KR RAJAGOPAL

 

A king among openers

When I recently learnt that octogenarian KR Rajagopal‒on  a visit from Bengaluru to receive handsome cash awards from the TNPL and CSK‒was staying at the Crowne Plaza hotel, barely five minutes from my residence, I was eager to call on him before he left the city. As my driver was on leave, however, and my current level of fitness did not allow me to walk or drive to the hotel, I was unfortunately forced to be satisfied with a phone call. Raja was not to be put off. He dropped in at my flat almost immediately after my phone call, with his 24x7 caregiver Chandru in tow. Chandru, a find of Mr N Sankar, Chairman of the Sanmar Group, and my former boss (as he had been Raja's more than fifty years ago), is a product of Udavum Karangal, the well known NGO for destitute children.  Raja, who lost his wife a couple of years ago, lives alone in the erstwhile garden city, as his daughters are settled abroad; Chandru and he seem to take excellent care of each other.

It was an emotional reunion, especially for me, the recipient of Raja's  spontaneous warmth and kindness, and we inevitably relived our cricketing past in the conversation that ensued. I only played against Raja and marvelled at his batting genius from 22 yards a couple of times, but I watched his brilliant batsmanship and wicket keeping quite frequently from the safety of the gallery when he set the Marina on fire with his pyrotechnics. Raja was all praise for some of his seniors in domestic cricket. CD Gopinath came in for special mention. To Raja, it seemed, no batsman of the era was more complete than Gopi, who is now 91 and lives in Coonoor. He remembered two innings in particular˗both for Madras vs. Mysore˗the first a mammoth 234, and the second a hundred made in partnership with fellow centurymaker MK Balakrishnan rescuing Madras from a perilous five down for a paltry score. The first was at Central College, Bangalore, where Gopi cut and drove the likes of Deepak Dasgupta and LT Subbu with panache, and the second at Coimbatore.  Balakrishnan, AG Kripal Singh and his lefthanded brother Milkha Singh were some of the  other batsmen he admired. "Milkha was all class," Raja reminisced. "So was the wrist spinner VV Kumar, a wizard with his leg breaks, googlies and top spinners, all delivered with utmost guile, accuracy and economy, a rare combination." Like others of his era, Raja rates Kumar higher than most contemporary tweakers.

Here is what I wrote on Rajagopal some years ago, and I see no reason to take any of it back today:

 

K R Rajagopal came like a breath of fresh air to Madras cricket from Bangalore, when he joined the star-studded Jolly Rovers team of the 1960s. He quickly established himself as one of the most entertaining batsmen in the state, an opener crowds went miles to watch.

 “Rajagopal was one of the most aggressive opening batsmen around. He played his shots from the word go, shots based on a straight bat, free downswing and follow-through. With his keen eye, swift footwork, perfect balance and steely wrists, all buttressed by a sound technique, he looked for scoring opportunities all the time, and for a few years culminating in the 1967-68 season, he electrified both local and national matches played at Madras.

 In an era of swing bowling, Raja had an equally delightful answer to the outswinger and the inswinger. He cover drove imperiously, but he also played a gorgeous ondrive. He was equally fond of hooking and cutting.

 Raja struck a fine partnership with his teammate and captain Belliappa. Both were openers and wicket keepers, and as state captain, Belliappa was the first choice behind the stumps, though Raja was brilliant in that department. When Raja was a strong contender for a place in the Indian team touring Australia in 1967-1968 after a magnificent domestic season as a batsman, another wicket keeper Indrajitsinhji was preferred to him on the pretext that Raja did not keep for his own state.

