July 18, 2004

I HAD first heard of Justice A.R. Cornelius as the sole dissenting judge in the landmark judgment handed down by the Supreme Court in the Maulvi Tamizuddin case. That judgment altered the course of politics in Pakistan forever and sealed the fate of democracy. Everything else that has followed has been patch-work repairs. Yet Cornelius seemed an unlikely man to have taken such a brave decision. He was a Christian and did not have a bradari or a constituency to back him. The law had guided him as he had interpreted it and his conscience.

But my connection with him was cricket. It was his other love. He had been a gentleman-cricketer and in his playing days had turned up every weekend for the Lahore Gymkhana to play at the loveliest of grounds at what was then Lawrence Gardens and which would be re-named as the Bagh-e-Jinnah and when I first went there to do the cricket commentary, what struck me most was the quaint pavilion. In my mind’s eye I have always associated Cornelius with that pavilion. Perhaps, because it had character and dignity and was ye oldie and stood as a reminder of days that were no more. Cornelius would be judged as being old fashioned even in the cricket world of the 1950-60’s that seem like an innocent age given the tempo and intensity of the present day, to say nothing of the white ball and coloured clothing and flood-lights and the big money that is involved.

I cannot recall the circumstances of first meeting him but I do remember that he called me Master Omar, much in the way the principal of my school in Mumbai, Mr L.M.S. Brooks used to do and though my association with him spanned many years, I was always Master Omar to him. There was something of the school-master in him, of that wonderful character played by Robert Donat in the film Goodbye Mr. Chips.

He lived in a suite of rooms in the Falettis Hotel in Lahore. He must have had other residences but through all the time I knew him till his death that’s where he lived. He had such a simple lifestyle that it seemed almost mocking. He was not a recluse, no Mahatma Gandhi living among his Harijans, nor can one say that he was a private person. But a suite of rooms in a hotel is all the space he needed. Gandhi flaunted the fact that he travelled in a third-class railway carriage, prompting Mrs Sarojini Naidu to say that Bapuji “did not know how much it cost to keep him in poverty”. Cornelius’ simplicity was not meant to be high minded.

He went on to become the chief justice of the Supreme Court as he went on to become president of the Board of Control for Cricket in Pakistan (BCCP). He did not seek to stamp his authority on cricket and was a consensus man and player-friendly and did not interfere in selection matters. I think he was aware of his limitations and stayed on his side of the turf.

He had played a stellar role in the formation of the Eaglets Society and the Pakistan Eaglets would tour England every year and played matches against senior club teams the second-elevens of counties. They also spent some time at Alf Gover’s cricket school and got some coaching. Those who could afford it paid their own way and for others, the hat was passed around.

I got on very well with him. He gave no cause not to do so. When I went to England in 1962 with Javed Burki’s team, he wrote me a long, hand-written letter (actually it was an aerogramme) and told me how much he was enjoying listening to my commentary and made some sharp observations about the performance of the team and asked me to keep in touch with the players and keep reminding them that they were playing for their country. It was an affectionate letter but it showed some serious concern for the team. He shared in the joys of the triumphs of the team and was heart-broken by its disasters. Pakistan cricket owes him a huge debt for he was at the helm and he charted cricket through turbulent waters.

Long after he retired and was doing some private practice, he came to Karachi and was staying at the Sind Club. He telephoned me and invited me to dinner. He said that a new restaurant had opened near the PIDC House and he had heard good things about it and we should try it. I told him that I didn’t know he was a gourmet. I picked him up and went to the restaurant and had a quiet dinner. Naturally, we talked cricket and the passion was still there. He must have had countless friends in Karachi but I saw it as an honour that he chose to spend some quality time with me. It was the last time that I met him.

Cornelius had a quality that Thomas Love Peacock called unexpectedness. He had held the highest office in his profession. He had held the highest office in cricket. In our search for greatness in the man there should have been some signs of authority, some twinge of self-importance. Instead one found a remarkable human being and a humble heart. The secret, perhaps, was that he was at peace with himself.

By contrast, Kafiluddin Ahmed was a pocket-dynamo. Short in stature and combative by nature, he did not suffer fools gladly. He could be abrasive and yet there was something about him that was lovable. He was an East Pakistani but in those days East Pakistan only defined a geographic region. He was the Chief Engineer of the PWD and he took advantage of his position to become a patron of cricket, long before PIA and the banks got into the act. He gave employment to many cricketers including Hanif Mohammad. The PWD cricket team was one of the strongest and the person in charge was Idrees Beg, one of Pakistan cricket’s most unforgettable characters. Bhai Idrees became famous for the wrong reasons when he was roughed up by a visiting MCC team in Peshawar. I mention this in order to introduce a memorable conversation that took place. Asked by the MCC players if he wanted a drink, Bhai Idrees indignantly refused. “No thank you. I am a vegetarian,” he told them.

Kafil lived in a PWD house in Garden East (or West, I could never tell the difference). He had a cricket net and every evening some of the best players in Karachi would be there practising. I first cast my eyes on Haseeb Ahsan there, a very self-assured young man still in his teens and who turned his off-spinners a yard.

It was Kafiluddin Ahmed who built the National Stadium in record time and I think he cut corners with the rules. He had to meet a deadline and he met it. Unfortunately, he located the commentary-box in the Students’ Enclosure. When Jamsheed Marker and I walked up to it we were pelted with oranges, no malice intended just the exuberance of youth. By lunch-time, we flatly refused to do the commentary from that location and we shifted to ground level at the pavilion end with a beach umbrella to protect us from the burning sun and we stayed there for a long time until Ayub Khan came to watch a training session of the Pakistan team.

I was there as was Kafiluddin Ahmed. Ayub asked me where we did the commentary from. I told him, not concealing my bitterness. “Where should it be?” he asked. I told that it should be above the sight screen. I don’t think he issued any orders but this conversation was within Kafil’s hearing distance. Overnight, he built the commentary-box that I considered to be the best in the world.

I have many more reasons to remember Kafiluddin Ahmed with great affection. Like Justice A.R. Cornelius, his services to cricket were huge and they were rendered unselfishly. Two peas in a pod? Hardly. They took different roads to arrive at the same destination. There are many dialects in the language of love and it could be said that they both spoke the same language. I had the good luck to know them both and be their friend. Some friendships never die. They only seem to fade away but when remembered they reappear as fond memories and like rain they bring life to a dry field.

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