Tennis, Pathakji and ‘Tere sadke balam’

That I am an inveterate fan of Lata Mangeshkar is nothing exceptional. She was ‘the’ female playback voice of the Golden Era. I am fascinated even more by Naushad. Had I written on the best songs composed by Naushad for Lata Mangeshkar, ‘Tere sadke balam’ would have come in for some special mention.  A fellow blogger has written he could listen to this song a hundred times continuously without getting tired of it.  I have done that, and more, because it was more than a song for me; it was a binding element, an anthem with which are associated my memories of some most fascinating people at the Patna Secretariat tennis courts, where I was a regular for about eight years, until I shifted to Delhi.

Anjani provided nourishment to the group from his canteen on the complex, which was apparently unauthorised.  He also happened to be an upper division clerk in Bihar government, which, acting on an anonymous complaint about his canteen, transferred him to a remote block, Udwantnagar, about 60km from Patna, which meant that he could now go to the office only once a month - to collect his pay cheque.  We did not probe any further about his job or his business, because the masala lemon tea he gave us was out of this world, and on pay-days he would bring from Udwantnagar a very delicious local delicacy, belgrami, a mithai made of chhena.  Bihar, and I am sure many other states, abound in such small places which have become synonymous for centuries with some local speciality – Gaya ka tilkut, Silaao ka khaja, Maner ke laddoo, Barh ki  laayee, Ghodmara ka peda and so on.  If we craved for belgrami in between, Anjani would not mind paying a visit to his office even on days other than pay-days.  

Jayant Dasgupta (IAS 1981 Retd.), of Bengali origin, was a naturalised Patnahiya for about three generations.  A well read man, he spoke elegant English, but could put Lalu Prasad to shame if he decided to display his Bihari dialect.  He would enter the courts shouting greetings to everyone; he shouted when he played a good shot – Dekhiye tennis aise khelate hain; Seekhiye kuchh aap log bhi. He also shouted at (or down) his opponent’s good shot – Kya kar rahe hain, theek se kheliye, yahi sab karne aaye hain?  His shouts became deadlier than his shots.

There was Professor Akhauri, a.k.a. the Guruji – a big shot in Indian tennis.  He was a member of the Executive Committee of the All India Lawn Tennis Association (probably for life, as is the norm with our sports bodies). He would regale us with the stories of Vijay Amritraj, Ramesh Krishnan, his father Ramnathan Krishnan, his travels to England, Australia or Brazil as the Manager of the Indian team to the Davis Cup or the Olympics.  When some of us shifted to Delhi, Guruji would favour us with VIP passes for major tournaments which, besides giving us a ringside view of Leander Paes and Sania Mirza, would also provide access to some five-star food in the lounge of DLTA.  Guruji was never wanting in extending such courtesies, only we were at times lazy in availing it.

Sanjeev, the Medical Representative, was the most spectacular player on the court.  His forehand crosscourt drive reminded you of Roger Federer. But more often than not, he was like an out-of-form Goran Ivanisevic, hitting wide or long or into the net, and swearing, tearing his hair and throwing his racket in disgust.  It was tragic to see the ‘best’ player on the court often lose to some rank novices.

KK Prasadji, a retired Chief Engineer of Bihar Electricity Board, had a stately game. Once he took a spot, he became rooted to it like the feet of Angad, as if glued with Fevicol.  He would not approach the ball, the ball had to approach him when he would deign to play it, otherwise it was his partner’s duty to cover the court. Someone must have been inspired by him to compose the song ‘Chipka le sainya Fevicol se’. But there was also the legendary retired Post Master General, Colonel Shiv Kumar, whose chasing the ball to all corners of the court at the age of 76 was the envy of many youngsters.

There were some more. The venerable Tiwariji, whose efforts with the Finance Department and sundry officials made the development of the courts possible.  There was honest to God, honest to his job, and simple-hearted engineer Saroj. There was Babu Rajiv Singh, from the commercial taxes department, who still had the old zamindari in his regal demeanour. The ever-smiling, long-named Hyderabadi, ELSN Bala Prasade (IAS 1986), who was gradually becoming an incorrigible Bihar-romantic.  The Jack-of-all-trades Sunil, one of the most talented persons on the court. And 50-something bachelor Kedar, who had not yet given up hopes of getting married.  One major task of the tennis group was to find a bride for him.  Then there was technically the most knowledgeable player, Uday Kumawat (IAS 1993), because he had coached himself from Google.

But above all was Pathakji, also a retired Chief Engineer from Electricity Board, but what a contrast from KK Prasadji!  He had undergone two heart bye-pass surgeries, but he always played to win.  Therefore, he always partnered the best player on the court.  If a better player arrived when half way into a game, he would dump his ‘useless partner’, declare the ‘practice game’ closed, and start the ‘real game’ with the new partner.  He fought for every point.  If any of his line shots was given out, he would rush to the other side, disputing the call vigorously; on his side, before the ball landed, he would flay his arms wildly and shout a loud ‘out’.  Ultimately, whenever Pathakji played, a neutral linesman was needed to maintain order on the court.

What made this group more fascinating was that though coming from disparate backgrounds, we hit it off like a house on fire, socially too.  We started meeting over dinner at each other’s houses with families, where the common bond was no longer tennis, but music.