 Raja is a simple man. For most of his playing days in Madras (he earlier played for Mysore), he worked at Sankarnagar, Tirunelveli, and took the night train to Madras to play league matches on the morrow for Jolly Rovers, the highly successful team sponsored by his employers. He brought as luggage a ridiculously small bag and went straight to the house of another "Raja", P N Sundaresan, The Hindu's cricket correspondent and the father of his teammate P S Narayanan. On the morning of the match, Raja would jump on to the pillion of Narayanan's Lambretta, tousled hair, stubble on his chin, crumpled shirt and trousers and all, with his cricket shoes wrapped in an old copy of The Hindu.

 (My brother Sivaramakrishnan, the left hander, recalls a ludicrous incident when Raja, playing for the opponents, had to borrow Siva’s trousers after realizing after the toss he had forgotten to pack his flannels. My brother is some six inches taller, so Raja had to use many pins and clips and string as well as sheer willpower to keep his pants on while making a bright half century, adjusting his wardrobe every ball).

 Such was Raja's pre-match preparation, but once he put on his pads and settled down to face the first ball of the innings, the change in him was electric. Slight of build and short in stature, he was a picture of poise as the bowler started his run towards him. Little notice did he give of the daring strokes he would soon play all round the wicket.  Few batsmen in the history of Tamil Nadu cricket have given as much pleasure to so many.”

 

Think Miyazaki (Single Version)

ANNADORAI AND THE BOLTS

 

A Test match at Chepauk is an occasion to catch up with many old friends. In the 20th century, the late S Annadorai was usually among those present, none the worse for his years, climbing the stairs effortlessly, trading old anecdotes with people he watched over as they grew up in cricket. He was his jaunty old self, as full of beans well into his eighties, as he was decades ago, when he would announce the City Colleges or Inter-Association Junior team with a flourish to anxious young cricketers who had gone through the trauma of selection trials. A former joint secretary of the Tamil Nadu Cricket Association, he had been a junior selector and Chairman of the league sub-committee as far back as 1955. A trusted lieutenant of S Sriraman, Annadorai never rose beyond being bridesmaid to occupy the secretary’s chair in the TNCA.

The joke doing the rounds in my playing days was that with Annadorai around as convener of the selection panel, you stood a good chance of being picked if you had an alien-sounding name—Coorgi and Anglo-Indian names were said to be particularly lucky. The moment the official stylishly announced “Monteiro” or “Cariappa”, knowing glances were exchanged among the players assembled. Perhaps those players fully deserved their inclusion, but human nature being what it is, we could never resist the temptation to conclude that there was bias in favour of the exotic. After all, familiarity does breed contempt, doesn’t it?

Annadorai had a long innings in Chennai cricket. He ran a club called City Central League for decades. Hailing from a land owning family in Mannargudi near Kumbakonam, he spent a great deal of his time and money on the promotion of his favourite game, cricket. An outspoken man, he believed in calling a spade a spade, only you might not agree with his definition of a spade. A great believer in young talent, he was also a stern critic of individual players, whom he tried to correct and motivate in his own inimitable style, not always to the liking of the player concerned.

It was through Annadorai’s initiative that the Colts’ tour of Bombay took place on a regular basis. Despite his eccentric views, and his own version of catch practice—India's bowling coach B Arun does a very good imitation of it—the old man was a popular manager, because he took excellent care of the boys and often spent his own money to give us wonderful treats, buying us dinner at top class restaurants, taking us to the movies and so on.

The Colts’ tour was a first rate learning experience for young cricketers from Tamil Nadu, for it afforded them their first exposure to turf wickets and Bombay professionalism for ten days at a stretch. The tour was also without tensions of any sort because the visitors were not expected to win too many matches, as most of the opposition was from the top drawer. Quite possibly because of that, the Colts won more often than lost.

The only jarring if somewhat amusing note was struck by the average age of the team. According to the dictionary, a colt is a young horse, and you would naturally expect the team to consist mainly of teenagers, but as players in the second and third divisions of the Chennai league were eligible for selection, you often found veterans of several summers in the squad. The common joke was that the Colts were in fact “Kezha Bolts”, meaning a Dad’s Army, “kezha” meaning old, and “bolts” added for rhyme.

