When this article first appeared in Sportsworld in August 1996, Sourav Ganguly had just returned from England, having scored two centuries on debut. The country was in rapture. Bengal, in particular, had crowned him its new prince. Yet, behind the applause, there was scepticism: whispers of arrogance, privilege, and family influence.
Reading this piece again after nearly three decades, it feels like a time capsule, not just of Sourav Ganguly, but of an India still learning to handle fame, money, and media glare. The cricketers then were not yet brands. Their homes were open, their families accessible, and their lives unfiltered. What you’ll read below is a portrait of a star being born in real time, before the myth took over.
(These two paras above generated by AI)
By Shevlin Sebastian
I arrived at Sourav Ganguly’s house in Calcutta at 11.15 a.m. on a public holiday. I knock on the gate. The durwan opens it. I mentioned that I want to see Sourav Ganguly. He says immediately that he is not at home. I am surprised. I say that I am from the press. I have an interview with him at 11.30 a.m. The durwan says, “Wait a minute.” He goes into a small room on one side. He picks up the receiver on the intercom.
I look around. There are three blocks of buildings, all seemingly joined together. The buildings have been painted a bright red. The outer walls of the house have also been painted in the same bright red.
The durwan comes out and silently takes me down a cement path. “It’s the flat on the first floor,” he says. I go up the stairs. I ring the bell. The door opens. A man tells me to come in. I go in and sit down on the sofa. There are a couple of men hanging around; they look like family retainers. A young, attractive-looking woman walks past and goes into the dining room. The phone is ringing incessantly; nobody is picking it up. The drawing room faces the balcony. Minutes pass. I stare at the pale blue sky.
The doorbell rings again. The young woman opens it. A middle-aged woman with two young boys stands at the door. The young woman says, “Yes, who are you?”
The woman begins confidently. “Don’t you recognise me? I am your uncle’s…” A lengthy description follows.
The woman does not believe it. She says in a flat voice, “No, I can’t recognise you.” The other woman’s face falls. The corners of her mouth twitch in exasperation. Snehasish’s wife now looks at the boys and asks sternly, “Where are you from?” The boys are silent.
At this moment, Sourav’s mother comes into the room. She recognises the plump woman; she is, indeed, a relative. The woman says in an admonishing voice to Sourav’s mom, “Your daughter-in-law could not recognise me at all.” The daughter-in-law is unfazed. She walks away coolly.
The phone rings yet again. Sourav’s mother picks it up. There is silence at the other end. She says aloud, “Why do these people call up if they don’t want to speak?” Then, they all go into the bedroom. I am left again to contemplate the sky through the balcony. The phone rings. This time, one of the retainers picks it up. There is a conversation. The retainer gives the standard answer: “He is not at home. He has gone for practice.” The retainer puts down the phone and tells me with a smile, “It was a girl.”
‘Chicks,’ I thought suddenly. ‘In hero-starved Bengal, Sourav had become a sex symbol. How lucky!’ I am getting impatient. The next time Snehasish’s wife walks into the room, I get up and approach her. I told her that I had an interview fixed at 11.30 a.m. It is now 12 noon. She replies that Sourav is already doing an interview at present. She suggests that maybe I could do the interview at the same time. I balk at the idea. Then she suggests that at least I could sit in the room where Sourav is doing the interview. I agree.
We enter the main drawing room. I seem to have been sitting in a secondary drawing room. The curtains are drawn; the lights are on. Sourav is sitting with Rupak Saha, the Sports Editor of Ananda Bazar Patrika. He is wearing a white kurta and pajamas. I sit on the opposite sofa. The air-conditioner is working in full blast. There is a large TV set at one corner.
There is a body-length picture of Sai Baba on one wall. On a mantelpiece, there are statues of Swami Vivekananda, Ramakrishna Paramahamsa and the Divine Mother.
