A GENTLE MAESTRO

 MY FRIEND GOURANG 

“Gourang Kodical is no more.’’ The news I received as an SMS was as shocking as it was personally shattering. For the senior tabla artist and impresario of Bengaluru was a friend of more than 50 years’ standing – a college classmate and honorary brother who moulded my taste in Hindustani classical music and introduced my wife and me to some of the finest music heard in Hyderabad-Secunderabad in the 1970s. 

I first met Gourang – a tubby little fellow then, with chubby cheeks and a twinkle in his eye – back in 1962, when we were both doing our Pre University Course at the Ramakrishna Mission’s Vivekananda College at Mylapore. It was instant friendship, our common interests drawing us to each other in a manner only possible in youth. He had a huge collection of jokes which he could rattle off with a straight face, building up to a superb climax every time. Both of us were interested in good music, and I soon found out that he was a very promising young tabla artist. He belonged to the Saraswat community, and at 18, quite the star of the clan in Chennai, when he was yet to make it big on the concert scene. At the first concert I heard of him on stage, he was introduced as the young man with the magic fingers. A few minutes into the concert, I realised it was a rather realistic compliment, for so obviously talented was he. Facing Vivekananda College, run by the Ramakrishna Mission at Mylapore was a dhobi settlement advertised by the slow moving traffic of donkeys carrying laundry. The college itself was located in a fairly large tree-shaded complex of buildings constructed in a non-descript style, but cool and reasonably friendly with its spacious classrooms and high ceilings serving to keep the heat out. Except for the Monday morning 26 • Travelling Lights religion classes, there was no attempt at indoctrinating the students into the teachings of the mission. The teachers were generally of a high standard, but other than the general emphasis on academics, there was no overt pressure on the students to perform. My old schoolmate Bala, Gourang and I hit it off straightaway, all three in the Natural Science section, as we found many things of common interest to share with one another. Bala was the most studious of the trio, though he wore his industriousness lightly, never showing off his academic superiority over the other two. I was the middle-order batsman and Gourang the tailender, so to speak, in order of effort put in, which all showed in the results. Bala topped the class, and I was not very far behind, while Gourang did just enough to pass tests and exams.

Though all three were close to one another, Gourang and I forged a special bond thanks to our common interest in music. I had always been fascinated by Hindustani music ever since I heard Nikhil Banerjee and Ravi Shankar as a boy, and I was proud to call myself a friend of Gourang. I regularly went to the concerts in which Gourang performed. I was thrilled when Gourang was introduced before a concert at the SGS Sabha as The Young Man with the Magic Fingers. Through Gourang I got to listen to some LP records of Hindustani classical music and such devotional music as Lata Mangeshkar’s Meera bhajans, and the non-film bhajans and ghazals of Mohammad Rafi, another great Hindi film singer. The Meera bhajans by Lata Mangeshkar had been set to music by her brother Hridaynath Mangeshkar, and many of Rafi’s bhajans and ghazals by iconic music directors like Khayyam. These we listened to at the T’Nagar home of Gourang’s cousin Pushpa.

Pushpa, her mother and her siblings were lovely hosts in whose company we spent many an afternoon talking nonsense and listening to great music on the radiogram in their spacious, gracious home. In what was proving to be a completely unstructured if eclectic initiation into Hindustani music, I started listening to several leading Hindustani classical musicians as well. From Vivekananda College we both went on to do our bachelor’s degree at the iconic Presidency College on the Marina, where we spent long hours together at Buharis on the beach, when we were not discussing matters of international importance in his room at the Victoria Hostel.

