 'touring talkies', 'tents' that moved from place to place. Hordes of IIT students would land there on a Saturday evening, usually late, and the projectionist would restart the film to oblige them. English films were part of a two-in-one deal, which meant that you watched MGR as a prelude to "Come September" or "Casino Royale".

'Sunny Brooke' was the first block of flats to come up in Valmiki Nagar, some time in the 1980s. One recalls the sense of outrage it caused in old time residents. The owners of the property, who had betrayed the interests of their neighbourhood for personal gain, were criticised.

In time, however, almost all the seniormost residents gave in to the inevitable. Today, some of the better multi-storeyed residential apartment complexes in Chennai are situated there, outnumbering independent houses by a big margin.

Valmiki Nagar is no longer the preserve of IAS officers. Company executives, pilots, businessmen, musicians and showbiz stars reside there. It is still a pleasant suburb, but it has too much traffic for comfort. Cars zip around, competing with water tankers, which pose an even greater threat to life and limbs. School vans and office-goers in a tearing hurry make the roads unsafe for the pedestrian and the cyclist in the mornings.

The saving grace is that the locality has not been taken over completely by the rich and famous. Its middle class residents still form its hard core, with their upward mobility over the years visible in the gradual improvements in their houses and modes of transport.

One thing that may never change is the approach to Valmiki Nagar. Whether you take a left turn on New Mahabalipuram Road or enter it via the Besant Nagar-Kalakshetra route, there is no escape from traffic snarls and potholes. Nor, we are assured, will there ever be an attempt to remove the permanent obstruction on East Mada Street that reduces every motorist to tears day in and day out.

You must cross a few hurdles on your way to this quiet suburban haven.

(First published inThe Hindu Metroplus in August 2001)

Charles Goschen

2006-07-09T02:42:00.000-07:00

THIS IS the story of a much-travelled Englishman my family and I knew, someone who visited us on and off during the 1990s. He was in his thirties then, handsome, well-read and articulate, prone to acts of kindness towards all around him.

My early memories of Charles Goschen are of those of an unusually tall man, almost doubling up with mirth at the recollection of an incident at the Chennai secretariat. This was several years ago. Charles had gone to Fort St. George in search of records of his greatuncle Lord Goschen, who had been Governor of Madras. Unimpressed by his curiosity, the clerk at the counter had told him not to waste her time with frivolous requests.

Charles was at the time writing a novel, one of three he wrote, I was to learn later, but never published. He moved to Pondicherry to continue his work there, but was still an occasional visitor at home.

Smiling, laughing, easygoing, a great fan of the cartoon serial 'The Simpsons', which he enjoyed in the company of my son, then about ten years old, Charles was equally at home discussing Montessori with my schoolmarm sister-in-law, film criticism with my journalist wife, or cricket with me and my son. He was a sensitive listener and we knew that underneath that cheerful exterior was a heart that cared for the underprivileged of the world. If he found India hugely amusing - there were always little incidents to have a roaring laugh about - he also had great admiration for the resilience and smiling ways of her poor.

I did not know then that Charles Goschen had fought the ravages of epilepsy since boyhood. His sister Caroline wrote to us: "Charles was born on 17 August 1958 in Rhodesia. My parents farmed just outside a small town called Rusape and Charles and I had a magical childhood with lots of animals, space and freedom."

Until 15, life had been a song for Charles. He had joined High School in Salisbury a year ahead of his age group. According to his father: "He achieved record distinctions at O level. At that time people were saying that it wasn't fair that Charles had everything, looks, brains and charm".

The epilepsy started when he was 15 as petit mal and affected his work, though he passed his A levels ahead of his friends. After a year's National Service, he went to the University of Cape Town to do civil engineering. The grand mal seizures started there and he had to leave.
He joined a firm of stockbrokers in Johannesburg but a seizure he suffered on the trading floor made him quit. He also had two minor car accidents and decided he could not drive and risk other people's lives.

Charles decided to try a completely different climate in the West Indies, beginning his novel writing efforts there. He taught English in Ecuador and started a fund there for a native girl's heart surgery, with a considerable donation of his own. He trekked to the source of the Amazon, to the southernmost tip of South America, and generally did a great deal of travelling.
"I think during this part of his life he abandoned thoughts of money-making ," says his father.

According to his sister, "Charles' life was a constant roller coaster of thinking he could control his epilepsy, followed by times when nothing he did made any difference and he had seizure after seizure. But he never gave up".

When Charles announced his decision to move to Srinagar, I was surprised because I had always believed him to be a south Indian at heart, though an Englishman by birth, born and brought up in Zimbabwe. It was much later that I learnt that Kashmir indeed had been his window to India when he first visited there with a friend years ago.

This second visit to the valley was to prove momentous. After seeing a cow's carcass floating on the Dal Lake, Charles launched what has now become famous as the Green Kashmir movement, beginning with distributing wicker baskets to shopkeepers for them to deposit their rubbish. He also wrote a regular column "Environment Watch" in the local newspaper, gave talks to school children and generally raised the level of awareness about pollution.

The "Green Kashmir Conservation Trust" which Charles set up received a grant from the local government, with which he extended the scheme, using shikaras to collect rubbish from other houseboats and other parts of the city.

All this resulted in a noticeable improvement in the ecology of the lake by 1998, and GK drew much media attention. BBC has telecast programmes on the project and several newspaper articles have been published on it.

1999 was a bad year for Charles. On a visit to South Africa, he had taken his internationally known wine maker brother John's wife and children to the beach, when they received news of John's death by electrocution. Six months later, his mother died.

His epilepsy once again went out of control. A bout of malaria in South Africa was followed by a broken leg while back in Kashmir.

When Charles went to South Africa to recuperate, his father took him to an old family doctor and soon his epilepsy was responding to treatment. He started swimming regularly to strengthen his injured leg.

On the morning of January 31, 2000, Charles Goschen was found dead in a swimming pool.
"John's wife said at his memorial service that she thought of him as being a travelling man and that he was just off on another one of his travels", writes Caroline. That is how most of his friends would like to think of Charles Goschen's passing.

(First published in The Hindu Metroplus)

Calypso magic

2006-07-09T02:31:00.000-07:00

Proudly wearing the rosette of my skin
I strut into Sabina, England boycotting excitement
Bravely, something badly amiss.
Cricket. Not the game they play at Lord’s,
the crowd (whoever saw a crowd at a cricket match?) are caged,
vociferous partisans quick to take offence.
England sixtyeight for none at lunch.
‘What sort o battin dat man?
Dem caan play cricket again, praps Dem should a borrow Lawrence Rowe!’

And on it goes, the wicket slow as the batting and the crowd restless.
‘Eh white bwoy, ow you brudders dem does sen we sleep so?
Me a pay monies fe watch dis foolishness? Cho?’
So I try to explain it in my Hampshire drawl
about conditions in Kent, about sticky wickets and muggy days
and the monsoon season in Manchester
but fail to convince even myself.

This poem, At Sabina Park, by Stewart Brown, poet and professor of Caribbean studies, is a sample of the joyous impact of West Indian cricket on its crazy, partisan spectators. But long before Geoff Boycott and Dennis Amiss had arrived on the scene, to appear wooden by unfair comparison with the gifted Lawrence Rowe, thousands of fans had been hooked. By the three Ws, Sonny Ramadhin and Alf Valentine, Garry Sobers and Rohan Kanhai, Denis Atkinson and Clairmonte Depeiza (if only for one heroic stand that went into the record books), Wes Hall and Lance Gibbs.

The first time I followed a Test series involving the West Indies was when Australia toured in 1954-55; Clyde Walcott lit up Sabina Park with two outstanding innings of 155 and 110, yet Australia had won by an innings and 82 runs. That was the fifth and final Test, and Walcott had made 110 and 39 in the first Test too, on that same, lightning-fast pitch, against the pace of Ray Lindwall and Keith Miller and the wrist spin of Richie Benaud. Incredibly, Walcott also scored a century in each innings at Port of Spain (with Everton Weekes contributing 139 and 67 not out), amassing 827 for an average of 82.7 in the series. Still West Indies lost 0-3. It was at Bridgetown, Barbados, that Atkinson and Depeiza put on 347 for the seventh wicket to force a draw.

A young left-hander named Garfield St. Aubrun Sobers also made 35 not out and 64 in the final Test, compiling in all just 231 runs and taking six wickets in the series, in what was a modest beginning to the greatest all round Test career of all time. Notice of his greatness had already been served, the very first time he batted against the Aussies. Benaud was to recall years later that, fielding at gully, he had to run for cover, seeking protection from Sobers’s fierce square cuts!

Those were still the Dark Ages of West Indies cricket: no dark-skinned player could captain the team. That had to wait until Frank Worrell was handed the reins for the 1960-61 tour of Australia, a historic series that brought the crowds back to Test grounds, after controversies and dull county cricket had driven them to other sports.

Worrell and Benaud were the rival captains involved in what was to be a major diplomatic victory for cricket — for the spirit in which the series was played, but also in the game’s first tied Test at Brisbane. The West Indies were gallant losers of a closely fought series and might have fared better but for a contentious umpiring decision that cost them a victory in the fourth Test. Australia scraped through with a two-wicket margin in the final Test, to emerge as a 2-1 winner of the series.

Two grand innings of 125 and 168 confirmed Sobers’ burgeoning stature as the world’s leading batting talent, after his world record 365 against Pakistan, but he was yet to achieve the phenomenal success that prompted John Arlott to declare: ‘‘No aspect of his cricket has been more amazing than his capacity for combining quality and quantity of effort; it is as if a single creature had both the class of a Derby-winner and the stamina of a mule.’’
Sobers was also still some distance from burying the ghosts that haunted him after his dear friend and co-cricketing star Collie Smith had died in a car accident with Sobers at the wheel. In his autobiography, Sobers confessed that after that shocking loss, he steeled himself to bat and bowl and field for both of them. How the cricketing nations of the world had to pay for that resolve!

Worrell was the great binding force, the calming influence on a team of brilliant but mercurial individuals. He took Sobers under his wing and groomed him to be his successor. By the time Sobers led his team to India in 1966-67, he had been unofficially crowned the greatest all rounder, and we in India were treated to some wonderful samples of his genius. Hall was a fading colossus, and so was Charlie Griffith, but Gibbs was still a force to reckon with. Basil Butcher, Seymour Nurse, David Holford — Sobers’s cousin and partner in a couple of historic rearguard actions — Clive Lloyd and Jackie Hendricks made up a powerful batting combination.

Another crowd favourite in India as elsewhere was Rohan Babulal Kanhai, the man who matched Sobers knock for knock in daring strokeplay that disguised technical excellence of the highest order. There was a keen rivalry between these two heroes of West Indian cricket, but it was tempered by a chivalry natural to both of them. It helped them to come together to make common cause on several occasions. If Sobers’ run as captain came to an unhappy end after his sporting declaration resulted in a series defeat against a touring England in 1972, Kanhai’s reign began with a series defeat to Australia despite great personal form, aided by the brilliance of Lloyd. One Garfield Sobers was sorely missed, though, as he was out of the series, mysteriously injured.

Sobers and Kanhai combined briefly to post huge personal and team totals in the 1973 English summer, but the new generation was already upon them, with the elegant left-hander Alvin Kallicharran playing several delightful innings and the ursine Lloyd launching murderous assaults against the world’s best attacks.

The Indian tour of 1974-75 was Lloyd’s first as captain. A batting sensation answering to the name of Isaac Vivian Alexander Richards was unveiled on this tour, and Lloyd himself gave evidence of his enormous power in the final Test at Bombay. The West Indies won 3-2, but not before India put up a hard fight, levelling the series 2-2 at Madras. None noticed yet, but the greatest battery of fast bowlers in the history of cricket was in the process of being assembled. It took an abject whitewash in Australia and a magnificent win by India chasing over 400 at Port of Spain the following season, for Lloyd to marshal his fast bowling resources into a fearsome quartet, an unprecedented combination in Test cricket.

