I ALMOST did not get to Delhi for the fifth and final test match. I went to see Nur Khan to fulfil the formality of letting him know that I was going. He had by now tired of the series and told me that I was not only wasting my time, but also that of those who sat glued to their radio sets. Somehow, he seemed to hold me personally responsible for this barren cricket. When I pointed out to him that I was not playing and only doing the commentary, it seemed to enrage him further. Then his patience ran out, but it ran out the right way and I left for Delhi.
New Delhi is the capital of India, but how often have we heard that New Delhi is not India? Where, then, is the real India? I was reminded of the story of an Armenian businessman who was asked what was the sum of two and two. He replied that it depended on whether one was selling or buying. Despite the innuendo of sharp-practice, it was an honest reply. And it leaves the sum of two and two open to interpretation. Those who make judgment on the basis of unalterable and fixed prejudices will find India elusive. It is a country that defies classification and mocks those who try to find meaning in its mystical conceits.
No other country seems to attract the adoration or hostility of so many academics; philosophers, literati and social scientists as does India. It draws them like a magnet, inviting them to probe the depths of its spiritual consciousness, explore its metaphysical jungles, the branches of its trees. But after all that study, even the most lucid will be tongue-tied when you ask for some definitions. The wise visitor, as against the scholarly traveller, will, therefore, refrain from drawing conclusions and like the Armenian businessman, respond to the circumstances.
New Delhi is a modern city and had been built by the British as something apart from Old Delhi. There is an attempt to achieve architectural synthesis between the Buddhist/Hindu, the Mughal and the colonial. New Delhi has buildings that represent all three, separate in style and inspiration. To that extent it is India, parallel, cultural bloodlines whose merging seems an optical illusion.
I had lived in New Delhi as a child and had coherent childhood memories of it, and they make up the opening pages of my book, Once upon a Time. Here, it is only necessary to recall that the first ‘real’ cricket I can recall seeing was at the Feroze Shah Kotla, between Jardine’s MCC and Viceroy’s X1. My brother, Nasir, had played for the Viceroy’s X1 and was the main reason that my father had taken me and my other brothers to the match. I had gone back in early 1947 and played in a benefit match for Wazir All, between Nawab of Pataudi’s X1 and De Mello’s X1. I had played for the Nawab of Pataudi’s team against a young Fazal Mahmood and a not-so-young Amir Elahi. The match had been played at Feroze Shah Kotla and thus, I had walked on its hallowed ground.
I would be staying at the Maidens Hotel in Old Delhi and the Pakistan team at a hotel, also Oberoi-owned, opposite Maidens. Zawar Hasan had made my hotel booking and thought best to avoid staying at the same hotel as the team. I covered only the test matches but he was covering the full tour, and he was upbeat but only because the tour would end after the test match. He was homesick and told me that it had been an unhappy tour and the team seemed to be at odds with itself. Dr Jehangir Khan was the manager of the team. I knew the good Doctor Saab and had no problems with him, but he was inclined to be an introvert and being an educationalist, he saw the players as his charges, his students and he, the headmaster. There was a gap between him and the players.
A.K. Brohi, as I recall, was Pakistan’s High Commissioner in India and I had good reason to remember him. He had been Gurmani’s lawyer. I had known him, otherwise, as well. He used to come to the Friday nights at Air Cottage. I don’t think he was much interested in cricket and, if he was, he didn’t let on. He was more into intellectual pursuits and other-worldliness, and saw himself as a philosopher-sage.
All-India Radio had not mentioned any fee for the commentary I was doing for them. I mentioned this to our press attache, whose name I forget, and he told me that I shouldn’t raise it. “We should be gracious,” he said. I was doing all the work and “we” should be gracious! A sort of heaven where the godly eat and eat and the ungodly digest and digest. As it happened, I did not raise the matter and neither did the All-India Radio. Apparently the word “guest” was meant to be taken literally.
My friend and in many ways my mentor at the University of Southern California, Madanjit Singh Malik, had returned after finally getting his degree in architecture, and was living in New Delhi. He had married an American girl and it was she who greeted me with a namaste when I went to see him. He was happy to meet me, Madanjit was not given to emotional histrionics and we shook hands. It was hard to tell what was wrong with him but he seemed restless with the new India and hinted that he might go back to the United States. Perhaps, it was his wife who was having trouble adjusting. He expressed some surprise that I was doing cricket commentary and not “something else.” I think he expected that I would have gone into politics. After we had exhausted the “good old days” we found we had little else to talk about and we parted, with the formality of saying that we would keep in touch. There was another friend of my brother, Nasir, from his Calcutta days, Anna, and she had been married to a man everyone called ‘Suds’. I remembered Anna as being vivacious and my brothers Toto, Shanoo and me, all schoolboys when we had first met Anna, had a crush on her. She would take us to Firpos, a tea-house in the smart side of Calcutta, where the elite would gather to sip Earl Gray’s tea and nibble at wafer-thin sandwiches. I had her telephone number from her younger sister, Champak, who I had met at Madras. I rang her up and invited her to dinner. She was divorced and had a son who was of cricket-playing age.
Anna was still strikingly good looking, though no longer vivacious. The bloom had worn off and we went to a Chinese restaurant in Connaught Place. Being divorced, she was a bit fidgety about being seen out with a young man. Delhi had a small-town mentality, she told me, and she did not want any gossip. I told her that I was flattered that there should be any gossip about my taking her out. Perhaps, it was vanity. After all, I used to call her “Aunty” when we had first met. As luck would have it, she met one of her girlfriends at the restaurant and this upset her because the girlfriend was a gossip and had the fastest mouth in town. As evenings go, it was far from being an enchanting one.
The talk of the town, however, was the test match and it was a sell-out. From what I could gather, the crowd would not be friendly. All four test matches had been drawn and the Indians desperately wanted to win this one, and Pakistan was equally desperate not to lose and go back home undefeated. That would be a moral victory of sorts. The Pakistan players were keyed up and some of the tension had got to me. Pakistan got off to a bad start. It arrived at the ground late, having been delayed by a few of their late-risers who barely made it to the team bus. The two teams were to be lined up and introduced to the President of India, and there was a mad rush to change into their flannels and put on their blazers, but they made it just in time.
As was my practice, I had got to the ground much earlier and was in the commentary-box and was being asked in an amiable, snide way why the Pakistan team had not arrived. Added to the commentary team was Devraj Puri, who had been a fast-medium bowler and played for the Delhi and District Cricket Association in the Ranji Trophy. He had also played a lot of cricket for the Indian Gymkhana is Osterley in Surrey. He knew my brother, Nasir, and they had played cricket together. Thus, there was a link between us and he went out of his way to be extra nice to me.
I discovered that the press-box was across the ground from the commentary box which created a problem for me. I asked Dr Jehangir Khan whether I would write my dispatches in the Pakistan dressing room and he immediately gave me permission. Thus, after my commentary stints, I would go and sit in the dressing room and witness first-hand the changing moods of the players, depending on the twists and turns that the test match was taking. And there were plenty of them. It was a test match that was not for the weak of heart.
I ALMOST did not get to Delhi for the fifth and final test match. I went to see Nur Khan to fulfil the formality of letting him know that I was going. He had by now tired of the series and told me that I was not only wasting my time, but also that of those who sat glued to their radio sets. Somehow, he seemed to hold me personally responsible for this barren cricket. When I pointed out to him that I was not playing and only doing the commentary, it seemed to enrage him further. Then his patience ran out, but it ran out the right way and I left for Delhi.
