by Mayukh Ghosh
"Above my desk, two views of Calcutta, dated 1798; four years after the Daniells, uncle and nephew, had left India. Entitled 'Garden Reach' and 'Hooghly' they show a similar sweep of river, that elbow of the Hooghly before it glides between the Botanical Gardens, with its Great Banyan Tree, and Kidderpore Docks. Soon it will straighten out past Fort William and the Racecourse, Eden Gardens and Strand Road. On the north bank the Grand Trunk Road, parallel to the river, leads out, behind Howrah Station, to Belur Math, many-domed headquarters of the Ramkrishna Mission founded in 1897 by Vivekananda and so designed to resemble from different angles a church, a mosque and a temple. Not far off, at Chitpur, is the house where Tagore was born and where, in 1941, five years after the last of my childhood ties with India had been dissolved, had died."
First paragraph of Blindfold Games, the first of two volumes of Alan Ross' memoirs.
It begins in Bengal and ends in Germany in 1946.
His experiences with the Royal Navy wasn't among the most pleasant phases of his life.
He wrote a book on that. It was quite strong stuff.
Alan Ross was a decent fast bowler who hated to be a fielder. He thought he lost elegance while doing that.
Not so when he wrote.
He wrote beautifully.
He edited that London Magazine for three decades and made it work in the slightly difficult 1960s.
He was the deputy editor of The Cricketer magazine when Jim Swanton was abroad.
And wrote the finest of all tour books.
John Woodcock reckoned Australia 55 to be the best tour book ever written.
And when Gideon Haigh was asked by a newspaper which book he would most like for Christmas, he replied: "I would like my copy of Australia 55 back!"
He was a fine editor and an even better reviewer. David Frith considers him to be the best reviewer he's seen in his lifetime.
He remembers Ross: "Alan Ross was very polite in his communications, and among the many cameo memories I have is a furtive look from him at a gathering: I happened to swing round, and he was gazing at me, then suddenly swung his head the other way. Bit creepy."
Ross suffered from bouts of depression. He always recovered by writing poetry.
The last of the bouts was severe. In 2000.
He died the very next year.
Hardly remembered these days.
Surely not by the limelight-hogging editors and the self-proclaimed reviewers.
Alan Ross was born on May 6, 1922.
P.S. Any writing on Ross should end with poetry. Here's one such:
Watching Benaud Bowl
Leg-spinners pose problems much like love,
Requiring commitment, the taking of a chance.
Halfway deludes; the bold advance.
Right back, there's time to watch
Developments, though perhaps too late.
It's not spectacular, but can conciliate.
Instinctively romantics move towards,
Preventing complexities by their embrace,
Batsman and lover embarked as overloads....