It is precisely the manner in which the fearsome foursome was developed that took away for me the lustre and gallantry of West Indies cricket. Michael Holding, Wayne Daniel, Bernard Julien and Vanburn Holder unleashed a barrage of short balls on the hapless, helmetless Indian batsmen, often bowling round the wicket on a ridge around leg stump and traumatising them with viciously intimidating bowling. The tactics showed Lloyd in a poor light, desperate to maintain a winning record.

It was also the start of the total dominance of world cricket for over a decade by Lloyd and his men, the great fast bowlers backed by the greatest batsman in the world, Richards, and the captain himself, still as destructive as ever. Gordon Greenidge, Desmond Haynes, Kallicharran, Larry Gomes, Derryck Murray, Jeffrey Dujon, Malcolm Marshall, Andy Roberts, Joel Garner, Colin Croft and Keith Boyce were some of the names to etch themselves permanently in the memory of the West Indies cricket fan.

An ugly side of West Indies cricket was revealed, at least in the eyes of ‘‘the victim’’, when Kerry Packer’s coup d’etat in 1977 resulted in all the leading West Indies players joining his ‘‘circus’’. Kallicharran refused to toe the Packer line and was rewarded with the West Indies captaincy, but he was unceremoniously axed when Lloyd and the other Packerites returned to official cricket. Kallicharran cried foul and even claimed that his Indian origin worked against him in the inter-island politics of West Indies cricket. Similar murmurs had been made by the other great East Indian icon, Kanhai, in his playing days. During the Richards era, the murmurs were louder and clearer, with the captain charged with racial prejudice in the team composition he favoured.

This was a far cry from the early days of West Indies cricket, when it was a disadvantage to be black, as in West Indian society. According to C L R James, for the dark man, ‘‘the surest sign of…having arrived is the fact that he keeps company with people lighter in complexion than himself.’’

To me, the golden period of West Indies cricket was not the era of Lloyd, Richards and the four-man pace battery, but the journey that began with Worrell’s historic tour of Australia with his gallant men, and ended with Kanhai and Sobers (almost) bowing out in style with individual scores of 157 and 150 not out in the Lord’s Test of 1973. (The next series was their last together — at home — an anticlimax for both.)

It was a time when the team was united as never before, and it set the pattern for Lloyd and Co. to follow. Under Lloyd too, West Indies played their cricket fair most of the time, though harder than any team before or after. The blot on their record of sportsmanship was provided by that ugly Test at Jamaica against India and the tantrums of their bowlers in the face of poor umpiring in New Zealand.

Richards ranks with the best batsmen of all time, as does Brian Lara; while Richards was part of a champion side, Lara belonged to a struggling, loose conglomeration of no-hopers most of the time. As captain, neither has succeeded in inspiring the West Indies to great heights. That honour must go solely to Worrell, Sobers and Lloyd.

(First published in The Sunday Express)

Anuradha

2006-07-06T21:44:00.000-07:00

Even as I heard the news that Hrishikesh Mukherjee was critically ill, Worldspace Radio was playing ‘Haye re voh din kyun na aye!’ that unforgettable song by Lata Mangeshkar from Anuradha, the 1960s Mukherjee-directed film that had Balraj Sahni and Leela Naidu in the lead roles.

That song was unforgettable for more reasons than one. For one thing, it was a beautiful melody (based on raga Kalavati) composed by sitar maestro Pandit Ravi Shankar, whose score for the film was outstanding, and if I remember right, won him the national award. It was sung by a mature Lata whose voice was not only still young and fresh enough to capture every nuance of the melody, but also had that quality that tugged at your heartstrings.

The scene itself was memorable. But when the film starts, Anuradha is a famous playback singer who has all of India in thrall with her wonderful voice and is riding the crest of a wave when she marries the doctor, played by Balraj Sahni who decides to work in a village. In a rather naïve depiction of a medical practitioner--who is also a research scientist—Mukherjee tells a touching tale of a very loving couple, gradually heading towards estrangement, thanks to the doctor’s obsessive involvement with his work, which will save millions of lives, no less. The singer is forced to become a rural housewife, cut off from her music and her former life.

In a melodramatic but powerful denouement, an elder family member coaxes Anuradha to dust her tanpura, tune it after years of neglect, and sing again for him—just when she is beginning to consider leaving her doctor husband for an old friend, whom serendipity brings to her doorstep as an accident victim, and whom of course her husband saves. All’s well that ends well, and the good doctor realises in the nick of time that he is about to lose his precious jewel, and Anuradha too gets over her momentary weakness.

Though there are many lovely songs in the film, based on folk and classical music (Kaise din beete kaise beeti rattiya, Jaane kaise sapnon me kho gayeen akhiyan, Saavre saavre) and these are beautifully enacted by Balraj Sahni of the noble good looks, and the frail, delicate beauty, Leela Naidu (then married in real life to Dom Moraes), the final song was the most poignant, most emotive of the lot, especially when the line ‘Sooni meri beena, sangit bina’ is sung. My wife and I saw the film in a morning show at Hyderabad in the early seventies, and the audience burst into spontaneous applause after the song, something I have never experienced before or after (in a serious film, that is).

‘Hrishida’ has made several good films in his long career (Anupama, Satyakam, Anand, Guddi, Namak Haram, Abhimaan and Chupke Chupke, to name a few) but I would put Anuradha right at the top, for its poetic treatment, for its superb black and white photography, its perfect casting, and above all for its gorgeous music.

Note: If anyone can lay hands on an article written by Sadanand Menon in ‘Man’s World’, if I remember right, on Hrishida and his Mumbai home ‘Anupama’, s/he should grab it.

Another loss--closer home

2006-07-04T09:38:00.000-07:00

Just heard the horrible news of the death of a 42-year-old medical professor in London, my friend's nephew, last week from my sister-in-law who came back from London. Sridhar was a visitor at our Hyderabad home when his uncle and I were neighbours and colleagues at State Bank. I was at the time a first class cricketer and Sridhar was a 12 year old, I think. We played endless cricket games in our tiny compound and I was impressed with his leg spin. I encouraged him to pursue that difficult art and the poor lad kept at it for years. He told me years later it took him a long time to realise he wasn't going to make it as a cricketer.

Sridhar was happily married and his daughter is just eleven. His wife is a dancer and dance teacher, and there had been no sign whatsoever that the end was near, for even a few moments before he collapsed after a massive heart attack, he had spoken normally to them. He loved and protected 'the girls' as he called them both. My wife and the rest of my family enjoyed the hospitality of the Sridhars whenever they visited London and had been hugely impressed by his wide range of interests. For Sridhar, childhood had not been easy but if there was any scarring it never showed in his sunny disposition and warm, caring nature.

Much of what I have said here about Sridhar in his adult years is hearsay, learnt through my wife and in-laws, who had regular interactions with him. He and I rarely met during the last three decades, though when we did, it was very pleasant and warm. Both of us had happy memories of our cricket battles in Hyderabad and we enjoyed revisiting those memories.

In family circles, I have been known to be the strong man in times of loss of dear ones. This time, when I called Sridhar's uncle to offer my condolences, it was he who had to console me. It's probably the unfairness of it all that shattered me so.

Budhi is no more

2006-06-23T19:47:00.000-07:00

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

How green was my Marina 1

2006-06-18T19:44:00.000-07:00

The Marina ground is at long last receiving a facelift. After years in the wilderness, the historic venue of many a stirring cricket contest has now been adopted by the Amalgamations group, which has renovated the pavilion and fenced the ground before starting restoration work on the ground itself.

I have a particular reason to be pleased by this development. I played on that ground well nigh everyday for five years back in the sixties. I joined the adjoining Presidency College—whose ground the Marina is—in 1964. Though hailing from a family of cricketers, I was too diffident to give myself a reasonable chance of being selected as a member of the college cricket team. It had once been a champion side, but the year I joined it did not have a recent record worth writing home about, though there was news in the air that some exciting players were joining.

Came the day of selection and I decided to give it a miss. I went to college without my cricket kit, which made it virtually impossible for me to attend the trials. I did not however reckon with the determination of friends to make it happen. One particular friend, ‘Alley Sridhar’, the least elegant lefthander in the history of the game, thought I was out of my mind, as he believed I would certainly be picked if I took part in the selection process. Living on Lloyds Road, not very far from Presidency, he cycled home immediately after the bell, picked a spare kit for me, and literally forced me into his cricket gear just in time for me to join him at the nets.

I was an emerging off spinner. I had discovered this talent of mine quite by happenstance at Vidya Mandir where I finished my school years. I had played cricket from the time I could walk, growing up in a cricket-mad atmosphere (I strongly recommend you read my book Mosquitos and Other Jolly Rovers, in which I have described my fantastic childhood of never-ending cricket in the Alwarpet neighbourhood where I grew up. How’s that for salesmanship)! But, until one fateful afternoon when I attempted an unusual grip and discovered I could turn and spin the ball prodigiously, I had been at different times a ‘fast’ bowler, leg spinner and even specialist batsman.

The summer before I came to Presidency College, I, along with my brothers and cousins, as well as ‘Alley’ Sridhar, had been a regular at the practice nets organised by Ram Ramesh, the captain of the Vivekananda College team. Now Ramesh had been feeling sorry for me for more than a year because I had not been selected for the college team, the Physical Director Mr T V Venkataraman having rejected me. During the recent summer nets, he had been impressed with my youthful attempts at off spin bowling and actually apologised to me for not insisting on my inclusion in the college team.

How strange can life be! Here was a conspiracy of circumstances that paved the way for my being selected for the Presidency College cricket team. On the first day of the selection trials, when thanks to Sridhar’s generosity, I managed to show up at the nets, Mr Ram Ramesh decided to pay a visit to the Marina, where he had no earthly reason to be. His close friend V V Rajamani, an all rounder, was a senior member of the Presidency College team and perhaps its most influential voice, though the captain elect was the mild mannered Bhaskar Rao. Ramesh stood by the side of Rajamani throughout the selection trials and made sure he took a good look at my bowling. This was crucial, as at least a hundred hopefuls came to the nets to try and impress the selectors. If Alley—who too knew Rajamani—and Ramesh had not warned him to look out for me, I would probably have bowled a couple of overs and left the ground a disappointed if hardly surprised candidate.

With that kind of extraconstitutional support, there was no way the college selectors could ignore me. And they must have seen some merit in the recommendations Ramesh and Sridhar made. When the team was announced, sure enough my name was there, and my joy knew no bounds. It was a fantastic feeling, as the college team had a number of new recruits in N Ram, S V Suryanarayanan, J S Gupta (the last two are no more) and R Premkumar, which made it a strong combination, capable of taking on favourites Vivekananda, Pachaiyappa’s , Loyola and Engineering. (The last named was a star-studded team, virtually unbeatable). I shall try and describe in future postings the wonderful idyll that my teammates and I enjoyed over the next five seasons at the Marina.

