The inscrutable craftsman - Brijnath

[The Outsider]

http://content-usa.cricinfo.com/magazine/content/current/story/346898.html An excellent read on my favorite batsman of the 90s. Brijnath is really an excellent writer and echoes some of my thoughts on Azhar superbly in this piece.

He is considered a cheat, a seller of his soul and his team. Was an Armani-suited sourpuss who let down Sachin Tendulkar when the young tyro was captain. Let his filmstar wife run his life. Had the communication skills of a Benedictine monk. And once outdid himself in Sharjah by holding a press conference during which he sat with his foot on the table, clipping his toenails. This is my favourite cricketer! Perhaps some explanation is due. Much of what is said about Mohammad Azharuddin is true and a lot is not. But where myth met reality was hard to say, for he was hardly willing, or able it seemed, to bare his soul. For a so-called "simple" fellow, a defining term in his young days, he would become the most complex of cricketing creatures. As a young apprentice, it is said, he was reticent, private, locked in a cocoon of shyness, fumbling across a big stage. Only with a bat was he articulate, but even there he was not so much given to prose as to poetry. His beginning was all fairytale: the unknown young Hyderabadi, slim and tall and all whippy strokes, dancing to three centuries in his first three Tests, capturing a national imagination, and unwittingly thrusting himself into a world he comprehended little. A life in Indian cricket is much harder to negotiate than we think. "Small-town boy comes good" makes for a great story, but an arduous journey. Boys from nowhere are suddenly front-page news, invited to a baffling celebrity world, being asked to perform not just on the field but everywhere, every day, and this transition from riding cycles to practice to being owner of a chauffeured Mercedes, all done in the public eye, all so terribly fast, is seductive and scary. There is no one in officialdom to help, no one to show the way or explain this new world; it is stand or fall. India should have learned from Azhar's mistakes, from Vinod Kambli's, but still, even now, players are left to their own devices. Family is vital. Friends who are there not merely to massage the ego but brave enough to point out flaws are valuable. What Azhar's experience was, is hard to say, but perhaps in his later years he lacked direction, for he lost, or seemed to lose, his way. Why, we didn't, and do not, know. Terse, often rude (yet ironically admired by teams from other shores, for mostly he was a gentleman on the field), scuffling with photographers, his divorce on the front page ("Cricketer leaves wife for actress," as if this was some unholy sin), he became easy to dislike and we took, most of us, that easy way. In his later years, he did not fit the story we wanted him to be. Barring Harsha Bhogle's book on him, there is scarcely a piece that revealed him to us. For me, it made him as much repelling as compelling, frustrating but fascinating, this artless yet artful man of silken strokes and stony face. Later, Bhogle would tell stories of how Azhar would slip a personal cheque to players during benefit matches, and it made you rethink, wonder that perhaps there were elements to this clumsy, confounding man that we did not know, or care to. He was my favourite because no sportsman ever made me struggle so much, no Indian athlete demanded so much inner debate, no cricketer so confused the senses. As a writer you'd compose a paragraph, delete it, try again, delete, unable to suitably capture his character, explain his motivations. We had a fair idea about Tendulkar, we could explain the once inscrutable Javagal Srinath, we could even comprehend the complex Sourav Ganguly, but Azhar defied glib definition. He challenged the imagination, he forced us to confront our biases (few liked him later on, so criticism was rarely questioned), he tested our intuitiveness, he tried our capabilities as journalists, he made us, all flawed men ourselves, understand the nature of compassion and imperfection. He was my favourite also because he played like from a boy's dream, with an unhurried, wristy, impossibly careless, intoxicating grace (well, when the bowling wasn't quick and short), his bat a blade and he a fencer of arcs and angles and cuts and thrusts, not so much tearing apart attacks as slicing them open, standing there as upright and elegant and arrogant as a bullfighter, and even when, incomprehensibly, he whimsically wanted to score off each shot, turning into some passing whirlwind of shot-making, his play could never be called violent, as if such a word was too commonplace to attach itself to such a cultured cricketer. In short, he made you write sentences like this, one collective, bewildered exhale. He was not so much great as he was beautiful. My last long interview with him was when he'd helped take India past Mark Taylor's Australians in 1998. In Bangalore, in his hotel room, the incongruity of the man was once again evident. The prayer mat next to the designer suits; the six pairs of designer sunglasses next to the amulet. The small-town boy who was never allowed to watch films, now married to an actress; the private man caught in the most public of careers. If it was confusing for us, imagine what it was for him. There is no excuse for him, there cannot be; and he carries alone the responsibility for his sins. But even now, in his disgrace, he returns like an old, familiar ghost to haunt me. A man who did himself no justice. And in some strange way, perhaps, possibly, neither did we.