The jukebox at Buharis was a great source of entertainment. We could listen to our favourite Hindi film songs for 25 paise apiece, often accompanied by a friendly waiter who patiently supplied us endless cups of tea (sometimes on credit) while accompanying the immortal Mohammed Rafi’s Yeh mera prem patra padhkar in his own inimitable, grating voice. From Gourang, I learnt some Hindustani music basics, and also tried to share some of my amateur knowledge of Carnatic music with him. Both of us completed our degree that year. Gourang exerted himself just enough to pass the examination, actually walking out of the hall as soon as he knew he had answered the bare minimum of questions to ensure that, such was his indifference to academic achievements. He was also impatient to go to his hostel room and start practising the tabla for an impending concert. Gourang’s father Ramanand Kodical was a genial, if awe-inspiring figure, and I met him briefly at Madras, before his premature death while Gourang was still at college. The sound of his tabla was soothing and rhythmically perfect, though only his hands seemed to be traversing the drums, with no effort visible from the shoulders downwards. I once asked him if he ever suffered from bodyache after a long concert and he assured me otherwise. He never felt any aches and pains from his musical exertions. Sadly and ironically, acute pain in the feet caused by his diabetes made it impossible for him to sit on the concert stage in the later stages of his career.

The Kodical family owned a flat at Pandurangashram, very close to the Chitrapur Math at Malleswaram, Bangalore, where he moved some time in 1972, after his daughter Kavita was born. Like the other members of his family, Gourang was a devoted servant of the math, the headquarters of his clan, and he lived physically and spiritually close to it all his life. For decades afterwards, I had a home in Gourang’s residence at Bangalore, and my family basked in the affection we received from Gourang’s mother Seeta, though my visits there grew rarer with the years. Gourang had his initiation in tabla at the age of five from his music loving parents. I learn from a short biography of his that he counted several distinguished teachers like Shashi Bellare and Dattappa Garud before settling down with Shaik Dawood in Hyderabad. His father Ramanand Kodical was a senior Customs official, and Gourang spent 28 most of his school years in Jamnagar, Gujarat. Great musicians like Kesarbai Kerkar, Pannalal Ghosh, Nikhil Ghosh, Latafat Hussain and Abdul Halim Jaffar Khan often visited the Kodicals when performing at Jamnagar. Brought up in such a rich musical atmosphere, Gourang made his concert debut at the age of eight. Some of the stalwarts Gourang Kodical accompanied were Mallikarjun Mansur, Basavaraj Rajguru, Bhimshankar Rao, Malini Rajurkar, Kumar Gandharva, Bhimsen Joshi, K.G. Ginde, Dinkar Kaikini (Gourang’s sambandhi), Yashwantbua Joshi, Rajan and Sajan Misra, Kishori Amonkar, Prabha Atre, Lalith J. Rao, Parveen Sultana, Ram Narayan, and Hariprasad Chourasia. He was renowned for the felicity with which he accompanied vocalists across gharanas. I always knew Gourang could write brilliantly when he chose to, and tried in vain to persuade him to contribute regularly to Sruti. I also knew the splendid work he had done as a founder member of Sursagar, which has been the foremost promoter of Hindustani music at Bengaluru over the last three decades. Luckily for Sruti, he agreed to organize an interaction among the members of the team responsible for Sursagar’s growth and development, and we were able to present their reminiscences in Sruti 378 in March 2016.

Many young musicians enjoyed Gourang’s encouragement, wit and wisdom. Gourang was a gentle, kindhearted, soft spoken man – albeit the possessor of a wicked sense of humour. He smiled and laughed his way through life, even in his last days. His daily ‘Pearls of Wisdom’ on Facebook inspired, sometimes amused his followers. He was a true maestro of Hindustani music in a quite understated way. And before I forget, he was a whistler par excellence! 

PRAMOD MEHTA

 Pramod Mehta The incorrigible friend I last met in 1969 or thereabouts. Tall (not a six-footer like me, though), handsome, with his deceptively innocent good looks,  fluent talker who could charm his many friends and acquaintances.  Women  found him irresistible. His peccadilloes with some of them tended to land me, his constant companion during those heady days, in trouble while he himself walked away smiling mischievously, with me holding the baby as it were, pardon the mixed metaphor. 

This promises to be a longish post, but before I proceed further with the story, will Mr Pramod S Mehta, please come forward and let me know where  he is today, is he still in Canada where he moved in the1960s? This is a desperate call to him, as I have failed in my attempts so far to trace him. 