On another sofa, Sourav’s father, Chandi Ganguly (a printing magnate), is reclining, his head on the arm-rest; he is reading some typed foolscap sheets of paper. Time passes. I cover my mouth with my hand and yawn surreptitiously.
Snehasish, Sourav’s elder brother, also dressed in a white kurta and pyjama, comes in. He asks if Sourav has had anything to eat since morning. The young hero nods his head in assent.
Snehasish’s wife comes in smiling. She asks Sourav to take a call.
“Maharaj (Sourav’s nickname), Mr — has been ringing for the 70th time. Please speak to him. Tell him that you have to go to practice.” Sourav picks up the cordless phone lying next to him on the sofa. He speaks politely; he says that he will call back after an hour.
A female freelance journalist, whom I recognise, comes into the room. She says something to Sourav. He smiles. She turns around; she recognises me. She comes up to me and says, sotto voce, “I’ve already got an interview.” I smile.
Time passes; the Ananda Bazar interview goes on. It’s yawn time for me again. Then suddenly, more visitors come into the room. They are people from a multinational company – three young men and a girl. Sourav’s father gets up and goes out of the room. They sit down on the same sofa. The young, comely girl comes and sits next to me. I try to catch her eye. She is busy trying to catch Sourav’s eye. There is an intense speech by the head of the group.
“We want to help the young, budding cricketers from Bengal. We hope to sponsor a couple of them for training in England.”
Sourav replies with animation, “Look, my experience is that sending a young person to England does not help a cricketer much. I mean, there is not such a marked improvement in his game.”
He pauses and then rushes on. “You are a company with enormous financial resources. This is my suggestion to you: why don’t you start a cricket academy in Bengal? We desperately need such an academy. There is so much talent here in Bengal. But there is no chance to develop it. So, an academy is my suggestion. The West has the Sungrace-Mafatlal backing. In the South, there is the MRF Pace Academy. But we don’t have anything here in the East.”
“Good idea, good idea,” the Group Head replies. “We have to think about it.”
Sourav continues, “If you spend some money, you can get people like Kapil Dev and Sunil Gavaskar to come and coach in short stints. That would be of terrific benefit to the youngsters. Also maybe, you could call Geoff Boycott. He is a cricketer with vast knowledge of the game. He will do wonders with the youngsters here, if he is allowed to coach for a stretch of two months or so.”
The conversation meanders on. Ultimately, to use college slang, they “cut the crap out” and ask Sourav what they wanted to ask in the first place: will Sourav sign small-size cricket bats, so that they can present to young kids? He could present it to them during the Pujas.
It was basically a commercial proposition.
Sourav answers immediately, “I won’t be here for the Pujas. I’ll be in South Africa.” Then there is a pregnant pause and perhaps, knowing the treacherous world of Indian cricket and its incessant intrigue and politicking, he adds, “If I am selected.” (This was before the team to the Singer Cup was announced.) They nod. He looks around.
Then smoothly he says, as he also realises that it is a commercial proposition, “Why don’t you come to my office the day after tomorrow. We can discuss the matter again.” (Sourav works in Tata’s). There is nothing more to say. They stand up; they shake hands including the girl who was sitting next to me. They wish him goodbye. They leave.
A few minutes later, Rupak Saha also leaves. And so dear readers, it is now that I have a chance to interview him finally. One-and-a-half hours have passed. Sourav looks tired. I wish to interview him another day, but I know that things will be the same hectic whirl, today, tomorrow and the day after.
Here are excerpts from the interview:
ON HIS EARLY LIFE
When did you start playing cricket?
I started playing the game when I was fourteen years old. Earlier, I had been playing football. But I thought that I would give cricket a try. By this time, my elder brother Snehasish had already started playing for Bengal. I liked cricket from the very beginning. Within a year, I was selected for the Under-15 Inter-State tournament.
Your game is very stylish and text-book perfect. Where did you learn it?
I was taught the right techniques by very good coaches like Debu Mitra. It is very important to have a good coach from the very beginning.
