Ajeeb saneha and my friend

A Selfless Cricketer

By V Ramnarayan

Today, I googled the meaning of an Urdu word that my first ghazal 'guide' swore to me back in 1973-74 did not exist in the language. The word is saneha, which Google tells me means: Accident, Adventure, Affair, Appearance, Circumstance, Condition, Contingency, Emergency, Episode, Event, Exigency, Existence, Incidence, Incident, Instance, Juncture, Manifestation, Materialization, Occasion, Pass, Piece, Routine, Scene, Situation, State, Thing, Transaction, Transpiration and Proceeding.

The captain of the SBI Hyderabad cricket team, the diminutive Abid Zainulabudin—a great fan and friend of Hyderabad's own celebrated ghazal exponent Vithal Rao—my go-to man whenever in doubt on such monumental issues, had assured me, with complete authority, of the non-existence of the word, when I spoke to him of Hariharan's Ajeeb saneha mujhpar guzar gaya yaaron from the movie Gaman. Strangely, Abid was my assistant in the bank from the clerical or award staff cadre, and I his officer, while he was my captain on the cricket field. Abid and I sat side by side in a corner of the Hyderabad Main Branch next to a large window that opened to our practice ground. At 3.30 pm most days, we both closed shop and went to the nets where our roles were so dramatically reversed. We were both comfortable in this curious identity switch which never interfered with our work, cricket or friendship, all based on mutual respect and tremendous affection, laced by a shared sense of humour and pet aversions. As for the authenticity of the word saneha, it never occurred to me to seek expert advice on it, not even on the one occasion I sat next to Hariharan himself--in a Mumbai auditorium a few years ago--and he sang the mukhda sotto voce when I told him how much I liked the song. The ghazal was my earworm this morning, and I finally decided to consult Sadguru Google. I told my wife about it, because the Gaman LP had been a wedding anniversary gift to us in that glorious Hyderabad chapter of our life, and we both loved the whole album. We talked about how similar the opening of the song was to Kabhi khudpe... from Hum Dono (no wonder, the music for both films had been by Jaidev) and I mentioned Abid to her. She said, "Yes, I know Abid." 'No, you don't know him, I am not talking of Syed Abid Ali," I corrected her, confident that I would have the last word at least in matters of cricket. The look of pity masking triumph in her eyes would have put Jeeves to shame while overruling Bertie Wooster's sartorial choice. "Of course I know Abid," she said. "Zainulabudin. Short smart chap."

Abid was short, wiry, smart, quite good looking, in fact, long-haired like most of us in the seventies, balding. Clean shaven in the morning, he tended towards a 5 o’clock shadow by 3 pm, and,  “Forgot to shave this morning, Abid?” was the usual greeting from his friends at the nets. He was a very good captain, quietly authoritative, calm and unperturbed when things did not go our way. He had been a champion of my cause when I was still an unproven quantity, and this was before he had joined me in the Small Industries Business Division. In typically undemonstrative style, he never revealed to me that he had played that particular role in my career. As captain of a star studded side slowly losing out to Anno Domini, he commanded respect though he was not one of the stars, but always pulling his weight as batsman, fielder and strategist. He rarely failed with the bat when the team was in trouble, but was never interested in personal landmarks. He scored many fighting 40s and 50s, but not many hundreds in the years we played together. In all those years, I don’t remember Abid suffering a bad patch, or seeing his fitness or fielding slip. He was probably the only truly selfless cricketer I knew.

Under Abid’s captaincy was forged my partnership with Mumtaz Hussain, the left arm spin wizard, who was slow to acknowledge my potential but eventually accepted me and grew into a trusting spin twin. The three of us spent many a quiet evening along with some of our teammates at the end of a day’s play. Both were at their witty, sometimes sardonic, best, over a glass of beer. I spoke of pet aversions earlier, and Abid could take down reputations with unconcealed glee. He could not stand dishonesty and hypocrisy, and he gave his distaste expression in fluent English curse words and chaste Urdu in a deep gurgling voice. Throughout the time I played under his captaincy, I enjoyed his trust and support, and I like to think I did not let him down. 

The only time I thought our professional relationship was put to test was in the office, not in cricket. Those were the notorious days when the bank’s ‘award’ staff was often guaranteed some 120 hours of overtime wages per quarter, regardless of whether there was workload to justify it. Our seat involved precious little daily ledger work, and Abid could finish his work in an hour or two most days. One day, he came hesitantly up to me, and awkwardly stuttered the question: “Do you think you could arrange some OT for me?” I was very embarrassed. How could I justify such a measure when there wasn’t enough work to fill our regular hours? Now it was my turn to turn red green and blue in the face. Thankfully, Abid put me out of my misery by grinning a sheepish grin before walking away. Any worry that the brief conversation might affect my cricket prospects would have been ungracious and disloyal on my part. Abid was too much of a gentleman to let that happen.

During my last season for SBI, Abid’s tall, gangling teenage nephew would join us at the nets, entering through the bank’s rear gate from his Vithalwadi (?) home, and bowl fairly impressive leg spin. He was to join the bank years later, play as a batsman, and eventually lead the side. His name was Mohammed Azharuddin. On the occasions I met Azhar the Test cricketer, he always brought news of Uncle Abid.