I first met Pramod at Vivekananda College, Mylapore, where we both did our Pre-University Course in the1963-’64 academic year. Weremained in touch over the next few years, but the period from 1966 to 1970—before he left India for Canada—was when we spent a great deal of time together, often at the Adyar Library inside the vast grounds of the Theosophical Society. This is where I discovered a priceless collection of crime fiction donated by J Krishnamurti amidst all the great works of literature and the rare manuscripts of ancient eastern wisdom most of the international visitors there came to pore over in the rarest silences I had come across. Pramod was a prolific reader, too, but he also found the time to befriend—and charm—some of the many women who descended on Adyar as delegates to the annual Convention of the TS. One of them, an older woman, was so impressed with Pramod’s wit, intelligence and intellect that she took him along with her on an overseas trip.

Let me fast forward to end 1968. I had discontinued my MA at Presidency College midway through my first year to be with my parents who were both ill in Calcutta. By the time they were better, it was too late me for me to go back to college. With my father’s help, I even joined Rajasthan Club to play in the local cricket league, doing well enough to be regarded as a Bengal prospect in the Ranji Trophy in the foreseeable future. But just when it seemed Calcutta would be my permanent home, my college teammates and our Physical Director prevailed on the principal to waive my attendance requirements and allow me to rejoin college in the second year, carrying the three first year papers I had missed. The fact that I had captained the college team for two seasons and hadn’t done too badly academically helped.

Back in Madras and tasked with finding a tenant for our house—with parents and sisters away in Calcutta—I had the unmitigated pleasure of Pramod’s company as he moved into our house with me. With a couple of months to go before college reopened, I was an unwitting accomplice, and often unsuspecting victim of the constant flow of pranks my friend conjured up. To give you the most spectacular sample, we both saw a morning show at Blue Diamond--part of arguably India’s first multiplex—the continuous performance theatre you could enter and leave at any time you liked, watching the same movie repeatedly for the price of one show.

We left Blue Diamond around 1 pm when Pramod said, “Do you want to see The Guns of San Sebastian starring Anthony Quinn at Anand (another Mount Road cinema)?” I said I had only two rupees in my pocket, barely enough for the bus fare home. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it,” he assured me. He then marched us to a nearby PCO, from where he called his friend Shanti, a fellow Gujarati. “Shanti, you are treating my friend Ram and me to this matinee show at Anand. And you are bringing another girl with you.”

To say I was stunned by the turn of events would be an understatement. Shanti and her friend Nimmi, a pretty young girl just out of school, actually took us to the movie. Normally shy, I was even more tongue-tied than usual. To make things even more challenging, Pramod, now encouraged by his success, introduced me to the ladies as an impoverished poet from Calcutta now in Chennai in search of a job so that I would not die of starvation. I looked the part all right, with my days-old stubble, unkempt hair and crumpled kurta-pyjamas. Caught off-guard, I looked straight ahead at the screen avoiding any sideways glances at my neighbour. Nimmi then dropped a bombshell during the interval, asking me to recite one of my poems. Desperate to get out of the situation, I managed to recall some lines from The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost, mainly because the late Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru had been fond of quoting from it the line: “I have promises to keep…And miles to go before I sleep.” Nimmi gave no sign of recognising the poem, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

College reopened a month later—our house had been let out to Australian born Jim Foley, a jockey and trainer who spent a few years in Madras—and I entered its portals with great excitement and anticipation. And guess whom I run into first thing? Nimmi! Shocked beyond words, she asked: “What are you doing here?” I blurted out that with my job-search yielding no results, my parents had forced me to go back to studies. I knew of course that she would before long find out I was in II MA, not in the first year, but I had survived the present crisis.

The worst was yet to come. Not only was Nimmi a BA English Literature joinee, she was a classmate and close friend of Gowri, now my wife of 56 years. Sure enough, she warned Gowri against me as soon as she found out that the two of us were seeing each other. What touching faith Gowri must have had in me not to heed her best friend’s warning!

Here is a shoutout to both Pramod and Nimmi, wherever you are.

            

 

  

CRICKET’S GREATEST ALL ROUNDER

SIR GARFIELD SOBERS  (28 JULY 1936 – 17 JULY 2026)

 “Seymour Nurse, he don’t read Chaandrasaykaar, Baasil Butcher has no clue to his bowling. About the others, the less said the better. What makes you think you can master Chaandrasaykaar in ten minutes of coaching, Wesley, old maan?”