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BASIL D'OLIVEIRA

He Dared To Dream

V. Ramnarayan

 THE TALL, DARK, MUSCULAR YOUNG MAN who was whacking a cricket ball to all parts of the ground, was exceptionally talented. So were some of his regular playmates. But he was different from the others in one respect. He dreamed of playing in far-off lands, of becoming an international sportsman of the highest calibre. This dream stayed with him for years and years until one day ...

 That would be going ahead of our story. Basil D'Oliveira, our hero, was a Cape Coloured: the other three major racial groups in South Africa during the old days of apartheid were white, African and Indian. Only the whites were allowed to play on the beautifully manicured cricket grounds in cities such as Cape Town, Johannesburg and Durban. Young Basil and his friends had to walk ten miles from their homes in Signal Hill, Cape Town where they lived in segregated coloured communities, to a vast open ground where they played their matches. Some 25 teams shared the rocky, boulder filled grounds, and it was possible while you were preparing to hold a brilliant catch to be knocked down by a ball from a match being played behind you.

 Unlike their white counterparts who played on immaculate turf pitches, Basil and his friends played on matting wickets. On the morning of a match, they walked the ten miles to their ground, rolled and watered the wicket, and nailed the matting on the mud wicket after it rolled out into a hard cake 22 yards long. They then placed boulders on the matting to keep it down while they went to change into their cricket clothes.

 The boys received no coaching. They practised on the streets near home, sometimes getting jailed for that as it was against the law to play on the road. Such small inconveniences rarely deterred them from pursuing their passion for cricket - and football. D'Oliveira learnt to play fast bowling by successfully fending off tennis balls --delivered from ridiculously close quarters - which constantly whistled past his ears. This prepared him for the vicious bounce of the matting surfaces on which some of their matches were played.

Whenever he could, Basil went to Newlands, the Test stadium in Cape Town, to watch Test matches played by white South Africans against visiting white teams. He would clean his father's pigeon loft to earn the shilling he needed for a Test match ticket, sit in a segregated enclosure and watch "gods like Peter May, Denis Compton, Colin Cowdrey, Neil Adcock and Hugh Tayfield". Though he was never bitter about being debarred from playing at Newlands because of the colour of his skin, he always supported the visiting team ‑‑ "after all, they weren't denying me the chance to play in
such a magnificent stadium" .

 By the time Basil stepped into his twenties, he was quite a force to reckon with in non-European cricket in South Africa. By 1960, he had played all the levels of cricket open to a Cape Coloured. And that included home and away games against Kenya. He once scored 225 in 70 minutes! On another occasion he scored 46 runs in an eight-ball over! As if to prove that he could bowl a bit too, he once took nine wickets for two runs with his off breaks!

 By now, D'Oliveira was quite obsessed with playing cricket in England and making a name for himself there. In 1958, he began a correspondence with John Arlott, the famous BBC radio commentator. "English cricket and John Arlott had always been synonymous to me. I ... hung on every word of Mr Arlott whenever I heard his radio commentaries in Cape Town. His voice and the words he spoke convinced me that he was a nice and compassionate man, so I started writing to him, asking him if there was any chance at all of playing cricket for a living in England," D'Oliveira said.

 Arlott had no illusions about the young South African's chances of being accepted as a professional cricketer in England on the strength of his deeds in non-European cricket in South Africa, but he replied to him regularly. Eventually, impressed by his correspondent's cricket statistics, and the modesty, politeness and persistence of his letters, he circulated the astonishing figures among club secretaries only to be met with indifference. "Those runs were scored on very good wickets against unknown opposition," they would say, but the wickets he took were, according to them, obtained on surfaces that favoured bowlers!

 By January 1960, D'Oliveira had all but shot his bolt. He married his childhood sweetheart Naomi after putting off marriage for so long because cricket would leave him little time for his family. He was already thirty though his age remained a mystery for years - birth certificates were unheard of in his circles.