PS : Gambit, I know you don't like him, but don't go on a deleting spree of Azhar threads.:-D

[kooljatt]

The inscrutable craftsman Mohammad Azharuddin The inscrutable craftsman Artless yet artful, no cricketer so teased and confused the senses Rohit Brijnath 'Unhurried, wristy, impossibly careless, intoxicating grace' © Getty Images He is considered a cheat, a seller of his soul and his team. Was an Armani-suited sourpuss who let down Sachin Tendulkar when the young tyro was captain. Let his filmstar wife run his life. Had the communication skills of a Benedictine monk. And once outdid himself in Sharjah by holding a press conference during which he sat with his foot on the table, clipping his toenails. This is my favourite cricketer! Perhaps some explanation is due. Much of what is said about Mohammad Azharuddin is true and a lot is not. But where myth met reality was hard to say, for he was hardly willing, or able it seemed, to bare his soul. For a so-called "simple" fellow, a defining term in his young days, he would become the most complex of cricketing creatures. As a young apprentice, it is said, he was reticent, private, locked in a cocoon of shyness, fumbling across a big stage. Only with a bat was he articulate, but even there he was not so much given to prose as to poetry. His beginning was all fairytale: the unknown young Hyderabadi, slim and tall and all whippy strokes, dancing to three centuries in his first three Tests, capturing a national imagination, and unwittingly thrusting himself into a world he comprehended little. A life in Indian cricket is much harder to negotiate than we think. "Small-town boy comes good" makes for a great story, but an arduous journey. Boys from nowhere are suddenly front-page news, invited to a baffling celebrity world, being asked to perform not just on the field but everywhere, every day, and this transition from riding cycles to practice to being owner of a chauffeured Mercedes, all done in the public eye, all so terribly fast, is seductive and scary. There is no one in officialdom to help, no one to show the way or explain this new world; it is stand or fall. India should have learned from Azhar's mistakes, from Vinod Kambli's, but still, even now, players are left to their own devices. Family is vital. Friends who are there not merely to massage the ego but brave enough to point out flaws are valuable. What Azhar's experience was, is hard to say, but perhaps in his later years he lacked direction, for he lost, or seemed to lose, his way. Why, we didn't, and do not, know. Terse, often rude (yet ironically admired by teams from other shores, for mostly he was a gentleman on the field), scuffling with photographers, his divorce on the front page ("Cricketer leaves wife for actress," as if this was some unholy sin), he became easy to dislike and we took, most of us, that easy way. In his later years, he did not fit the story we wanted him to be. Barring Harsha Bhogle's book on him, there is scarcely a piece that revealed him to us. For me, it made him as much repelling as compelling, frustrating but fascinating, this artless yet artful man of silken strokes and stony face. Later, Bhogle would tell stories of how Azhar would slip a personal cheque to players during benefit matches, and it made you rethink, wonder that perhaps there were elements to this clumsy, confounding man that we did not know, or care to. Much of what is said about Mohammad Azharuddin is true and a lot is not. But where myth met reality was hard to say, for he was hardly willing, or able it seemed, to bare his soul He was my favourite because no sportsman ever made me struggle so much, no Indian athlete demanded so much inner debate, no cricketer so confused the senses. As a writer you'd compose a paragraph, delete it, try again, delete, unable to suitably capture his character, explain his motivations. We had a fair idea about Tendulkar, we could explain the once inscrutable Javagal Srinath, we could even comprehend the complex Sourav Ganguly, but Azhar defied glib definition. He challenged the imagination, he forced us to confront our biases (few liked him later on, so criticism was rarely questioned), he tested our intuitiveness, he tried our capabilities as journalists, he made us, all flawed men ourselves, understand the nature of compassion and imperfection. He was my favourite also because he played like from a boy's dream, with an unhurried, wristy, impossibly careless, intoxicating grace (well, when the bowling wasn't quick and short), his bat a blade and he a fencer of arcs and angles and cuts and thrusts, not so much tearing apart attacks as slicing them open, standing there as upright and elegant and arrogant as a bullfighter, and even when, incomprehensibly, he whimsically wanted to score off each shot, turning into some passing whirlwind of shot-making, his play could never be called violent, as if such a word was too commonplace to attach itself to such a cultured cricketer. In short, he made you write sentences like this, one collective, bewildered exhale. He was not so much great as he was beautiful. My last long interview with him was when he'd helped take India past Mark Taylor's Australians in 1998. In Bangalore, in his hotel room, the incongruity of the man was once again evident. The prayer mat next to the designer suits; the six pairs of designer sunglasses next to the amulet. The small-town boy who was never allowed to watch films, now married to an actress; the private man caught in the most public of careers. If it was confusing for us, imagine what it was for him. There is no excuse for him, there cannot be; and he carries alone the responsibility for his sins. But even now, in his disgrace, he returns like an old, familiar ghost to haunt me. A man who did himself no justice. And in some strange way, perhaps, possibly, neither did we. http://content-uk.cricinfo.com/magazine/content/current/story/346898.html

