Adventure
The Test series between India and England marches on here in the UK, and our Sabha has been exchanging tales of cricket memories (all the while sipping on our top of the order drinks, naturally).
As we celebrate the launch of our brand new All-Rounder Collection, we invited one of our Sabha members, The Accountant, to share his story in his own words...
The sun blazed down on the dusty football field, converted for the season into six parallel cricket pitches, outside the primary school in Calcutta. A group of young boys in half-pants and well worn keds wielded worn-out bats and handmade balls, their laughter echoing through the air. I was one among them, a wide-eyed schoolboy then with a heart full of dreams and a head filled with cricketing fantasies. The 1950s and 60s may have been decades of modest means, but for boys like me, it was a golden era of imagination, friendship, and cricket.
The Beginnings of a Cricketing Passion
Cricket wasn’t just a game; it was a way of life. My first memory of the sport was holding a bat that was too heavy for my arms but just right for my ambitions. My father had taken me to a local Ranji Trophy match at the age of seven. There were no giant stadiums or television broadcasts then, just a modest crowd, the occasional transistor radio, and the smell of roasted peanuts in the air.
Back home, the rules were fluid, the pitch was whatever open space they could find, and the wickets were made of stacked bricks. The ball was often a rubber one or, on lucky days, an old cork ball salvaged from a cousin’s kit. The bats were shared, taped, cracked, and loved. My friends and I played till sunset, till our knees were scraped and our shirts stained with dust and sweat.
School Days and Sticky Wickets
Mornings began early with the shrill ring of the school bell. I'd cycle to school with my books in a cloth bag, cricket bat carefully balanced on the handlebars. Teachers lectured about geography and arithmetic, but my mind wandered to the afternoon match planned for the empty field behind the school.
Lunch breaks were never about food, they were about strategy. Who would bowl first? Was Ravi bringing the new ball his uncle got from Bombay? Did anyone bring chalk to draw the crease?
On the field, it didn’t matter whether your father was a doctor or a shopkeeper. What mattered was your ability to bowl a perfect yorker or hit a six over the temple wall.
Heroes on the Radio
Back then, there was no television in most Indian homes, and the internet was a science fiction idea. For me, cricket came alive through the crackling voice of the commentator on All India Radio. When India toured the West Indies or England, families would huddle around the radio, hanging on to every ball described with poetic flair.
Names like Mansoor Ali Khan Pataudi, Chandu Borde, and Bapu Nadkarni were not just players, they were legends. I'd mimic Pataudi’s regal stance and dreamed of one day playing for India, despite the lack of coaching or professional equipment.
When India won a Test match—rare but glorious—it was like Diwali had come early. Crackers were burst, sweets were distributed in school, and newspapers with black-and-white photos were passed around like sacred texts.
Growing Up with the Game
As the 60s rolled into the 70s, I grew taller, wiser, and a little less carefree. I may not have become a cricketer, but cricket never left me. I've carried the sport in my heart through college, through my first job, and eventually passed it on to my own sons.
The game taught me resilience, teamwork, and how to lose with grace. It gave me friends, mentors, and stories that I would tell for the rest of my life. In a world that often seemed constrained by rules and roles, cricket was an escape. It was freedom.
A Legacy Beyond the Boundary
Today, as I watch modern-day matches in high-definition (while sipping on Maka Di beers during the day as friends pop in, and Broken Bat gin, with ice and a twist of orange peel, in the evening), I smile. The bats are sleeker, the players are celebrities, and the game is faster. But I know that all over India, on many township lanes, playgrounds and maidans, young boys are chasing rubber balls shot off bats held together with string, dreaming big dreams.
And in that moment, the spirit of cricket—and of growing up in 1960s India—lives on.
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