The statue KK Prasadji would suddenly come to life when he sang Beqaraar kar ke hamein yun na jaaiye, and would shake his body more than he had ever done on the tennis court.  The erratic Sanjeev would give a flawless rendering of the high-flown Urdu dialogues of Mughal-e-Azam, which he had spent his lifetime in memorizing to heart in its entirety. It was commonly agreed that had he put in half this effort for the UPSC, he would have been into the civil services like his brothers and cousins.  Jayant the Shouter was not musical himself, but his wife Dr Arundhati Dasgupta, who became our family physician as a matter of right, sang Hum to yun apni zindagi se miley, ajanabi jaise ajanabi se miley with a rare empathy and feeling for the ghazal. I have heard Jagjit Singh’s rendering too, but Arundhati’s is indelibly etched in my memory.  Professor Akhauri’s wife, Dr Manjula Akhauri, besides being an eminent doctor, was a wonderful host and a wonderful singer.  Sunil would chip in with his instant poetry or tabla beats on the table to accompany the singers.

And above all again was The Pathakji – the star of the evening, as much as he was the star of the morning at the courts.  His capacity to hold his drink was zero, but his desire and determination to drink was unlimited.  His wife’s helpless pleadings or our admonitions to stop were of no avail, until the glass and bottle were physically taken away from him.

It is said that alcohol makes a man honest.  After one drink he was forthright in expressing what he thought of me: A most useless fellow with no hopes in future, as I was not only a vegetarian, but also a teetotaler.  After two drinks he would snatch the harmonium from his wife, Mrs Sarojini Pathak, who would be halfway into a most melodious rendering of Jo dil ko jalaye sataye dukhaye/ Aisi mohabbat se hum baaj aaye (Lata Mangeshkar, Nirala, 1951, C Ramchandra), ignoring our protests to let her complete. Pathakji never accepted that his wife was a much better singer than him.

A dead drunk Pathakji on the harmonium was a familiar site we had seen any number of times – in this state he had only two songs in his repertoire.  One was Kah raha hai samaan gaye ja gaye ja/ Pyar ko jeet le zindagi haar ja.  He always started from the antaraa. He probably meant Talat Mahmood’s Dil ki dhakan pe ga from Lakeerein (1954), because I could not find these lines in any other song.  Pathakji slowed the tempo of the song, but it was melodious all the same.

Then came the Grand Finale, Pathakji sweeping his fingers on the harmonium with a flourish, and the house would burst into uproarious applause.  This would herald the end of the evening, because there could not be anything after Pathakji’s Tere sadke balam.  While he was completely sozzled and his speech became incoherent, his fingers on the harmonium were steady.  This was also when Pathakji would be favourably disposed towards me, because while others were busy in their chatter, I would be attentive to this beautiful Naushad composition. And Pathakji would shout at the others, “You useless fellows, look at him, only he appreciates music.”

All good things come to an end.  But the Patna tennis court had a deeply tragic end, the least of which was some members moving out of Patna.  Governments have insatiable appetite for office space.  On one of my visits to Patna I found to my horror that the lovely Secretariat courts had been dug up to make way for some concrete and steel monstrosity to construct committee rooms.  The chess players in Shatranj Ke Khiladi were chased from place to place. The tennis players, too, could find some place to play, but nothing could match the ambience of the Secretariat courts.

Pathakji’s next heart attack proved very nasty.  After prolonged treatment at Patna and Delhi, his US-based children took him there.  He himself was a Green Card holder, but quite clearly his soul was in Patna, and he used to go to the US only once in six months to comply with the legal requirement of residency.   Now it seems he is lost forever to tennis and Patna. 

Tere sadke balam was not among my top favourites when my romance with Naushad started in my college days, many years before the Patna tennis courts.  My first obsession was Aaj mere man mein sakhi (Aan), then came Marna teri gali mein jeena teri gali mein (Shabab), then Amar’s two other songs – Jaanewale se mulaqaat na hone paayi and Na milta gham to barbaadi ke afsaane kahaan jaate, then some songs of Udankhatola and Mughal-e-Azam.  These songs still remain as dear to me as ever.  But Pathakji created a special pedestal for Tere sadke balam at par with my greatest Naushad-Lata favourites.  Here is the song for your listening pleasure. This is also wishing Pathakji a long life, and that for once he is able to come back to Patna, along with Mrs Sarojini Pathak, for a grand get-together of the tennis friends, who are among the most fascinating people you can meet anywhere.

Epilogue:

After about eleven years, I was back to Patna as a Member of the Central Administrative Tribunal, but was off-tennis because of injury concerns.  Pathakji was under the care of his family in New York.  Their reluctance to let him talk to us was understandable as he might get excited.  I was once able to say hello to him, but I was not sure if he could recognize me. Some old-timers were around, playing tennis too, but without Pathakji to sing the anthem Tere sadke balam on his harmonium, it was impossible to recreate the good old days.  I am now again back to Delhi.

Anil K Upadhyay, IAS 1975 batch, Bihar cadre. Retired as Secretary, Ministry of Road Transport & Highways, Government of India in January 2013. Thereafter, retired as Member, Central Administrative Tribunal in April 2018.