This is Christopher Martin Jenkins….

Raju Korti

Coincidences can be dicey. They have this uncanny reputation of throwing perplexing situations at you. Hardly had I got over the mortification of writing a tribute-cum-nostalgia piece on the South African born, England captain Tony Greig, I was looking at the depressing prospect of writing another one – and this time, his co-commentator, the much revered Christopher Martin Jenkins – who I had mentioned in glowing words in that tribute.
CMJ, as the former Marylebone Cricket Club (MCC) president was affectionately called, grew on me for more reasons than one. As an integral part of the BBC Test Match Special, considered aptly as among Britain’s national treasures, CMJ was an instant hit. Like his equally illustrious peers, CMJ carried an endearing voice that he blended with his gift of the gab.
The BBC Test Match Special, a sporting phenomenon of the British Broadcasting Corporation, was born in 1957, the same year as I was and CMJ was inducted into this brilliant team of broadcasters in 1973, the year I matriculated and when my worship of cricket was – to use a cricketing phrase – peaking at the right time.
Before CMJ’s propensity hitched on to the commentary bandwagon -- a virtue monopolized by academically-minded giants like Brian Johnston, John Arlott, Alan Gibson and Robert Hudson – he was a cricketer-turned writer whose exploits with the bat were eclipsed by the fluency of his pen. As one aspiring to play big time, I had made it my cricketing philosophy to read Neville Cardus, CMJ, Jack Fingleton, E W Swanton and tune in to Test Match Special to hear Johnston, Arlott, Alan Mcgilvray, Dean Moseley and later, Henry Blofeld, wax eloquent on the mike. Not only the BBC was the first broadcaster to cover every ball of a Test match, it had in its line of duty the finest commentating brains who could keep listeners glued to their seats for hours even when rains robbed the day’s play.
The style and tone was set by the copious and racy Johnston who transferred his skills from the television to radio in 1970 and proved to be a catalyst for an upsurge in the popularity of the Test Match Special with his jocular narration. He complemented the brilliantly descriptive Arlott, who had an eye for every microscopic detail. Their greatness lay in the fact that they could be articulate without being verbose.
In those days, the Test Match Special was so immensely popular that smitten fans would send in cakes to the broadcasting team even as the broadcasting wavelength would often be the centre of a hot debate by politicians in the House of Commons. Even those who swore their loyalties to the more popular Rugby and Soccer, switched on to the Test Match Special just to hear them talk. The gritty Trevor Bailey and the fiery Fred Trueman tempered the team with a 26-year-long, enduring partnership whose expert comments could well be Voice of Prophecies.
CMJ was not an unknown entity when he enriched the BBC Test Match Special since he was already an established writer, but he was certainly a revelation as a commentator. A free-flowing narration without being garrulous, a remarkably sweet voice and a virtual encyclopedia of the game, CMJ carved a niche for himself. He didn’t have the ribald flair of Johnston ["There's Neil Harvey standing at leg slip with his legs wide apart, waiting for a tickle" or "The bowler's Holding, the batsman's Willey"], the acidic barb of Arlott or the precision of Moseley, but he had this unique flourish that would make the listener feel as if he was watching the match live. Ask any commentator and he will tell you this is no mean task. As the BBC's cricket correspondent twice -- first between 1973 and 1980 and then from 1985 and 1991 -- while also commentating on the network's television coverage between 1981 and 1985, CMJ had already perfected the art of holding large audiences captive with his articulation that was tantalizingly simple but effective.
I distinctly recall many Test matches in the 70s and the 80s when the broadcasters on Test Match Special would keep going without break even after rains washed out the day’s play. Such was their tuning and camaraderie that there would be an engrossing exchange of jokes, anecdotes, statistics and personal experiences that admirers hoped the play would not resume as the flourish of the commentators assumed a cutting edge in this interregnum. CMJ would often test his partners by asking strange questions or coming out with bits and pieces of some interesting observations/facts. It was a measure of the breadth his knowledge that he regaled his constituency for over 40 years with unfailing distinction.
CMJ was quite simply a cricketing institution. He had been an integral part of BBC Radio's 'Test Match Special' commentary team for more than 40 years as well as being an influential and highly respected cricket correspondent for two national newspapers, The Times and The Daily Telegraph, and the author of many books on the game which became his life's love.
As a person, CMJ was a man of great personal integrity and a thoroughbred gentleman. I caught a glimpse of those traits when I had a brief chat with him during the England series in 1982. As I walked up to him – then a journalist myself – and started to rustle up suitable adjectives for him and his co-commentators, CMJ just smiled. He was both pleased and amused at my school-boyish enthusiasm and praise. He was particularly elated that elsewhere in the world too there were fans that doted on the Test Match Special.
Summoning up the courage, I asked him if he could hand over a letter to Brian Johnston, my first-among-the-equals idol. “Yes, of course, CMJ replied with a smile that bowled me over. I could scarcely believe my luck that I was face-to-face with a gentleman whose skills at broadcasting will remain unsurpassed and whose voice was as mesmerizing as I heard it on the radio. The impeccably mannered that he was, CMJ waved me good bye with that bishop-like smile. It was an association that lasted barely two hours but as I like to put it now, I will carry it to my grave.
There were some regrets too. I was keen to see the Cambridge-educated man’s great talent for mimicry which made him an entertaining after-dinner speaker. More than anything else, I would have given my right ear to his radio commentary – it was detailed and meticulous, belying the affectionate reputation he built up on Test Match Special for absent-mindedness and lateness, trademark characteristics that he seemed sometimes to celebrate.
There is no doubt that CMJ, mentored by Johnston, excelled as a commentator though he had short but eventful stints as the President of MCC and Editor of the Cricketer magazine. But in his wisdom as a writer par excellence, he should largely be credited with bringing in a new trend that bordered on rambling and unscripted “eyewitness accounts”.
If you thought this genius was difficult to describe in words, his autobiography “CMJ – A Cricketing Life” should be apt enough. His line “This is Christopher Martin Jenkins taking you back to the studios” should be the last famous words in broadcasting.

