I got a letter from the BBC, asking me whether I was available to do the commentary for Pakistan’s tour of England starting in the summer of 1962. Cricket commentators, as a rule, do not have ambitions, but the prospect of working with John Arlott thrilled me. He was the world’s best, and on a different level to all the others. How would I stack up against him?
I had met John Arlott when he had come to Karachi enroute to Australia, and I had been his host and taken him to Friday Night at Air Cottage. We hadn’t discussed cricket at all. We had talked about Dylan Thomas and John Arlott, who was a poet himself, had told me about him as they had both worked at the BBC. My first instinct was to dash off a reply to the BBC that I was both willing and able. But there was the small matter of getting leave from the PIA. The tour would be a long one, some four months. PIA would need some convincing.
I wrote back to the BBC that I expected to be in London soon, and would like to talk to them as it seemed unlikely that I would be available for the entire tour. It had been a carefully-worded letter, as I did not wish to give them the impression that I was laying down any conditions. At the same time, I asked Gaston de Chalus, who was our public relations consultant, to keep the offer ‘warm’. Gaston was well-connected and knew his way about and around.
I went to London and met Max Mueller who was Head of BBC’s Outside Broadcasting. Max and I would, in due course, become good friends, but this was my first meeting with him and it was a formal one. It is not possible to smile and keep a stiff upper lip at the same time.
Max Mueller started by saying that he had not listened to any of my commentary but had got good reports about me. I, in turn, told him that I would be available only for the test matches, and would keep returning to Karachi. This was utterly unacceptable to him. That seemed to be that. And I left the meeting, my cricket commentary world shattered. In the days gone by, I would have chucked the job. But I wasn’t as carefree now as I had been when I had set sail for the United States with no idea of how I would fund my education at the University of Southern California.
I returned to Karachi, crestfallen. I had not spoken to anyone about all this, and had kept it bottled up. The only one who could have had an inkling of it was Akbar Ali, my personal assistant who had a ‘sixth’ sense since he had known about my meeting with BBC. In my sulking mood, he had worked out that things had not panned out the way I had wanted them to. Then, one day, I received a letter from the BBC and a triumphant Akbar Ali brought it to me. The BBC had reconsidered my conditions and were prepared to let me miss the first few matches of the tour. But I would have to do the commentary of the county match before the first test match, and thereafter do all the matches leading to and up to the last test match. This effectively lopped a few weeks from the tour, and my absence from PIA would not be all that long.
I went to see Nur Khan and obviously caught him on one of his ‘off’ days. “You must make up your mind whether you want to be a cricket commentator or work full time for the PIA,” he said in a surprisingly aggressive tone. I saw no point in arguing with him, nor in reminding him that at my first interview with him, I had told him about my other commitments. But he must have seen the look of hurt on my face.
The next day ‘Jimmy’ Mirza, who was the commercial director, sent for me. He told me that Nur Khan had discussed my case with him. A formula had been worked out. I could avail all the privilege leave due to me, and if it fell short, I would be granted leave without pay. “We are still not happy about your being away for so long, but we understand how much this means to you,” he said. I told him that London was not all that far away and I could always get back if required. “Just concentrate on the cricket,” he advised. I had no doubt that Nur Khan had felt badly at turning me down and had turned to ‘Jimmy’ Mirza to find a solution.
‘Jimmy’ and I got on well, and he was a professional manager who knew that a surly worker was next to useless. Motivation takes many forms. I had been giving hundred per cent, above and beyond the call of duty. No one could claim that I had been shown any favours. In the area of my responsibilities, I had delivered. I didn’t know whether to thank Nur Khan, and decided not to do so and not even mention to him that I had accepted BBC’s offer. It was best to leave well alone.
I had decided to take my family with me and wrote to Gaston to get a flat for me — not too expensive, but not in the slumland of East London, Old Kent Road and Elephant and Castle. He got me a flat in Chelsea, which was not the chic area it would become when all reticence would be cast aside and Beatlemania would sweep London. King’s Road would become a tourist attraction where one could feast one’s eyes on the dolly-birds in their mini-skirts, and pot-smoking would become a status symbol among the young.
The BCCP announced the appointment of Javed Burki as captain of the team. It was a shocking decision, totally unexpected and overlooked the claims of the more-deserving Imtiaz Ahmed and Hanif Mohammad. Javed Burki was a newcomer to the team, he was too young and would not command the respect of the seniors. I saw him as a future captain and felt that he was not ready for the job. There was the perception, too, that being the son of the then Lt-Gen Burki may have weighed heavily in those martial-law days. Most of all, I thought it unfair to the young man. Lt-Gen Burki had been a junior colleague of my father in the Indian Medical Service, and my father who judged people by their bridge-playing abilities remembered him as “not a bad bridge player.”
I met Kardar at the Karachi Gymkhana. Jamsheed Marker was also present, and I told him what I thought of Javed Burki’s appointment. Kardar read that as a personal criticism of himself and we had an angry argument. This was not the first time that Kardar and I had disagreed, and if not for the calming influence of Jamsheed Marker, it could have turned nasty. That evening, Kardar came to my house, to mend fences and once the fury of a cloudburst had been spent, there were blue skies.
Before the team left for England, a Commonwealth team played a match in Karachi. Included in that team was Richie Benaud and Colin Cowdrey. There was a reception for the team on the lawns of the Palace Hotel (alas, no more). The hot topic in cricket in those days was ‘chucking’. Quite by chance, I overheard Richie Benaud and Cowdrey talking, and Richie was telling him that there were a few ‘chuckers’ in the Pakistan team. Something in me snapped, and I told Richie in no uncertain terms what I thought of him, the gist of which was that he (Richie) should be the last person who should be talking of ‘chucking’, considering that he had won a series against England with Meckiff and Rorke. We were on the verge of squaring off when the genial Mir Mohammad Hussain intervened and gently led me away.
Since then, Benaud and I have kept our distance, a sort of healthy dislike of each other, though I respect him as a cricket commentator. But this was a danger-signal for there were three bowlers in our team, Haseeb, Mohammad Faruque and Antao Desouza, whose bowling action was ‘suspect’, and these were the three names that Benaud had mentioned to Cowdrey. Haseeb had played in the West Indies and India and had had no problems. He was our match-winning spinner, and I had a hunch that he would be targeted.
Foreign exchange was a precious commodity and there used to be an annual or biannual quota of two hundred pounds for travellers. The State Bank duly sanctioned my quota, but my problem was the rupee-equivalent. My salary was directly sent to my bank, Grindlay’s, on Dundas Street. My salary was due and it went to Grindlay’s where I thought I had a friend, a cricket-loving son of a famous man. I saw no problem. I was in for a surprise.
My friend informed me that what I was asking for was a loan, and I would have to fulfil the formalities which meant putting up some collateral. I was stunned by this bloody-minded bureaucracy. I told him that I had been a regular customer and, in any case, my salary was due and all I was asking for was an advance against the salary. He stuck to his guns. “Rules are rules,” he said, pompously. The “box-wallas”, those Pakistanis who worked for foreign firms, were emerging as the aristocracy of Pakistan society.
After my friend had closed all the doors, he changed his personality and was all sweetness. He asked me what I thought were the prospects for the Pakistan team. It was my turn now. “The BBC and my newspaper pay me for my views. I don’t see why I should let you have them free,” I told him. When he protested, I said: “Rules are rules.” That was the end of our friendship. He complained to someone that I had become arrogant. I would have named him but I don’t remember his name, only his smugness.
