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By:

C.S. Krishnamurthy

21 June 2025 at 2:15:51 pm

The Gentleman Legend

Every sport produces champions. Very few produce figures who become the measure by which all future greatness is judged. Sir Garfield Sobers belonged to that rare company. His passing leaves untouched a reputation that has remained unchallenged for generations. Cricket has witnessed magnificent batsmen, devastating bowlers, athletic fielders and exceptional all-rounders. Yet, whenever the conversation turns to the most complete cricketer the game has produced, Garfield Sobers remains the...

The Gentleman Legend

Every sport produces champions. Very few produce figures who become the measure by which all future greatness is judged. Sir Garfield Sobers belonged to that rare company. His passing leaves untouched a reputation that has remained unchallenged for generations. Cricket has witnessed magnificent batsmen, devastating bowlers, athletic fielders and exceptional all-rounders. Yet, whenever the conversation turns to the most complete cricketer the game has produced, Garfield Sobers remains the benchmark. His achievements have long been part of cricketing folklore. More than 8,000 Test runs at an average above 57, 235 wickets with three distinct styles of left arm bowling, and over 100 catches speak of a player blessed with extraordinary versatility. His unbeaten 365 against Pakistan in 1958 stood as the highest individual Test score for more than 36 years, an innings that reflected both technical brilliance and remarkable concentration. Statistics, however, explain only part of the story. Sobers possessed the rare ability to make difficult things appear effortless. Whether unfurling a cover drive, bowling with the new ball, switching seamlessly to spin as conditions demanded, or producing moments of brilliance in the field, he seemed to play cricket with uncommon ease. He was not merely adaptable. He excelled in every discipline the game offered. Little wonder that generations have searched for “the next Sobers.” Equally little wonder that none has truly emerged. Enduring Legacy One of the defining images of his career came in 1968 when, playing for Nottinghamshire against Glamorgan, he became the first cricketer to strike six sixes in a single first-class over. It was an astonishing feat in an era when such aggression was almost unimaginable. Today, boundaries arrive in abundance in franchise cricket. Sobers accomplished the extraordinary long before power hitting became fashionable. Yet his enduring appeal rested on far more than spectacular performances. He played with an infectious sense of freedom that reminded spectators that cricket, despite its pressures, remained a game to be enjoyed. There was elegance without extravagance, confidence without arrogance, and authority without intimidation. The old sporting maxim that "form is temporary, class is permanent" found one of its finest expressions in Sobers. His class lay not only in the manner of his batting or bowling, but also in his conduct. He accepted victories without arrogance and setbacks without bitterness, a rare blend of grace that won him admirers far beyond the boundary ropes. As captain, Sobers led the West Indies during a formative period in Caribbean cricket. The years of complete dominance would come later, but he helped build the confidence and identity that shaped one of the game's greatest teams. Leadership, for him, was never about rhetoric. It was about setting an example. Many anecdotes continue to illuminate his remarkable career. One of the most enduring suggests that if someone were asked to choose a team to save the world, Sobers would be selected first and the rest could follow. It is an exaggeration, certainly, but it captures the esteem in which he was held by teammates, rivals and followers alike. There is another story that reveals the man behind the legend. Throughout his retirement, Sobers remained remarkably approachable, generous with his time and willing to engage with young cricketers wherever he travelled. Knighthood never altered his simplicity. Those who met him often spoke first of his warmth, and only then of his greatness. His affection for India was equally well known, and it was warmly reciprocated. Older cricket followers vividly remember his performances on Indian soil, while younger generations came to know him through stories told by parents, coaches and commentators. Across eras, the verdict remained unchanged. Modern cricket celebrates specialists whose workloads are carefully managed. Sobers represented an age when versatility was indispensable. He responded to every challenge his captain presented without complaint and invariably strengthened the side. “They broke the mould after him” is a phrase often used too freely in sport. In Sobers’ case, it feels entirely justified. Cricket has lost one of its finest ambassadors. The scorebooks will preserve his runs, wickets and catches. Archives will preserve the images. Historians will preserve the achievements. What cannot be fully preserved is the privilege of watching a player who expanded the possibilities of the game while embodying its finest values. Sir Garfield Sobers was not simply the greatest all-round cricketer of his time. He was one of cricket's finest gentlemen. That distinction, perhaps even more than his remarkable records, ensures that his legacy will endure for generations. (The writer is a retired banker and author. Views personal.)