Your father was a Ranji Trophy player. Was that the reason why you had decided to take up cricket seriously?
No. Not at all. I started playing cricket out of curiosity. Then I found that I liked the game a lot. It has got nothing to do with my father.
When did you start playing for the senior Bengal team?
I made my debut for Bengal in 1990 in the Ranji Trophy. Then when I was 17, I was selected to the Indian team to tour Australia.
ON THE MAIDEN TOUR OF AUSTRALIA
Can you tell us something about the tour of Australia?
As soon as I mention the word Australia, his face puckers up, in dislike, dismay and frustration. “Please,” he says, “I don’t want to talk about it any more. What is over, is over. I just want to look ahead now.”
Listen, I know the tour was not a good one for you. (Sourav scored 3 runs in the only game that he played.) But my angle is this: I feel that Indians take much longer to act mature. I mean, we are not as mature as Americans and Europeans are, at age 17. What do you think?
No, I think we are as mature or, in fact, more mature than Europeans and Americans. But in my case… please, please, I just don’t want to talk about it.
Come on Sourav, a little bit of analysis please...
He presses his lips together in frustration.
Has it got something to do with the Indian team?
No. Nothing of that sort. It’s just that I didn’t click in the opportunity that I got. In Indian cricket, you are just given one opportunity. If you don’t click, you are out.
In that tour, there were reports of your arrogance off the field. Your famous refusal to do twelfth man duties…
I was never arrogant. It was a misconception about me. I am basically a quiet fellow. I love to be by myself. That was taken to be arrogance.
Surely matters were not helped at all that you had a nickname called ‘Maharaj’.
But that’s just a nickname. It’s stupid to make a judgement of a person by a nickname.
Who gave you this negative press coverage?
I don’t remember.
Was it the Bengal media?
I think so.
Did it affect your image permanently?
Yes. People automatically assumed that I was an arrogant person. But it didn’t affect me because I used to lead my own life, have fun with my own group of friends.
You come from a wealthy background. Your family has a large printing business. So, this affluence is a plus point, isn’t it?
Obviously, it’s a plus point. To be financially well off eases a lot of pressure. Like not having one’s parents dependent on you takes a lot of burden off your shoulders. It gave me a chance to concentrate on cricket 100 per cent.
After 1992, your next chance came only this year. How did you manage those years in the wilderness?
I was determined to play for India. I was determined to prove people wrong. So I just went on playing and practising.
But weren’t there times when you were depressed and disappointed that you had not been selected to play for India?
No, I was not depressed. I knew that if I did well, the selectors would give me a chance one day or the other. I knew that if I got a chance, I would try to prove that I was a good player. If I didn’t get a chance, I would still play. Because I love cricket. I never eased up for a single moment. Basically, if you love a game, you tend to play, whatever be the case.
ON WHETHER HIS FATHER PLAYED A ROLE IN HIS SELECTION
Your father was once a secretary of the Cricket Association of Bengal. He is close to Jagmohan Dalmiya. Did your father’s presence help in your selection to the Australian tour and this England tour?
My father left the CAB in 1986, even before I started playing. So if people continue to connect him to the CAB, then it’s really stupid. That’s all I have to say. Also even if my father had a hand in my selection, ultimately, I have to perform at the wicket, isn’t it? People should be looking at my performances rather than talking about these things.
Do you think your family has some enemies, that the rumours still persist about your father’s influence within the CAB?
There is a possibility. People do not like my family. I think they are jealous. That’s the basic point.
Perhaps your affluent background must be the reason?
But what can I do about it if I have been born into a wealthy family? It’s like what can you do if you are born dark or thin? One can do nothing about it. If people make a big fuss about it, it’s really stupid.
ON THE ENGLAND TOUR
Watching you on ESPN and now physically meeting you, I get the feeling that there has been a tremendous mental change. Would you agree to that?
Yes. I’ve become mentally much tougher. In Australia, I saw first hand that international cricket was all about the mind. I knew that I had to be mentally tough if I wanted to succeed.