I hereby resolve...Nothing!

Raju Korti

Resolutions are like records -- meant to be broken.
The one regulation question that is usually asked of you is "What's your resolution for the new year?" and whenever I would be confronted with it, I would try to summon all my steely grit into my eyes and wax eloquent on what I intended to do -- or not to do -- armed with the experience and wisdom of the past. Over the years, I realised, and not to any chagrin of mine, that the resolutions that I pompously announced to whoever cared to listen, petered out faster than I had thought of them.
However, there was one saving grace in this fiasco. Most resolutions that I made were out of the box and my heart only played the role of a guest artist in those. So when my good intentions to bring them to effect couldn't see the light of the day, I had very little or no heart burns. Like most others, my mind and my heart would always be at loggerheads. I had wised up to my idiosyncracies better than I actually knew.
Although an acknowledged failure at sustaining my resolutions, I would never cease marvelling at my friends and relatives who would announce their resolutions with so much emphasis that often made me feel like a pansy. It wasn't untill that it dawned upon me that they were no better than me.
Most resolutions pertain to lifestyle changes. Let me list the usual verbal fluff.
1)Lose weight, exercise more, reduce drinking, and generally, get rid of old habits
2)Think positive, laugh more and, as far as possible, enjoy life
3)Save more money, get out of debts
4)Secure better job or set up own business
5)Study better and learn some new craft
6)Become more oraganised, watch less TV
7)Improve social skills, choose friends wisely
8)Spend more time with family
9) Get married and settle down
The beauty of these resolutions is they are so simple and yet so utopian. If I may be allowed to say, even contradictory. I have seen people eating gluttonously within minutes of saying that weight watch was their prime concern. Many lapsed into their harangues, without realising that it wasn't long ago before they had decided to make their faces more presentable with positive smiles. If you wanted to know how many started burning more midnight oil to get better grades, all you had to do was to log on to Facebook to see  the swelling number of people joining the "Let this year go, I will seriously study from next year." And  marriage rarely had anything to do with settling down.
Making a resolution seems to be a reflex defence mechanism to feel good in the face of the drawbacks we all have and desperately want to overcome. Some time back I read a sample survey which showed that 88% new year resolutions fail despite the fact that 52% of them swore to make them work in the initial stages. I am glad I belong to the elite category who has come to grips with the fact that resolutions are all steam and gas.
Except when pushed to the wall, I have never been able to garner the grit to stick to a resolution. As a kid I once tried to spring-clean my room by emptying the contents of every single cupboard and drawer on to the floor and then putting everthing back tidily. Halfway through, my resolve deserted me and I just shoved things back -- more untidily than before -- thinking my parents who thought their son was maturing, wouldn't notice. They did.
So this year, my resolution -- if you can call it that -- is as simple and as vague as it can get -- to make my life better. The advantage that obtains from such a resolution is the leeway you can exercise in realising it. Better still, I can reserve the superior right of doing or rather not doing anything that makes me feel happy. In fact, perennial self-improvement is a hobby in itself. And it takes up an awful lot of time, you know. A friend philosophises it succinctly: Boss, apna resolution ye hai ke apna koi resolution nahi." To his credit, I have never seen smile fade from his face. "Your biggest indulgence should be you," actor Dev Anand, whose hobby had graduated to what many believe was narcissism, once told me. I have taken a leaf out of his voluminous book.
I am my own hobby now and it doesn't need any resolve at all.