 Hardly a month later, Arlott wrote to him again, this time to inform him that he had secured him a contract to play as a professional for a club called Middleton in the Central Lancashire league. John Kay, a Manchester journalist, had persuaded the club on the strength of Arlott's ecommendation, to hire D'Oliveira to take the place of the fearsome West Indies fast bowler Roy Gilchrist who was returning home.

 The contract was for just one year and the money offered was only £ 450 out of which he would have to pay £ 200 for his fare. How could D'Oliveria live on the remaining      £ 250 for a whole season? That too with Naomi now pregnant?

 "Bas, you'll never forgive yourself if you give up now," Naomi said.

 "Don't worry, Bas, we'll get you there," assured Damoo 'Benny' Bansda, an Indian friend, "and don't worry about Naomi, my family will take care of her." He, D'Oliveria's brother-in-law Frank Brache and another friend, Ishmeal Adams, formed a committee to raise funds. White cricketers like Peter Van der Merwe, a future South Africa captain, and Gerald Innes played in fund-raising matches along with coloured cricketers unmindful of the law. Innes joined Benny and Co. in walking round the ground at these matches with buckets in which they collected coins and notes. They raised £ 450 in just over a month.

 Tom Reddick, a former Nottinghamshire player who had coached in Lancashire, gave D'Oliveira advice on how to cope with the poor light, soft turf wickets and wet conditions that he would encounter in the league. He didn't have the heart to tell him that he hardly stood a chance of making the transition to the new, vastly different conditions.

 On the flight to London, D'Oliveira could not sleep. It was only the second flight of his life and it was a marathon journey. John Kay was there to receive him at London airport on a cold, damp April morning. "When we landed, I stumbled down the steps, trying to adjust to the kind of gloom and dampness I'd never experienced and wondering why there were so many photographers clicking away at the passengers," D'Oliveira recalls. They were there to photograph Middleton's strange new import from the "dark continent". Soon he was whisked away to a television interview which he barely survived with his elementary knowledge of English and his surprise at being treated as an equal by whites.

 Soon, with the help of Kay and Arlott ("You look just like a Pakistani, Basil"), D'Oliveira settled down at Middleton. There he was greeted like a long, lost brother by his club officials. And they were all white! He was warmly welcomed by his landlord Clarence Lord and his wife Mary. English conditions nearly undid D'Oliveira. In his first five matches, he totalled 25 runs! He practised and practised but to no avail. Senior professional Eric Price shared a few precious secrets with him. "Wait and relax," he said, "the weather will get better and the wickets harder. Till then, you've got to wait for the ball to come to you and work it away off the backfoot."

 Soon D'Oliveira overcame his initial depression and began to adjust to his new surroundings. The runs started flowing and at the end of the season, he finished at the top of the averages, even ahead of the West Indian great, Garfield Sobers.

 Basil D'Oliveira, the Cape Coloured from Signal Hill, Cape Town, went on to become a British citizen and an England Test player in 1966, barely two years after being signed by Worcestershire to represent it in the county championship, thanks to the efforts of the county captain Tom Graveney, one of England's great batsmen. It was a proud moment for D'Oliveira to walk out as a member of the England team along with Graveney, Cowdrey the England captain, Ken Barrington, and other players whom he had once admired from afar. He went on to play 44 Test matches with considerable distinction during the next six years.

 Ironically, England's tour of South Africa in the summer of 1968 was called off, as D'Oliveira was not allowed to play by the host country because he was coloured and England refused to drop him from the team.

 Based on D'Oliveira's autobiography, Time to Declare

 

 

 

 

 

THE PRINCE OF BANSWADA

 

            And My Tryst With William Bourne

PR Man Singh, then secretary of the Hyderabad Cricket Association, gave me my first break courtesy P Krishnamurti's hardsell, when I was an unknown. He picked me in the Hindustan Breweries XI in the Gold Cup, but I got switched on the day of the match to the opponents State Bank of India, my employers.

