Prince Salim, ODIs and the real Hero

With the kind of aggressive batting that is currently seen in ODIs and limited overs cricket matches, one often wonders whether a few cricketers from the past may not have been even more famous or successful had they played cricket some twenty or twenty five years later.

And the first name that comes to my mind is of that regal, handsome and winsome all rounder who went by the name of Salim Aziz Durrani.

It was only a few days back that some friends were talking about

Yuvraj Singh and about big hitting, great incisive bowling and turning of games on their heads by single players and individuals, when I was asked about Durrani. I said that he was a complete left hander in every sense. A batsman who regaled spectators by hitting a six and making the ball land exactly where the demand for a six came from. He also bowled a crafty spell and used to mesmerize the batmsen and tie them into knots before dispatching them to pavilion. He looked lazy and languorous on the field, but was actually a fairly reliable fielder at slip. The laziness was visible only to the careless, but the avid watcher would have seen him take a very quick catch and actually pocket the ball with a sly grin on his face.

Even while this discussion was going on, I suddenly remembered something that

happened way back, way, way back in my life. That incident left a deep imprint on me and I have often talked about it to friends and colleagues.

It was probably 1970, the first time that I had picked up the guts to go with two friends of mine to the Feroz Shah Kotla Ground at Delhi to watch a routine Ranji Trophy match between Delhi and Rajasthan.

Those were the days when fencing and cordoning were not so restrictive, and we little schoolboys were actually allowed to sit on the boundary line itself. I remember, we had brought back chalk marks on our shorts at the end of the day’s play. The game was a bit dull, and Delhi were plodding on to a big score, albeit at a snail’s pace. It was a typical March playing day and the heat had just begun to show its ugly side in Delhi. We little boys were having a running conversation with a Rajasthan fielder who didn’t have much to do on the boundary line. He said his name was Surana, and he was giving us little snippets of information about his highly- revered captain, the diminutive batsman captain Hanumant Singh, and his star senior the great Salim Durrani.

Suddenly there was some action. The staid and sober Delhi batsman who had been occupying the crease for a long time, took a wild swipe at the ball and it zipped towards slip. The tall, elegant, lazy and languorous fielder standing there, dived and came up with the ball, inches before it headed towards the ground. The few hundred spectators in the stadium went into rapturous applause. By all means, it was one of the greatest catches that I had seen in my life. It was unbelievable. We had all been hearing about this mercurial cricketer as moody, laid back, and almost disinterested. But here he was, dusting his flannels after the catch and preparing himself for the next piece of action.

Come tea break, like most little schoolboys, we too dashed into the ground, and ran to shake hands and pat the backs of our heroes, known and unknown. I was focused on talking to only one of them. My new- found hero.

Going up to him, breathlessly and with admiration in my eyes, I looked up (there he was, all 6ft 2in of him) and croaked nervously-“Great catch, Uncle!!”. I had actually wanted to say “Great catch, Sir”, but you always go weak in the knees when you meet such people, don’t you?

I shall carry to my grave what happened the next few minutes. He broke into a big smile, his grey-brown eyes crinkled into a very friendly brightness, he lifted me up with his big strong hands and then he put me on his shoulder. Uncle Salim carried me all the way from close to the pitch to the Willingdon Pavilion, past the boundary line. All the while, my friends Kapil and Sandeep ran after us, wondering where I was being carried off by this great man.

He carried me right up the steps of the Pavilion to the entrance of the dressing room, where the other members of the visiting team had just started settling down for a cuppa in those fifteen odd minutes that they had. He then put me down on the ground, and led me to the table where all the goodies lay, ready to be consumed. There were pastries, biscuits, cold drinks and pots of tea and coffee.

Had it not been for a stern look from the Maharajkumar of Banswara, the stylish middle-order Test batsman Hanumant Singh, I would probably have partaken of this great spread laid before us. With a shake of his head, followed by a friendly, yet stern demeanour, the captain signaled to his colleague to show us the door. But before he did that, the great left handed all-rounder gave me a pastry. He ruffled the hair on my head, and said, “Chalo, beta. Ab jaao”.

We traced our way back to the ground and beyond the boundary on the other side. And after that moment I had eyes for nobody else in the game.

For years I had eyes for few people who played the game.

Salim Uncle and his gesture remain etched in my memory. His silk shirt, the scarf round his neck, his flannels, the smell of tobacco that emanated around him, those grey-brown friendly eyes and the creased lines of a face that had fascinated so many fans. Very few cricketers have acted in films. He did, opposite Parveen Babi, a debutante.

People have called him a reckless man. A man who squandered away everything. A man who did with his money what he did with the bat, throwing caution to the winds and leaving everything to destiny.

To me, he has remained what perhaps Sunil Gavaskar also would like to call him- Prince Salim. The real Prince Salim. Who would be the jewel of any court. Any cricket team,- yesterday, today, or tomorrow.

There will never be another Prince Salim who would walk with that aplomb and swagger on any cricket field. He held the record for the fastest fifty in Test Matches when the runs were compared with minutes not number of balls. He was the first cricketer to win the Arjuna Award.

He was the first cricketer to be my Cricketer of the Century.