The Paradox

 

Some thirty two hundred years ago a man stood in front of a large palace, with some intent and purpose. He was weak, emaciated, his clothes in tatters and due to circumstances in his past, he carried a massive case of stammering. As he leant on his staff for support, he was shaking. He was shaking because he felt apprehensive. His intent was to go into that large palace, face the owner and tell him to mend his evil ways. Unfortunately, the owner was an extremely powerful person, hence the man felt apprehension.       

     

So, the man looked up and called on Allah(swt) in dua. His words were,     

     

“My Lord expand for me my breast (with assurance) and ease for me my task and untie the knot from my tongue, that they may understand my speech.”   

     

Allah was pleased with that man for his faith and askance.    And so he rewarded him. He put those very words in the Quran, in Surah Taha Ayat 25-28. (Surah Taha is the one, on whose recital Hazrat Umar(ra) became Muslim!). These fourteen hundred plus years, hundreds of millions of  Muslims have used this dua, whenever they have felt the need to say something of significance to people. I too, use these words before every meeting and before every talk or speech. What a reward and what a legacy to have. The man  Hazrat Musa (as) needs no introduction to us. The man in the palace was of course, the Firaun , the evil ruler of Egypt and at the time the most powerful man in the world. One tradition has it that this particular Firaun was Rameses ll.   

   

To cut to a different, but related event.  

Percy Shelley the English poet, based on some writer, who described a scene he witnessed on his travels, wrote Ozymandias. The traveller stated that in a desert environment, as he moved along, he came across a very large stone statue. Decay had struck that statue. The legs still stood intact, upto the knees. But, the body had disappeared. Also, lying on the ground, small distance from the surviving legs was the head of the statue. What was striking was that the face still showed an expression of sneering and arrogance. Written on the pedestal by the legs were the words. 

“My name is Ozymandias. King of Kings. Look at my work, ye Mighty, and despair.” 

All around was decay and failure, the Mighty had taught all of us a lesson.  

 

 

*Ozymandias was reputedly, a name used for Rameses ll, by Shelley. 
   
In our lives (even today), we would look at a bedraggled, shivering, stammering man and disregard him. Nay, disregard with contempt for the littleness and apparent failure. But we would look at a man on a throne, in a large palace with a crown on his head with deference and fear and fawn on him for his success. But Allah and history tell a different tale. Today in this world and in Allah’s Jannah, Hazrat Musa (as) lives with the highest. Of the particular Firaun, history has few words and who really remembers him? (There is much conjecture on the final identity of the Firaun). Allah also has some words about him. That he will be preserved forever in this world, as a sign of evil. 

What a paradox! What is real success and what is failure?

** pictures were taken from Pinterest.com

Sarfaraz A Rehman: This is not cricket

Sarfaraz A Rehman: This is not cricket: When Wasim and Waqar made the ball talk, it was a mystery. The English press went berserk and I do remember some of the stuff said, by p...

This is not cricket

When Wasim and Waqar made the ball talk, it was a mystery. The English press went berserk and I do remember some of the stuff said, by professional cricketers. Right there on Test Match Special. It was biased, it was baseless  and if you ask me it was a bit of colonialism. They even wanted to test the ball in a laboratory.

This was 1992 and Pakistan had just won the World Cup and then beaten England, at both Lords and Oval, in the test series. From the comments and commentary, the feeling of ‘We are the real cricketers and you upstarts are cheating’ used to come dripping through in the words and the tone. It was the same a decade before this, in the 1982 series, when Pakistan won at Lords and Imran and Mudassar (of all people) did the job. The ball swung, tongues wagged and one felt criminalised without actually having done anything.  

To date, I am convinced that the court case against Imran, which finally revealed so called reverse swing techniques, was a deliberate ploy to reveal the arts. This was another form of cheating if you ask me. Of course this toxicity continued and much was always made of Pakistan and ball tampering. Culminating in that awful afternoon at the Oval in 2006. A storm of no reality. We all forget, there was no ball tampering at all. Inzamam-ul-Haq and Pakistan were cleared. Yet we were named, shamed and forfeited a test match. 

So, to remind our old masters in Lords, the three biggest controversies of ball tampering are all THEM. Atherton in 1994, caught red handed on TV. Du Plessis caught in Australia in 2016. And now Steve Smith and Bancroft. This last one, which happened yesterday leaves one with a bad taste. It was collusion, involving captain and team members. A conspiracy of cheating and really has now besmirched the good game. You will never be able to trust cricket again. 