It was a great experience to bowl my first ball in that match to Rohan Kanhai and impress my captain Hanumant Singh, who taught me more about my own craft than any off spinner ever did.

 ‘Chhotu there wants you to go and bowl in his nets,’ the man I had watched lead India from afar told me, his face an impassive mask, completely oblivious to the shattering impact of his words. He was the Nawab of Indian cricket, Mansur Ali Khan, and until the previous moment, my captain for the next three days. I had been catapulted from the Hyderabad league to what was beginning to assume international dimensions, a first round match in the Moin-ud-Dowla Gold Cup, between Hindustan Breweries XI and State Bank of India. I, a lowly reserve player in the local SBI team, had been picked for the star-studded Breweries XI which had Pataudi (captain), Rohan Kanhai, Budhi Kunderan, Gopal Bose, Anura Tennekoon, David Heyn, Duleep Mendis,  P Krishnamurti, Kailash Gattani, DR Doshi,  Venkat Sundaram, and WA Bourne. For that singular honour, I owed a huge debt of gratitude to my senior in the bank’s local team, Indian wicket keeper P Krishnamurti, who had recommended my name to selector P R Man Singh.

But now, my dreams of turning out for an international eleven came crashing down as I learnt from Chhotu, aka Hanumant Singh, former Prince of Banswada, former India batsman and the captain of the all India State Bank team, that I was to defect to his team. I, who was not even a regular in the local SBI team, was hijacked by the national bank squad, thanks to all rounder Syed Abid Ali, who had alerted Hanumant to my presence amidst enemy ranks.

The blow was softened somewhat as I bowled to class batsman after class batsman in the SBI nets. Hanumant himself had been the hero of my teen years when he launched an incredible assault against Bob Simpson’s Aussies before Norm O’Neill caught him brilliantly on the boundary for 94 at the Corporation Stadium, Madras. And there were little Gundappa Viswanath, Abid Ali, Ambar Roy, Gopal Bose, Syed Kirmani, VS Vijaykumar, Abdul Jabbar and Madhu Gupte, all making for a formidable batting line-up.

Hanumant, I found out, was a shrewd captain, but his skills were not tested, as, helped by great batting by his top order, and ineffectual bowling by the opponents on a friendly pitch, State Bank made over 400 runs. (My contribution was a stylish zero, bowled first ball by William Bourne). When the Breweries batted, I bowled the last over of the day, beating Rohan Kanhai outside the off stump with my first ball at that level. It was an ordinary delivery, but the great West Indian was rather rusty from a long layoff.

Then the heavens smiled on us and laughed a rather cruel laugh at our opponents. A sharp overnight shower rendered the wicket wet and soft, and when the sun shone on it in the morning, the drying surface was quite unplayable. I twiddled my thumbs going from mid-off to square leg between overs while the other off spinner Arun Ogiral grabbed five wickets. By the time I came on to bowl, the wicket had dried completely and I managed to get a couple of tailend wickets. I had done nothing spectacular, but did not disgrace myself either. We won the match comfortably.

With that win, State Bank entered the final of the Gold Cup, where it would run into UFoam XI, led by ML Jaisimha, and including a number of top performers like Brijesh Patel, Parthasarathi Sharma, Prasanna, BS Chandrasekhar, Mike Dalvi and so on. I was eagerly looking forward to the final and bowled long and hard at the nets the evening before the match. So, pleasantly tired after my exertions, I was delighted to accept an invitation from Chhotu to have a glass of beer at his room. The players stayed at the ground those days, and the rooms, belonging to the Fateh Maidan Club, had sitouts enjoying a superb view of the cricket. I joined Hanumant in his balcony after a shower in the dressing room.

