None to witness a sunset in Indian cricket history

Sardesai’s generation, dwindling at an alarming rate, was very well represented, the next generation had some marked present but contemporary Mumbai cricket had either forgotten Sardesai, or didn’t care or, hopefully, were not in Mumbai.

As we bowed in homage to Dilip Sardesai, those dancing feet now static, Nari Contractor said to me: “Have you noticed how many current Mumbai players are here?” I wish he had never said that for the heart was already heavy. There were none. Sardesai’s generation, dwindling at an alarming rate, was very well represented, the next generation had some marked present but contemporary Mumbai cricket had either forgotten Sardesai, or didn’t care or, hopefully, were not in Mumbai.

Indeed I wished at that moment that every young Mumbai Ranji Trophy cricketer was out of the city for I cannot imagine that people can be as immune to history as this. Or is this a vain hope? There weren’t too many when another of my childhood heroes, Eknath Solkar, passed away too. So then, are we so locked in the present that we have no time to look back, to fold our hands and lower our heads in gratitude?

Yes, gratitude is the word because no generation can survive in isolation. It receives the baton from another and passes it on when the time comes. And when another time, like this sad one comes, you go back to the person who passed you the baton and say ‘thank you’.

One generation not only provides inspiration, and a legacy, for another; it gives birth either to confidence, or only sometimes, to despair. Till 1971, we did not believe that England could be beaten in England, till 1959, we did not believe Australia could be beaten, till 1968 nobody thought India could win a Test series overseas.

But that generation had belief instilled in it by the deeds of Mankad and Umrigar who doubtlessly were inspired by Merchant and Nayudu. It was thus that a Gavaskar arrived, his desire for excellence fuelled by the deeds of his uncle’s generation and it was thence, that a Kapil Dev came.

If one set of players had not played for 200 rupees and come by local train to play international cricket, if another hadn’t received 10,000 rupees per Test, yet another would never have got more.

This generation has reaped the benefit of the popularity that was sustained by many; not just the Umrigars and Hazares and Mankads and the magical spinners but even the Jaisimhas, the Durranis and the Sardesais. It was their stories that kept cricket alive in middle class homes that, we now forget, are the real custodians of Indian cricket.

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But should we be surprised? On the 25th of June, it was 75 years since the great CK Nayudu lead India out at Lord’s. It has been an intriguing, satisfying, depressing, pulsating, emotional journey. You can use a word you like but you have to admit, it has been unforgettable.

But the sun rose that day like it were any other day and set without having enriched Indian cricket. What an opportunity it was to tell the story of Indian cricket to those in their teens for they must soon become the bastion of Indian cricket.

They know of the Gavaskars and the Kapil Devs, and lately of the Kumbles and the Tendulkars. But they need to know that Polly Umrigar once played a stirring Test match in Port-of-Spain bowling 72 overs for 124 runs and 5 wickets apart from making 56 and a second innings 172 not out in a little over 4 hours; that Tiger Pataudi played with one eye and one leg before a disbelieving audience in Melbourne.

If Indian cricket is shy of tradition, can we blame young cricketers for giving Solkar’s and Sardesai’s funeral a miss? Or maybe there is a celebration planned after all? On September 19th or April 17th or July 22nd or some such insignificant date? Or maybe on 25th of June 2008 to mark the end of 75 years of India in Test cricket.

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Sadly, this cannot be a joke. The time to go, to leave this stadium of life, is not a decision we take. As one generation dwindles, we lose the opportunity to honour it.

Worse, we lose the opportunity of inspiring another generation, of telling them where their roots lie, of the land their elders came from, the ground they trod on.

What a moment it would have been for a Yuvraj Singh to see Tiger Pataudi walk up a stage in pride. Or, for that matter Salim Durrani and Abid Ali and Bapu Nadkarni and Nari Contractor. And many more.

In the end, it is the respect for what came before that symbolises a culture. Mumbai’s young cricketers let themselves down by not paying respect to one of their best.