My cricketing journey began in 1960, in a very different India and an even more different Hyderabad. There were no academies, no video analysis, no floodlit nets. What we had instead were heroes—real ones—roaming the streets of Secunderabad, close enough to touch, observe, and quietly dream about becoming.
Names like C. D. Thangaraj, Samluck, and M. L. Jaisimha were spoken with reverence. Even Milkha Singh, though not a cricketer, inspired us with his sheer athletic greatness. To watch them, we often had to walk long distances, but no distance ever felt too far when the reward was seeing excellence up close. These were sporting figures who belonged to the people, approachable and warm, never distant idols behind tinted car windows.
As schoolboys, our own heroes emerged closer to home. Gagan Mahal was our theatre—the venue for inter-school tournaments where raw talent was on display every season. I still remember the names vividly: X. Thomas, the captain with quiet authority; Sultan Saleem; John Tarachand; the famous twins Ali Hussain and Ali Hassan; Zaid Ali Khan; my personal favourite Fidalis; Arif Aziz; Masiuddin; Mahesh Mohan Lal, fondly called “Chainaman”; and Bhupati Amarnath. They were stars in our eyes, even if only a handful eventually made it to the state level.
What stands out from that era is not just the talent, but the culture. Sporting heroes were everywhere—and they were accessible. They spoke to us, advised us, and corrected us. Cricket education came not from structured coaching manuals, but from keen observation. We learned techniques from black-and-white photographs in newspapers and magazines like Sports & Pastime. We imitated grips, stances, and follow-throughs from frozen images and grainy match reports.
Hyderabad had just two prominent cricket coaches then—Mr. Eddie Aibara in Secunderabad and Mr. Bhoopati in Hyderabad. Mr. Bhoopati, in particular, was fascinating. He bowled with variations that today remind me of someone like Varun Chakravarthy. Back then, such mystery bowling was rare, yet Hyderabad produced quite a few who could turn the ball and deceive batsmen—S. R. Mehta, Durga Prasad, and Krishnamurthy among them. Today, we read about such skills in glossy columns. Then, we witnessed them in dusty grounds.
Selection debates are nothing new to me. What people call “controversy” today existed decades ago in quieter forms. I recall Khader Hussaini—our permanent junior state (Under-25) captain. Remarkably, he never played league cricket, yet remained a fixed presence in the junior state team. It raised eyebrows then, just as selections do now. Cricket, after all, has never been played in a vacuum; performance is vital, but pathways are often shaped by unseen hands.
Even in international cricket, individual success is rarely achieved alone. Players like Australia’s Glenn Maxwell, England’s former all-rounder Ronnie Irani, and our own Shivam Dube didn’t emerge in isolation. Systems, opportunities, backing, and timing all play their roles. Talent is essential—but it must be noticed, nurtured, and trusted.
Looking back, I realise we grew up in an era where cricket was learned through patience, perseverance, and proximity to greatness. We had fewer resources, but perhaps deeper connections. The game has changed, but the essence remains the same. And for those of us who lived that journey, every dusty ground still holds a story waiting to be told.