Even before I started enjoying the cold beer, the captain dropped a bombshell. As our ace left arm spinner Rajinder Goel was available for the final, he was dropping me. ‘You are a far better off spinner, but Arun has just taken five wickets, and poor chap, he could do with some morale boosting, after being dropped by his state.” Hanumant went on to predict a bright future for me and even wagered that I would soon be picked for Hyderabad in the Ranji Trophy.

It was a crushing blow, being dropped from the team just when I was beginning to believe my cursed luck in cricket had finally begun to change. I did not know it then, but this was to become a pattern for the rest of my cricketing years. Every time I thought of hanging up my boots, there came that unbelievable break and for a while I enjoyed the rarefied atmosphere of success. But the moment I thought I had arrived, fate had a habit of cutting me down to size, as if I needed to be told repeatedly that life wasn’t a bed of roses.

But this is not about my cricket. It is about that prince among cricketers of that generation, Hanumant Singh, who thought it was important to spend a whole evening talking to a younger cricketer he was about to drop from his team. Not only did he offer balm to my wounded spirits, he also took me on a conducted tour of the finer points of cricket, with special reference to off spin bowling, my field of specialisation. What I learnt that evening about my craft was more than a lifetime of learning, formal and informal. For Hanumant was an all round expert on cricket, and a storehouse of its history, especially, Indian and central Indian. His first hand accounts of the daring deeds of C K Nayudu not only entertained but also educated.

I met Hanumant again a couple of years later at a Duleep Trophy match at Bangalore. He was leading Central Zone, and I was a reserve player in the South Zone squad, with two other off spinners, Prasanna and Venkataraghavan in the playing eleven. He was delighted that I had received recognition as he predicted, though a season later than his prophecy.

My last meeting with Hanumant was a few years ago, once again at Bangalore, at the National Cricket Academy, which he headed. He was as always dedicated to his task, and had many great ideas for our young cricketers. Unfortunately, his old-fashioned insistence on discipline, decorum and sincere effort did not go down very well with some cricketers whom the media seemed to back. In this matter, I am not sure Hanumant received the support he might have expected from the cricket board.

In his playing days Hanumant Singh received the roughest treatment from the selectors and the board. For someone of extraordinary talent, he played only 14 Tests, and never toured anywhere after his impressive showing in England in 1967. Every time the Indian team was picked to go abroad, Hanumant was found mysteriously unfit, once with a congenital condition that had never troubled him! He never complained and he hated it if young cricketers did, about their own bad treatment at the hands of selectors. He believed in doing his job without expectation of reward, and he expected youngsters to do the same. He worried about them, especially if they did not realise their potential, or did not know how to channelise their talent. Knowing him, I am sure he worried about some of his wards to the very end.

ENDNOTE: Fortyseven years after my match against Hindustan Breweries XI, I have miraculously made contact with the Warwickshire fast bowler turned international coach William Bourne who bowled me for duck that time. I have stolen a quick single this time, William.

 

GULU EZEKIEL ON 'THIRD MAN'

 

Third Man: Recollections from a life in cricket - Book Review  by Gulu Ezekiel Mar 09, 2015