What exactly did you do to toughen yourself?
Nothing much really. I just carried on with my game. I trained a lot. You become mentally tougher as you keep on playing. Sometimes you succeed; sometimes you fail.
When you failed, how did you tackle it?
I would analyse what went wrong; why did I play that particular stroke that got me out? Was it necessary, etc? It’s something you have to do on your own. Nobody can make you a cricketer. It’s what you do on your own and what you do at the wicket that makes the difference. Nobody can help there.
Is failure the best stepping stone to success?
Always. Failure is the key to success.
I heard that you went to a counsellor in England, to get advice on strengthening you mentally. Is this true?
Nothing of that sort, really. I met a guy who had done a course in sports psychology. I used to meet him casually.
What did he tell you?
He just told me to stay relaxed. That I should be bothered more about my game, rather than my surroundings. It’s a part of cricket that people will criticise you; they will write negatively about you in the newspapers, etc. One should not bother about all that. Instead, one should concentrate on one’s game.
People talking ill about you – were you damaged by this harsh criticism?
No, I wasn’t. Because I knew what I was doing. I knew that some day or the other, I would prove myself as a player.
But when you are young, criticism can be a very painful experience.
Yes. But it has helped me become stronger as a person.
ON THE MAIDEN TEST HUNDRED
Coming back to that maiden Test century at Lord’s, what exactly was going on in your mind?
I just wanted to go and play my best. I never had any thought of scoring a century or something like that.
On TV, I got the feeling that after playing every ball, you seem to be in some sort of an inner dialogue with yourself. Is that true?
Yes, I was telling myself to be there at the wicket, to stay as long as possible. If a good ball gets me, it doesn’t matter. The main thing was that I should not play a bad shot and lose my wicket. I also told myself that I must play the next ball on merit. If it is there to be hit, I’ll hit it; if it is there to be defended, I’ll defend.
Normally, don’t players have this inner dialogue?
Yes, I think so.
Then how come not all players are successful?
That’s a very difficult thing for me to say. How come most people are not successful? I think it is an individual thing.
What are the lessons that you have learnt from this England tour?
I have learnt what Test cricket is all about. I’ve learnt to take the pressure. With my two Test hundreds now, I feel that I am capable of playing Test cricket. I have that belief now. Self-belief is very necessary if you want to do well in life.
ON ADULATION
Overnight, you have become a celebrity. Bengal has gone crazy over you. How do you cope with the adulation? Do you believe it?
I believe it. I am happy that people are happy that I’ve done well, especially the people of Calcutta. I just want to carry on, to play as much as I can, as well as I can.
Can you describe the adulation that you received when you returned from the England tour?
There were so many people on the streets. Kids coming and taking autographs. People coming and taking interviews. People wanted to see me. People wanted to felicitate me. It is a lovely feeling. It’s lovely to see people taking so much interest in your performance and they are happy in the same manner that you are.
Is there a danger that you will get swayed by all this?
I don’t think so. I have seen both sides of the coin. I have been out of the team for three years. I have seen people behave. Now that I have done well, I have seen people behave in a different manner.
What do you understand about human nature from that?
Public memory is very short. That’s the first conclusion that I came to.
Did you have the experience of people who have abused you in the past, now coming to shake your hands?
Yes. I have had that experience recently. But let me tell you that I have enjoyed that also.
Is it because ‘Revenge is a dish that tastes best when it is cold’?
No, no. Nothing of that sort, really.
Later, I was talking to Utpal Sarkar, the photographer. We were analysing reasons for this extraordinary adulation that Sourav had received, ever since he came back from England. Utpal asks me a simple question: “Tell me, after Independence, how many Bengalis have made an international impact?”
“Satyajit Ray,” I begin. “Perhaps Nirad Chaudhuri, the writer.”
Then I can’t come up with any names.