Srinivasan Master

2006-05-31T06:00:00.000-07:00

Srinivasan Master was a hero to hundreds of students who passed out of Vidya Mandir, the Mylapore school that celebrated its golden jubilee last year. He was certainly my hero when I was growing up. He was my history and geography teacher in my final year of school but remained a friend and mentor until his untimely death in 1993, in his sixties.
His classes were original and inspiring. He made Indian history come alive, lighting up the class with fiery anecdotes from the freedom struggle, though there was an RSS bias to these stories. Somehow, when he spoke of the sacrifices made by such people as Veer Savarkar, there was no religious fanaticism behind his utterances, only fierce patriotism. He had a sonorous voice that had enough modulation in it to lend itself to song, and he used it to advantage in Vidya Mandir's famous General Class on Friday afternoons, belting out such unforgettable melodies as 'Hum Karen Rashtra Aradhan' and 'Are Sadhak, Sadhana Kar'. The old teachers we met during the recent golden jubilee were surprised to find that some of us still knew those songs.
Srinivasan Master's Geography classes were no less exciting, believe it or not! He made games out of the driest of lessons, pitting one team against another in quiz programmes, 'match the following', etc. He was also always there for you when you were in a spot of trouble common to teenage years. He could give you sage advice, even visit your parents to explain your viewpoint to them when they did not see eye to eye with you, or to convince you that they were right.
He cycled everywhere, and it was not uncommon for his young wards to go cycling with him. Often, he cycled along with you until you reached home, and then went on to his own home. Sometimes, he patiently listened to your woes or explained some problem to you standing at the street corner, and you returned home in an uplifted frame of mind. Through him many of his students learnt deep breathing and meditation exercises that helped them greatly at a crucial juncture of their lives.
For a few months after school, I accompanied Srinivasan Master on his long cycle trips to nearby villages and slums to perform his social work. These were great learning experiences for a young man who had never been exposed in such proximity to poverty. With him, I learnt to sit down at some poor man's hut and accept his hospitality, be it a cup of tea or bowl of gruel. Initial aversion gave way to appreciation of the simple generosity of these humble folk. But for Srinivasan Master, I, for one, would never have shed my inhibitions about poor people.
For years after I left school, he was there to guide me or at least hold my hand when I courted trouble of one sort or the other. Once when I was particularly nervous about a university exam, he appeared as if by magic just outside the college gate, minutes before I entered it, and gave me such an encouraging smile and powerful slap on my back that my nervousness vanished and I did the paper extremely well. Many years later, when I was at a crossroads, he assured me I was doing the right thing by choosing a writing career. To know that I had his - and another teacher Shrimati Buch's - approval in my 'eccentric' decision, was to feel confident about my future during a time of great anxiety.
A few months before Srinivasan Master's death, I lost my father, and he was there by my side at the cremation ground. That was to be expected of him. But when he turned up the next morning there when I went to collect my father's ashes, I knew I would never see another like him.

The nawab of Hyderabad cricket

2006-05-30T22:55:00.000-07:00

"Do you remember that evening in Bangkok in January 1978 when we had some 12 bahts between us and needed to buy a bottle of soda?" my old captain would ask, recalling the ridiculous experience of circumstantial poverty that had had a couple of thirsty souls seeking desperate measures on alien soil. He would then proceed to describe the clothes you wore, the décor of the hotel room in which you had been salivating for Scotland's premier produce, and even try to remember the name of the waiter who rescued you from dehydration.

This eye for detail and prodigious memory stood Motganahalli Laxminarsu Jaisimha in good stead as captain of Hyderabad for nearly two decades. Every little nuance of the leading batsmen of the day was filed away in his mental database for future action. The moment one of them took guard against his team, the field was carefully rearranged; and with Jai's reputation for cunning on a cricket field, that was enough to sow doubt in the mind of the batsman.

Everyone knows that ML Jaisimha was a stylist, with his immaculate grooming, graceful walk and copybook technique. Nothing ugly marred anything he did on the cricket ground, tennis court or golf course. Even to friendly arm-wrestling, in which I recall no youngster ever defeated him, he brought an elegance and nonchalance that could compare with the seeming effortlessness of his cricket. Jai was a man of strong likes and dislikes - and he disliked cricket that was aesthetically objectionable. As a result, he had no time for some players of considerable utility whose methods were crude and who might have been better appreciated by other captains.

When some years ago, Jaisimha breathed his last, he left behind him a way of life steeped in sport, and a host of friends and acquaintances replete with memories of the fantastic hospitality of the Jaisimha household. He was the most feared captain of his time in Indian cricket, someone the Indian captain `Tiger' Pataudi was happy to play under in the Ranji Trophy. And as a Hyderabad player of the time, I can vouch for Pataudi's admiration for him and total acceptance of his leadership.

I close this tribute with a reference to a masterstroke in 1975 that gave Hyderabad a rare victory after being led by 220 runs in the first innings of a three-day match. Winning the toss against Railways in the Ranji Trophy knockout, and electing to bat on what looked like a perfect strip, Jai - and our other batsmen - discovered wet spots on it from excessive watering the previous night. Left arm medium pacer Anil Mathur was virtually unplayable. There was a steady procession of batsmen and soon we were 50 for 8, well before lunch.

That is when Jai declared. His move paid off as our medium pacers too posed problems to the Railway batsmen. Soon they were 65 for 7, but the wicket improved and a record eighth wicket stand helped Railways reach a total of 270.

Hyderabad piled up quick runs in the second innings and bowled the opponents out in about three hours of play to win the match with minutes to spare. It was MLJ's finest moment as captain.

The Mumtaz magic

2006-05-28T06:02:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-28T05:47:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-28T05:34:00.000-07:00

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.

'Great India Bowler'

2006-05-27T05:50:00.001-07:00

In addition to my own State Bank of India teammates Krishnamurti, Nagesh Hamand and others, I was fortunate in acquiring another mentor in Hyderabad soon after my arrival there. These teammates of mine spread the word about me in cricket circles, and that is how Syed Abid Ali, the Hyderabad and India all rounder came to watch me in action in the practice nets behind the State Bank of India's local head office at Kothi, Hyderabad.

Abid straightaway decided to take me under his wing. For the next few years, I was to enjoy that protective umbrella and benefit from Abid's willingness to share his experience and knowledge with me. His way of helping me become a better off spinner was to hit my best deliveries repeatedly out of the ground during net practice, so that I learnt to adjust my flight when confronted with batsmen who could do that to me in matches. Even in matches in which we were pitted against each other, the lessons continued, ruining my bowling analysis in the process. Of course, when I got him out, he always had a perfect explanation for the accident that had nothing to do with good bowling!

Abid Ali was a genuine character among cricketers, an original in many ways. For instance, he set high standards of physical fitness for a generation of cricketers known for its lackadaisical attitude to such matters. The punishing regimen of training he followed was often the subject of anecdotes, perfect entertainment in the evening after a long day at the ground.

He practised his fielding with devotion and became an acrobatic close-in fielder and an athletic one in the outfield, with an unerring, flat throw. He developed enough variations in his military medium pace bowling to keep the batsmen guessing. He also had the knack of making the ball skid on most wickets. He was demonstrative in an age when most bowlers tended to hide their emotions. His appeals to God when he beat the edge, and his sardonic grins at batsmen blessed by the Lord - unfairly in Abid's opinion - were sights to see and remember.

When Abid took over the Hyderabad captaincy from the cerebral and celebrated M L Jaisimha, he was determined to make a strong impression. He was solemnity personified as he addressed the team just before taking the field in his first Ranji Trophy match as captain. "Boys, I want you to play tight, mean cricket. I want us to give not LESS than 40 runs in the first hour." He had meant to say "not MORE than 40 runs," and the giggles and suppressed guffaws that interrupted him, spoiled his speech somewhat, but it was a happy Hyderabad team that took the field that morning.

When the mood captured him, Abid could be the life and soul of the party. He was great company while travelling with the Hyderabad team, taking part in crazy card games devised by M A K Pataudi, or singing calypso songs he learnt in the Caribbean. His favourite line was "Great India bowler Abid Ali" which he sang with gusto.

Few cricketers exploited their talent better. Abid Ali was an honest-to-goodness medium pacer, who could also bat aggressively. He made a sensational Test debut in 1967 when he took 6 for 55 against Australia at Brisbane, following it up with two brilliant innings of 78 and 81 opening the innings in the Sydney Test.

"Kya bole?" (What did you say)? Abid is credited with asking this classic question of G R Viswanath, when they met three quarters of the way down the pitch, with GRV rooted to the spot and repeatedly shouting "No!" at the top of his voice, and Abid still charging down regardless for a run. This no doubt apocryphal story of an incident in a Test match was told with much relish by the Karnataka batsman, at the expense of the Hyderabad all rounder, who had a reputation for getting mixed up in run outs. The reason was simple: Abid Ali was about twice as swift between wickets as most other batsmen and was always on the lookout for quick singles. He was once stumped off the first ball he faced, because he had taken off for a single even before playing the ball.

Abid took his cricket with him when he migrated to the USA by the end of the seventies. There, he has been an active participant in the local cricket scene in Los Angeles and has coached many Indian, Pakistani and other immigrant groups still passionate about cricket. He has always wanted to come back to India on a coaching assignment and once had a stint as the coach of the Andhra team. With his keen observation and emphasis on physical fitness, he will always be a good role model for young cricketers to follow.

Farewell innings

2006-05-26T06:21:00.000-07:00

"Mr Ramnarayan must have his coffee", the sardonic voice behind me said. When I turned to look at the speaker, however, the gaze was friendly and the smile affectionate. It was 'Tiger' Pataudi, former India captain and now my teammate and mentor, who was making that comment on my habit of asking for the cup that cheers after lunch at the Lal Bahadur Stadium, something my Hyderabadi friends found amusingly idiosyncratic. He then asked me whether I was planning to go to Madras to watch the Test match against England. When I answered in the negative, this is what he told me in his best solemn manner: "You may well be playing it, for all you know."

Though I was bowling well enough that season, my second in first class cricket (1975-76), I found Pataudi's statement a bit farfetched, as both Prasanna and Venkataraghavan were firmly entrenched in the Indian squad. This was in the middle of a Moin-ud-Dowla Gold Cup match, and I earned the singular honour of being complimented by Tiger at the end of the day's play for my fielding. When I started my first class career barely a year earlier, fielding was one department in which I needed to improve. I had worked very hard at it, so that I could chase hard and throw flat and accurate, almost as well as my younger colleagues. Coming from the former Nawab, who set a superb personal example in the field himself, and never dished out praise unless you really deserved it, that was a compliment for me to cherish forever.

A little later in the evening, I came to know that I had been included in the Rest of India team led by Bishan Bedi to take on Bombay in the Irani Cup match to be played soon afterwards. The news brought home to me the significance of Pataudi's mysterious remark at the lunch table. Though I never actually succeeded in breaking into the Indian team, despite good bowling in that Irani match and the few times I played for South Zone, I still remember that little gesture with gratitude. I realised that Tiger must have nudged the selectors gently to pick me for the Rest of India team.

Tiger Pataudi had been a great source of encouragement ever since he first saw me bowl at the nets a couple of years earlier, before the start of a Moin-ud-Dowla match. I had clinched the issue a season later by claiming eight for 75 against a star-studded team he led in the same tournament. He was one of two batsmen I did not dismiss in that innings; he was dropped off my bowling. It was he who ran up to congratulate me on my first Ranji Trophy wicket at Trivandrum, and wish me many more wickets, only to tell me to "stop bowling rubbish, for God's sake", and start bowling in my natural, sharp style. I ended up with six for 33 in that innings and never looked back. Again, at the end of my first season, when I took seven for 68, he was thrilled beyond words, and kept muttering almost in disbelief: "Seven against Bombay!" He then warned me that wickets would be harder to come by in the seasons to come, as batsmen began to take me more seriously. He also informed me he had played his last match for Hyderabad, a stunning blow from which I never recovered. It was as if a loved one was leaving me for good. I felt utterly desolate.

Hyderabad cricketers will always remember a marvellous innings Pataudi played in December 1975 against Tamil Nadu at Chepauk. Here is the story behind that knock.

We were staying at Admiralty Hotel, at Mandavelipakkam, Chennai. As we sat on the lawns, enjoying a few drinks, as was customary for the Hyderabad teams of that vintage, a number of fans descended on us, mainly to catch a glimpse of the stars of the team, Pataudi, Jaisimha, Baig and Abid Ali.