Cricketer or Commentator, he stood tall!

The Tony Greig I knew

Raju Korti

My first glimpse of Anthony William Greig, better recognised by the cricket buffs the world over as Tony Greig, dates back to 1972-73 when I was among the countless school-going boys hysterical about the game. The Englishmen were led by another Tony (Lewis) who looked more like a Hollywood star and who became an instant hit with the Indian media with his impeccable manners. On that tour of India, the scene stealer was, however, Tony Greig with his 6 feet 7 inch altitudinous frame. That of course was not his only stake to fame as Greig with his aggression and crowd-friendly antics was lustily cheered wherever the teams played. To me the most abiding memory of that tour was Greig, protecting the boundary and catching oranges thrown at him by exuberant people with the same practiced ease.
Greig was a revelation on that tour with an all round performance. As a batsman he would step out boldly to the Indian spinners and hit them out of the park. As a bowler able to bowl gentle medium pace and cutters, he could extract an awkward bounce from the placid Indian pitches.
Greig had both height and stature if you know what I mean. Thanks to Wisden Almanac and Sports and Pastime which had articles by the likes of Neville Cardus, Jim Swanton, Jack Fingleton and Richie Benaud, we youngsters were very well informed. We knew how Greig who would have never been able to play international cricket because of the Gleneagles Treaty, was pitchforked into the English team due to his Scottish parentage. The Treaty barred nations, including South Africa from international cricket because of its racist apartheid policy and with the scenario that accrued, Greig would have been condemned to his home grounds alongside greats like Ali Bacher, Pollock brothers, Eddie Barlow and Mike Procter since the Pretorian regime was adamant on its colour prejudice.
In a way, Sunil Gavaskar who strode like a collosus on the cricketing firmament in that historic 1971 tour of Carribean, was partly responsible for introducing us to the South African giants. Garry Sobers, who I consider as the game's greatest all time ever, plumped for Gavaskar in that Australia Vs Rest of the World. The latter had some of these.
A couple of years later, Greig's antecedents came in handy for the Channel Nine media tycoon Kerry Packer who used him to rope in the best of West Indian, Australian, Pakistani and South African talents for the World Series of Cricket dubbed as "Packer Circus". It turned out to be that in letter and spirit. All the cricketers were banished by their country's respective boards for their "betrayal". For all the interest and hoopla generated by the Packer Series, the matches were low scoring and most of the games became only figures in record books. The point here is Greig's leadership qualities had surfaced even before he was inducted by the MCC in its Test eleven. His role in that jumboree later not only cost him England's captaincy, which he had inherited from Mike Denness, but also a lot of vitriol and barbs through a strong backlash.
During the home summer of 1974, England faced three Tests against India and three against Pakistan. Greig averaged 42 with the bat and scalped 14 with his hundred against India at Lords as his best. This was good tune up for the Ashes tour of Australia where the Englishmen -- uncharitably called Poms -- were the favourites. As it turned out, the Englishmen were made to hop, skip and jump by the blistering speed of Dennis Lillee and Jeff Thomson. While his other team-mates were clueless what had hit them, Greig played the lone hand with a gritty 110. He was a stand-out character in a losing team and won the admiration of the "hard playing" Aussies, who liked his approach to the game.
When Greig toured India in 1976-77 -- this time as Captain and justified the mantle by winning a series in the sub continent against the best spinning attack in the world -- I was a college going youngster who understood that he had done his home work exceedingly well. I had seen the tall Greig holding his willy at almost his chest height while standing up to the pacers and quickly repositioning his stance to be able to bring his bat down while confronting the Indian spiners.
The equations had changed by 1987 World Cup when I was already a journalist with The Hindu while Greig had assumed the new avtaar of a writer-commentator. In the Press Box, I was lucky enough to be sandwiched between Greig and another commentator whom I rate as among the best experts, Trevor Bailey. I did an in-depth feature on Bailey and Greig, who was privy to all the conversation between us, tapped me on my back. "That was wonderful mate," he told me without concealing his appreciation. That little boost set up my interview with him at the hotel where he was put up. He was quite amused to know that he had caught one of the oranges I had thrown at him during the 1972-73 series.
By that time, I had seen enough of Greig to know how brutally blunt he could be. I recall how his ebullient oratory had created quite a flutter when he expounded the West Indies players' reputation for wilting under pressure.
"I like to think that people are building these West Indians up, because I am not really sure they're as good as everyone else thinks they are. People are forgetting they were beaten 5-1 by the Aussies and just about managed to keep their heads above water against the Indians a short time ago. Sure, they have a couple of fast bowlers, but I don't think we will run into anything faster than Lillee and Thomson. So I am not worried about them at all. The West Indians are magnificent when they are on top. But if they are down, they grovel, and I intend to make them grovel."  
There was a furore as expected. The word "grovel" had sinister connotations for the West Indians, many of whom had slave ancestry. Moreover, apartheid and Gleneagles Agreement were the issues of the day, so a white South African using the word "grovel" heavily accentuated the faux pas. Stung to the quick, the West Indian bowlers took a great delight in adding yards to their run-up when Grey took the crease and took his wicket. But true to his nature, Greig had no remorse.
Partly because he had seen me speaking at length with the likes of Bailey, Christopher Martin Jenkins, Henry Blofeld and Peter Roebuck (who jumped to his death), Greig let it unleash, no holds barred. "I still think of the West Indians in the same breath," he told me. I too didn't mince my words. "As a commentator, I thought your bias showed and though you spoke as fluently as the BBC Test Match Special commentators like Brian Johnston, Don Moseley, Christopher Martin Jenkins and Henry Blofeld, you often overplayed your hand. Was it exuberance or design?" I asked him. "Oh they are all seasoned veterans and peerless, but I am what I have to be," he said with that same flourish that he brought into play while describing the ear rings of ladies who came to watch the matches in Gulf. His narration could swing to both extremeties and often he got carried away while commentating, not really bothered with its repercussions. But you had to hand it to him that he was in a league of his own even as a commentator, whether you liked him or not. In that meeting Greig spoke a lot, sometimes criticising the Indians and sometimes showing unabashed admiration. But then he was like that, always speaking with rare candour and never playing close to chest.
So it was when he matter-of-factly spoke of his lung cancer and the inevitability of it. Compare this with our own Yuvraj Singh whose bout with cancer was chewed to cud by the media and people.
In his last lecture at the Spirit of Cricket Cowdrey, Greig said " I have never had any doubt I did the right thing by my family and by cricket."
He truly epitomised that.