  

What is done in the next few days will identify the future of cricket. It is no less than that. Can we stop this becoming Wrestling and its drama laden facade, WWE. Or will it remain the majestic game, with its traditions and complexities that we have known. Personally and sadly, I feel we will see a continued decline in the value system and the whole game will be trivialised. More IPLs, PSLs, Big Bashes. More drama and less substance.  This then reflects on the system and the players, who are also a product of the system. So then you should expect these events to happen. Where winning means everything, fame and money mean everything, and short cuts are accepted, then expect more ball tampering and cheating also.

Sarfaraz A Rehman: Pockets

Sarfaraz A Rehman: Pockets: Back in 1974 our English teacher at Karachi Grammar School (let’s just call her Mrs X) gave us an essay to write. The choice of topics w...

Pockets

Back in 1974 our English teacher at Karachi Grammar School (let’s just call her Mrs X) gave us an essay to write. The choice of topics was fairly routine, but there was one which sort of struck a chord with me. The topic went by the outlandish name of ‘Pockets’.

On what impulse I chose this topic, I have no idea. Suffice to say, I must have done a good job on it, because it ended up getting the highest marks. Almost four decades later, the essay is still fresh in my mind, not because of the marks it secured, but because inked in red, besides the essay was the comment “I am extremely surprised!“. Clearly, I did not look capable of putting together such a piece.

Since then, I have made peace with Mrs X, ( and I hope she is reading this note), but do marvel at the perversity of human nature. After 21 years of education,  I only remember one piece of writing and that too because the teacher doubted my ability.

So I have recreated the essay below, to prove I was really the “real deal”. The language might have changed a bit in 40 odd years.

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When the airport announcement came, I went up to the aircraft in a jiffy. The DC-10 was spacious and the seats comfortable. This was one of the few times I had been in an aircraft and I was most excited. The aircraft raced off and it was up and away. Not too difficult at all. Being a naturally greedy teenager, the food was the next treat. All looked hunky dory, until that huge lurch. It was as if the food inside would settle for the sick bag instead. Ugh! Then the announcement lady said that we had hit an air pocket and should put on our seat belts. The word ‘pocket’ sort of stuck in my mind.

An air pocket must be the worst form of pocket in this world. There are many and most are fairly innocuous; though some carry a significance far beyond their rather simple image.

Take the pocket knife. A companion for many a year, it is the means to many ends. I acquired it to satisfy my grandiose imagination, that one day I shall defend a damsel in distress with this piece of equipment. Alas, it has been most disappointing, in that I have never come across a damsel in distress. So, while heavily resorting to the imagination to satisfy my ego, I have used it for more mundane work, like cutting fruit, paring some wooden stuff, specifically the bottom of a bat, and also to open up screws by inserting the point of the pocket knife into the groove of the screw and twisting it.

Traditional pockets are cavities created in clothes, to allow one to deposit odds and ends. Mostly these are chewing gums, but sometimes even in my pauper state, I still manage to keep some money in them. Older people have wallets which they put in their back pockets. These wallets stick out and attract the class of beings called pick-pockets. These are talented individuals, with slippery fingers and few scruples. I would not go near them.

Of course you would have noticed that the last mentioned was a hyphenated pocket. These are very convenient. They pop up everywhere to make life easy. Patch-pockets is one such hyphen. Hyphens have been created by the intellectually lazy for ease of usage. They are a ‘short-cut’ to making things happen; not really the ‘done’ thing in English.

There are also hidden pockets. These could be inside clothes or brief cases. They are supposed to accommodate money and other precious things. I of course do not require such an exigency, as my pockets are to let. One other hidden pocket is the one inside a Kangaroo. It is nature’s safety deposit of the cub, which can then safely move along with the mother kangaroo.

Lastly, the pocket battleships. These were fast, armoured navy cruisers created by the Germans in WW11. There was a lot of fear and propaganda behind them. The Deutschland and Admiral Graf Spee were the most notorious of this class. The battle for the Graf Spee was famous for its bluff element. Having done some damage to the Graf Spee, the Ajax and Achilles (British ships) had chased the pocket battleship into Montevideo. Some deft radio work convinced the German commander, that an enemy flotilla awaited the Graf Spee outside Montevideo. Despairing, the commander sank the Graf Spee himself. Clearly he had developed pockets of madness inside his brain!