Among the autograph hunters was a man originally from Hyderabad, who asked Pataudi some awkward questions.

Fan: Nawab Saab, is it true that you can't play Venkat and Kumar? They say you are Venkat's bunny.
Pataudi: (Mutters under his breath).
Fan: Beg your pardon?
Pataudi: (Aloud) Of course, Venkat is a very fine bowler.

I then politely showed the visitor out.

Pataudi: Jai, I'm opening the innings tomorrow.
Jaisimha: Like hell you will.
Pataudi: I'm dead serious Jai. I'm going to score a double hundred. Venkat's bunny, indeed! Jaisimha: (By now mellow) Okay, Tiger, have it your way. You open the innings tomorrow.

The next morning, the atmosphere was electric as Jaisimha and Venkataraghavan went out to toss before a capacity crowd. Hyderabad won the toss and elected to bat. The mood in the Hyderabad dressing room was equally electric, with three batsmen padded up to open the innings. Pataudi was all set to go in first, to the surprise of the regular openers Abbas Ali Baig and Jayantilal. It took all of Jaisimha's persuasive skills to get him to agree to bat at No.3, still three places ahead of his usual batting position.

When his turn to bat came, Pataudi turned on the old magic. He started by playing some spanking shots against the brisk pace of Kalyanasundaram. He was equally severe on Venkataraghavan and debutant left arm spinner S K Patel, off whose bowling he was reprieved early. He raced to his hundred, playing strokes all round the wicket.
Pataudi was not satisfied with a century that day. He took fresh guard and dug himself in, his defence studiedly elaborate, as if to give his thoughtless cavilier of the previous day a message.

When he finally returned to the pavilion to a tumultuous ovation, he had made 198. Just two short of his own prediction. None of us knew it then, but that was Pataudi's last innings at Chepauk. At the end of that season, he announced his retirement from first class cricket.

A filmmaker looks back

2006-05-06T23:30:00.000-07:00

Nihalani at Satyam Cinema

‘Lights On’ at Satyam Cinema has been an eagerly awaited event in the monthly calendar for the city’s film buffs. The last one was an interaction with the filmmaker Govind Nihalani, made doubly interesting by a live interview of him by Revathy, the well known actor-director, whose questions revealed both serious homework and keen awareness of the craft of cinema. An unabashed admirer of Nihalani’s work, she adopted a natural, unpretentious approach to the interview. It was also quite evident that she could have gone on engaging her willing subject in what was proving to be an absorbing conversation, when she said she would throw the floor open for questions from the audience, but could not resist the temptation to ask one final question herself. What followed was disastrous. One loquacious guest made a long, unintelligible statement that put everyone to sleep, and nearly brought the proceedings to an anticlimactic and premature end. Of course, Chennai cannot be Chennai without this kind of theatre of the absurd, which is enacted at every event of this type. Only this time, the longhaired gentleman who usually asks one profound question of distinctly Marxist slant at every Q& A session was conspicuous by his absence.

Revathy led Nihalani admirably towards sharing with us some of the pivotal moments of his career as cinematographer and film director. He was honest and self-effacing, lacing his observations with humour. He very nearly did not get to choose cinematography as a profession; only the fortuitous intervention of the family soothsayer nudged his father to endorse his desire to join a diploma course at a government institute in Bangalore. The guru said, “The lad will make a huge name for himself with the help of a machine,” which was thankfully interpreted as a career wielding a camera.

Nihalani spoke wistfully of his early struggles, which also brought him into contact with some of the best names in serious Indian cinema today, especially of the middle of the road variety. He recalled the continual differences of opinion and arguments on the sets with Satyadev Dubey who directed Nihalani’s first film, ‘Shantata Court Chalu Ahe’, which invariably ended with a drinking session, Nihalani being the abstemious partner. He acknowledged how much he gained from his association with Shyam Benegal who brought not only intense professionalism but also a balanced perspective rooted in his deep knowledge of history, sociology and our culture to his work. He explained his continuous engagement with the theme of violence, because it is there, it is so much a part of our existence, but stresses that he never exploited it for titillation. With Revathy jogging his memory, he revisited his childhood brush with violence during the partition riots.

He also spoke of the wonderful experience of making Tamas, which was made as a TV serial and whose backer Mr Bijlani of Blaze Advertising originally insisted on a two-hour version for release in theatres, but later dropped the idea as he did not want to chop the memorable film it became. Like some of the best things in life, the idea for Tamas was born accidentally, while Nihalani was browsing in a bookshop and chanced to pick up the book by Bhisham Sahni.
Making Gandhi was a memorable experience. Richard Attenborough was a complete professional who worked with storyboards and shot-by-shot sketches in hand but rarely changed any of Nihalani’s ideas once he listened him out. Nihalani let the audience into a couple of secrets like how the funeral scene involving huge crowds was shot.

‘Deham’ was a favourite of Nihalani, who gave the major credit for the excellence of the film to the author, Manjula Padmanabhan, and also revealed some of the tricks behind the special effects of the film.

The only time the filmmaker seemed to be on slightly unsure ground was when he defended his decision to cast Amitabh Bachhan in the lead role in his recent film Dev. For once, he was unconvincing, when he told his questioner: Tell me, who else could have done justice to the role?

At the end, the audience still wanted more, so lively and rewarding had been the experience of listening to Govind Nihalani, expertly prodded by the charming Revathy, who continues to look a smasher.

Different folks

2006-05-06T23:24:00.000-07:00

Listening to Tamil poet Kanimozhi at a recent South India heritage lecture on Tamil folk arts was an enjoyable, and for the uninitiated, an eye-opening experience. The first revelation was the vast number of folk arts in the state - villupattu, poikal kudirai, karagattam, oyilattam, silambattam, karadiattam, terukoottu, yes, even oppari, the finely rehearsed art of wailing at funerals, so on and so forth. The list was long and impressive.

According to Kanimozhi, we Tamils are embarrassed by our folk arts and decided to crush them under the weight of our classical arts, in order to compete with Victorian culture, promoting notions of chastity and 'pure' arts, devoid of the sensual aspects of our earthy traditions.

Interestingly, the oral tradition of our folk arts presents the other dimension, the other truth of our history, different from the textbook paeans of praise for our kings. An example is the Big Temple of Tanjavur, the symbol of Chola might and cultural efflorescence. "Everytime I walked in the precincts of that magnificent temple, I felt this tremendous thrill of pride and wonder - until I learnt how many people had starved and suffered hardship to build the monument," said Kanimozhi. "Six out of seven brothers who rebelled against a diktat that they work for free, when they sought work to beat starvation, were killed and they belonged to a particular, exploited community. This side of history has been handed down to us via folk songs."

Chastity was a Victorian concept imported to prove we were a superior culture even to western culture. Kanimozhi recited verses that told tales of women consorting with their brothers-in-law. The word pathini that commonly denotes a one-man woman originally meant a woman of honour, someone who kept her word no matter what the circumstances. That was when a woman was a person in her own right, not merely an appendage of her husband, whose only virtue was her fidelity to him.

There were a couple of interesting stories about funeral processions. In the first one, Kanimozhi described the superb physical condition and expert performance of the young dancers at a village funeral procession she saw for the first time. 'Oppari', she found out was a scrupulously cultivated art, not some uncontrolled expression of grief, as we might believe. The oppari artistes did not necessarily mourn the person whose death brought them to the funeral in the first place, they often sang out their own personal grief quite unconnected with the person whose death they had gathered to condole.

At one funeral she attended, Kanimozhi found one woman mourner actually using the opportunity to sing songs cursing her long-dead husband who had oppressed her in his lifetime! Kanimozhi's husband once related an incident, she said, involving his grandmother. Grandma and grandson took a bus to a neighbouring village to attend a funeral. Grandma was perfectly normal until they neared the house where people had gathered to mourn an old relative. The moment she saw some of her kin in the vicinity, grandma went into 'oppari' mode and put up an impressive performance for the next few hours. Only, on their way back home did she stop to ask her grandson this innocuous question, "Setthathu kezhavana, kezhavia?" ("Who died, was it the old man or was it his wife?")

Family history 4

2006-05-06T20:56:00.000-07:00

Elementary school

Venkataramana Elementary School stopped with Class V, if I remember right. It was a tallish, white washed, brick building with classrooms upstairs under a thatched roof made of coconut palm leaves--a fire hazard no doubt but very cool, and breezy. There was always some construction activity going on at the school, and the huge pile of sand by the side of the school building was a constant invitation to climb the stairs and jump from the top storey on to the sand. The only memory I have of the school is that of the friendships. Some of my mates then continue to be friends even today. The head master of the school was a poor Brahmin in his forties or early fifties maybe, with a hairstyle typical of men of his background ten—not cropped hair in the western fashion but a shaven head with a tuft of hair at the back, tied in a loose chignon. He wore khadi, the handspun, hand woven cotton fabric made famous by Mahatma Gandhi—a dhoti tied in the old-fashioned formal style and kurta or collarless shirt. He was obviously poor, shaving only once or twice a week, no doubt because he could not afford to do it more often, paying the price of razor blades and shaving soap (not cream or foam), on his subsistence wages.

At this distance of time, I cannot recall the head master’s name with certainty, it was probably Subramania Iyer or Srinivasa Iyer , but he was a man of high principle and taught us English with a considerable mastery of the language and knowledge of English literature. His classes went beyond teaching English, inculcating in his students a sense of values and ethical principles. Years later, he was a frequent visitor at our Abhiramapuram home, now really impoverished after his retirement, not even able to wear clean clothes regularly, but his mind was still active. As an impressionable young man caught up in the patriotic fervour of the time with India and Pakistan at war, I remember being upset by his remark that India should cede some of her territory in Jammu and Kashmir; after all, some of the terrain we were defending was cold and inhospitable and the money spent on ‘defence’ could very well be utilized in better ways. I was thinking aloud on my disappointment with my old teacher, when an uncle I respected, gently suggested that perhaps the old man was entitled to his views. Perhaps he was even right, he said.

Those were dream years of unalloyed joy, with no academic pressure—today’s Indian kids have to contend with it from kindergarten—and plenty of time and space at our disposal to play a variety of games with siblings and cousins. There was plenty of open space in the area occupied by the four houses on Murrays Gate Road and Eldams Road, where lived our large extended family and its branches. There was plenty of shade too with so many trees dotting the landscape, we kids were always together playing both Indian and western games.

Living so close to relatives had its disadvantages too. Our parents were rarely free to demonstrate their love for their children. The interests of the community always came first, and it sometimes meant discrimination in favour of your cousins! The unwritten rules of childhood behaviour had it that you never took your sibling’s side in a fight or argument involving cousins. There were inflexible rules and regulations governing the games you played, and they covered on-field and off-field conduct as well. The three brothers Kalyanam, Dorai and Thambipapa called the shots in all such maters. Their father Pattu was a super bully who had apparently harassed and tormented nephews including Ramani and Mouli (Appa’s cousin) and he continued to do that with the next generation in the guise of disciplining us. Tall and well built, he had been a fast bowler in his time. Now a High Court lawyer, he walked around bare-chested and dhoti clad at home, as did most of the males of the joint family, and loved to tease us kids. A favourite prank of his was to pull our shorts down to check if we wore underwear (of the Indian kind). This was ostensibly to make sure we did not hurt ourselves while playing vigorous games as we did most of the time, but we suspected he enjoyed embarrassing and terrorizing us just as much.