   

The long and short of MSD

Raju Korti

Indian captain Mahendra Singh Dhoni doesn't seem to be getting any wiser with passing age, but there is one change in him that's quite perceptible. His answers to the Media's questions, which invariably would be longish and more often than not predictable, are getting as short as the time he spends at the crease these days.
Indian cricketers, by and large, inflated by the greens and overawing fame, are vulnerable to complacency. Dhoni has rode his luck thus far and to be fair to him, has deserved his spoils. What has failed to get into his -- what is usually labelled as -- "ice cool head" is, on the cricketing turf, nemesis does catch up.
His spinning gambit against the dour Englishmen backfired as it had to, yet, like the proverbial rope that refuses to un-knot itself, Dhoni persisted in the tactic until his mistake snowballed into a Himalayan blunder.
All the good work that Ashwin and Co did was brought to an effective nought by the seasoned Swann and Panesar.
After the much vaunted Indian batting line-up collapsed like a pack of cards at the Bangalore T20 against Pakistan, Dhoni made a profound observation: "We should have got more runs on the board. We got a good start, fantastic effort by the openers but then we kept losing wickets after that. We were short by 10 or 15 more runs which we should have got easily. 145 would have been a safe score on this track."
Of course, the skipper that he is, he conveniently skipped the fact that it was his lazy, casual shot that triggered the collapse. And if he knew 145 was a safe score, he had enough firepower in his batsmen, inluding himself, to score those. Hasn't it been sometime that he has been pleading for the induction of more energetic and younger players in the team? On a few occasions, he has either obliquely, or through convoluted statements suggested that the so called dead wood in the team may be shown the exit door. If only he could realise that he finds himself at the crossroads for precisely the same reason.
The Dhoni influence, what with the Board of Control for Cricket in India (BCCI) chief N Srinivasan doing his bidding, worked with bigwigs like Sourav Ganguly, Rahul Dravid and VVS Laxman. My gut feeling is the three whose names record books would feel proud to have, didn't hang their boots in very happy circumstances. If we are to go by Laxman's version, Dhoni didn't even show the courtesy of picking up his call before he announced his abrupt retirement. By his own admission, Dhoni sounded proud of the fact that he was a difficult person to get through to. Wonder how the skipper interacts with juniors. Or is it easy for his bloated ego to deal with players who are trying to cement their place in the national side?
All's not been very well with the Indian team. There has been no love lost between Dhoni and Sehwag. Not that Sehwag is a holy cow by any means, but the likes of him have to be handled with kid gloves. Yet, during the series against the Kangaroos, Dhoni squarely laid the blame on oldies who he felt were not agile and energetic on the field. The oldies included Sachin Tendulkar as well, but Tendulkar could carry on, being too big for Dhoni to play games with.
In recent times, Dhoni has been blaming the batsmen in straight or very many words. He seems to have lost sight of the fact that apart from keeping wickets, he has to defend his own as well. The much trumpeted helicopter shot has almost diappeared and the Dhoni we see today is a run grafter rather than the aggressive batsman we have known him to be. His post-match briefings are as un-exciting as the batsmanship he displays these days. His captaincy in the past few seasons has been unimaginative. As Ganguly rightly pointed out "He looks a great captain when he is winning." 
What you give unto others, comes back to you eventually. The clamour for his sacking is becoming louder. Yes, Kapil Dev and Sunil Gavaskar did say that Dhoni was still the best bet since there was no viable alternative at the moment, but that opinion is pregnant with meaning. He is the captain by default.
The Aussie team is also going through a transitional phase. The Australian Cricket Board had a similar predicament knowing Ponting's glorious days were over and it was time to hand over the mantle to Michael Clarke who wasn't exposed well enough to the rigours of the job. But the ACB took a decision and reposed faith in him. Clarke more than proved equal to that task, just like Alaistair Cook did when Andrew Strauss paved the way for him.
The BCCI must learn to take hard decisions. Dhoni's logic of giving younger players a chance should apply to himself to begin with. Remember the West Indies Criket Board too did not hesitate to dump the likes of Richards, Lara, Haynes, Richardson when they weren't performing to their past potential.
Keeping someone in the team merely on the basis of his past laurels isn't great cricketing sense. Indian cricket has any number of examples of those who got an extended charity just to enable them a place in record books. If "why" rules over "why not" while annoucing retirement, the BCCI must give them a honourable exit and a place under the Sun.
Question is will they?



  

On a sticky wicket!

Will we ever see this scene on Indian wickets?

