Rajdeep Sardesai: Salim Durani played cricket king size, never allowed pressure to imprison him

“Main zindagi ka saath nibhata chala gaya...har fikr ko dhuen mein udata chala gaya.”

I just kept going with life... kept on making every worry fly like smoke.

Few cricketers have symbolised the rare carefree spirit of life and sport quite like Salim Durani, who passed away aged 88 on Sunday. Durani was, much like Dev Anand’s classic role in Hum Dono, the handsome hero who lived in the moment. Then whether it was a magical spell like the one in Port of Spain in 1971 that claimed the prize wickets of Sobers and Lloyd and opened the door for a famous first Indian win over the West Indies, a ten-wicket haul in Chennai against England in 1961 (the year he became the first Arjuna awardee for cricket) or a brilliant hundred in 1962 against Hall and company at their fastest, or just effortlessly stroking a six at the Brabourne stadium against England in 1973, Durani never allowed the pressure of elite sport to imprison him.

He played cricket like an uncaged flamingo near the waters of his hometown of Jamnagar, always ready to soar but entirely on his terms. Did he really hit sixes on demand, as cricket folklore insists? “Ek do baar,” he smiled almost apologetically. Once or twice. And then reminded me that if he had used better bats like today’s cricketers, six hitting would have been even easier. (Yes, he would have been an IPL rock star who might have set auction records.)

When he and my late father went to the West Indies in 1971, they knew they were entering the mandatory overs of their cricket careers. Indian cricket then had little to offer cricketers aged 30-plus: the vagaries of selection meant that you could have one bad game and be dropped forever. Which is perhaps why Salim bhai and Sardee maan (as my late father Dilip Sardesai was fondly known on that tour) decided to convince skipper Ajit Wadekar to allow them to room together. For the rest of their lives, they would wish each other with a loud and affectionate, “Hi, Roomie”.

I asked Durani about the unique camaraderie on that tour. Apparently before the first test in Kingston, Durani offered to make tea for my dad: “Meri chai piyo Dilip bhai, run banenge!” (Drink my tea, Dilip, you’ll make runs). As it happened, Sardee maan scored 212 in that first test and never looked back: chai made by Salim bhai was a constant morning companion. In return, every evening, Sardee would organise the drinks for his roomie.

It wasn’t too difficult: when you score runs in the West Indies, excited Indian fans open their homes and hearts. “Every evening we either had a party or someone would send across a crate of beer!” recalled Salim bhai. In this age of fitness conscious cricketers who have strict dietary habits, a drink during a match day must seem almost sinful but that was a different era of no such restrictions.

The Duranis and Sardesais had grown up in the ’50s and ’60s when cricket was not a profession but “pehla pyaar”, a flirtation that would turn into a full blown romance with no pre-conditions. You played the sport with no great expectations: cricket didn’t offer instant gratification or even big money but was a passport to social mobility. Durani, whose talent was spotted by the great Vinoo Mankad first and then by the princely patrons of Rajasthan, was an early beneficiary.

Raw talent can break barriers and Durani was generously endowed with skill with both bat and ball. He played the sport king size which is why he was christened Prince Salim, the rugged chiseled Afghan jawline, the light eyes, the gentle smile, creating a charismatic aura around him where many Anarkalis would line up to just have a glimpse of the good-looking star. Years later, he even acted in a movie Charitra with Parveen Babi: the movie flopped but Durani wasn’t fazed. “Life mein bahut six maar diye, iss baar boundary ke bahar caught out ho gaya!” he laughed. (I’ve hit many sixes in my life, this time I was caught outside the boundary.)

To get back to tales of our roomies. Sunil Gavaskar in his Sunny Days tells the story of how Sardee rang up Salim bhai from the hotel reception and pretended to be a female fan. Durani instantly put on his best party shirt and came to the reception only to find no one there. This happened more than once before finally prankster Sardee emerged from behind a pillar to reveal the identity of the caller. My father would tell the story years later with great relish and begin to laugh even while relating it. So would Salim bhai in response.

Cricket was serious business but only on the field. Off it, players were meant to celebrate life with few regrets. Life wasn’t always fair to Salim bhai: he was in and out of the Indian team, he frittered away his savings and many friends didn’t always stand by him in financially tough times. But not once did one hear him complain: instead you might suddenly see him happily riding pillion on an old scooter at the Khar Gymkhana or just having a quiet smoke in a corner. Durani mirrored, as those memorable lyrics of Hum Dono remind us, a willingness to embrace the ups and downs of life with a genteel spirit that set the 60s generation apart.

I met Salim bhai for the last time two years ago when he was in Delhi to inaugurate a hospital owned by a friend in Vasant Kunj. He was visibly unwell but that didn’t stop him from being his usual charming self. It was around 11 am when I knocked on the door. “Arre, Rajdeep Shaam ko aate to chai ki jagah kuch aur pee lete!” he laughed. I gently reminded him of the magic of his tea in 1971. A few months ago, I was in Jamnagar covering the Gujarat elections. I was hoping to meet Salim bhai again but was told he was in no condition to meet visitors.

When he found out that I had come looking for him, he called up a few days later: “Agli baar aaoge to paan khane chalenge, Jamnagar ka paan famous hai!” he reminded me. (The next time you come, we’ll go eat paan. Jamnagar’s paan is famous.)

Not as famous as the boy who was born “somewhere on a road from Kabul to Peshawar” but whose exploits made him the ultimate entertainer.

Post script: Of the many Durani stories, my favourite centres around the 1962 tour of West Indies. In a pre-helmet era, as the Indian batsmen were being tormented by a barrage of bouncers, Durani hooked his way to a century. But he went to bat with his abdomen guard left in the dressing room. When asked how he managed to score runs, he laughed, “Arre upar bhee kuch nahi, neeche bhee nahi, no wonder I was so relaxed!” (Hey, I have nothing up or nothing down. No wonder I was so relaxed.)

Rajdeep Sardesai is the author of Democracy’s XI: The Great Indian Cricket Story. This tribute was first published on his Facebook page.