There is buzz about a Lord’s Test match that is different to the clamour of other Test matches which tend to be festive. The Lord’s buzz is more like a running stream, steady, unhurried and the sound is that of soft, piped music, meant to create a mood. There is a kind of stir in the press-box, as if one is at a class reunion or an alumni homecoming.
By now, I was not an unfamiliar figure and I did my share of handshaking and the occasional backslapping. John Arlott arrived, heaving his briefcase which contained his sandwiches and a bottle of wine, wearing a well-worn raincoat that gave him an untidy look like the police-detective Colombo in the television series.
“Kureishi Saab,” he said to me. It was not just an acknowledgement but a warm greeting. Brian Johnston had replaced Rex Allston and it was my first meeting with him, as it was with Trevor Bailey who had taken over from Freddie Brown as one of the experts. Brian Johnston was a jocular man, very public school, Eton or Harrow or Wellington, with a matching sense of humour. That is to say that he was a bit of a prankster. These must have been happy school days for he seemed frozen in them.
Trevor Bailey struck me as someone who seemed to take himself seriously. The word gravitas came to mind. There was a bit of a commotion in the bar of the press-box. Keith Miller had arrived and he had his followers and they rushed to pay him homage. Keith would hold court and would peep in to watch the cricket. In another age, he would have been one of the knights at the round table of King Arthur, if not King Arthur. Keith Miller had a soft spot for Pakistan cricket and he greeted me, as he always did, effusively.
There was a new face in the press-box though it was a face that would have been instantly recognizable. Learie Constantine was sitting all by himself and I introduced myself. Here was an authentic cricket legend. If George Headley had been the ‘black’ Bradman, Learie Constantine, in his prime, would have been the best all-rounder, black, white or brown, that cricket had ever produced until another West Indian, Gary Sobers, had appeared on the scene.
I had a special reason to meet him. When I had been seven years old, my father had taken me to the Islam Gymkhana that postage-stamp cricket ground on Kennedy sea face in Bombay. Learie Constantine had been visiting India at the invitation of one of the Maharajas, probably Patiala or Vizzinagram and played a match against a local team led by S.M. Kadri and which included Mohammad Nissar, India’s fiercest fast bowler. I had been taken to meet him and I remembered his grin, his shining white teeth on a black face. Many years later when I met Louis (‘Satchmo’) Armstrong, that greatest trumpet-player of all time, somehow he had reminded me of Learie Constantine.
Cricket in India then had been controlled by the British and Lord Willingdon, the Viceroy, saw to it that the natives did not get restless. Constantine was to say that he had seen more racism in cricket in British India than anywhere else. And he knew something about racism. When he had played for the West Indies, his captain had been a white man, a fact not lost on him. He had been a fast bowler, the first ‘black lightning’, a hard-hitting lower-order batsman, an earlier version of C.K. Nayadu, and as a fielder he was called ‘Electric heels’ so quick was he to pounce on the ball. He should have been a man with a permanent scowl and the voice of a growling bulldog.
He was, instead, the gentlest of men and spoke with the softness of a priest listening to a sinner’s confession in a small town church. He had been elevated to a peerage but his robes were not ermine and silk. I found him a self-effacing shy man, a good listener and a talker who measured his words. I didn’t tell him what a singular honour it had been to meet him, sit with him and talk to him. He would have been embarrassed.
I had done the cricket commentary for All India Radio as guest-commentator on Pakistan’s tour of India in 1960-61 and C.K. Nayadu had been the expert. C.K. too was a cricket legend and, like Learie Constantine, did not flaunt his celebrity. The two had much in common. They were both humble men in the pious sense of the word, a genuine humility as against a fake modesty found in Learie Constantine, Keith Miller and throw in Dennis Compton, Richie Benaud, Len Hutton and Godrey Evans. There was a lot of brass in a press-box.
England won the toss and batted. Khalid Ibadulla, Mushtaq Mohammad, Inthikhab Alam and Nasimul Ghani had been brought in and added some fibre to the team. But the bowling had looked suspect and the sight of Asif Iqbal being given the new ball could hardly have sent tremors in the England dressing room. There was an early loss of a wicket and then another but the honeymoon, as they say, was over. Ken Barrington and Tom Graveney put together a partnership that yielded 201 runs and Basil D’Olivera chipped in with 59, and England put together 369. The consensus being among the experts that it was more than enough.
Hanif Mohammad was making his third tour of England and had yet to make a Test hundred. Indeed, he had yet to put together an innings of any substance. Pakistan made an altogether too familiar a start and in next to no time had lost two wickets for 25 runs when Hanif came in to bat. Word had got around the cricket grapevine that Hanif was uncomfortable against fast bowling or in the words of the county professional “did not like it quick.” He had had a miserable time against Ramakant Desai of India. He seemed to have developed a mental block against him.
Brian Close, the England captain, was determined to exploit this supposed weakness and he had John Snow testing him as soon as he had come in. Hanif weaved away but when the dose was repeated, decided to set the record straight. Whenever Snow bounced to him, Hanif hooked as if the shot was second nature to him. Hanif had rediscovered the trick of pulling out a rabbit from a hat. John Snow’s bang had turned into a whimper.
Pakistan, however, continued to lose wickets and were 139 for 7 when Asif Iqbal joined Hanif. Asif was then a bowling all-rounder, and Intikhab Alam and Nasimul Ghani batted ahead of him. Hanif and Asif Iqbal put together a 130 runs partnership.
“I don’t know which is the brighter, the partnership or the sunlight that is flooding Lord’s,” I had said over the radio or words to that lyrical effect. Hanif had past his hundred and was handing out punishment to the England bowlers like a headmaster delivering six-of-the-best to errant school children. It was the best innings I saw Hanif play, masterful, dour when a good ball merited it and attacking when a bad ball deserved it. He remained not out on 187 and had batted for 542 minutes. A double hundred was his for the asking but he ran out of partners.
Pakistan made 354, just 14 runs adrift of England’s 369. We had a Test match on our hands, if Pakistan had had the bowling to contain England. Pakistan was set a target of 257 and to go after it would have entailed some risk. Keith Miller and Dennis Compton told me that Pakistan should go for it.
Learie Constantine was of the same opinion but later revised it. “You will leave Lord’s ahead on points. Don’t tempt the gods,” he had said.
I went to the Pakistan dressing-room and Khalid Ibadulla and Javed Burki were padded up. It hadn’t even crossed their minds that though the target was steep, it was not unattainable. The point was that we should have been in a positive frame of mind, if need be, thinking the unthinkable.
‘Lumboo’ Ansari, who was a friend of mine from Karachi and in a huff, had upped roots and migrated to London. He was an accountant by trade, a quality bridge-player by preference and a raving cricket nut. He would pack a lunch and a blanket, and we would have a picnic. The lunch was aloo-keema and paratha and I asked John Arlott whether he would like to try some ‘native’ food. I told him that it would be an improvement over the sandwiches he brought with him. He agreed and passer byes were treated to the sight of John Arlott squatting on a blanket and eating with his hands.
John had lunch with us everyday of the Test match. He would return to the commentary-box, fish out his brief-case and pull out the bottle of wine which he carried in it. John Arlott was also the wine correspondent of The Guardian. “I just want to see if wine goes with aloo-keema,” he would explain.
A picnic lunch at Lord’s was a common sight. But aloo keema and parathas? Truly, the sun had set on the British Empire and all the Colonel Blimps would have been turning their graves and the memsaabs would have been screaming: “Why are they not eating in the kitchen?”
