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When
Jalal Split His Pants!
Tom Alter, Acting 1974
Jalal
Agha, in his prime, was a majestic specimen
– especially if you were his junior in
the Film Acting Course. When Jalal asked you
to do something, you did so without any further
questions ...
 So
when he asked, one night in the lovely fall
of ‘72, on one of his frequent ‘ragging’
visits, Raghu Krishna and myself to join him
for early-morning practice, Raghu and I were
up and waiting for Jalal at 6 a.m. At the pitch
– which Raghu and I had made with our
own hands.
Jalal
arrived, from the sanctity of the guest-rooms,
a few minutes later, clad in accommodating white,
with a big grin on his face, and a few choice
‘gaalis’ on his lips. He gave Raghu
and myself such big hugs that we both almost
became ‘left-handers’ on the spot,
since one side of our bodies had been rendered
useless by the force of Jalal’s ‘josh’.
But
the practice was serious and serene –
and lasted for about half an hour; Jalal’s
off-spin was flighted and fraught with danger,
and his batting was as lusty and blusterous
as the man himself. The three of us were beginning
to look forward to a good, hot cup of tea at
the canteen, when, suddenly, Jalal let out a
howl as he bent to pick up the ball –
a howl, not of pain, but of surprise and then
anger; he had split his pants, from stem to
stern, which, in Jalal’s case, was quite
a journey.
To
add injury to insult, Jalal had chosen, in his
unconventional wisdom, to wear nothing under
his cricketing whites – hence, ‘bat
and ball’ where in danger of being exposed
to the elements, not to mentions the prying
eyes of ‘juniors’
But,
as usual, Jalal had the solution – “Krishna,
you in the back – Alter, you in the front!
On the double!”
The
three of us, like a ‘six-legged’
animal, then marched up to the guest-rooms,
in perfect formation, with Jalal grinning at
the world, enjoying the spectacle, the ‘tamasha’
as only he could – and Raghu and I, as
walking ‘abdo-guards’, even managed
a smile or two.
Cricket at the FTII – ah! The memories
are so many that even 90 Australian overs of
the old-days would not suffice to tell them
all ...
Raghu and Naseer at Wai, and the pills that
kept them alive on the diciest pitch in cricketing
history; Ketan at a very short-square leg –
Ketan getting hit in the ‘mehta’
while batting, and flying over the stumps –
Ketan’s run-up being faster than his bowling
– Ketan coming in to run for me, and getting
run-out first ball – Ketan taking a stunning
catch at even shorter short-square leg; Sharma’s
aggression, and a heart as big as his smile
– Sharma hitting sixers, and taking catches
no one else could even dream of – Sharma
smoking on the field, and I , as captain, having
to ask him to stop, which took more courage
than facing the fastest bowler; Pradeep Nayyar,
he of the dour, Punjabi batting and sudden anger,
whom no opposing bowler could ever get out;
Suri, with his mincing off-spin, and his harmonica,
and his broken heart; Sunil (Shakti) Kapoor,
who would never arrive on time, but who always
did something exciting on the field; Mithun,
the most stylish cricketer in the history of
the FTII; Anoop, all Bengali grace – and
such a fine team-man: Gilani, umpire extraordinaire,
especially after a few rums at lunchtime; Vinod
Chopra, the elusive cricketer, who had such
odd things as film-making on his mind; Salim
Ghouse, who bowled with either hand, and maybe
should have tried ‘bass-ball’; Gandhi-ji,
from the sound-department, who bowled like Chandrashekhar;
Sanjeev, lanky and lean, another ‘team-man’
to the core; Nadeem, who would rather be playing
table-tennis, but who could still bowl a mean
off-cutter, and was usually in ‘focus’;
the list goes on and on ...
 And
then there was Nair-sahib, who, with his amazing
sense of humour and timing, always kept the
‘censor-cuts’ screenings on Sunday
morning at seven – and for me and Raghu
to rescue the team members from the clutches
of such passion in time for the match was always
as difficult as getting Nayyar ‘out’.
We played with great passion – and practiced
with more of the same.
And
it is the practices which I remember with the
greatest fondness – Raghu and I in the
early mornings, rolling the pitch: then at about
4:30 in the afternoon, the beloved ritual of
laying-down the mat, with the whole team watching
from under the shade of the trees near the gate,
as Raghu and I, once again, did all the dirty
work; and the humour, the challenge, the competition,
the camaraderie of practice ...
My own favourite memories are two – please
indulge me.
The first one is from when I first joined the
Institute – about two and a half months
late. Cricket practice was well underway, and
all the ‘pecking orders’ were established.
I, a raw newcomer, showed up for practice the
first time, only to be totally ignored. I stayed
on the sidelines, fielding the ball when it
came my way, but otherwise keeping quiet and
as anonymous as possible – while seething
inside, for I had just come from Mussoorie,
where, within its limited confines, I had become
a bit of a ‘cricketing legend’ as
a fast-bowler. The practice wound-up. Raghu
was the last batsman – as the others left
the field, still ignoring me, Raghu called out,
“Do you want to bowl?” The sweetest
words I have ever heard.
He
tossed me the ball. I took off my shirt, marked
out my 16-stride run-up, and turned to bowl
to Raghu ...
Twenty
minutes later I was still bowling to Raghu –
I could not get him out, but I had beaten him
a few times, and struck him on the pads; he
and I were now friends for life, the players
on the sidelines had stopped ignoring me, and
I was home.
The second memory involves Mithun – who,
in his style, attended practice only when his
spirit moved him. He was, and is, a natural
athlete – grace and power were his, and
when he connected with the ball, the ball disappeared.
As it did one late afternoon – over the
Institute main-gate – off my bowling.
It was an audacious, beautiful shot –
and Mithun, a competitor to the core, relished
the sight of me following the disappearing flight
of the ball.
 He
did not relish my next delivery – it was
undoubtedly the fastest ball I ever bowled.
Pitched up, it took Mithun’s middle-stump
out of the ground and deposited it half-way
up the net, about ten feet behind the batting-crease.
It was a moment for a lifetime, and was made
possible only by the majesty of Mithun’s
previous shot.
What
would I give to bowl that ball again, to see
Mithun’s expression again, to acknowledge
his praise again, to go for tea in the canteen
again, to feel that expanse of freedom again…
But, as Dylan Thomas so beautifully wrote, “time
held me green and dying, though I sang in my
chains like the sea -- ” Or, rather, ‘bowled
in my chains.”
And
I know that Jalal is waiting for us, up there,
pants mended, as majestic as ever – bat
in hand, smile in his eyes, gaali on his lips
– ready to call me and Raghu for another
early-morning practice.
Some
things will never change…
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Lovely
Comment by :
Niranjan Thade
Reminded me of those times when we had formed a FTII Football team and had our own colours and studs and used to walk down the road from the hostel to the ground in our studs. Javed Karachi who took the responsibility of coaching us, recently wrote to me. I am curious if any of those who donned the FTII Colours remember John Abraham who was visiting getting excited and just running along with all of us for fun. I remember someone had also made a drawing with chalk on the maen theatre notice board of footballers running after a ball with film strips in their one hand and a scissor in the other, and another one filmiong him with a handheld camera... Sports and FTII has a refreshing tang to it.
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