June 13, 2004

“The West Indian cricket scene, peopled with characters as colourful as its islands, and the home of some of the exciting personalities ever produced by cricket, is the first love of one of its most distinguished sons, C.L.R. James,” thus begins the review by Neville Cardus of one of the most extraordinary books on cricket ever written, Beyond A Boundary.

The book itself has gone missing from my small library. My son Javed gave it to me as a birthday present. Someone borrowed it and though he was a bad accountant, he was a good book-keeper. I bought another copy and this too was filched by another friend who just wanted to browse through it and absent-mindedly took it with him. Once again, I got another copy and have managed to hold on to it. I have re-read it to help me write, not about a single cricket person, but a cluster of them, all of them West Indian.

I was about ten years old when I first saw a West Indian cricketer. He was Learie Constantine. He had been invited by the Maharajkumar of Vizinagram (Vizzy) to visit India and he was playing against the Islam Gymkhana in Mumbai and my father had taken me along with two brothers to see the match. The Islam Gymkhana, along with the Parsi and Hindu gymkhanas were located on Bombay’s Kennedy sea-face, postage-stamp size cricket grounds with quaint pavilions. Kennedy sea-face was a part of an arc that merged with Chowpatty Beach at one end and Marine Drive at the other.

Islam Gymkhana was being captained by S.M. Kadri and included Mohammad Nissar, the burly fast-bowler with strong shoulders who could match Learie Constantine in the ferocity with which he bowled. But Learie Constantine was the star attraction and the good Mumbai cricket fans had gathered in large numbers to see him play. I gave my impression of him to my mother who was of Kashmiri origin.

“Bibi, he was even more black than Kalia”, I told her. Kalia was our sweeper and as the name suggests, was no Greek god. Strange that what had struck me most, was his blackness. Learie Constantine’s colour was what gave him his persona for he was always the best black all-rounder as George Headley was always the black Bradman. C.L.R James insinuates that Headley was a better batsman than Bradman. Learie Constantine did for the blacks in cricket what Joe Louis did for the Afro-Americans in boxing and Jessie Owens in athletics. He gave them dignity and pride in their colour. They were better than the whites at their own games.

Learie Constantine was snapped up in the slips, almost first ball. S.M. Kadri then went up to him, put his hands around him and persuaded him to have another turn. I still recall vividly his wall-to-wall grin, his white teeth gleaming and he took fresh guard. He belted a few sixes and one’s memory plays tricks and I have always imagined that one of those sixes landed in the Arabian Sea. My father took us to meet him and I shook hands with him and he patted me. My day had been made.

I met him again at the Lord’s press-box in 1967. Now an elderly man, he was sitting by himself, watching the Test match. I introduced myself and he asked me to sit next to him. I wanted to tell him that we had met before but it meant getting back too far in time. He spoke softly, a voice of gentle argument like that of a priest and he listened intently as if he was hard of hearing. In between my commentary stints, I would go and sit with him and he would pat the seat next to him, as if it had been safeguarded by him for me. Our conversation covered many subjects. I asked him about the future of West Indies cricket and he told me that there was an assembly-line of fast bowlers presaging the arrival of Michael Holding, Andy Roberts, Colin Croft and Malcolm Marshal. What was there in the make-up and character of the West Indian people that made their young men want to be fast bowlers? Learie Constantine who had himself been the original “black lightning” said that it came naturally but surely the origin of this natural impulse could be found in the West Indian society, a propensity towards violence as a means of self-expression? It was that kind of conversation I had with him

Hanif Mohammad had scored a brilliant century and Pakistan found itself with a tempting target but it entailed some risks. Keith Miller and Denis Compton told me that Pakistan should go for it. So did Learie Constantine. I set off for the Pakistan dressing-room to convey the sentiments of the former greats but before I could do so, Learie Constantine had a second think. “God has put you in this good position and it would be asking too much that your luck should continue,” he told me. He was a religious man but he also had an astute cricket brain. There was so much to remember about that Lord’s Test match but I remember it best of all for the friendship that had sprouted between Learie Constantine and me.

Gary Sobers had toured Pakistan and written a book in which he had accused our umpires of being ‘cheats’ and vowed never to tour Pakistan. On that 1967 tour, there had been a reception at The Oval and Gary Sobers was there. I sought him out and asked him whether he had forgiven Pakistan? “Maan that was a long time ago,” he said. I asked him whether he would tour Pakistan again? “I guess so,” he said. He wrote out his address and gave it to me and asked me to keep in touch. A few years later I organized a charity match in aid of the East Pakistan cyclone relief fund. We asked Gary Sobers to lead a World XI. He came and brought Clive Lloyd with him. He refused to accept any fees and returned even his daily allowance.

Rohan Kanhai was also a member of that team. Rafi Munir had given a reception for the teams at his Clifton residence. Rohan Kanhai had enjoyed himself beyond the call of duty and he had scaled one of the royal palm trees and was demanding to know where were the coconuts.

He was a man who lighted a candle at both ends for the brightness of the light it would give out. His batting style typified the way he lived his life and when Rohan Kanhai was into his stride, there was never been a more brilliant batsman. But there must have been much more to him for Sunil Gavaskar to name his son after him.

PTV invited him to be the guest-expert and that is when we became good friends. He was a cheerful man and had no airs about him. He was of Asian-origin, indeed of Hindu origin though he did not strike me a temple-going type. He was more calypso than bhajans. I last me him in Johannesburg. He was the manger of the West Indian team and we had met at an Indian restaurant and we both abandoned our respective hosts and sat on a separate table to talk about how life was treating us. “Brother, can’t complain and how about you?” and I told him that’s the way it was for me. “That’s good, brother,” he said.

Viv Richards was Viv Richards, on and off the field. PTV had asked me to interview him and Wesley Hall. This was at Rawalpindi. We had travelled together in the PTV van to the studio and did not say one word to each other. After the interview, he came up to ask whether he could get a copy of the interview. “Maan, you made me sweat with your questions,” he said. The ice had been broken. One evening at Lord’s, I caught sight of him. He was wearing a Rastafrian skull-cap and he was surrounded by his admirers. I waved to him and he yelled “Hey maan,” and he rushed forward and embraced me. And we talked a little. I never got to see Bradman bat and I don’t think he would have embraced me and shown his affection. But I have seen Viv Richards bat and could he bat! Great is a word used too easily and it has been devalued. We need to find some different word to describe his batting and his swagger and the angle of the cap he wore.

It is said of Paris that the world would be lonely without it. That’s the view I have held about West Indian cricket. The game would be poorer without it. It was not only the skills it brings to the cricket field. It is an art-form. Give a West Indian cricketer a paint brush and a canvas and he will fill it with splotches of colour, smears and daubs and it could be trash or it could be a masterpiece. Give him the sound of music and he will sway with it and create his own dance. That’s what cricket has meant to them, a form of expression, a yearning to breathe free. Sit among a crowd of West Indians at a cricket match and you will get to know what C.L.R. James meant when he posed the question: “What do they of cricket who only know cricket?” I once saw the late Collie Smith hit Brian Statham over his head, off the back foot for six. Luckily it was at Old Trafford and not at Lord’s. At Lord’s this audacity would have been considered treason. Cricket, lovely cricket to a calypso beat and the murmur of the Caribbean Sea.

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