by Arunabha Sengupta
The most striking feature of the works of Rohinton Mistry is perhaps the rays of hope and humour that filter through the grim reality of life even in the most mundane of lives. And while Such a Long Journey and A Fine Balance are definitely works of unmistakable poignance depicting the 1970s India in bold strokes, it is his first book, a collection of short stories titled Tales from Firozshah Baag, that contains perhaps the most acutely personal and sensitive subject matter of his books.
The collection consists of eleven delightful stories based in a majorly Parsee colony called—as the title indicates—Firozsha Baag. The same set of people, residents of the colony, appear and reappear in those stories, sometimes as protagonist and sometimes as side characters.
Since it is about day to day life in pre-globalisation Bombay, cricket does flit by once in a while. Silloo Boyce’s son Kersi, one of the main characters, had cricketing ambitions thwarted by contracting mumps on the eve of an important match. He still repairs his bat, but the instrument is now used for killing rats.
But cricket makes a more glorious entry with Nariman Hansotia, who appears in the story Squatter. Sporting a Clarke Gable moustache and driving a 1932 Mercedes-Benz, Nariman Hansotia regales the kids of the colony with often fantastical stories.
Hansotia says that he is not impressed by Polly Umrigar or Nari Contractor or the young Farokh Engineer—all Parsee cricketers. None of them were as great as Savukshaw.
He launches into the tale of an England tour of the Indian team led by Contractor. Well, Contractor never led India in England, but Hansotia’s stories are not meant to be true.
During the tour Nadkarni, the star Indian batsman (not the Bapu we know of), is down with influenza. Replying to 497 by MCC, India are 109 all out. They are 38 for 5 in the second innings, still 350 in the arrears, when Savukshaw walks out to bat.
He leaves one ball outside off (but with what style! what panache!) The next ball was more or less the same, and Savukshaw started getting bored. The third delivery is flicked towards the giant 6 foot 7 inch fielder who had let nothing past him all day. It reaches the boundary, through the fielder’s palms.
In fact, if we read the description of the stroke, it goes literally through his palms. It makes the fielder scream like a banshee, a scream that rings through the ground and makes the cook in the kitchen behind the pavilion spill boiling water on himself. The fielder bleeds like a fountain in an Italian piazza. The ball, after reaching the boundary, splits into two neat halves.
After that the fielders have no intention of getting in the way of Savukshaw’s strokes. Every ball bowled and struck has to be replaced. India save the match. In fact, they run out of time when victory is not too far away.
It is further disclosed that while destroying every ball, the bat managed to remain intact due to the application of a special oil, a formula Savukshaw had acquired from a sadhu who moonlighted up as cricket-talent-scout.
All this, of course, takes place before Savukshaw gives up cricket to become the fastest cyclist in the world, then by turns a pole vaulter, a hunter and an artist… performing superhuman feats in each profession.
Mistry’s depiction of Savukshaw is intentionally fantastic. However, similar tales are indeed told by misty eyed elderly men about cricketers of their time. In that sense, Savukshaw can easily walk right out of Tales from Firozshah Baag and walk into the mythically magnified versions of Wisden followed by such racounters.
Rohinton Mistry was born on 3 July 1952.
Illustration: Maha