Raju Korti

Before I dwell on the pivotal issue in this blog, let me bring to you a flashback of 1971 summer when a casting vote coup by then Chairman of Indian Selectors Vijay Merchant catapulted stylish and elegant left hander Ajit Wadekar as the skipper of the team to tour West Indies. Merchant’s master-stroke, among other things caused – no less – to roll the head of the incumbent skipper Nawab of Pataudi. But that of course is peripheral to the issue.
The first among the volley of questions thrown at Wadekar by a charged media was did the Indians have a game plan to tackle the battery of West Indian fast bowlers on the bouncy tracks there. Wadekar’s riposte was brilliant: Good batsmen are never afraid of good bowlers or bad pitches. As it turned out, Wadekar and his men made history winning against the mighty West Indians led by the indomitable Garry Sobers. The series was dominated by old warhorse Dilip Sardesai and the new batting sensation Sunil Gavaskar.
The West Indian pitches and then the subsequent ones in the series against England showed India had the potential to negotiate the blistering pace of John Snow and John Price. Put simply, the pitches, obviously conducive to the home teams, did not in the least inhibit quality players like Gavaskar, Viswanath and Vengsarkar.
Contrast this against the stink raised by Board of Control for Cricket in India (BCCI)  Vice President Niranjan Shah a few days back when he let lose a verbal fussilade against the Eden Gardens Curator Prabir Mukherjee for defying Captain Mahendra Singh Dhoni’s clear hint of preparing a turning track for the recent Kolkata Test.
Mukherjee got Shah’s goat for speaking out his mind to the media, terming it as a breach of code of conduct. Given BCCI track record of muzzling the players’ and officials’ voices, Shah’s outburst wasn’t surprising in the least. The BCCI in its infinite wisdom has rarely been sporting and still hasn’t come to appreciate the need for transparency. Often, its decisions, taken behind closed doors, are merely conveyed to the public, rationale be damned.
Mukherjee, a weather-beaten veteran of his craft, wasn’t amused when Dhoni brazenly declared that the Indians would be more than happy to have a spinning track to checkmate the Englishmen sensitized to fast tracks. Now it is old hat that the home team asks for pitches that suits its conditions. So it is not as if Dhoni committed a grave sin. He did what his predecessors did all along. Don’t the overseas players delight in the discomfiture of the Indian batsmen when they take their crease on their pitches?
Mukherjee was miffed and rightly so, that a seasoned curator like him was virtually ordered to do so. Anyone with a right cricketing sense will concede Mukherjee’s point.
Why do the Indians fight shy of playing on fast pitches? And why does it have to be a tit for tat elsewhere in the world. Can we not have a semblance of cricketing wisdom that ensures there are sporting pitches consistently all over. For one, it will keep the Test Cricket – which is the real cricket – alive. The shorter version of the game with its Wham Bang Thank You approach is now losing its excitement and sheen with its overkill.
Every time Indian teams go to England, Australia or South Africa to be haunted by those short-pitched deliveries, come back more determined than ever to give the overseas teams a dose of their own medicine by opting for a dusty, spinners’ paradise. Recall how Matthew Hayden had turned the 2004 Wankhede pitch in Mumbai as a “candy bar”.
Of course, by all means have a turning track when the overseas teams come here, but why shy away from preparing fast and bouncy tracks for the upcoming players during the domestic matches? If the diminutive Viswanath could caress a Jeff Thomson’s 150 Kmph delivery with a late cut, what stops the likes of Kohli and Gambhir from displaying similar panache? A far cry from the days of Nari Contractor felled by an express delivery from Charlie Griffith during the 1962 series in the Carribean. Since then, all debates and discussions on having sporting pitches in the country were quietly buried.
Fifty years later, the Indian paranoia to have turning wickets continues. Remember how even an accomplished batsman like Sourav Ganguly walked out huffing and puffing when he saw the lush green pitch at Nagpur. Far from trying to prove a point, Ganguly and his men were beaten comprehensively by Ponting and Co. This time round it has been different in that the Englishmen have beaten the Indians at their own game and how. How are the players, least of all the BCCI going to overcome? Maybe they will want overseas teams to come without a spinner!
 Let’s get back to what Mukherjee said: “It is unethical to tamper with the pitch as per the liking of the captain. I have not done it in my life. Why should I do it now? What happens if the pitch does not last for five days? Let them give me in writing then I will do it.”
Mukherjee faced flak for defying the Board speaking in Dhoni’s voice. The breach of code was just a specious excuse. But such deep rooted are the Indian fears that far from standing by his side, the Cricket Association of Bengal (CAB), turned against him.
Quite possible the Indians may bounce back to win the Mumbai Test, but the fact will remain that Cook cooked the Indian goose on its own soil.
The Englishmen have certainly queered the pitch for the Indians, never mind the pompous 3-0 rout the latter kept dreaming of. 

