The Nawab is gone…

The words that conjure up when one mentions the Nawab of Pataudi are regal, class, dignity and grace. Unfortunately, I was not around at the time when the Nawab had Test Captained India and played 46 Test matches for the country, but the archives have shared his glorious days to the later generations. I came across this write up in the Herald Sun and thought of sharing it here. It has been written by David McMahon, a former sportswriter, and opinion editor of the Herald Sun. Pataudi’s sense of fine humor strikingly adds more elegance to this rather complete man. A Tiger in the complete sense.

My good friend the Nawab of Pataudi

THE peerless Jack Fingleton knew talent when he saw it. So it’s not surprising he was a big fan of Mansur Ali Khan Pataudi – better known as the Nawab of Pataudi – who has died in an Indian hospital.

Fingleton watched with growing admiration as Pataudi, batting with a runner because of a leg injury, made a brave 75 at the MCG in the 1967-68 Test series, coming to the wicket with his side five down for a paltry 25.

Pataudi was only 21 when he became India’s youngest Test captain, ironically just months after a car accident that robbed him of the sight in his right eye.

He was born into Raj-era royalty. Like his father, he became a Test cricketer.

He courted and married the beautiful Sharmila Tagore, one of the biggest stars of Indian cinema. And his son Saif is a major Bollywood star in his own right.

But there were two myths about him.

The first was that he modelled himself on the batting of his father, who played under Douglas Jardine in the Bodyline series.
The second was that he earned the nickname “Tiger” because of his unique fielding skills.

In his post-cricket days he edited a national sports magazine, Sportsworld, for a major Indian publishing group and I happened to work as his associate editor.

I was fresh out of university, yet one of the most famous men in the international cricketing pantheon put me swiftly at ease. We found common ground in each other’s company and he soon put me right on both scores when I eventually put them to him.

He never had the opportunity to model himself on his father, simply because he never actually saw his father play cricket.

And he confessed that he was called Tiger long before he picked up a cricket bat – his sister gave him the nickname after watching her infant brother rock back and forth on all fours.

For a fearless aristocrat who embodied courage in sport, Pataudi had only one weak link.

It wasn’t his cover drive. It wasn’t his peerless fielding. It wasn’t the split-second delay that caused his chin to be split open in pre-helmet days by an Andy Roberts bouncer during the Eden Gardens Test in the 1974-75 series.

It was his fear of flying. That was why he always travelled by train in India. You never saw him at an airport, waiting for a flight. He took the train.

Always. Ah, you say, but what about the time he took long flights to play cricket for his country?

True, he did board international flights when he had no other option, but he gritted his teeth at the thought of boarding a commercial airliner.

Not surprisingly, he travelled by train during his days as an editor. One evening, he invited the entire editorial staff to the station as he left on a 1500km journey.

So we found ourselves in his compartment, talking about many things. The curtains were closed and because we were in animated discussion, not one of us realised the express train had started moving.

When one of our colleagues poked his head into the corridor and was told by a horrified railway superintendent that the train was picking up speed, Pataudi was as calm as ever. A born leader to the core, he merely said with a shrug: “You guys had better come to Delhi with me.”

It was in pre-mobile phone days, however. So we turned down our editor’s suggestion. We jumped, all six of us, from a moving train, leaving our boss shaking his head. It was the only time we disobeyed an order from him.

One of the questions I was asked most often was whether he actually wrote the magazine editorials that appeared in his name. I always answered truthfully. Every word that appeared under his byline was written by him. His editorials might have been infrequent, but they were incisive, they were very well-read  and they never needed editing.

He was gracious in the company of the twentysomethings who comprised the magazine’s editorial staff. Never once did he remind us he was born to royalty. Never once did he remind us he had captained his country.

And never once did he tell us how he had rebuilt his life after the terrible accident that took his eye and forced him to re-think his approach to batting.

People who did not know him well thought him aloof, but in truth this was not the case. He was a shy man, an intensely private man.

When strangers came up and pressed his hand, he never turned them away. He would acknowledge their greetings, but I knew he would have much preferred to be playing an afternoon of bridge with friends who called him `Tiger’  rather than strangers who hailed him as `Pat’.

I always suspected that the use of the abbreviation `Pat’  would make him cringe but the man was far too diplomatic to say so openly. Adulation in the street was common, it was offered years after he retired, and he was never churlish enough to greet it with brusque behaviour. He was an aristocrat in every sense.

When my father died after a prolonged illness, a hand-written letter arrived in the mail. It was from Tiger.

I still have the letter, all these years later. It said, in part, that someone like him who had suffered the loss of his own father could well understand what I was going through.

There was also a capricious side to his nature. That slow grin would take over when the mood was on him. We, his colleagues, often saw the mischievous side of a very private man.

On one occasion, he told us how he had been admitted to hospital in England in the late Seventies and he had made a borderline quip to a hospital staffer.

He asked if the medico had seen the funny side. Tiger shook his head, wincing at the memory. “No, my friend,” he said. “And the most valuable advice I can give you is simply this … never annoy a person who has free rein to jab needles into various parts of your body.”

Then there was the time he played a prank on a cricketing colleague. During a Test match in Calcutta (not the Test in which Roberts clobbered him) the team bus drove past the palatial marble museum known as the Victoria Memorial. Glancing casually out of the window, he told one of his teammates that it was actually one of his family’s palaces. Knowing how outrageous the statement was, he fully expected the teammate to snigger.

But then Tiger realised the teammate had fallen for the deception. So he decided to go one step further. He told the teammate that he would be welcome to join the royal clan at an exclusive gathering after the day’s play. Formal clothing, of course, for a formal dinner, at a formal venue such as the palace.

The teammate duly arrived at the Victoria Memorial that night, clad in a suit and tie, asking for the “Nawab Sahib”. Years later, Tiger’s shoulders would still shake with laughter at the memory.

I have another treasured memory of Tiger. He joined his Sportsworld colleagues, as he often did, on the lawns of a local club for an evening of snacks, camaraderie and good company.

Then some children set up wickets, produced a cricket bat and ball and an impromptu game began. One by one, we all joined in. Yes, even Tiger. He did not bat, preferring to let a succession of hero-worshipping schoolkids take their turn at the wicket.

But he fielded. And fielded well. And one of my colleagues, who kept wicket that day, still remembers the ferocity of one low, accurate, throw from the man who once captained India.

Three days ago I received a text message from a former Sportsworld colleague now based in Singapore, telling me that Tiger was ill. I actually quoted Tiger’s home number back to him and asked if the number was still in use or if it had changed. I also asked if anyone knew Tiger’s best contact number. The answer was no. I did not pursue it, because I just didn’t think Tiger was under any real threat.

I thought he was sulking because he couldn’t find a foursome to play bridge. And yes, he was precisely the sort of bloke who would check himself into a major hospital if he figured it was the only joint in town where he could get a half-decent bridge game.

In retrospect, we were an odd pair. I, an ordinary bloke; he, an aristocrat. I, a club-grade cricketer; he, a Test skipper. I, a Christian; he, a Muslim.

Ah, but there WAS something in common. He and I worshipped the same god, really.

The god of cricket.