King of the Kotla

THE most difficult definitional problem for the sociologist concerns the middle class. We know who are the workers - those who have no property and labour 14 hours a day. We know who are the capitalists - they run firms listed on the Bombay Stock Exchange had have bank accounts unlisted even in Switzerland. But the middle class defies categorisation by property, or lack of it. It is a class so heterogenous in status and income that it must be broken up into many, and generally unsatisfactory, categories: lower middle, upper middle, even (as George Orwell once famously described himself), lower upper middle. Well, before I came to study sociology, I knew from experience what the middle class was about. To be part of it meant that sometimes one looked above, sometimes below. With application, one could climb to the upper storey, to be brought down within a day. If struck by ill-luck, one was pushed down a level, but could crawl up within 24 hours.

Such, at any rate, was my experience in seeking a ticket during the Delhi Test of December 1974. Like kerosene and sugar and motor cars, these were scarce in the command economy. One could queue up all night, and still be told at the counter that were no tickets left. It was best to spread one's bets widely, to tap friends whose fathers were Joint Secretaries to the Government of India and uncles who knew cricketers who might have a spare pass. The days before the Test brought forth a desperate uncertainty: would I enter legally on the morning of the match?

Alas, on the morning of this particular match I had no means of entering the ground. Moreover, the Doordarshan of 1974 is not the Spin Vision of 2001, and all I can recall of that day before the college telly is some blurred balls and some waving bats. The scorebook tells me that the home side batted first and were all out for 220, with the debutant Parthasarathy Sharma scoring 54. A total a hundred or more less than India would have liked, but Solkar had struck back before the close, dismissing the stand-in opener, Derryk Murray.

I had a ticket for the second day, a pass in the Ramprakash Mehra pavilion no less. I reached an hour early, and saw Venkatraghavan - the home captain - take some blinders at fielding practice. When play started, it was Bedi from one end, the military medium of Abid Ali from the other. Both Greenidge and the nightwatchman - a little left-arm spinner from littler St. Kitts, and with the quite wonderful names of Elequemedo Tonito Willett - were steady but cautious. The first spark came when Abid dared bounce Greenidge. The opener dismissed the ball from his presence with a swing of the bat, the ball flying low over the fence, to hit a tree that stood beyond square leg. The pace of the bowler was modest, admittedly, but it remains the most imperious hook shot of my experience.

Abid gave way to Prasanna, who soon had his man, Greenidge, defying the coaching book by cutting at an off break. Engineer leapt high with the catch and Kallicharan walked in, nattering to himself. Then, right on the stroke of drinks, Willett also departed, beaten on the outside edge by Prasanna. In came Richards, on the heels of a twin failure in the first Test in Bangalore. He started shakily, and next day's newspaper claimed - as have dozens of articles since - that he was out caught behind to Venkat at five, but given not out. From where I was, I of course couldn't tell. Kallicharan, meanwhile, played a series of sweetly timed cuts and glides. He reached 44 when he tried to swing Bedi to leg and got a top edge. The ball swirled high into the off side, the air also carrying to the spectators the Sardar's command: "Brijesh". Venkat was at slip, Abid and Solkar in the leg trap and, in those innocent days, no other Indian could be relied upon to catch for keeps a non-stationary cricket ball. Bedi knew this as well as anyone else, so he would get the safest man in the outfield to elbow out the others.

Brijesh Patel took the catch, and the West Indies were 123 for 4. The door was ajar, to be impatiently closed by the visiting captain. In between overs, Lloyd talked to Richards, putting heart into the novice. His shots then began to unfold, elegant in their classicism. He was, it seemed, a Sugar Ray Robinson to his captain's Joe Louis. Venkat brought on Abid, in hope, but Richards stroked him twice to the off boundary. When Lloyd was given out, to the most disgraceful of l.b.w. decisions, the balance had already shifted. A lovely off drive for six off Bedi, almost caressed, and a late cut took Richards to his 100. He was now being supported first by Julien, who drove handsomely, and then by Boyce, who swept away to leg. By the close, the West Indies were 378 for 6, the match in their command.

I can recall, as I have said, little of the day of the 1974 Delhi Test that I watched on TV, but the minutiae of this second day are with me still. Five sixes, one apiece by Greenidge, Lloyd, Richards, Boyce and Julien. Artful bowling by Prasanna and Bedi. Dreadful fielding in the course of play but, before that, Venkat's dream practice performance put on for two boys and a passing crow. A sight I cannot forget came in view during the tea interval. As I came down for a drink I passed Keith Boyce, standing on the steps of the Willingdon Pavilion, smoking a beedi. I looked him up and down, taking in the whites well ironed, the shirt buttons open, the fast bowler's big boots and the fast bowler's beautiful body. And the beedi, held askance, in splendid and fateful arrogance. (Keith Boyce was to die in 1996 of a heart attack, having just turned 50. The beedi I saw was probably one of thousands he smoked. Collectively deadly, but how magnificent when viewed one by one!). The pavilion pass was for one day only, but by the third morning I had gathered in a ticket for the Rs. 30 stand, bought at a premium of 100 per cent. By the time the deal was settled and the money raised, it was already half-past nine. I reached the Kotla as play began, almost the last man to enter a stand for which connoisseurs would queue up from four in the morning. All I could find was a berth on the ground, my nose pressed against the barbed wire.

After the first over I stood up to stretch myself: "Able salle Guha," came a most welcome cry, "Idhar aa jaa." I looked up, and saw my cricketing team-mate Piyush Pandey, calling me to sit with him at row 15. I scrambled up, and settled into a crowd of rowdy collegians. Pandey, who sat on one side of me, is now the most highly regarded of Bombay admen. On the other side sat Chandan Mitra, the editor as I write of The Pioneer.

It was not the best of views, looking out over wide mid off, but at least I had a seat. As the sun bore down, Richards began to go bananas. Bedi was hit for six, then Prasanna for two more. Venkat put himself on, and Richards drove him straight, breaking the stumps at the other end. Even the greatest of Indian fielders would not stick his hand in front of that shot. Then one of my neighbours issued a prediction. The next one, he said, will go over the Wills Filter hoarding that rose high to the left of the sightscreen. Richards came crashing down the wicket, and aimed for long off. The ball climbed ever higher, cleared the Wills sign comfortably, and finally came to rest in the Ambedkar football stadium. It had travelled, in effect, from New Delhi to Old Delhi. In this city of kingdoms, a new king had announced himself.

RAMACHANDRA GUHA

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