Propagated by quizzers, trivia junkies and cricket experts, there is one myth about Salim Aziz Durani that perhaps needs to first be broken. Durani, as it turns out, was not born in Kabul. I have heard this from the horse’s mouth, from Durani himself. Durani, one of India’s most unorthodox Indian cricketers, someone who personified swag and chutzpah both on and off the field, had, in 2015, agreed to be part of a television series on the history of Indian cricket. As the research head of an unprecedented Indian cricket history project, I had the rare fortune of meeting Indian cricket’s Prince Charming during a shoot in Mumbai.
Durani was 80 years old when I met him. Jamnagar is known to have produced India’s first test cricketer, Ranji Sinhji, but it was also in this city that Durani was spending his old age, almost forgotten by a country that once adored him. I was excited when our production house decided to fly him down to Mumbai. We felt the wisdom of Durani — a cricketer whose talent and gifts were often underrated — would be unmatched. Not only were we sure that his contribution was essential, we were also convinced that he’d stoke our passion for cricket, a game whose history we were trying to chronicle in India, in one corner of its global field.
‘Marlboro man of Indian cricket’
In the upward-swinging fortune wheel of Indian cricket, Durani, an all-rounder, was an important and indispensable cog. He helped the side flex its muscles at home during the swinging ’60s, later adding strength to its killer punch of the ’70s. Put simply, he was a legend. Seeing his slouched frame enter the office, I was a touch mesmerised. Durani was wearing an old blazer, and only too quickly, I realised why he was called the ‘Marlboro man of Indian cricket’. He asked for the smoking zone. The cigarette between his fingers only added to his swagger. An unforgettable smasher of the red leather ball, Durani soon began to open up.
Infectious exuberance
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Kolkata, as usual, helped break the ice. “I love Kolkata, and I have many fond memories of some Bengali stalwarts,” said Durani. “I used to often meet Hemanta Da (Hemanta Mukherjee, or Hemant Kumar as he was known in Bollywood) and Shakti Da (Shakti Samanta) at Khar Gymkhana.” Though I had just wanted to warm him up before the cricket shoot, Durani’s exuberance proved infectious. Further reminiscing about his friendship with Hemanta Mukherjee, he broke into song, humming to perfection “Bekarar karke humein…”
Short-lived tryst with Bollywood
“You’ll be surprised to hear this, but Hemanta Da had once asked me to sing for a Bollywood movie. He’d said he would compose a song just for me, but that didn’t materialise because I was still playing first-class cricket and was mostly away from Mumbai,” Durani told me. Durani had also once tried swashbuckling his way into Bollywood. In 1973, he played the lead opposite Parveen Babi in Charitra. That filmy tryst was sadly short-lived and largely unsuccessful.
Durani, it seemed, was only bowling googlies on the day we met. I felt stumped when he told me that he had met Satyajit Ray many times. “Manik Da always admired my cricketing style. Actually, a former senior police official in Kolkata, Ain Rashid Khan, is my cousin. He knew Manik Da very well. You’ll even find his name mentioned in the credits of many Ray films. So, it was he who introduced us. We would discuss films and cricket whenever we’d meet.”
One very old doubt
Seeing Durani smoke the fag end of his cigarette, I decided to put to him the one question I was dying to ask: Was he really born in Kabul? Durani, a cricketer used to hitting sixes on demand, belted my query with characteristic nonchalance. “No, that’s wrong. I was not born in Kabul. In fact, I have never visited Kabul, for that matter. My grandfather was originally from Kabul, but my father had settled in Karachi before the Partition.” As Durani corrected me, he had, with a straight bat, put to rest my one very old doubt.
Suvam Pal is a Taiwan-based author and media professional
