During one of my English exams, there was the familiar task of writing an essay, and one topic caught my eye: “On Listening to a Cricket Commentary.” It was like being served my favorite ‘halwa’ on a platter. I didn’t even bother considering the other topics; my pen moved swiftly across the paper.

The essay drew from my real-life experience, rather than any fictional imagining. On Sundays, whenever a Test match was on, my mother’s task—at my fervent request—was to wake me up early so I could complete my morning chores and be ready to listen to the commentary from the first ball. If she delayed waking me, my reaction would be one of unmistakable displeasure, something I captured vividly in the essay. The first part was in direct speech, with dialogues between my mother and me, bringing that Sunday morning scenario to life.

At that time, I wasn’t sure if writing essays in direct speech was acceptable or within academic norms. But I took the risk. It turned out well, though I hesitate to attribute my success solely to that experiment with direct dialogue.

We didn’t have a radio at home until I was 17, so my exposure to cricket commentary was limited. Occasionally, I would listen at ‘Nari Contractor’s’ house—the captain of our local cricket team. That was my first introduction to the world of live commentary. Until then, I wasn’t even aware such a thing existed. It would be interesting to look up when live cricket commentary was first introduced in India; another Google search task for me!

At 17, we became proud owners of a radio, and on Sundays, it was almost exclusively mine when there was a cricket match. I would listen with rapt attention, much to the annoyance of my sisters and brother, who had to bear with my cricket obsession. Meals, tea, everything happened beside the radio.

Back then, it was known as “running commentary.” Why it was called “running,” I never quite understood. Commentators meticulously described every detail of the game because there was nothing for the listener to see. From the bowler turning at the end of his run-up, accelerating, leaping past the umpire, and delivering the ball, every action was detailed. The type of delivery—good length, short, full toss—how the batsman met the ball or left it, how it was fielded, and who fielded it. It felt like a vivid, real-time portrayal of every moment on the field, even if the entire sequence took just half a minute.

The excitement of a wicket falling or a boundary being hit was contagious. Commentators would raise their voices significantly, transmitting the thrill of the moment directly into our ears. Even if you missed seeing an action in person, you wouldn’t miss it through their words.

Eventually, the idea of the expert commentator came into play, who would weigh in on critical moments, offering a more deliberate and technical analysis of bowling, batting, or fielding nuances. These experts greatly enriched my understanding of the game’s intricacies.

Commentators of that era didn’t have the luxury of cozy commentary boxes with perfect views and soundproofing. Often, they sat in the open, surrounded by the crowd’s noise. Yet, they managed to convey the essence of the game with remarkable skill.

Some of the memorable radio commentators that come to mind include Vizzy, who often reminisced more about cricket’s past than its present, Berry Sarbadhikari with his distinct nasal tone, Tony Cozier, the beloved voice from the West Indies, Dicky Rutnakar, Anand Setalvad, Suresh Saraiya, and Talyar Khan. I hope I’ve spelled these names correctly; they are drawn from memory. I apologize for any errors or omissions.

These commentators, whether they had played cricket at the highest level or not, brought the game alive for us with their compelling narratives.

To be continued...Part 72 - My Test with Cricket - Limited Days’ Exploits - Part 6