The Soul of Bharat on the Big Screen

Mumbai: April 4, 2025, my heart feels heavier than it ever has. The news hit me like a monsoon storm—Manoj Kumar, the towering legend of Bollywood, the man who painted patriotism across our screens, is no more. At 87, he slipped away at Mumbai’s Kokilaben Dhirubhai Ambani Hospital, leaving behind a reel of memories that flicker in my mind like a projector that won’t stop spinning. As a movie fan who grew up with his films, I’m not just mourning an actor—I’m grieving the loss of a piece of my soul, a piece of India itself. They called him "Bharat Kumar," and oh, how he earned that name.


I remember the first time I saw ‘Upkar’ (1967). I was a kid, sprawled on the living room floor, eyes glued to our old TV. Manoj ji played Bharat, the farmer who gave everything—his dreams, his love—for his country’s soil. That song, “Mere Desh Ki Dharti,” wasn’t just a tune; it was a heartbeat, pulsing with pride and sacrifice. I’d hum it walking to school, feeling like I, too, could be that noble, that selfless. He won a National Film Award for that one, and rightly so—it wasn’t acting; it was living.

Then there was ‘Shaheed’ (1965), where he brought Bhagat Singh back to life. I’d sit there, popcorn forgotten, as he roared defiance against the British, his eyes blazing with a fire that could’ve lit up the darkest colonial night. It wasn’t just a film—it was a revolution on celluloid, a call to remember the blood that bought our freedom. Manoj ji didn’t just play the martyr; he became him, and every time I watch it, I feel that lump in my throat, that sting in my eyes. It’s no wonder it snagged three National Awards—his passion was a gift to us all.


Oh, and ‘Purab Aur Paschim’ (1970)—how do I even begin? He directed and starred as Bharat again, this time wrestling with the clash of East and West, showing us the beauty of our roots while the world tried to pull us away. I’d laugh at Saira Banu’s antics, then choke up when Manoj ji stood tall, singing “Hai Preet Jahan Ki Reet Sada.” It was a blockbuster, sure, but it was more—it was a love letter to India, penned in his signature hand-over-face style. That move, mocked by some, was his shield, his quiet strength, and I adored it.

And who could forget ‘Roti Kapda Aur Makaan’ (1974)? He directed and starred as Bharat—again, because who else could?—tackling poverty, injustice, and the gut-wrenching struggle for the basics of life. I’d watch, fists clenched, as he fought for the everyman, his voice cracking with raw emotion. It wasn’t just a movie; it was a mirror to our society, a cry for change. Seven Filmfare Awards across his career, they say, but this one felt like it carried them all—his heart bled through every frame.


Then there’s ‘Kranti’ (1981), the epic that had me on the edge of my seat. Manoj ji as the freedom fighter, leading Dilip Kumar and Hema Malini through a storm of rebellion—it was grand, it was gritty, it was everything Bollywood could be. “Zindagi Ki Na Toote Ladi” still echoes in my ears, a reminder of the battles he fought on screen, battles that felt so real I’d dream of joining the fight. He didn’t just direct that film; he sculpted a monument to resilience, and I’d cheer like a fool every time he outsmarted the British.


As I sit here, flipping through these memories, I can’t help but feel cheated. Manoj Kumar wasn’t just an actor or director—he was family. Born Harikrishan Goswami in 1937, he carried the Partition’s scars from Abbottabad to Delhi, turning pain into purpose. He gave us over 50 films in a career spanning four decades, snagging the Padma Shri in 1992 and the Dadasaheb Phalke Award in 2015—honors that felt too small for a man who gave India its cinematic soul. His last role in ‘Jai Hind’ (1999) might’ve flopped, but it didn’t dim his light in my eyes.


I’d read how he met Bhagat Singh’s mother before ‘Shaheed’, seeking her blessing—can you imagine the weight of that? Or how PM Lal Bahadur Shastri urged him to make ‘Upkar’ after the 1965 war, handing him “Jai Jawan Jai Kisan” like a sacred torch? That’s who he was—a man who didn’t just entertain but carried a nation’s dreams.


Manoj ji, you weren’t just “Bharat Kumar” to me—you were the uncle who taught me pride, the friend who shared my anger, the poet who sang my hopes. Your films weren’t movies; they were my childhood, my rebellion, my tears. I’ll miss you like I miss the India you dreamed of—flawed, fierce, and forever ours. Rest in peace, sir. Om Shanti.

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