Dorai was the young man who made most of the rules for all our activities, including what game we played during what season of the year. He was also the author of the rules of behaviour that prevented any ganging together of siblings. Which meant that in any dispute you did not take your brother’s side. Nagan usually rebelled against all these restrictions. The games we played included cricket, the most popular, table tennis (what Americans call ping pong) and a number of local games including our version of hopscotch, marbles, gilli-dandu, tops, I spy, Deyonder (spelling? wonder from where that name came), Monopoly and its Indian version Trade, cricket on a bagatelle board—in short, nothing too intellectual. That was taken care of in a small way by the library mainly of Tamil books that Thambipapa ran in an upstairs room of his Eldams Road home. I was perhaps the most regular user of the library, where I first read detective fiction, and also a variety of children’s books and magazines, as well as ‘Illustrated Classics and Comics.’

Family history 3

2006-05-06T20:51:00.000-07:00

Back to Madras
Appa was transferred back to Madras around 1955 or 1956. We came to live in Suprabha on Murrays Gate Road. It was a two-storeyed house, which still stands there more or less in the same form, now used as a corporate guesthouse. It was a tall brick building, white- washed, red-floored and with balconies all round upstairs. We lived upstairs while uncle Raja’s family lived downstairs. Upstairs, there were five rooms in all besides the kitchen and bathroom. There was a large open terrace at the back, with a hand pump at one corner and a work corner where the maidservant washed vessels and clothes and hung up the clothes to dry.

The furniture was mostly of heavy rosewood and made in the hybrid Indo-British style of the day. There was a beautiful rolltop desk in the study room earlier occupied by Pattabhi, my father’s younger brother who had gone to the USA to study. Pattabhi was some 15 years younger than my father and had been a victim of polio as a child. He had a wasted right leg, wore calipers and had a pronounced limp, but that did not stop him from leading a vigorous, active life. In his youth, he played a number of indoor and outdoor games. The table tennis table in the garage (the family did not own a car any more) was his.

On transfer to Madras, Appa was first posted to the IOB’s head office on Mount Road, the arterial road that ran from the ‘Island’ in the north to St. Thomas Mount in the southwest, a distance of several miles. From the head office, was later transferred as Agent of the bank’s Mylapore branch, a couple of miles from home. He would cycle from home to the office before he bought a motorcycle, a Norton 350 cc machine. His office was on the first floor of an old building on the main road of Mylapore, facing the Kapalisvarar temple tank.

Living on the ground floor of Suprabha were uncle Raja and his family. We called him Raja Appa, and his wife, Kamala Manni. They had four children, Kannan, Raman, Sarada and Ambulu, the last two, girls. Raja Appa was shorter than Appa (who was 5’ 11” tall) and stockily built. Amma and Manni are both short, but while Amma is on the slim side even today and was thin in her youth, Manni has always been stout. In the early days of my parents’ marriage, the whole family including Appa’s sisters yet to be married and leave their parents’ home, lived together in Suprabha, with a common kitchen, and Manni and Amma did most of the house work. It was hard work and Amma remembers Manni’s friendship and affection during those difficult days with gratitude. Manni is a kind soul and Amma and she have enjoyed a warm relationship through all the ups and downs of life.

When we came back from Quilon, it was no longer a common kitchen, though we lived in the same house. The upstairs part of the house was quite independent and we had a separate entrance on the northern side of the house. On the way to the staircase, we had to pass two rooms (on either side of a verandah) which were let out to bachelors to augment Raja Appa’s inadequate monthly income. He was then a sub-editor in the Indian Express on a meager salary, often supplemented by contributions from Appa. Appa also helped his defray the expenses incurred every time a sister came to Suprabha to have her baby. (It was, and still is, a custom in India for the daughter to come home to her parents’ to deliver her baby, especially the first one). Appa’s monthly salary was perhaps about Rs. 150 or three dollars by now, while Raja Appa was probably earning about half that or even less.

We all led a simple, frugal life. The food was simple but nourishing, never rich or oily. We would eat a meal of sambar, rasam and buttermilk with rice and vegetables in the form of mildly spiced curries in the mornings, take a ‘tiffin box’ of curdrice for lunch, have dosai or idli for tea and a meal similar to the morning meal at night. Starting with a cup of milk or ‘Ovaltine’ first thing in the morning, the kids would eventually graduate to coffee as we grew older. Childhood obesity was unknown.

Our clothes were again simple and utilitarian. For the boys, Appa would buy cloth in bulk that would be tailored into identical shirts and shorts, so that we wore a family uniform of sorts. The girls wore frocks when very young but switch to pavadai-chattai, as they grew old enough to go to secondary school. Footwear was minimal. We wore the Indian ‘chappals’, a kind of sandals, though we ran about barefoot most of the time, especially within the expanse that surrounded the three houses Suprabha, Sri Parvati and Sri Sundar, where we were free to roam around. Chappals were meant to be worn only while going to school. (I remember an occasion when I was 8 or 9, and proudly wore my new pair of sandals to go to a nearby shop on an errand. Raja Appa stopped me on my way out and asked me where I was going. ‘To the corner shop (about a quarter of a mile from home)”, I replied. “Take off your chappals, you don’t need them to go to the corner shop,” said Raja Appa, and of course I obeyed instantly.

We had a family rickshawwallah Kathan who took us everywhere in his hand-pulled rickshaw, when we were not walking or taking a bus. The tram service in Madras had just closed down as we were growing up, but the tram tracks were still intact on the main roads. Kathan was a tall, strong, superbly built man with rippling muscles, probably in his thirties then. There were also some other rickshaw pullers we used. There was one called Munuswami (?) who took us kids to school sometimes, and that must have been because Kathan was doing some other regular route for some member of the extended family of Suprabha. Kathan also doubled as a gardener, something that came in handy when he was too old to pull a rickshaw.

We were five children when we came back to Madras. Another girl, Parvati or Bapu, was born in 1957, soon after our arrival in Madras. She was a beautiful baby adored by all of us, but did not survive beyond six months. She died of dehydration following a bout of dysentery. The shock and sorrow of her loss stayed with the family for a long, long time. On 2 August 1959, our youngest sister Sarojini (Papu) was born, and she brought us the greatest joy. Like Bapu before her, Papu was petted and fussed over by all of us, turning out to be the brightest, most charming of the siblings.

The first school we went to back in Madras was the Venkataramana Elementary School at nearby Abhiramapuram. We were still considered too young to take a city bus to school—in fact, the school was not even on the bus route—there was no school bus either, and it was not within walking distance. Kathan or Munuswami would take us to school in their rickshaw. It was an exciting ride, with Kathan often running all the way, racing against other rickshaws and bicycles on the road.

Family history 2

2006-05-06T20:48:00.000-07:00

The Quilon years

Venkatraman—he was Ramani to his family, as Sundaresan was Raja, Pattabhiraman was Pattabhi, Visalakshi was Thangamma and Parvati was Papa—was 26 years old when he married Rukmini. He was a BABL of Madras University, which meant that after his BA Hons. Degree, he acquired a bachelor’s degree in law as well from the Madras Law College. Ramani never attended court, but instead took up a bank job with Bharat Bank which was eventually merged with the Indian Overseas Bank (IOB) Limited. By 1951, he had been posted to Quilon, a coastal town in Kerala not far from Trivandrum, the capital city of that state, as the Agent of the bank’s branch there. (He would be called the branch manager today). Three of us were born then, I, my brother Nagarajan and sister Sarada. I was the eldest, born on 8 November 1947, Nagan on 19 December 1948 and Sarada on 6 February 1950. There we lived until about 1957, when my father was transferred back to Madras as Agent of the bank’s Mylapore branch.

Ramani and Rukmini were Appa (father) and Amma (mother) to us. As Agent of IOB, Appa was an important person in Quilon. We lived in quarters behind his office provided by the bank, with a connecting door between home and office, and a huge yard behind the house where we children could play and one in front of the office. Appa worked long hours at the bank, and I remember being allowed to sit in his room after office hours and watch him at work.

Quilon was an important trade centre, dealing in spices and dry fruit and nuts. Cashew was the biggest crop and Appa’s biggest clients were cashew exporters. Families I remember are the Rodrigueses and the Janardhanam Pillais. Janardhanam’s son Rajan was to become one of India’s high profile and sometimes controversial business barons in the 1990s, and die under mysterious circumstances. But back in the fifties, he was a little boy, younger than me. Those were innocent times and the world of business was nowhere near as complex as it would become later.

Krishnan was born while we were in Quilon, on 13 May 1953, and the four of us must have been the happiest, most contented siblings. Poor Amma must have been overworked, but she at least had more domestic help at Quilon than she enjoyed in the bigger cities where Appa later worked. The old maid who did the sweeping and swabbing was Tallai; it was a generic term for old woman, I learnt later, not her name as I first imagined. She was a wizened old woman who wore only a white sari with which he covered herself from top to bottom. Her earlobes had huge holes from which dangled heavy earrings. The bank ‘peons’ would also run minor errands for the family; they always kept a watchful eye on the family, acting as our unofficial security staff.

On days when Amma could not cook or Appa decided to give her a break, we ordered food from a nearby restaurant, popularly known as Hitler’s café, thanks to the Hitler moustache its owner sported. He was perhaps an admirer of the Nazis, more because they went to war against the British who colonized India, than for any anti-Semitic reasons. The food was just about edible, but it was a treat we looked forward to because it was a change from the routine.
The first school we went to was St. Joseph’s Convent School, not far from home. I have vague memories of the nuns who taught us there and also winning the first prize in a raffle, a gold sovereign!

Some time soon, we moved to a nice, large house by the seaside, close to the backwaters or kayal in Malayalam, the language spoken in Kerala. We also shifted to a new school, Mount Carmels. Again, memories of school are very blurred, except for one incident which remains etched in my mind. The school was very close to the sea, a compound wall separating it from a lonely beach. It must have been out of bounds, but I remember standing on the shore with an older schoolfriend, Jayantilal, who took off his shirt, removed the holy thread he as a Brahmin wore, and tossed it into the sea in a dramatic gesture.

Appa was an excellent cricketer, a medium pace bowler who had enjoyed considerable success in collegiate and league cricket in Madras before his transfer to Quilon. Here, he built a bank team from scratch. He and his players soon became an integral part of Quilon cricket. Nagan and I accompanied him to some of the matches at a nearby college ground and proudly watched him in action. He was tall and well built and had a nice easy run-up and action as a bowler. His batting was entertaining as he believed in hitting the ball hard and taking a few risks. The handsome bank colleague Monappa and burly Anglo-Indian Clifton—a railway guard—were both good cricketers and we kids enjoyed the company of these kindly adults who always had time for us, joking and playing with us.

Appa also went frequently to Trivandrum to play for the Sasthamangalam Cricket Club there, under the captaincy of the debonair Balan Pandit, who was already a star player, captaining Kerala in the national championship. The team also had some other state and university level cricketers in Ravi Achan, C K Vijayan and his younger brother C K Bhaskar—who went on to play for India as a new ball bowler. It was a strong outfit and played entertaining cricket. I remember being taken to Trivandrum along with Nagan to watch one of Appa’s matches.

The new house was at Thangaseri, in a quiet corner of Quilon and the only friends we had there were our next door neighbours. There were wide open spaces around our homes, and we spent as much time outdoors as our parents allowed us. The high point of our stay at Thangaseri was a visit by our cousins from Madras during the summer vacation. Kannan and Raman had just been initiated into brahmacharya, and were now the proud wearers of the holy thread. They had had half their hair shaved off and made to look like members of some fierce American Indian tribe. The hairstyle was called an appala kudumi.

Kannan was some five years older than I and Raman two. Both were great company, natural sportsmen who included us in all their games. Kannan was the more talented of the two and Raman the more enthusiastic, constantly experimenting and inventing new games. Besides outdoor games like cricket which was a common passion with all of us, Raman came up with some ingenious indoor games as well. One involved a caesarean delivery with Raman playing the gynaecologist performing the surgery and cousin Rama playing the mother, with my then youngest sister the newborn. To add authenticity to the proceedings, Raman managed to collect some rusty implements with which he pretended to cut open Rama to deliver Viji.