 These words spoken in his Barbadian singsong by the greatest cricket all-rounder of all time— to fast bowler Wesley Hall—held spellbound his audience of about ten former cricketers accorded the privilege of dinner with Sir Garfield Sobers one evening at the Madras Cricket Club some 15 years ago by the club’s president then, the late SP Sathappan. 

 Sobers went on to regale us with this story of his alleged conversation with Hall during a Test match on the 1966-67 West Indies tour of India. According to him, the West Indies innings was in a bad way with wrist spinner BS Chandrasekhar posing a few problems to the touring batsmen, and Hall had approached him with the following offer of help:

“Captain, please tell me how I can tell when Chaandra is bowling a leg break and when a googly. I really want to help you to take us to a good total.”  

 Hall wouldn’t take no for an answer despite Sobers’s discouraging words. Finally, yielding to Hall’s stubbornness, Sobers told him he would help with hand signals from the non-striker’s end whenever the batsman was facing Chandrasekhar. He would stand a step behind the crease, watch Chandra’s fingers and put his right hand out if it was a googly, and keep it straight otherwise.

 The ploy proved successful enough for Hall not only to support Sobers in the recovery but to actually remain unbeaten on 30 or so runs at teatime.

 Hall could not contain himself during the teabreak when Seymour Nurse expressed his surprise and delight at Hall’s masterly display with the bat. “Wes, how do you play Chaandra so well when I can’t handle him at all?” the star batsman asked him.

 Hall’s response was classic. Simpering modestly, he said, “You know I read him from the hand unlike our captain who plays him off the pitch.”

Unfortunately, Sobers had overheard Hall’s boastful narration. Came Hall’s first post-tea encounter against Chandra who fired in a googly, and the skipper’s right hand remained firmly lodged by his thigh. Unsurprisingly, Hall’s middle stump went flying.

The stories Sobers spun that evening were mostly wild tales as this one was, with my research afterwards showing no proof of Hall scoring 30 in any Test in India. None of us minded, because every moment we spent with the legend was something to cherish forever.

No batsman entered a cricket ground with greater nonchalance or elegance. If Vivian Richards of the swaggering, gum-chewing arrogance overawed rivals, inducing visions of the imminent decimation of their attacks, I imagined even as a young spectator that Garfield St Aubrun Sobers had a slightly different kind of impact on his opponents - more like inducing a sense of resignation, even reluctant admiration, for so often did he walk into a challenging situation and turn the game on its head almost effortlessly.

Not only did his batting leave fielders gasping for breath in admiration, it sometimes elicited spontaneous applause even from the bowler whose deliveries he dismissed from his presence. And he was himself the first to applaud a worthy opponent.

Sobers made a quiet debut on March 30, 1954 in the six-day fifth Test at Sabina Park, Kingston, Jamaica, against the touring MCC, when he made 14 not out and 26 batting at No. 9, and took 4 for 75 in the first innings of a match England won by nine wickets.

Omitted for the first Test versus the touring Australians in the next season, he did nothing dramatic in the next four Tests, until the final Test, in which he scored an unbeaten 35 not out and 64 as a middle-order batsman. His 43-run cameo as stand-in opening batsman in the fourth Test, in his home country, Barbados, had convinced at least two Australian allrounders of his enormous potential - one of them Keith Miller, whom Sobers hit for three boundaries in his first over. Richie Benaud, who like many of his contemporaries considered Sobers the greatest allrounder in cricket, waxed lyrical about the innings. He swore that the 18-year-old left-hander's fierce square cuts and slashes outside the off stump off Ray Lindwall and Miller had him scurrying to the pavilion to fetch the cricketer's "receptacle for cuff links" - a rare instance of a fielder in the slips needing abdominal protection.

