Salim Durrani and cricket's lost, forgotten 'noor'

He sat at the head of the table – still, composed, his lean frame yet lean and fine, his head poised on his broad shoulders as if ready to face (Wes) Hall and (Sir Garfield) Sobers – a restaurant in Baroda – we are there to help inaugurate a ‘seniors’ cricket tournament.’ I study his face – his eyes are wise, his face glows – he is silent, but listening… a ‘noor’… a light – shines around him – he is alive, and he was once the star of Indian cricket, and he played the game as it should be played – with grace and personal style and honesty. He hit sixes on demand, and he bowled Sobers in the West Indies in ’71 when we most need the great man out. Khushwant Singh said he moved across the field like an ‘elegant camel’ – he was a heart-throb; he starred in a film with Parveen Babi; and he and Pataudi were the two most riveting cricket players I have ever watched. [caption id=“attachment_1024127” align=“alignleft” width=“380”]  Former Test all-rounder Salim Durani received the C. K. Nayudu award in 2011. AFP[/caption] He sat at the head of the table – and on the television screens around about us, N Srinivasan was shown again and again – trying to fumble and mumble his way through the maze of corruption and greed that his BCCI has created. His face was dark and slick and spoke no truths – he has made and will make crores from cricket… many, many crores… and yet his face has no life, no glow, no ‘noor’ – and the man sitting at the head of the table has not even earned lakhs from cricket, the game which he made his own. Srinivasan and Salim Durrani – yes, the man at the head of the table is Salim Durrani – two men whose lives revolve around cricket – two men who should be common friends and common souls – one played the great game, and one who should be running it with some of the passion and grace with which Salim played. Nothing more to be said – the only truth is that the BCCI has given token gifts to greats like Salim, and thus justified greed and corruption and a total lack of love for the game – and greats like Salim accept the tokens, and nod their heads, and smile – but give me a table in a restaurant in Baroda with Salim Durrani at one end, and talk of cricket everywhere… give me seniors playing cricket, and laughing cricket and loving cricket; give me these wonders over any board meeting of the BCCI where crores are discussed as if ordering starters – where there is no ‘noor’ within the boundary-lines of their corporate world; give me a hall full of senior players listening to Salim talk of purpose and passion and equality – and quality. Give me a lush green ground in Baroda and a fading evening, and Salim striding out to bat, and I bowl to him – with a tennis ball, yes — and it is the fall of ’62 again and my friend Paul and I are on our bicycles again, listening to the commentary on our transistor tied to the handle-bars, and we are headed towards the Yamuna from Dehra Dun, and the October sun is blazing and Salim is sharing English wickets with Borde and Bapu and Dexter’s team is in a fuddle. And as I float up the ball outside the great man’s off-stump and he leans forward over it – still so graceful and lean and sensual. There is no match-fixing and no television and no Srinivasan – only the slight sweat of fresh exercise, and the green of a maidan, and ageing bodies playing the greatest game in the world as it should be truly played. Salim-bhai – shukriya – shukriya – aur eid mubaarak.