When the elders of the house found out what we were up to, we came close to receiving the thrashing of our lives, even though most of us were no more than admiring onlookers.
On another occasion, Raman took all the younger kids to the beach and after playing there for an hour or so, made me stay back with him and sent the rest of the gang home, with instructions that they deliver the message that Raman and I had been washed away by the waves. Imagine the chaos that reigned in the Venkatraman household that afternoon!

There was never a dull moment that summer. The most dramatic episode starred a snake, one of hundreds in the huge estate around the house, which decided to pay a visit to the Venkatramans. It made its way into the bedroom where we took shelter. All of us climbed on top of beds, tables and chairs and watched the slithering snake with fear. After several loud screams from all of us, the girls next door came running into our house and effortlessly chased the snake away into the garden and killed it, presumably because it was venomous.
Not long after that exciting summer vacation, Appa was transferred to the Mylapore branch of IOB in Madras, and all of us went back there, starting a new chapter in our lives.

Family history 1

2006-05-06T20:14:00.000-07:00

My father P N Venkatraman was born on 10 April 1919 to V Narayanan and Sarada at Madras. The family was orthodox south Indian brahmin, which among other things, means they were originally from the priestly class, though already in my grandfather’s generation, leaning towards professions of a more secular nature. Grandfather Narayanan was a lawyer by qualification, but an academician and journalist by profession at different stages of his life. He was proficient in three languages—Tamil, Sanskrit and English--in all of which he wrote commentaries on matters spiritual and theological. He was for a while Editor of The Indian Express, an English language daily, in which I worked as an apprentice sub-editor in the sixties.

My boss then, C P Seshadri, a veteran journalist highly respected in the newspaper world, often told me what a good editor my grandfather had been, how much he, a young reporter, had learnt from him. Narayanan was a major contributor to the first Tamil lexicon of modern times, as an assistant to the celebrated S Vaiyapuri Pillai, its editor. He also edited numerous publications of the Kanchi Kamakoti Peetham, the spiritual headquarters of the saivite subsect (followers of Siva) of Brahmins to which my family belongs. It is hardly surprising that Narayanan wrote beautiful Tamil, the language he spoke at home, but samples of his English writing I chanced upon some 20 years ago stunned me with their timelessness—they could have been written in this day and age, so simple yet sophisticated his style. (I hope I can unearth those samples again).

According to a family tree drawn up for me by the late M Krishnan, eminent naturalist, photographer and writer of fiction and non-fiction in English, and a great-grand uncle of mine, Narayanan’s ancestors were Avadhanis[1] who moved from neighbouring state Andhra Pradesh to Tirunelveli in present day Tamil Nadu.

Narayanan married Sarada before either of them reached the age of ten, and I believe he was older than her by some five years! She grew up to be a six-footer (a rarity among women even today) and he was a short man, so they were to become quite a physical mismatch in their grown years. He died in his early fifties and she was barely 36 when she died. They had eight children, the eldest a son, Sundaresan and my father, the second. The youngest, Pattabhiraman, was only two when his mother died. In between were five sisters, Janaki, Visalakshi, Parvati, Lakshmi and Saraswati. Of the eight, only Saraswati, now in her seventies, survives.
Narayanan was a rather unworldly person who enjoyed hardly any material success. Moving to Madras from his village on marrying Sarada, the daughter of a judge of the Madras High Court, P R Sundara Iyer, he lived in Suprabha, a two-storeyed house built by his father-in-law for his daughter. This was on Murray’s Gate Road, a street in Alwarpet close to Mylapore, an ancient village turned suburb, which had become the home of the Brahmin aristocracy of Madras. Between Mylapore and Alwarpet, on Luz Church Road was Sree Bagh, a vast property that had been Sundara Iyer’s home in the early 20th century before a business misadventure by his sons had resulted in its sale along with much of his other assets. (In fact, his sons had to file for bankruptcy, and the family was able to salvage only property standing in the name of the youngest son P S Ramachandran, who was then a minor).

On Murrays Gate Road was another house, Srimukha, belonging to Narayanan and Sarada, and this was rented out in the 1940s to a young executive of Burmah Shell, the oil company which had a major presence in India then. Ramaswamy was an engineer who qualified from the famous Benares Hindu University of Kasi, the famous centre of pilgrimage in north India every Hindu of the time visited once before his death to attain salvation. (The true believer actually went to Kasi to die there). Ramaswamy was the son of Sivaramakrishna Iyer who had retired as Inspector of Schools in the princely state of Travancore-Cochin (now the state of Kerala), the southernmost tip of India. Like my father, he was the second of eight children including five daughters. The eldest, Sita, is 95 today and all her sisters are alive, the youngest, Saraswati, at 75, while Ramaswamy and his brothers Ramachandran and Mahadevan are no more.

Sivaramakrishna Iyer (known in the family as Anna or elder brother) and his wife Subbulakshmi came to live with Ramaswamy at Srimukha, and soon there developed a friendship between Anna and Narayanan as the two men shared a common love of literature and philosophy. There was tremendous mutual respect between the two and they spent hours discussing books, both literary works as well as the Indian epics. The two families became friends and before long, Ramaswamy found in Narayanan’s second son, the gentle self-effacing Venkatraman a future brother-in-law! Sivaramakrishna Iyer made a formal approach to Narayanan, horoscopes were exchanged and found to match and Venkatraman married Rukmini, Anna’s fourth daughter.

[1] An avadhani is a person who speaks extempore (preferably in verse) on different topics at a time—to an audience of eight, 100 or 1,000 people who pose a question each to him or her—and answers them all. To an audience of 100, he has to answer questions or create verses based on the questioner's hints, after every 25 questions. The art is known as avadhanam.

Captain comes of age

2006-05-03T21:50:00.000-07:00

‘West Indies are a difficult side to beat at home.’ This statement has recently been ascribed to Indian skipper Rahul Dravid. If he has really made the statement, he has come of age as an urbane wordsmith worthy of the demands of international cricket diplomacy. Since C K Nayudu’s days, visiting captains of every colour and creed have made condescending remarks about how India are a tough team to beat in India. Even lowly New Zealand and Sri Lanka of those days glibly assumed the role of patronizing visitor with a Big Brother attitude. The irony of it is that very few of these superior visiting teams actually won anything outside their own native soil.

Particularly pathetic used to be the attempts by English captains to pretend that they led such good sides they had the right to be condescending. Remember how Graham Gooch’s men were thrashed by Azharuddin’s men in the early nineties? Barring a few exceptions most English teams visiting India either lost the rubber or drew the series, yet one British critic had the audacity to call the Indians ‘dull dogs’ after five Tests between Mike Smith’s MCC and Pataudi’s India were drawn. In fact, after 1974, when Ajit Wadekar’s Indians were trounced by England, Indian teams have never fared really poorly in England, and even won 2-0 in 1986, under Kapil Dev’s captaincy.

Australia did not win in India for three decades, a period during which India did not fare too badly in Australia, losing 2-3 to Bobby Simpson’s Australia, 1-2 on the next visit down under, drawing 0-0 and 1-1 on two more occasions, but it never occurred to an Indian captain to declare that Australia was a difficult side to beat in Australia.

Of all contemporary teams, New Zealand is probably the strongest opponent in home conditions, which favour seam bowling to an unnatural degree, and even there, Indian teams have rarely said the home team was hard to beat there.

Rahul Dravid was recently criticised by Graham Gooch for providing insipid copy for the media, ever hungry for sound bytes. He called on the Indian captain to be more forthcoming, more honest in his comments to the press. It seems now that his words have catalysed Dravid into action. He has started to sound like his counterparts of the developed world, adopting a big brotherly tone before the start of the West Indies tour. It is a new phase in Indian cricket, the brave new Chappell-Dravid era, no doubt. It is a small detail, however, that India has not won in the West Indies since 1971.

Tamil theatre: you can't be serious!

2006-04-24T02:27:00.000-07:00

Watching the Madras Players’ production, Mercy, at the Museum Theatre, Badal Sircar’s Evam Indrajit performed by a young theatre group at the Sivagami Pethachi Auditorium, Magic Lantern’s shows at the Alliance Francaise, or the stylized, dedicated theatre of Na Muthuswami’s Koothuppattarai at varied venues big and small, you cannot help recollecting your earliest experiences of the stage in the Madras of your childhood.

Being the son of a bank officer with membership in the Rasika Ranjani Sabha, Mylapore, in the fifties and sixties meant that you ended up being the sole regular user of the season ticket, as said officer was seldom able to leave said bank at a decent hour. The entertainment consisted mainly of Carnatic music but there was also a monthly dose of amateur theatre. If your earliest ideas of classical music were fashioned by the voices and instruments of the stalwarts and starlets of the day—Ariyakudi, Semmangudi, Madurai Mani, Maharajapuram, GNB, MS, MLV, Pattammal, Palghat Mani, Lalgudi, Krishnan and many more—Tamil drama offered considerable variety too.

Dramatisations of the novels and novellas of Devan such as Mister Vedantam, Tuppariyum Sambu or Kalyaniyin Kanavan were popular hits. A Tamil version of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, in which the lead roles were played by the towering Dr C G Seshadri, was so frightening that the walk home afterwards from the Alwarpet bus stop to home on Murrays Gate Road was a nightmare. ‘If I get it’ by YGP was a thriller all the way with never a dull moment, at least to an impressionable pre-teen fan. Unforgettable was Koothapiran or N V Natarajan, his real name, and though there were many plays he directed and acted in, one particular performance stood out. ‘Aravamudan Asada’ featured a tufted young man who turns out to be wiser than all the other protagonists; naturally they believe that he is a simpleton, because he is not well versed in their ‘modern’ ways, only to realise his greatness in the climactic scene.

The great dramas of the period were staged by the TKS brothers, with T K Shanmugham and T K Bhagavati playing major roles in all their lavish spectacles. Shanmugham was so convincing as Avvaiyar that when the wonderful K B Sundarambal played the sage-poetess on the screen, it was initially disappointing to note the role taken away from TKS. The eponymous ‘Kappalottiya Tamizhan’ and ‘Veerapandia Kattabomman’ were both runaway successes and both eventually had Sivaji Ganesan essay the star roles in his inimitable style on screen.

Another veteran theatre personality was S V Sahasranamam whose Seva Stage was a highly respected troupe. ‘Policekaran Magal’ and ‘Nawab Narkali’ were among their evergreen hits, some of which were later filmed successfully. R S Manohar specialized in special effects and gigantic sets as much as unconventional perspectives on well known myths and epics. His plays had Manohar in roles such as Ravana in ‘Lankeswaran’, ‘Sukracharya’ and ‘Naganandi’.

The stage décor was predictably theatrical in most of these productions, with palaces, streets and temples painted on scene-specific drop-down-roll-up backdrops. Comic relief was mandatory and actors like Sarangapani, Sivathanu and Sambandam drew the most laughs. The sixties also brought to the fore such larger than life theatre personalities as United Amateur Artistes’ YGP, whose son Mahendra is still going strong on stage and in films, and K Balachander.

In Balachander’s Ragini Recreations flourished such future stars of the screen as Sundarrajan and Nagesh. Sundarrajan’s stirring performance as Major Chandrakanth prefixed the title of the army officer permanently to his screen name and the brilliant comedian Nagesh’s ‘Server Sundaram’, adapted for cinema, became an all-time classic, Viveka Fine Arts’. ‘Cho’ Ramaswamy’s plays, a complete departure from the prevailing genre of ‘social’ drama, lampooned the political classes and their corrupt way of life that was increasingly pervading Indian society.