Now, you can get all the USA Cricket updates via Facebook. Also follow us on Twitter via @dreamcricket Third Man - Recollections From a Life in Cricket By V. Ramnarayan; Westland. 348 pages, illustrated. Rs. 395. V. Ramnarayan, Ram to one and all is a modern-day Neville Cardus. While Sir Neville was the music and cricket correspondent for the venerable Manchester Guardian, so Ram comes from a family, including from his wife’s side, steeped in classical South Indian music and the fine arts and is the editor-in-chief of Sruti, a monthly magazine on the performing arts. Ram was also one of the best off spinners in the land for a brief period in the 70s and could have walked into many Test sides around the world. But like a whole generation of Indian spin bowlers—Naushir Mehta, Rajinder Singh Hans, Padmakar Shivalkar, Rajinder Goel, et al—Ram could not break into the national squad due to the presence of the legendary quartet of S. Venkataraghan, EAS Prasanna, BS Chandrasekhar and Bishan Singh Bedi. Indeed Ram’s account of his career—belated but most welcome—is one of tough breaks, hard luck, poor judgment, dodgy umpiring and simply bad luck in being born in the wrong era. But in his introduction he states his love of playing cricket overcame the disappointments and setbacks that marred his career. For someone who had to wait till the age of 28 in the 1975-76 season to make his Ranji Trophy debut for his adopted Hyderabad he would emerge as the side’s leading bowler with 86 wickets in his brief career of five seasons. The top South Zone sides of the 70s, Tamil Nadu, Karnataka and Hyderabad, were packed with quality spinners back then and despite his late debut, Ram did not pale by comparison. Indeed he managed to break into the South Zone team in the Duleep and Deodhar Trophy and the Rest of India side in the Irani Trophy and was chosen as one of the 30 probables for the 1977-78 tour of Australia. While all along knowing he had no chance of making the final cut with offies Venkat and Pras in his way. The title of the book comes from the fact that in the 70s Ram was the “third man” when it came to the off spinner’s slot in the Indian team with Chandra cementing the leg spinner’s and Bedi monopolizing the left arm spinner’s position. The book will be particularly fascinating for anyone with an interest in Tamil Nadu and Hyderabad cricket. Having reported extensively on the ultra competitive Tamil Nadu Cricket Association first division league in Madras and first class cricket in the South in the 80s for Indian Express daily, the stories recounted by Ram brought forth a wave of nostalgia. I must admit though that I had no clue that Ram’s paternal uncle was PN Sunderasan, the doyen of Indian cricket writers. Or that a distant relative was one of the great characters of Madras cricket, the inimitable S. Annadorai who would regale us with tales of his favourite Australian Alan Kippax (pronounced ‘Kipp-aaax’ by Anna) who of course he had never seen! It is rare in India that a non-international cricketer writes his story though there was still plenty of glamour attached to first-class cricket here till the 80s. Indeed, the book traces his career from college to club cricket in Madras and finally first-class in Hyderabad where he moved to in 1971 since Venkat blocked his place in the Tamil Nadu side. To his misfortune, his place was then blocked by another ace off spinner, Naushir Mehta. He had practically given up the ghost before injury to Mehta saw Ram force his way into the side and he made an immediate impact.  Ram had toyed with the idea of a book for many years and mulled over the title Autobiography of an Unknown Cricketer. But that was taken some 20 years back by the late Prof. Sujit Mukherjee who played a handful of Ranji games for Bihar in the 1950s and whose book remains my all-time favourite. Hyderabad presented a whole new world of cricket for Ram. From the strait-laced world of Madras cricket he entered a city steeped in nawabi (royal) culture where club matches often did not start on time as players and umpires sauntered in and where elegance and grace (and apparently the ability to drink) counted above all. The Hyderabad side of the 70s was the most glamorous in India with the likes of the charismatic ‘Tiger’ Pataudi (who moved from Delhi), the handsome Abbas Ali Baig and the dashing ML Jaisimha whose captaincy skills were such that ‘Tiger’ gladly played under his leadership both for Hyderabad and South Zone despite being the undisputed captain of the national team for a decade. It was perhaps this very nawabi attitude that saw to it that they never made it to the Ranji Trophy finals despite being packed with Test players, falling agonizingly short to Bombay in the quarter-finals in ’75-76 in which Ram excelled with seven wickets in the first innings. As one of the players of that era has been quoted as saying: “we may never have won anything, but we certainly had the most fun.” The rich vein of stories provides the fun side of the book, the expert technical analysis of his contemporary spin bowlers the serious side and the look back at some of his ex-teammates who are no more the poignant side. It is a well-rounded book and a terrific read about an era that can never be replicated in Indian domestic cricket.