Dhyan Chand, the Golfer
The story must be credited to its purported author. This is not to pay my respect to complicated literary theory debates on origin and authenticity. This is only to acknowledge that I do not exactly write the story, but tell it. Here goes the formal disclaimer then. If you enjoy what is to follow, remember to thank the man I will call the author. If you do not, curse me, the failed chronicler.
Let me clear my throat and begin without more ado. It was narrated to me by Div Singh, the owner of the Broadway Hotel in Kolkata. Singh has been a close friend of the author, Keshav Dutt, the legendary hockey player who is also one of the lead protagonists of the story. ‘You must tell Dutt the story when you meet him,’ Singh told me with a chuckle, ‘and wait for his reaction’. ‘You will have a delightful time observing his response,’ Singh’s eyes shone. I sit erect in anticipation, my propah manners — not to be more flippant before a septuagenarian, that is — flung out of the window. It is hard to remain stony faced before a seventy plus man who speaks as if he is twenty nine and whose eyes radiate intelligent warmth.
‘So you must meet Kehsav Dutt,’ said Singh, ‘but he is not in town at the moment’. I had to wait for Dutt to return from a visit elsewhere. Meanwhile, Singh began to relate a charming story. It must have been sometime in the thirties; he did not remember precise dates and could not care less. Keshav Dutt and Dhyan Chand were contemporaries. Both played sublime hockey; if one wove magic with the stick, the other made life difficult for the opponents with his deft movements. Both respected each other immensely, but lapped up every available opportunity for a healthy contest, especially when there was an audience around.
Dhyan Chand was already a pan Indian celebrity. Admirers would fill the ground to see him perform some jugglery with the hockey stick. This was true of almost every city in India. Dhyan Chand’s reputation would precede him and spectators would throng the field, gawking at his wizardry with the stick and lustily cheering him onto some more. Dutt was no mean player himself but did not quite match Dhyan Chand’s wild popularity. He was lithe and crafty in his game, and a prolific scorer. His killer looks and majestic manners would have women swooning if they were allowed in a large enough number to watch him play.
With one hand he lifted the ball high up in the air; it shot up, and Dhyan Chand’s stick intercepted it a few inches above the ground on its way down. There was neither any noise nor any movement; it was as if the ball fell literally glued to his stick.
Dhyan Chand was coming to Dutt’s Calcutta. Dutt was amused, anticipating how the crowds would go mad at Dhyan Chand’s antics. If he did not seem to enjoy this irrational public adoration for Dhyan Chand at every moment, he understood it. The great man eventually landed in town. There were more engagements than could be counted. Practically everyone wanted a piece of him.
It is a pity that in those days there were no private security guards. It is a matter of regret that The Times of India had not yet thought of launching a city supplement. It is even more regrettable that other publications had not yet started following The Times of India in bringing out their own city supplements which differed from each so minutely that the lay reader could not spot the differences. In other words, the photos of society ladies throwing themselves at Dhyan Chand’s feet remain inaccessible to the public. We have no record of what he ate, which brands of toilet paper he did not use, which blacksmith from which obscure north Indian village made the nails which went into his black army boots or which chef had the distinction of cooking his rice. We have no records of the Darzi who stitched his undergarments, none whatsoever of the hair oil manufacturer who produced the magic potion which kept Dhyan Chand’s hair seductively black until after the fifties. Since we have so little material knowledge of how our great icon lived, breathed and radiated the halo of greatness, we return to imagining it through the memory of those who saw him from close quarters.
If the wizard himself was in town, could the Bengalis live without organizing a magic show? An exhibition game was promptly arranged at the Mohun Bagan ground. The entirely city took leave from routine work and showed up in the ground well ahead of the appointed time. There is no record of how much money the organizers had made by selling tickets, or how many gold mementoes were gifted to Dhyan Chand in the felicitation ceremony that generally precede such matches. It is reasonable to conjecture that he was showered with some expensive gifts too, although no information is available on which Ponzi operator paid for them.
The entire ground held its breath as the great master took the ground, along with Dutt the local hero. He was a great showman, Dhyan Chand, and adored popular attention, like most of us; he was human, after all. It is no wonder therefore that he decided to entertain the crowd with some special skills before the match began. He went right down to the goalmouth at one end of the corner and scooped the ball from there. The ball flew, in a neat parabola, across the entire ground and into the net on the other side. The crowd must have raised a deafening roar of celebration, so loud that some of you may actually hear an echo eighty years later.
He was not done yet, Dhyan Chand. With one hand he lifted the ball high up in the air; it shot up, and Dhyan Chand’s stick intercepted it a few inches above the ground on its way down. There was neither any noise nor any movement; it was as if the ball fell literally glued to his stick. Within a moment he swung his stick with massive force, swoosh and the ball went flying, far out of the ground, right into the gallery. The spectators could not go wilder in appreciation, nor their voice any louder. Dhyan Chand now turned towards Dutt, who had been gingerly watching the proceedings until now. Can you, my dear Dutt, winked Dhyan Chand, try any of these looseners? It is warm up time, aint’ it, dear boy?
Dutt knew his limits. He had the presence of mind, that is, not to try those superhuman exercises. Yet this was his home turf. He could not entirely swallow the gentle insult either. It took Dutt a moment or two to gather his wits, you see, Singh’s eyes twinkled again. My nerves are tout in anticipation; I sense a climax. ‘Dutt lifted his head and beamed at Dhyan Chand’, Singh winked mischievously. ‘You see, dear Major, I play Hockey, not Golf’.
Anirban Bandyopadhyay studied history in Kolkata and Delhi and works for St. Xavier’s College, Kolkata. He writes academic essays when forced and fictional non fiction when interested.