A later development was the growth of light drawing room comedies of the strictly Madras variety, the handiwork of natural humorists not distinguished by hidden depths or subtlety. ‘Kathadi’ Ramamurthi, S V Shekher, and Crazy Mohan belong to this category, made even more fluffy in recent times by the likes of Bosskey. (This is by no means an exhaustive list of theatre groups in Chennai--I am aware there have been many, many more sincere practitioners over the decades).

When Poornam Viswanathan, originally famous for his work on radio and the play, ‘Under Secretary’, moved from Delhi to Madras, he found a superb outlet for his acting ability in the productions of Kala Nilayam, in which along with committed amateur artistes of the calibre of Chandrasekhar (of the musically talented Sikkil family) and others, he was able to take part in such super hits as Savi’s ‘Washingtonil Tirumanam’ and Marina’s ‘Tanikkudithanam’ and ‘Oor Vambu’. Viswanathan later formed his own group to stage some excellent works of serious content, mainly plays by Sujatha, such as ‘Kadavul Vandar.’

Indira Parthasarathi’s ‘Nandan Kathai’, ‘Aurangzeb’and ‘Ramanujar’ are again serious works, which like Poornam’s earlier efforts, lack support from sponsors and audiences alike, a sad commentary on the prevalent theatre culture of Tamil Nadu. Theatre of the old Nawab Rajamanickam or Boys Club kind is still reputedly alive and kicking all over the state, besides terukootu and other forms of folk theatre, but urban Tamil Nadu has the reputation of not supporting or enjoying serious Tamil theatre any more. The lure of cinema and television is blamed for the lack of an informed, interested audience for plays other than the joke-a-second or slapstick variety. The huge crowds that Magic Lantern’s ‘Ponniyin Selvan’ drew a few years ago at the YMCA Open Air theatre, however, suggested that the blame for the situation did not lie with the audiences alone.

I Zingari and all that

2006-04-24T02:13:00.001-07:00

Former England Test cricketer Basil D'Oliveira first showed signs of his class on a tour of the West Indies with Derek Robins' team. Young Kapil Dev impressed senior Indian cricketers with his phenomenal talent on a private tour of East Africa and not long afterwards, he was in the Indian team that toured Pakistan. Teams like Cricket Club of India and Hyderabad Blues have been excellent ambassadors of India, not only in the regular Test playing countries, but in other countries where a small minority pursue the sport with passion. They take young cricketers - and veterans - to some unusual locations of stunning beauty.

I can never forget the experience of playing for Hyderabad Blues before 35,000
paying spectators at Dhaka, long before any Test nation toured the newly-formed Bangladesh. We might have been a loose combination of players from all over India, but as our skipper Ajit Wadekar reminded us minutes before the toss, no matter what we were called, we were the Indian team and it was as good as a Test match. The match was played in all seriousness, like the rest of the matches on that tour of Australia, South East Asia and Bangladesh.

Today, we have the A team concept and India's young hopefuls gain valuable exposure to international cricket in conditions they do not experience at home. If the BCCI would only ensure that India A toured the stronger Test nations more often, our youngsters would be more prepared for Test cricket and touring abroad.

In the seventies, tours by clubs like the Blues or CCI filled this gap admirably. What they also did was to enable young cricketers to mingle with Test cricketers, past and present, and enrich their cricket education. Equally fortunate were cricketers who knew they had missed the bus and would never otherwise visit these nations and play against their Test and first class cricketers in superb cricketing conditions full of history.

An example of the kind of preparation such tours afforded youngsters was the experience of playing in Australia, where even club grounds have 85-yard boundaries. Anyone who has chased the ball to the fence and thrown it back to the keeper on one of these vast grounds is more likely to go home and strengthen his throwing arm than a stranger to those conditions. You also learnt to bowl and bat on wickets vastly different from Indian pitches.

Private tours make for greater interaction with people of the host nation than Test tours do. Very often, the visiting cricketers are billeted with cricketers' families and the resultant friendships are sometimes lifelong. My own unforgettable memories include playing against and sharing a few beers back in 1978 at a Perth clubhouse, with a young English left hander called David Gower, who we thought was not a bad little player!

Equally memorable was an after dinner speech made by Frank Magnus, an active member of Australian Old Collegians, a club that undertook several tours abroad including quite a few to India. Most of these speeches were marked by humour and repartee, with the opponents indulging in some merciless leg pulling, but for once our host struck a sentimental chord, talking of the bonds of friendship that cricket nurtured, bonds that took no notice of racial and cultural differences.

When cricket was fun

2006-04-23T21:53:00.000-07:00

Cricket was an indispensable part of growing up in sleepy Madras of the 1950s and 1960s. Everywhere in the city, there were cricket-mad children, their fancy fed by radio commentary and newspaper reports, and the occasional visit to the cricket ground to watch their local heroes. In most houses with sizable compounds, siblings, cousins and their neighbourhood friends played much of their cricket within the four walls of their homes. They had charcoal stumps drawn on a number of walls in the compound, every corridor and hallway was a makeshift ground when it was too hot outside, there were pitches within the compound that kids levelled and rolled—even had cowdung sprayed by helpful domestic staff—but for most the crowning glory was a vast 'ground' nearby, empty plots of land still to be swallowed by residential buildings.

Usually, the wicket was a beauty, levelled by humans and cattle using them as shortcuts from one street to another. The ground was often manicured by grazing buffaloes, which seemed to equal the human population of the streets.

Only when it rained did the playing surface pose problems, challenging the technique and courage of the barefoot batsmen, while transforming military medium pacers into demon fast bowlers. The hoofmarks of the buffaloes on wet soil hardened into dangerous ridges from which the ball reared up steeply. Batting then became largely a matter of survival of the luckiest.

There were countless such private grounds which the young cricketers simply entered one day and occupied, so to speak, until the Rip Van Winkle who owned the plot woke up suddenly to build his dream house, in the process shattering the dreams of many prospective Prasannas and Venkataraghavans, Pataudis and Bordes. Only for the dreams to be resumed in technicolour as soon as the intrepid young cricket warriors conquered their next new territory.

Cricket did not stop even in the classroom, where boys played 'book cricket', by opening pages at random and affixing runs or dismissals to the two imaginary batsmen - they could be Mankad and Roy in one generation and Gavaskar and Viswanath the next. If for example you opened page 54, the second digit was the reference point for the scorekeeping, and the batsman got four runs (or two, under a different set of rules), if the page number ended in a zero, the batsman was declared out and so on.

Madras cricket of those days had its share of characters. P.R. Sundaram, a first rate fast medium bowler and an entertaining wielder of the long handle, was also one of the funniest men seen on a cricket field. He kept up a fairly constant chatter on the field, and was not above laughing at an umpire after he had given a dubious decision. He once informed an official after he had lifted his finger in response to his own loud appeal, that the poor batsman had not played the ball on its way to the wicketkeeper. On another occasion, he bowled a googly as his opening delivery of the match and laughed with his arms akimbo at the batsman who had been bowled shouldering arms.

Some others raised a laugh without intending to. There was 'Kulla Kitta' Krishnamurthy, who opened the innings for Crom-Best Recreation Club, one of numerous short statured players known by that nickname over the years, who, dismissed off the first ball of a match once, told the incoming batsman as they crossed: 'Be careful. He moves the ball both ways.' 'Dochu' Duraiswami bowled a series of full tosses in a junior match at the Central College ground in Bangalore and later declared to his teammates: 'I have never bowled on a turf wicket before.'

Opening batsman Balu sat up all night reading Don Bradman's 'The Art of Cricket' with every intention of putting precept into practice, only to be run out first ball next morning, his partner's straight drive brushing the bowler's fingers on the way to the stumps, and catching him out of the crease! 'Clubby' Clubwalla was another popular character whom the crowds loved to boo, for his slow batting and fascinating contortions whether batting at the top of the order or bowling his alleged off spin with a most complicated action. He was a stonewaller par excellence who once made 37 runs in a whole day of batting.

There were other unforgettable characters. Probably the most popular was K.S. Kannan, the veteran all-rounder who became one of the best-loved coaches of the state, more famous for his original English than his undeniable cricket skills. For a man who was fluent in Tamil, his mother tongue, but could barely pass muster in English, he loved expressing himself in the Queen's language, with invariably hilarious results. 'Give me the ball to him,' he would tell one of his wards, and 'ask me to pad up one batsman.' 'Thanking you, yours faithfully, K.S. Kannan,' were the famous last words of a speech he made at a school function.

In recent years, the stylish right hand batsman T.E. Srinivasan has been famous for his wit and eccentric behaviour. On an Australian tour, his only one, T.E. allegedly told a local press reporter, 'Tell Dennis Lillee T.E. has arrived.' On the same tour he persuaded a security official at a Test match to warn innocent Yashpal Sharma that he would be arrested if he continued to stare at the ladies through his binoculars. Yashpal's panic and the resultant roar of laughter from the Indian dressing room caused a stoppage in the middle as the batsman Gavaskar drew away annoyed by the disturbance.

A city of character

2006-04-23T21:44:00.000-07:00

If Chennai is a bustling metropolis today, with a night life not far behind that of Bangalore or Hyderabad, two other metros of the South, Madras, its previous avatar, was the epitome of conservatism, viewed as an overgrown village, where everyone went to bed at 8.00 pm and woke up at the crack of dawn to drink a ritual cup of coffee and read the newspaper, before dutifully trotting off to the streetcorner temple to pay obeisance to his or her personal god.

A magnificent stretch of sand and bright blue sea is the most visible physical feature of Chennai. Among the longest beaches in the world, the Marina has for hundreds of years been the local residents’ refuge from the sweltering heat and humidity. At the crack of dawn, you will find vast numbers of people, young and old, walking or jogging on its paved footpath, while an equal number of men, women and children relax on its sands in the evenings, seeking relief in the seabreeze from the sweltering heat and humidity of the day.

Many of the buildings on the promenade are impressive examples of architecture that blends western and Indian traditions, a legacy of the British empire, with the Madras University, Presidency College and Queen Mary’s College, prominent among them.

These buildings and these health and fitness-conscious, daily visitors to the Marina perhaps truly reflect the essential character of the city: solid, quietly conservative, peace loving, by and large.

The British gave the city its modern infrastructure, its institutions of higher education, its judicial system, and its uncommon fluency in the English language, while a rich continuum over the centuries of Indian traditions, art, literature, music and dance, religion and philosophy, have all combined to develop its unique culture—at once traditional and open to new ideas and thoughts.

Within walking distance of the Marina is the Parthasarathi Swami temple, and just a long run away is the Kapaleeswara temple of Mylapore‑‑but two of the city’s many temples, churches, mosques and other places of worship. Somewhere in between is the Santhome Church, while a sizable Muslim minority offer their prayers in the Triplicane mosque, again within easy reach of the beach—each of these a splendid tribute to the city’s multi-cultural ethos.
Triplicane or Tiruvallikkeni, to give its correct original Tamil name, was home to at least two great sons of pre-independence Madras: Subrahmanya Bharati, the fiery poet whose electrifying verses inspired many a freedom fighter, and Srinivasa Ramanujan, the mathematical genius of world fame. In Mylapore was born a couple of centuries earlier, Tiruvalluvar, the great saint-poet famous for his Tirukkural, a compendium of 1330 couplets, which offer complete guidance on every conceivable aspect of life.

While Tanjavur was once rightly regarded as the cultural capital of the state of Tamil Nadu, today the centre of gravity has decidedly shifted to Chennai, with, for example the great musical compositions of the Trinity of Tyagaraja, Muttuswami Dikshitar and Syama Sastri, practised, sung and celebrated in profusion in this city, whose December music and dance “season’ is probably unparalleled for size and diversity of programming. The city is also a bustling film producer, with the second largest movie industry in India after “Bollywood” of Mumbai. A R Rehman leads a pack of talented composers whose music for films has achieved international recognition. The Tamil film industry has also been a continuous supply line of politicians at the state level, including a few chief ministers down to the present one, a legacy of the Dravidian parties using cinema as a medium of political propaganda back in the fifties.