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The above essay was of course written in pre-Google times. Today when I Google the word ‘pockets’, the references are not too different from those used in my essay. It is good to know that some things never change.

Sarfaraz A Rehman: Hanumant Singh, I will always remember you

Sarfaraz A Rehman: Hanumant Singh, I will always remember you: I speak from faded memory, because to go into historical statistics is to lose the charm and mystery of what is just so natural I r...

Hanumant Singh, I will always remember you

I speak from faded memory, because to go into historical statistics is to lose the charm and mystery of what is just so natural

I remember Hanumant Singh.

Now, how many in Pakistan would say that? For that matter, how many in India can say that today? But it is true! I remember him well and owe him a debt which can never be repaid.

One hears you asking, why would an individual living in Karachi, have anything to do with an Indian prince?

I speak from faded memory, because to go into historical statistics is to lose the charm and mystery of what is just so natural.

Sometime in February 1964, aged five, I saw two of my uncles huddled together listening to a Grundig radio. Coming out of that radio was a harsh voice; I now know this voice to be of Maharaj Kumar of Vizianagram, cricket commentator and former captain of India. As if attracted by a magnet, I sat down to listen.

It seemed like an event of earth-shaking proportion was on the cards. India versus England at Firoz Shah Kotla Ground, Delhi. One Hanumant Singh was approaching his century and that, too, on his Test debut. I listened, absolutely and totally absorbed, as Hanumant eventually did reach his century. Subsequent events are a bit vague. All five Test matches were drawn during that tour of 1964. In this particular one, I think England, despite Singh’s efforts, managed a big lead. Then the late Nawab of Pataudi, making a big double century in the second innings, batted India to safety.

Of Hanumant Singh, history can tell you that he fell into the curse of all Indian century makers on Test debut, pre-Gundappa Vishwanath─I think there were seven in a 37-year period, 1932 to 1969. No one ever made a Test century again and all were condemned to mediocrity; Abbas Ali Baig being the most famous of those.

Hanumant had a great pedigree; the English greats Ranjitsinhji and Duleepsinhji were his uncles, Indrajitsinhji his cousin, and if you look at some old photographs, he will be seen using the same trademark leg-glide which made Ranji great and famous.

Unfortunately, Singh’s career was short; 14 tests and 600+ runs. In the late 60s he was finally discarded and departed this world in 2006, leaving a very small cricketing legacy.

It is this legacy which concerns me personally. Little did I know what it meant to me that afternoon’s events, some 53 summers ago! The fascination I felt while sitting there, waiting for events to unfold (and in the subsequent days, as I heard the desperate struggle at the Kotla) became part of my life ever after, to this day. There was born an innate love for something I shall carry to my grave. Cricket became a part of my life and I lived and breathed cricket. So much so, that as I look back and do a time sheet of my activities, it comes out as work, sleep, giving time to loved ones, and then evidently cricket. Now the first three are essentials of life, but cricket is the first love and continues to be an entwined part of my existence.

Out of that fascination and love came an understanding for the game. Hours were spent stuck to a radio listening to Test matches all over the world, and then the hero worship which I developed for some great sportsmen, specifically Pakistanis. It is a montage of memories; Zaheer, as he flicked the ball past mid-wicket dozens of times on the way to his 274 in 1971; Hanif waving his bat a last time in Karachi in 1969; Raja striding out at Lords to battle the rainy conditions in 1974.

Images were engraved in my mind; Mohsin, sleeve buttoned down, waiting for rain to stop, stuck at 199 at Lords in 1982; Asif Iqbal doing his valley of death routine in 1976 versus Lillee, on pitches that were so green that you could not tell them apart from the square. And naturally, of course, I remember that last ball heave for victory by Miandad at Sharjah in 1986, which brought Pakistan domination for a decade. Above all, one man raising a Waterford Crystal trophy aloft and claiming the world for us, if only for just one moment, on that fateful day in March 1992, when Pakistan won the World Cup.

Yes, I owe Hanumant Singh a legacy and one day I would hope to tell the world about the trip which I have been on, during these 53 years, through Lords, Oval, National Stadium, Sharjah and many more, and those eons spent in front of the television or stuck to the radio, for the growing and intense love for one sport; cricket.

Read more by Sarfaraz here or follow him on Twitter @sarehman