Utpal says, “The only name that I can come up with is Swami Vivekananda with his famous speech at the Parliament of World Religions at Chicago. But that was years before Independence.”
ON THE COMPETITION WITH VINOD KAMBLI
I don’t understand why people talk about Kambli and me. It has got nothing to do with me., There are four places in the middle order. I have just taken one of them. If Kambli is good (and he is good), he will play at some other number. But that doesn’t mean that he will play at somebody else’s expense. I really don’t understand why people keep comparing me with Kambli.
I think…
He rushes on, “Just because I am a left-hander, and Kambli is a left-hander. But then a team can have two left-handers. What’s the problem with that?”
There was a report…
You tell me something. If Kambli was dropped before the Singapore and Sharjah tournaments, and I wasn’t in the team at that time, why are people comparing me with Kambli?
I finally manage to ask my question: Kambli comes in at Number Three, the slot that you are occupying now…
Okay. Then he will come at No. 5. What’s wrong with that? He is at his own place. I am at my own place. Why can’t two left-handers play for India? I have seen cricketers writing about it.
Do ex-cricketers writing in the newspapers upset you?
No, it doesn’t. Also, I don’t read much that is written on cricket. Especially during the season. If there is a photograph in the paper, I see it. Otherwise, I just close the sports page. I don’t want to read anything that is written about me.
That’s probably a wise thing to do.
He smiles suddenly. We are coming to the end of the interview. His brain has gone blank; he has been speaking non-stop for hours now, and I can feel hunger pangs from my stomach.
The interview over, Sourav leads me out of the drawing room.
Outside, I meet the durwan again.
His name is Sunil Mondal. He is perspiring. He looks harried. We stand and chat near the gate. I point at the three big buildings in the compound.
“How many people live here?” I ask.
“There are seven families living here. It is the brothers of Chandi Ganguly and their families.”
“How many rooms?” I ask.
“I am told that there are 100 rooms.”
I look straight ahead. There are quite a few cars parked at one side.
“How many cars?” I ask.
“Eighteen,” comes the reply. “And you know, I have to note down the kilometre reading every time a car goes out and comes back.”
“How many cars does Sourav’s family have?”
“Four,” he says and adds, “they also have four drivers, one for each car.”
“And servants?”
He moves his thumb up the ridges of his other fingers. He looks up at the sky. He frowns; then he says, “They have nine servants.”
Amazing really! He smiles when he sees my look of incredulity.
“Okay, in total, how many people are living in this compound?”
“I think, with servants and other help included, there must be about 150 people.”
We move to the gate. He opens the lock.
“Why do you have to keep the gate closed like this during the day? Isn’t a latch enough?”
“Babu, do you know how many people have come today?” he asks with a smile.
I shake my head.
“About three hundred people,” he says.
“Three hundred,” I exclaim, “how’s that?”
“About 150 schoolchildren came from schools in Barrackpore and other such places. How can we say no to them when they have come from so far away? Then there were college students. There were a couple of photographers. Journalists from Aajkal, Bartaman and two of you from Ananda Bazar. Then there were representatives from some big companies. So if I don’t keep the gate closed, people will just swarm in…”
We fall silent now. I say goodbye to Sunil Mondal and then I walk away.
Sourav Ganguly has become the Maharaj of Bengal’s field. Only time will tell whether the Sourav Ganguly wind experience is just a flash in the pan or it is an enduring star. After all, the England bonding was of not such a high standard. His stern test will come in South Africa where the pitches are fast and bouncy; where pacemen like Allan Donald, Shaun Pollock, and Fanie de Villiers are going to be brilliant and hostile.
Before that, there is a Sahara Cup in Canada where he will have to encounter the likes of Waqar Younis, Wasim Akram and Mushtaq Ahmed.
But for Sourav Ganguly’s sake, knowing that where there is adulation is virulent criticism, I wish him continued success on the international stage.
Maharaj Ki Jai Ho!
(Published in Sportsworld, August 28, 1996)
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