Tiger's Trail

Raju Korti
"You are the editor of a paper that has had a long string of  illustrious names to its credit including mine", Bal Thackeray said to me, his index finger almost drilling a hole into my chest. The characteristic mischievous glint that his eyes revealed through his tinted glasses too was unmistakable, as if to make me conscious of the most unique address of the publication I worked for from its hallowed portals -- The Free Press Journal.
Of the two audiences I had with this rather charismatic man, who had arrogated to himself the pompous sobriquet of "Hindu Hridaysamraat" somewhere in the midst of his turbulent political sojourn from the mid-sixties neo-natal period of the monolithic Shiv Sena, one was incidental and the other consequential.
Sometime in 1972, I remember how Bal Thackeray -- yet to be Balasaheb then -- was chased down in Nagpur by lumpens of the Students Federation of India after he delievered a speech full of acidic barbs at the Communists he had rabid dislike for, at a college student's rally. An unfazed Thackeray boarded the car that was to take him to the airport, but not before he had whipped out a pistol and looked back at the mob menacingly, making no bones that it wouldn't provoke him much to pull the trigger. I recall how the mob stopped in its track and then beat a hasty retreat. Etched vividly, I then had little inkling that thirty-two years hence, my profession would bring me face-to-face with the same man, who now preferred to be attired in saffron robes, a "rudraaksh maala" around his neck, than the customary pant-shirt and the ubiquitous pipe between his lips.
The FPJ photographer Sanjit Sen, who was perhaps having a dekko at Thackeray for the first time, flitted his photo angles -- bending and straightening -- in a flurry of movements with schoolboyish enthusiasm. Turning his head towards him, Thackeray snapped his sardonic humour: "Lungicha photo kaadhtoys ki pungicha?" That sharp repartee also made me realise that because of the chaste Marathi I broached the conversation with him, it didn't occur to him to check my Marathi-turned Kannada antecedents.
In the meeting that unwinded well over three hours, I realised Thackeray carried a strange thought process of a politician and a statesman, but I wasn't interested in knowing the political leanings of the man as much as I wanted to delve deep into his mind. His cartoons, borne out of a razor-sharp mind, keen observation, his abiding interest in Literature and his organisational skills were more important to me than his much bandied image as a man who ignited Marathi Asmita given his penchant to use language as a powerful weapon to mobile a section of people or, for that matter, to strike terror into the minds of the "overbearing, dominating south Indians.
The late nineties, especially the post Sena-BJP coalition government in Maharashtra, his party, often accused rightly or wrongly, as "remote controlled" and run by a man who never made any secret of his preference for "benevolent dictatorship", had seen the emergence of Shiv Sena as a party of goons who couched their love for Mumbai in the name of Marathi and Hindutva. A party that had squandered away its electoral advantage with its ruffian ways.
Yet, in all this confusing melee, there was Thackeray who had a plausible rationale for all his apparently contradictory and self-defeating stances. "I will do what my conscience tells me, everything else be damned", was his thinking philosophy. That, if any, explained why he chose to take even Advani and Vajpayee head on knowing fully well it could screw up the party's political equations with ally BJP, his surprise dinner invitation to Pakistani cricketer Javed Miandad at his residence Matoshri and the much pooh poohed and criticised programme of pop star Michael Jackson.
"So what? you mean to say I should kow tow to people because of their pre-eminent status? I run a party on my own ideology. Let people poke ridicule at me. If someone doesn't believe in me, they are free to get out lock stock and barrel," Thackeray told me. "I have given my blood and sweat to conceive this party. Not for nothing the thousands of Shiv Sainiks rise at my one finger tip. If that means I am a rabble rouser, so be it."
