March 20, 2005

MUCH as I would have liked to deal with the first Test between Pakistan and India today, my thoughts have been distracted by the tragic news of the death of Omar Kureishi. It happens rarely that the death of an individual overshadows everything else, especially when that individual happens to have no blood relations with you. Omar Kureishi was most certainly an individual in that class. His was a larger-than-life existence.

Of course, to me his first identity was through the glorious game of cricket. For an entire generation, he was the voice of cricket, so characteristic was his inflection and accent, and so comprehensive was his knowledge and understanding of the game. Even in my playing days, there were several occasions when people in private gatherings remarked rather jokingly that Omar Kureishi’s description of my shots, especially the cover drives, was much better than the shot itself. For obvious reasons, I never heard him describe my shots, but I sure saw his printed comments the next morning, and have no qualms about conceding that his prowess at writing was better and more effective than mine at cricket. Such was the power of his word.

Even though I was a great admirer of his art for a long time, my first extended brush with him came during the 1974 trip of the national team to England. He was the manager of the side, and I cam across hardly a few individuals whom I could rate alongside him as a professional manager of any international side. Though he was firm when he had to, most of the time he was one of us without anyone having the slightest of doubt as to who was the boss. But more than anything else, he knew what he was doing and what he was up against.

It was no wonder that the side turned out to be the only team since the Don Bradman-led Invincibles, who had toured England back in 1948, to return undefeated from a full-length English tour. It happened because everyone in the camp was at peace with himself as well as with those around him. To make it happen even though there were temperamental characters in the party was something that apparently came naturally to Omar Kureishi. All this meant greater commitment to cricket on the part of the players and an enviable loyalty to the camp commander. That he never tried to take any credit for the team’s performance could only be attributed to his sense of modesty.

In the years ahead, I was fortunate enough to meet him on a regular basis during my long and cherished association with the national airlines. Omar Kureishi, along with Nur Khan, was the architect of many a sporting career. Their enthusiasm was not restricted to cricket alone, but they had the larger interest of sports in general close to their heart. The sporting fraternity in the country owes a lot to those two gentlemen for going beyond the ordinary and thinking about the welfare of sporting heroes and budding stars.

Having rubbed shoulders with the high and mighty of the land, it would have been only natural for Omar Kureishi to himself become a snob. That he remained a down-to-earth character with no pretensions or hangups was something that brought him a large number of admirers. In ways more than one, he was a man at peace with himself and who had wasted little time in learning the art of being a celebrity.

As he embarks on man’s inevitable journey to eternity, it is a sad day for the followers of the game. Omar Kureishi was not just the voice of cricket, but was also the voice of sanity in cricket, especially Pakistan Cricket. He will be missed.

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