The death of the Nawab of Pataudi, known in later years by his plebeian name, Mansur Ali Khan, brings into clear relief the sepia tones of my life.
We first heard of the Nawab somewhere in 1961 or 1962, when I was just getting into high school. The Nawab saab, the son of an equally famous cricketer, the Nawab of Pataudi, Sr, Iftikhar Ali Khan, had met with a car accident in England, and, had lost his right eye, which was replaced with a glass one...in the years that followed, we would hear of his role in the Indian cricket team, scoring a century here and there...till when Nari Contractor got injured with a hit to the head (no helmets in those days) playing in the West Indies the Nawab of Pataudi, Jr., stepped in as captain.
In those days, cricket was still a gentleman’s game, played in white, with the players earning the equivalent of $10 a day. Test matches were for five days, and, as India’s top cricket commentator, Harsha Bhogale has pointed out, if rain washed out one day, they got paid for only four days. The million dollar sponsorships that the cricketers of today get were to wait another twenty five years. In those days, the only decent living they could make was to ‘work’ for the State Bank of India, where they got paid, irrespective of whether they came to work or not (sponsorship of a sort, one could say).
The first time I got to see the ‘Tiger’ Pataudi play, I had to line up at 5.30am outside the Corporation Stadium in Madras, listening to the early morning passenger trains screech their way into the nearby Central Station. The match started at 10.00am, and, if you went to take a leak, you lost your place in the line...so you always took a friend along to hold your place, or, did something which you do only on the streets of India. Tickets were Rs 5 (cannot be translated into a dollar equivalent, so infinitesimally low in today’s equivalency) but cost me my full month’s allowance...but, those were the days my friend...we lived for that...if we were not at the stadium, like the rest of India, we spent the five days of any test match with our ears glued to a transistor set...
One of my women friends correctly remarked today that any girl who lived in those days had a crush on Tiger Pataudi...the other hotties were ML Jaisimha and Abbas Ali Baig...between the three they had all the girls in India covered, leaving the proletariat, like me, to cook up fake autographs of these cricket stars to get the attention of the females
A particularly attractive Brahmin girl I knew in those days had this almost fatal infatuation for Tiger Pataudi. Her caste origins are being intentionally mentioned as the later part of this story will show. She would make her brothers and father take her to every spot the Tiger had visited and spent the day before a picture of the Nawab praying that he would bestow his glance on her. It so happened that one evening when the Nawab was in town, her orthodox Tam Brahm family was discussing possible names for an expected new arrival. The Vishnu Sahasranama which gives the thousand and one names of the Hindu God Vishnu was pulled out and a short list was being prepared. Our sixteen year old damsel felt that the most appropriate name for the coming child, should it be a boy, would be a Muslim one, Mansur, after her then heart throb. Needless to add when she articulated this to the gathered assembly of Tam Brahm uncles and aunts they did not appreciate the spirit of national integration being displayed by this teenager. One aunt promptly came up a cupful of detergent soap and made the young lady wash her mouth for having uttered such a sinful thought. Her doting grandmother administered her the only resounding slap that she ever gave her (methinks that more of those administered early enough may have helped, but, that is another story). Moral of the story: good cricketer or not, names for Tam Brahm boys can come only from the Vishnu Sahasranama.
The only occasion I actually got to see and talk to the Nawab was in 1964 or 1965 when I tagged along with another female friend who was part of the social elite of Madras (her knowing me was an exception to the generally elite company she kept) who knew the Nawab. After waiting a few hours in the foyer of the Oceanic Hotel sipping a Coke I got ushered into his presence. The wicket keeper Inderjitsinhji was also there, and, I spent about ten minutes in desultory chatter with the Nawab. I remember trying to figure out what made him so attractive, but, soon realized that I could never think like a girl...
The Nawab dealt a body blow to our fantasies when he married the super attractive heroine of the Indian film screen, the one and only, Sharmila Tagore...a distant niece of India’s mystic poet Rabindranath Tagore, Sharmila is not just a pretty face...she is a tremendous actress too...together, the Nawab and she have grown and have graced many an occasion in India with their celebrity presence. Two of their children have also acquired a name in the Bollywood arena, and, their potential daughter in law, is also a Bollywood star.
The Nawab was all that was classy about the ‘60s and ‘70s in India...the shadows of the Raj were growing longer, and, the brightest jewel in the crown was shimmering its way into the sunset and a new dawn...70, these days is too early an age to die, and, I hope the Nawab did not suffer much from the lung disease that took him...Khuda Hafiz, you are with God now, Nawab Saheb, we wish you continuing peace and happiness as you rest in the arms of the Maker...