The first time I saw Sobers in action, in the fourth Test of the 1958-59 season at the Nehru Stadium, Madras, a huge reputation preceded him, after his world-record 365 not out (followed by a century in each innings in the very next Test) against Pakistan the preceding season, and tons of runs (25 & 142 not out, 4 and 198, and 106 not out) in the first three Tests of the India-West Indies series.

I had already devoured every word written about him and followed his versatile exploits as a batsman who played at almost every position from 1 to 9, medium-fast to fast bowler, orthodox left-arm spinner, chinaman specialist, and brilliant fielder and catcher. Sobers disappointed an eager Madras crowd with the bat, after promising much with his confident entry, shirt-collar up, after the openers Conrad Hunte and Holt were dismissed and he joined Rohan Kanhai with the scoreboard reading 152 for 2.

Sobers was deceived when on 29 by Vinoo Mankad, last-minute appointee to the captaincy and crafty veteran left-arm spinner, who was playing in his last Test as it turned out. Sobers failed again in the second innings, this time falling to legspinner Chandu Borde after making a mere 9. As a consolation, he gave us glimpses of his spin bowling talent with 4 for 26 and 2 for 39; West Indies coasted to a massive victory. His slip catching too was spectacular. What I vividly remember from that game was that despite the lack of runs, the Sobers persona wove a magnetic spell over me (and my friends) nonetheless.

On his next visit to Madras, when Test cricket returned to Chepauk, Sobers, this time captain of West Indies, more than whetted his fans' appetite, with two outstanding innings of 95 and 74 not out. As he had done after misreading a googly from Benaud in the famous tied Test in Brisbane in December 1960, he changed his shot at the last nanosecond to a similar delivery from BS Chandrasekhar to straight-drive him for six. On the earlier occasion, the ball had sped to the boundary for four, almost decapitating the bowler in its path. Sobers' second innings defiance - in the company of Wes Hall and Charlie Griffith - of India's brand-new spin trio of Bedi-Prasanna-Chandrasekhar to draw the Test is now part of the lore surrounding him.

Australian great Sir Donald Bradman was a huge admirer of Sobers. He called his 254 for Rest of the World versus Australia in Melbourne in 1971 the best innings ever seen in Australia. Bradman said, "With his long grip of the bat, his high backlift and free swing, Gary Sobers consistently hits the ball harder than anyone I can remember. This helps to make him such an exciting player to watch because the emphasis is on power and aggression rather than technique - the latter being the servant, not the master."

Talking to us, Sobers graciously played down his achievements including his Chepauk exploits. Yet for all his modesty, Sobers confessed he never feared a bowler in his entire career, not even Chandrasekhar, disappointing the Chandra fans in his audience.

That memorable dinner was made more memorable by a hilarious incident towards the tailend of the long evening, when a somewhat inebriated fan among us fell at Sobers’s feet gripping them firmly to his utter shock.  And this friend rang me up a couple of days later after reading my account of the dinner in a local daily and angrily complained that I had failed to mention his sashtanga namaskaram of Sobers. A teetotaller now, I wonder what he will have to say today should he read this piece.

Captaincy was the one aspect of Sobers's cricket that came in for adverse comment, because he tended to go for broke even at the risk of losing matches. To me, it was all part of the brand of cricket he played and believed in. He was an adventurous and positive captain who believed in declarations that gave his side - and therefore the opponents as well - a sporting chance to win. When one such declaration led to a famous England victory in Port of Spain in 1967-68, Colin Cowdrey and his men making 215 in 165 minutes, the critics trounced Sobers for his captaincy. Characteristically, he has never expressed regret for his decision.

EW Swanton once said of Neville Cardus that the great man was talking through his eminent hat when he claimed Wilfred Rhodes was a greater all-rounder than Garfield Sobers. My response to similar comparisons between Sobers and the likes of Jacques Kallis, Kapil Dev or Imran Khan will be identical, with no disrespect intended to those other great all-rounders.

To end on a sombre note, I remember once choking with overwhelming emotion while doing a semi-public reading from Sir Garfield’s autobiography. In it he says he batted for two people every time he played—for himself and for his prodigious all-rounder mate Collie Smith who died in a car accident with Sobers at the wheel.

 Sobers was more than a great cricketer. He was a wonderful human being.