My encounter with Henry Blofeld: A voice, a presence, a memory

Raju Korti
My first encounter with Henry Blofeld came during the Reliance World Cup of 1987. And it left me, well, a little startled. On hindsight, it reminds me of that theme from Satyam Shivam Sundaram, where a voice beguiles you into imagining a visage that doesn’t quite match reality. Having heard Blofeld's voice, rich, full-bodied, and impossibly British, I had expected a tall, dapper man, the kind who might have walked off the lawns of Lord’s in a cravat. What I got instead was a balding, slightly portly gentleman whose wavy locks fluttered in the breeze. But what a voice! It shook your hand long before he did. “Hello Raju,” he said as I introduced myself, his tone a perfect mix of polish and warmth -- practiced, perhaps, but never impersonal.

Unlike Trevor Bailey’s more studied detachment or Peter Roebuck’s analytical flair, Blofeld was instinctively affable. We spoke on and off around the match, and he seemed genuinely pleased, even mildly amused, that BBC’s Test Match Special had a loyal Indian following. I remember asking if it was an unwritten rule that TMS commentators had to christen each other with nicknames. Boiley for Bailey, Johnners for Brian Johnston. Blofeld burst out laughing. “I know what you're hinting at,” he said, eyes twinkling. “Johnners called me ‘Blowers’ and there was no escaping it.” His delight in recounting that was almost childlike, and I understood in that moment what made him so beloved.

Blofeld’s cricket commentary was a tapestry. Not just of overs and wickets, but of pigeons on the outfield, construction cranes on the skyline, a lady in a pink sari in the upper tier, or an airplane buzzing overhead. Purists often scoffed at these ‘digressions,’ but to me, they were the seasoning in the cricketing stew. I told him that, and he seemed pleased. That voice, seasoned by years of TMS duty since the 1970s, had a cadence that could make even a dull draw feel like a Shakespearean drama. I still remember, vividly, when Srikkanth flicked Danny Morrison to fine leg and Blofeld turned to me and exclaimed, “That was a marvellous shot!” I didn’t care about the analysis that followed. I just wanted that voice to linger in my ears a little longer.

There were others I wished I had spoken to. Christopher Martin-Jenkins for one, though I treasure the copy of his autobiography CMJ – A Cricketing Life, gifted to me by my friend Dr Rashmin Tamhane. Alan Wilkins, to my good fortune, did not escape. We had a lovely chat and he even signed his book Easier Said Than Done. But with Blowers, it was different. It was less about the man and more about the aura, the theatricality, the self-effacing humour, the occasional bumbling charm. He once famously went on talking after the commentary had gone off-air, unaware, while Johnston couldn’t stop laughing. And then there was that ever-cherished catchphrase: “Oh my dear old thing”. It had a way of wrapping around you like a warm scarf on a chilly London evening.

Blofeld has since stepped out of the commentary box, his farewell marked by a thunderous ovation during an England–West Indies match. I am sure he met it with that same whimsical sign-off: “Oh my dear old thing…” Yes, I never did get my hands on his memoirs Squeezing the Orange or Over and Out, but I suspect I don’t need them. Because for me, the memory of that singular voice, and that unexpectedly delightful man behind it, remains far more eloquent than any book could be.