Whenever international cricketers visited our residence, we were presented to them as if we were precious commodities. We would troop into the drawing room with a cricket bat and a ball. Papaji would clap and say, “Jimmy, play forward defence! Tommy, play the cover drive! And tell Johnny to show his leg spin grip.” We followed all his instructions quite seriously. After the demonstration, all the guests would smile and applaud our efforts. Papaji would also give us a big smile, then nod his head and give us a marching order; like disciplined soldiers, we held our chin high and obeyed his command!
Papaji was a genius; he rectified all our mistakes sitting either in the drawing room amongst trophies or in the garden, surrounded by flowers, with minimum effort and fuss. I remember listening to him about his regimental training schedule and how it had helped him in cricket. The atmosphere in the drawing room created the magic of a bygone era and it was mesmerizing to listen to his experiences. We simply nodded our heads and dared not question or interrupt him as he held court. Time flew by in his company; he transported us to the world of the maharajas or the cricket grounds in England or Australia.
Then, out of the blue, Papaji would order me to fetch talcum powder, and he would line up all three of his sons and sprinkle it on our palms. Holding each one’s palm, he predicted several visits to England to play cricket. The thought excited us and the night was blissfully sweet. I dreamt of London and walking around Piccadilly Circus, as an after-effect of Papaji’s personal album. It was indeed a novel way to encourage us and set a goal. I remember reading an article in an Australian newspaper from 1947. The article said, “The captain of the Indian cricket team can not only play good cricket, but he can also read palms and make predictions.” Papaji had impressed the captain and chief air hostess of Australia Airlines and caught the attention of the Australian public!
We had not yet played any grade cricket. However, Papaji was far-sighted and knew what was best for us. He did not wish to feel sorry in case something was left unattended. He wanted us to be perfect and consistent. He created a virtual world of cricket during his conversations and in the nets. While kids pursued hobbies, we had our daily routine worked out for the holidays. Stories of his punishing training were narrated to us by Mummyji, as well as Bir Singh, Somi and Hardam, who were employed for daily chores. Papaji shared all his experiences and made us aware of the benefits of a fit body. He stressed the importance of long-distance running, daily exercise and skipping. He was an early riser, getting up at half-past four in the morning to train. He never missed a day of his schedule.
When we moved to Delhi from Patiala, we set ourselves up temporarily in a flat at Basant Lane and then to a bungalow at Panchkuian Road. It was an old-fashioned red-brick colonial-style house accommodating a large family of nine. A little distance from home was the posh Connaught Place shopping centre. There was sufficient space at home; three manicured gardens, along with space for a special kitchen garden and a ladies’ courtyard. We brothers used the gardens, courtyard and driveway to play cricket.
Papaji was a self-made cricketer and, therefore a hard taskmaster. Tom and I were both woken up by him at five-thirty in the morning and he took us to the cricket ground for physical exercises, followed by net practice. Later, we shadow-practised our strokes, and, if we failed in our endeavour, he demonstrated each stroke to perfection. Surinder (Tom) and I practised at the Railways’ stadium at Paharganj, Delhi, with all the first-class players of the Indian Railways team. It helped me to bowl long spells at the nets under his watchful eyes, and whenever I erred in line and length, I received additional tips from Tom. Thus, bowling to a left-hander eventually became quite easy. If there was any match at the Railways’ stadium, we moved to the National Stadium near India Gate for our practice. Papaji shaped us into aggressive batsmen against spin and pace, a style for which he was famous.
Apart from that, we were grilled at home under severe winter and summer conditions. I remember walking barefoot on dew in the months of December and January to please my father. He professed that it was good for eyesight – so be it! We obeyed him till our toes grew numb in the freezing cold, yet we never complained; his word was final and it was in our interest. We practised on wet grass without shoes and pads. We soon learned the value of using our bats against the skidding ball on wet grass; any miss led to excruciating pain, especially around the shins. Afternoons were booked for target practice against the brick wall. We made use of every corner of the house to master new conditions and improve our strokes.
Papaji was a passionate gardener; he planted over a hundred pots of pansies, roses, carnations, lilies and other flowers. These were placed around the lawns to decorate the house and make it look more beautiful. The lush green lawns were decorated with beds of colourful flowers, which gave one the impression of a nursery. He must have developed this passion in Patiala or when visiting the beautiful gardens in England where he spent many summers. All of us were given the task of watering plants with a twenty-litre sprinkler, which proved to be a boon. It strengthened our arms and shoulders without any weight training. As a matter of fact, he never encouraged weight training, favouring freehand exercises instead. He made us shift the heavy “gamlas”, or clay flowerpots, from one area to another to help develop our back, wrist, arm and shoulder muscles. Every time we bent our knees to lift these valuable pots, it made our calves and thighs stronger. He loved his flowerpots like they were precious commodities, and, in case of any mishap, told us to plant a fresh pot.
He created a match-like situation in the garden for us. We placed flowerpots at different positions as if they were fielders and, according to his instructions, played strokes between the pots on the front and backfoot. He remained seated on his cane chair, sipping tea and watching us till he was convinced that we had mastered the art. Playing on the uneven grass surface helped us to tighten our defence as well as play different strokes. He wanted us to handle different surfaces and adapt to inconsistencies at an early age. He guided us with the minutest details and shared his vast experience to our advantage. Whenever we faced any difficulty, he demonstrated each stroke and guided us with encouraging words.
Tom and I played cricket on the lawn or the tar path with cricket or tennis balls. To play fast-rising balls and face constant bouncers, Papaji felt it was important to remove fear. In 1960, he developed a unique method. He kept a bucket full of water and a few tennis balls soaked in it. The length of the pitch was reduced to fifteen yards and we were asked to bowl short-pitch deliveries. At first, we failed to play hook or cut shots; we even found ourselves in the firing line and received stinging blows on the cheek or chin from a wet tennis ball, attended by serious pain!
However, Papaji discouraged us from showing pain and this mantra became an integral part of my cricket! The wet ball came at lightning speed. We were not allowed to duck, but told to take the blow on our body. To boost our confidence, he would laugh and say in Punjabi, “Sher de puttar parwa nai kardey (Lion’s cubs fear none).” Gradually, we mastered the hook shot, though at times the wet ball managed to leave a big pink mark on our cheek or chin. However, we started enjoying this contest. I remember us counting the dirty marks on each other’s shirts or the pink marks on our knuckles, chin or cheeks. We were always greatly satisfied by these sessions.
Excerpted with permission from Fearless: A Memoir, Mohinder Amarnath with Rajender Amarnath, HarperCollins India.