Remember, those were the times when Chhagan Bhujbal had engineered a split in the Shiv Sena and a bigger dent in Thackeray's pride. Having covered that turmoil in the party as The Hindu reporter, I could understand, though not appreciate, the kind of venom Thackeray would spit at almost every rally, often deriding Bhujbal as Lakhoba Lokhande and an unforgivable traitor. The same anger and hatred was in evidence when Narayan Rane, who he helped to become the chief minister of "his Maharashtra", deserted to join ranks with the Congress. As someone who could deliver a speech good enough to be described as a litterateur's delight, he could also stoop to sneer at Rane with a "dedh footiya." To that extent, he was a complete spectrum, who could switch ends with similar love or hatred.
"I was, am and will remain a great admirer of "Pu La" Deshpande. I have visited and revisited his writings for as much times as I can remember, but he trained his guns on us at our own award-giving function." Though that unsavoury spat left a bitter taste in the Marathi man's mouth and was headlined as a label-head "One Marathi icon Vs Another Marathi Icon" by a superficial English Press, I can vouch it was the fury of a man who felt wronged. And before this provokes anyone to jump to conclusions, I remember having written a rasping column running down Thackeray and lauding "Pu La" for the dignified silence that he kept throughout later and refusing to be drawn into what could have been a long-drawn verbal skirmish. The irony of it all was, as a keen Thackeray follower, I was well aware of his literary credentials.  
The incongruity similarly showed when Thackeray, after roundly criticising the Congress on the issue of Enron, towed the same line in an expedient somersault. Even Sachin Tendulkar got a dose of the Thackeray medicine. The fact that someone with an avowed pro-Marathi ethos could lose his base or standing among his own constituncy, made little difference to the patriarch, who was well seized that it was his word against anything else. That to me was the USP of Thackeray. He would madly love or intensely hate the same person. Hate him or love him for that! Misplaced though at times it was, it was this stranglehold on the public pulse that gave him this authority and power. And he drew from that bank without fear and most of the times, with favour. While other politicians drank behind their khadi masks and Gandhian hypocrisy, Thackeray had no inhibitions and drank beer or wine donning saffron robes.
"As a schoolboy, I would make a scramble to lay my hands on Maarmik, your cartoon-based Marathi weekly. You lampooned your rival politicians relentlessly. Big time politicians of that era shivered you would caricature them. But why did you relegate such an incisive and evocative craft to the caprice of popular politics? You were the country's best cartoonist, notches above RK Laxman," I asked him. Thackeray looked pained for a moment and conceded that he could have given it more devotion, but "I had more pressing missions at hand, I had to decide my priorities", the obvious explanation why his collection of cartoons got assimilated into a coffee-table book towards the fag end of his life.
But true to his "values", he never carried his regrets as baggage. Those who accuse him of playing a blind but doting Dhritarashtra -- while elevating son Uddhav as the party's executive head in preference to his more competent and on-the-same track nephew Raj -- often skip the fact that he also disowned youngest son Jaidev for his philandering ways and never ever bothered to get him back into his fold. Thackeray couldn't care less that criticism could ricochet on him for promoting dynasty politics when he routinely hurled the same refrain at Congress.
Most of my meeting with the old man, ever so young at heart and so quick on the uptake, was centred around matters not relating to politics since I did not want to succumb to the temptations of writing a clique-ridden, rhetorical copy that most editors seek from their staffers to tickle people. At the end of it, I found that within the Thackeray most people had seen and heard, lived another Thackeray, who was warm, affectionate and helping. Was the Thackeray who helped Sanjay Dutt, Amitabh Bachchan the one people knew or I (preferred to) understand? Conjecturing may be an art I may have honed as a journalist, but I will keep it on the back-seat for now.
All I know is he genuinely loved Raj and had intended to groom him as his obvious heir. Raj had all the trappings he would expect as his natural successor -- the firebrand oratory laced with puns, mimicry, cartoon craft, the way to graft popularity and just about everything that was "Balasaheb." Then at what point did Raj fall from grace? As I bore, no speculations for me.
I would rather recall and feel the warmth of his hand on my back and I am sure on his part he didn't think of me as an owl either -- if you know what I mean.