[Mr. Wicket]

hey prof, did you ever read Harsha Bhogle's old biography of Azhar? Would have sent it to you if I had it - sadly I don't, borrowed it from a friend of mine - it's a great read. Nice piece btw - thanks for putting this up.

[The Outsider]

hey prof, did you ever read Harsha Bhogle's old biography of Azhar? Would have sent it to you if I had it - sadly I don't, borrowed it from a friend of mine - it's a great read. Nice piece btw - thanks for putting this up.

I wasn't aware of Bhogle's biography on Azhar before reading this article and would love to get my hands on it.

[Gambit]

I've heard a lot about Bhogle's bio on Azhar but never managed to read it. Regarding the OP, Azhar was a hero and a champ. The amount of times he performed after stinging criticism and pressure is almost at the same level as Ganguly, after what he had to endure. His place as a batsman was never questioned and under him as captain, India had some of their most wonderful wins in the 90s both in tests and ODIs. But the moment the truth about his off field 'activities' came out, all of Azhar's goodness as a person and a cricketer for me ceased to exist. He was my hero and it hit me hard. I haven't and never will forgive him.

[The Outsider]

Damn! Was just searching for the book on amazon and froogle. Amazon has it for $60+ and froogle came up with Alibris who have it for 280 facking dollars!

[Mr. Wicket]

I'll be in Bombay for a few weeks next month. Will see if I can grab a copy for myself (and will mail that to you when next in the States), I'm pretty sure Theo at Marine Sports would be able to track a copy down.

[Lurker]

Azhar, the book, was published in the wrong era. It should have been written a couple of decades or so, maybe that is the reason why it remains the only book that Harsha Bhogle has written, atleast in a biography mode. In a sense the very beginnoing of Azhar, the book, remains the only one of its kind that I remember very vividly even though it has been years. It starts with how an elderly gentleman is sitting under a tree watching a lanky teenager play a game of cricket on a warm summer day. If I remember correct the elderly gent has a cycle resting against the tree and a lunch box from which he munches every now. He is Azhar's maternal Grandfather and was the biggest influence on his life. The book details everything from Raj Singh Dungarpur's Miyaan Kaptan banoge statement to Azhar cycling his way around Hyderabad to his felicitation ceremony simply because he didnt have enough money to buy anything better. In the end one of his cabbie friends parked his taxy in front of Azhar's house and Azhar would take it to every ceremony/game. Azhar would remain the only player of his kind that ever lived. No other player would ever match this character who would swing between extremes. Someone who could score the fastest LOI century of his time, score big scores when chips were down, easily the greatest all around Indian fielder, perhaps the only Indian batsman(till Dravid came along) to score heavily in English county..At the same time someone who seemed so fragile against pace, or for that matter every time he walked to the center. Maybe that dichatomy of someone so fragile playing magic made Jonathan Agnew utter - There is no point wishing an English batsman shall ever play like that. And of course the match fixxing saga. What a poetic justice/sacrilage it is then that Azhar ended with 99 Test and career high of 199. Defines the man, doesnt it? xxx

[Guest Hiten.]

There is absolute no sympathy that I will spare for this ba$tard. The country gave him everything and he betrayed us (Indian cricket fans) and the country itself. I don't care how much talent you have got or how many bloody 100s or runs you have scored; you fix games you deserve all the bitterness that the fans give you. Imagine how many people pray/try to get in the Indian team and this man was so darn lucky (+ the talent he possessed) to get captaincy. He did make a merry out of this opportunity, but by pocketing $$ by match fixing. Fck you, c*nt