A file picture of Tiger Pataudi launching into one of his famous drives, in the 1960s. (Below) A picture taken last year

Towards the end of the 1960s, any talk in the family about cricket invariably revolved around the Nawab of Pataudi (Jr). It was the Pataudi effect at its best.

Of how he’d overcome the handicap of losing his right eye in a car crash in England, of becoming the India captain at 21 (a world record he held for over 40 years), of the way he hammered bowlers through cover, the panther-like manner he himself fielded in that area and the flamboyant way he wooed and won the beautiful Sharmila (always Rinku for him) Tagore.

Clearly, on the field or off it, Pataudi or Tiger was seen as a regal winner.

With that being the environment, one had to grow up admiring Pataudi. There just couldn’t be another hero, a real-life one. As there was no TV then, one kept track of him through the newspapers (with absolutely nothing in colour) or when the Bobby Talyarkhans and the Anand Setalvads commentated on AIR.

I recall the general anguish and my own dismay when Vijay Merchant’s vindictive casting vote saw Pataudi losing his place in the team which went to the West Indies in 1970-71. For most of us, Merchant became a villain for life.

India did exceptionally well under Ajit Wadekar, Pataudi’s successor, but we were interested in his comeback. He did so, as a player, in the 1972-73 home series against Tony Lewis’s side. As captain, though, Pataudi returned only in 1974-75.

Characteristically, Pataudi did so on his terms. The selectors offered him the captaincy (against Clive Lloyd’s West Indies) for the first two Tests, but he insisted on all five.

Just as well that the selectors agreed, for that series produced two great Tests — at the Eden and at the Chepauk. Both were won by India, down 0-2 at one stage.

The West Indies eventually won 3-2, thanks to powerful performances from a clutch of players who quickly became the best in the business, but India’s victories (the one at the Eden was on New Year’s Day, 1975) won’t be forgotten.

Gundappa Viswanath, who was once the target of a terrifying prank scripted by Pataudi, was absolutely brilliant in both Tests, but so was the captaincy.

That Pataudi persisted with the freakish Bhagwat Chandrasekar on the last day at the Eden, for example, proved a masterstroke. In the same Test, Pataudi had been struck on the chin by Andy Roberts, but he resumed batting after being stitched up (at Belle Vue, possibly) and, if I remember correctly, hit Vanburn Holder for four boundaries in a row.

The Eden’s roar still reverberates.

Captains need to lead from the front, have to show character. Pataudi did so that winter afternoon. But, then, one had come to expect that from him — arguably, India’s finest.

The end of that series, the last Test being the first at the Wankhede, saw the end of Pataudi’s career. It ended with a defeat (‘Supercat’ Lloyd meowed his way to an unbeaten 242) but what a run he had.

What can’t be taken away is that Pataudi was the captain when we won our first series overseas (in New Zealand), he was the first to appreciate that fielding was as important as batting or bowling, he turned the Erapalli Prasannas and the Bishan Singh Bedis into trump cards...

Pataudi averaged a shade under 35 in Test cricket, but there’s no knowing what he may have achieved had he not lost his right eye. Many believe he could have been right up there with the best.

My first meeting with Pataudi was in near-darkness, backstage at the Vidya Mandir, in early 1982. He’d been the star speaker at a panel discussion and was happy to pose for a photograph and autograph the brochure for the evening.

There were no Nawabi airs and Pataudi looked even better in person than in the photographs. For the next couple of days there was nothing else for me to talk about.

Less than a year later, Pataudi was back in Calcutta and, having joined The Telegraph, I was determined to interview him. He fell ill, as it turned out, and it seemed a one-on-one wouldn’t take place.

About a week later, a call came from Naresh Kumar’s residence, saying Pataudi would “spare 15 minutes.” Eventually, he spoke for more than an hour, lying on the bed (being much too weak to sit for long).

As for me, I sat cross-legged on the carpet, taking notes. Every 10 minutes or so, Sharmila came into the room to check if all was okay with “Tiger.”

By the way, it was during the first meeting that I got to know Pataudi was actually petrified of flying. Almost without exception, his trips from and to New Delhi were on the Rajdhani.

The interview, headlined ‘Cricket’s Never Been A Gentleman’s Game’, caused more than ripples and set off a debate. That a pucca gentleman-cricketer had made that observation wasn’t lost on anybody.

That over an hour session was also the start of a relationship, with Pataudi always affectionate and accommodating. He never ducked questions, but he’d occasionally ask, rather mischievously, ‘you won’t write that, will you?’

It’s remarkable that Pataudi didn’t complain about anything and, despite being involved in property-related litigation, was never heard bad-mouthing those who’d been making things difficult for him.

About the only time that I recall Pataudi despairing was after the polling in the 1991 general elections for the Bhopal seat. He’d been let down by men in his own party, the Congress, apparently because of his closeness to Rajiv Gandhi.

A Pataudi win would have curbed the influence of some pros and, so, there was plenty of talk of sabotage. He lost, like in the 1971 general elections, when he stood from Gurgaon on a ticket from a regional party.

That first attempt had, of course, been nothing more than a protest against Indira Gandhi’s approach towards the Princes.

It’s a shame that the Board of Control for Cricket in India never utilised Pataudi’s services in the manner it should have. Obviously, over the years, the powers-that-be felt ‘threatened’.

The IPL did invite Pataudi to come on board, with Sunil Gavaskar and Ravi Shastri, but when relations with Gavaskar soured, Pataudi too was targeted (July 20-10). Upset, Pataudi sought legal recourse.

Pataudi was at The Oval a month ago for the presentation of the Pataudi Trophy when, in fact, he shouldn’t have travelled as Naresh, among the closest of his friends, pointed out.

Just a few hours have gone by since the passing away of my hero, so it’s tough finding a suitable exit line. Pataudi, perhaps, would have said with a smile: ‘But must you look for one...’

Pataudi may not have been a record-breaker, didn’t get the number of runs and hundreds so many others registered, but he still stood so tall.

Whatever he did, he was classy.