Jai Hind, Jai Maharashtra  

But why not Mr Hayden?

A strong appeal

Raju Korti

Whether he used the long handle or the Mongoose Bat, Matthew Lawrence Hayden, better known to the cricketing fraternity as Matt Hayden, pulverised the opposition bowlers and smoted them brutally on the green turf till the day he hung his boots. But the 6 ft 3 genial hunk, always a sport off it, has flew off his handle once again so characteristic of him.
It has rankled Haydos no end that the Australian government in its cricketing wisdom has decided to confer the prestigious Order of Australia on Sachin Tendulkar whose exploits have already become a part of folklore Down Under.
Now Hayden is no alien to the Indian soil and its frenetic fans of the game. Like many others of his country, he keeps flitting in and out of India like a Kangaroo and makes a neat pile of money on endorsements, not to speak of the publicity that comes his way given that he shows up frequently in starred hotels in his dual avtaar as chef.
Hayden rationalises that the award is purely Australian in nature and should be bestowed upon an Australian. On the face of it, it seems a well reasoned and plausible argument, only that it doesn't seem to have occured to his narrow thinking that such an award is and should be an honour to any national and it does more honour to the country that gives it.
If the British with all their colonial mindset can still think it fit in their racist canniness to confer the Order of British Empire (OBE) on Indians, what is so questionable about the Aussie government honouring a foreign national? Afterall, their track record on racism in recent times has been similarly dismal. The honour should be for the work and not for the individual per se. If the Aussies believe that Tendulkar has brought as much cheer to their countrymen as the likes of Hayden with their game and gamesmanship, why should Tendulkar, whom the Don of Cricket simply described as"That Little Fella bats just like me" not be a worthy recipient?
Obviously, nationalism doesn't seem to be weighing on Hayden's mind as much as the "Monkeygate" of the 2007-2008 series in which volatile Harbhajan Singh's earthly Punjabi expletive was misunderstood by Andrew Symonds. As an ugly fallout, Hayden was charged for code of conduct violation by Cricket Australia for calling Bhajji an "obnoxious little weed" and for inviting speedster Ishant Sharma (Ponting's bugbunny) for a boxing bout during an interview aired on Radio Brisbane. Though reprimanded by Cricket Australia, Hayden never admitted his culpability. The Aussie cricketers do not subscribe to any code of conduct. Codes and conduct are only meant for cricketers from the sub-continent. Ask any Aussie and he will wear his pride on his sleeve saying "we play our cricket the hard way." It means the way they find it right.  
Probity, like charity, should begin at home. Hayden must ask himself why he allowed himself to be auctioned for the Indian Premier League in the first place. He could have been as sanctimonious with his views saying let the IPL be played by Indians. It's their game. But the lure of greens and renown makes people change their colours faster than a chameleon. Foreign players know that India is a milched cow and jump at the first opportunity to land on the Indian shores to grab some quick bucks and gala time. Not all shoot their mouths off like Hayden has done.
He should let marsupials enjoy their leaps in the Kangaroo court.