Fast emerging as India’s Detroit, with Ford and Hyundai setting up manufacturing bases here, Chennai is also an important centre of computer software, IT and IT enabled services, second only to Bangalore, and second for reasons not of talent, but of locational advantage, in which the Karnataka capital scores better, thanks mainly to its pleasant climate. While Tamil Nadu and Andhra Pradesh together account for a substantial percentage of the world’s software population, Chennai and the rest of Tamil Nadu are the most computer and Internet savvy in all India, with Tamil second only to English as the language most used on the worldwide web in this part of the world.

It is a sports-conscious city, with a large number of passionate enthusiasts of cricket, followed closely by a burgeoning chess community, led by Viswanathan Anand, one of the world’s best players. The city has some of the best cricket grounds in India, most of them developed and maintained by corporate patrons of the game on college campuses, a unique brand of industry-institution cooperation. Chennai also has excellent, world standard facilities for other ball games, track and field and aquatic events, golf courses and even a top class motor racing track not far from the city. Tennis, squash, badminton, table tennis, field hockey, soccer, athletics, beach volleyball, swimming and sailing are some of the popular sporting activities. Tamil Nadu has a talented cricket team, which figures prominently in the national championship and the M A Chidambaram Stadium, the headquarters of cricket in the state, has been the venue, since the 1930s, of several international matches and the cricket World Cup.

Chennai is an important centre of school and higher education. The State government sponsored mid-day meal scheme has for decades been a model for third world countries to emulate in their attempts to spread literacy and ensure nutrition for the children of their poor. In addition to conventional, state approved streams of schooling, the city has had the benefit of the pioneering initiatives of some of the finest educationists of modern times. Staying at the Theosophical Society of Adyar during the years of the Second World War, the great Italian, Maria Montessori, introduced her world-renowned method of education designed to exploit the potential of a child to the fullest extent, to students and teachers she trained here, thus laying the foundation for the Montessori movement in India. Eminent thinker J Krishnamurti, who founded the Rishi Valley in nearby Andhra Pradesh, spent many productive years at Chennai; the school run by the Krishnamurti Foundation is another important landmark of Adyar. Not far from there is the Kalakshetra Foundation, an international institution founded in the 1930s by Rukmini Devi Arundale, dancer, dance teacher, choreographer and institution builder extraordinaire.

The Guindy Engineering College, now part of Anna University, the colleges of Madras University, the Indian Institute of Technolgy, and autonomous institutions like Madras Christian College, Loyola College and Women’s Christian College are among the oldest and finest centres of graduate and post graduate education in India. Amazingly, some of these are among the oldest modern institutions of learning in the world!

There are ever so many other things that Chennai is famous for—from its ubiquitous Udipi restaurants specializing in idli-dosa-vada and south Indian “degree” coffee, its many silk sari shops and jewellers, a great variety of entertainment options covering dance, drama, music and cinema, religious discourses, Gita lectures, yoga, pranayama, reiki and pranic healing, a bewildering array of martial arts, alternative medicine and healing systems, both indigenous and exotic. The British Council, Alliance Francaise, Max Mueller Bhavan and the American Consulate, all of them in the forefront of cultural interchange between India and these countries, have over the decades succeeded in bringing some of the leading artists, poets, authors and other men and women of eminence to perform for and interact with the residents of Chennai.

The Chennai climate is healthy, by and large, and its standards of hygiene are of an acceptable standard. The Madras Medical College and the General Hospital are institutions with a rich history, and the city is today the home of some of the best medical talent in the country, and of a number of excellent diagnostic centres and hospitals. A whole new hospitality industry has grown in the last couple of decades around the thousands of patients (and their families) coming to Chennai from all parts of India for specialised treatment.

No account of Chennai can be complete without a word about its traffic and its roads. If you think the Chennai traffic is bad, it’s a sure indication you haven’t seen much else of India. And as for the poor condition of our roads, we can assure you it’s a temporary inconvenience. After all, people in Chennai have only had to put up with bad roads for a mere ten years or so! Who knows, we may even have the best bus and metro rail service in India before the 21st Century runs out, at the pace at which these are being developed.

Grand Prix

2006-04-23T21:41:00.000-07:00

One of the most inspiring stories in Chennai’s cricket league was scripted by Grand Prix, a youthful side promoted to the First Division in 1982.

This collection of schoolboys and college cricketers practised along with members of another club, Grove CC, inside the compound of “The Grove”, the late Sir C P Ramaswami Iyer’s residence on Eldams Road.

That first season in the first division showed Grand Prix in a shining light, though they finished in the middle of the points table if not in the bottom half. (A year later, they were to finish among the top four teams of the league and earn the right to take part in the Simpson Trophy). Followers of Chennai cricket would be aware of the huge gap in standards between the first and second divisions of the TNCA league. Newly promoted teams invariably struggle to hold their place, even though they have finished first and second in the lower rung to earn that promotion.

One of the primary reasons for this barrier, besides the overall superiority of the senior teams is the psychological one of having to do battle against seasoned cricketers, some of them big names at the national or even international level. By exception, the Grand Prix players were a confident lot, possibly because most of them were academically bright and drew inspiration from watching and reading about great cricketers and their heroic exploits. None of them seemed to be overawed by the reputations of their new opponents.

In that first season, Grand Prix were in danger of losing a match outright to Alwarpet Cricket Club, a team that included K Srikkanth, V Sivaramakrishnan, Satvinder Singh, P Mukund, Bharath Kumar, Vasudevan and Harjinder Singh, a powerhouse of talent if ever there was one. When the mandatory last twenty overs of the match began, defeat was staring them in their face and the ninth wicket fell with 13 overs still to go. The Alwarpet bowlers were confident of wrapping it up but they did not reckon with the stonewalling ability of Ravi Chellam, now a nationally known environmentalist, but then the personification of callow youth. They were not to know Ravi had almost pulled off a similar rescue act just a week ago. Determined, even cocky, he kept up a continuous flow of words of advice delivered in an unexpectedly stentorian voice to his partner. Together they offered a broad defensive bat or their pads to everything the bowlers sent down. No amount of sledging, cajoling or downright bullying by the close-in fielders had any effect on the pair, which played out the remaining overs. On the contrary, the incessant chatter by the batsmen irritated the fielders and bowlers into making mistakes.

Grand Prix had a good run in the senior division, largely through the outstanding contributions of W V Raman and L Sivaramakrishnan, two who went on to play for the country, but superbly supported by less known players like N Ramesh, K K Sridhar, Shankar, Madan, P S Raman and a whole bunch of gutsy youngsters. But soon, the inevitable happened and the most talented of them were grabbed by company teams and some were lost to job responsibilities in Chennai and elsewhere or higher studies abroad. Some four years down the road, the team was relegated to the second division and thereafter slid all the way down. Such is the plight of private clubs in an era of professional teams sponsored by corporate patrons of cricket, though without such support Tamil Nadu cricket would surely languish in today’s competitive environment.

Touring & other talkies

2006-04-23T21:36:00.000-07:00

While watching Pravahi, Arun Khopkar’s documentary on bharata natyam dancer Alarmel Valli, you were impressed as much by the comfort and projection quality of Sree cinema in the Satyam complex as by the film itself and the art of its protagonist. The multiplexes in the city and the one at Mayajaal, beyond the ECR tollgate‑‑especially the latter‑‑make filmgoing a pleasurable experience, even if the gate does impose a heavy toll on your wallet. For this, I guess we must thank the omnipresence of television and the instant gratification it provides millions of consumers in their living rooms, which forced film exhibitors to upgrade their theatres and make them desirable destinations.

There was a time when going to a movie at select venues in Madras was a thrilling experience. English film buffs looked forward to new releases at Minerva and New Elphinstone, which, if I am not mistaken, survived into the seventies. Tucked away in a quiet corner not far from bustling Broadway, Minerva was a tiny little hall, the quality of the movies exhibited there its sole claim to fame. How many wonderful Hollywood films we old Madrasis have seen there! A movie at Elphinstone was a different adventure altogether, made so by Jafar’s Soda Fountain with its gleaming counter and mouthwatering icecreams, to which you made a beeline during the interval.

The sixties brought new excitement in the form of Safire and Blue Diamond near where the Gemini flyover is now. At Safire and Anand, a kilometer down the road, we first saw 70mm cinema, while the continuous shows at Blue Diamond were a huge draw. There, if you were crazy enough, you could finish watching a movie and stay on for the next show.

Unforgettable are ‘touring talkies’ like Jayanthi and Theyagaraja, now permanent cinema halls at Tiruvanmiyur, but tents which moved from place to place in the sixties, thanks to the temporary licences they were given. It was all pretty informal, and the projector operators were not above restarting an already running film to please college students who came in late in groups. Special weekend attractions were English films offered as add-ons to Tamil pictures. Two for the price of one!

On Murugan's trail

2006-04-23T21:28:00.000-07:00

On Murugan's trail
What do we do on Tamil New Year’s day? Precious little except laze around, in these days of nuclear families and hectic lifestyles, when you don’t have the time to participate in the family puja or enjoy the unique flavours and tastes of the sumptuous repast mother lays out for you. (For the uninitiated, the new year lunch has a bit of everything: sour, sweet, bitter, spicy. It’s about the only time neem forms part of the south Indian meal).

In recent times, the Tamil new year seems to have been relegated to a mere sideshow, with no one except TV stations paying any attention to it. The only other sign that it is a festive occasion is the much-hyped release of new films on the day. This year, after a considerable gap, we are told, films starring two major icons of Tamil cinema, Rajnikanth and Kamal Haasan, opened to huge expectations.

Increasingly, Tamil families celebrate the native new year with less enthusiasm than they do its English counterpart, with the equivalent of midnight mass quite a prominent if incongruent ritual at most of our urban temples on 31st December. The number of greeting cards I receive has been going down steadily; this year I received none, though true to recent trends, a few friends sent me messages on my cellphone and a couple of others emailed me.

The first SMS I received on 14 April said 'Inia puthandu vazhthukkal'. It was from my good friend Anvar, whose devotion to Tamil rivals his passion for photography. I had run into him after a long gap the evening before, at a birthday party for Mr S Muthiah, the Man from Madras Musings. Years ago, Anvar and I did assignments together for Mr Muthiah. Our road trips together had been interesting experiences for me, especially when my two companions swapped stories from contemporary Tamil history. Depth of knowledge on the subject was hardly surprising in the older man, often described as a Madras historian, but I was more than impressed with the researcher's bent of mind the young photographer displayed.

During one of these freewheeling conversations, Anvar revealed his deep interest in the Murugan cult. It is his ambition to produce a film on the Aru padai veedu pilgrimage trail, involving travel to six Murugan temples and documenting the rituals and traditions observed by the simple folk who offer worship there.

On a personal level, Anvar promised the lord at Palani a couple of years ago that he would bring his wife soon after their wedding. He found out however that before he did that, he had to visit another Murugan temple at Tiruchendur in fulfilment of a vow by his bride's family! There, he disclosed his name and his wife's with some trepidation, while making a personal offering to the lord, but to his pleasant surprise, the priest not only blessed them, but wished them both a speedy return to the temple baby in hand.

Anvar is a devout Muslim and I often wonder what drives him on this particular mission. Is it a search for his roots, or is there a romance in the lore of a boy-god that transcends religion? I'll never know the answer but people like him give you hope. His New Year greetings brought back memories of happy times, and lightened for me the general gloom of the pathetic 'entertainment' our indefatigable TV channels offered throughout the day.
(First published in April 2005)