COLUMN: Tunnel of Time
From very humble beginnings, Akhtar Ali rose to become a tennis player who played at Wimbledon and was a member of the Indian Davis Cup team. He was also a distinguished coach of the Indian team for 20 years and, in the course of his three-decade coaching career, produced several national men’s and women’s champions, including his own son Zeeshan.
By Shevlin Sebastian
The appointment with Akhtar Ali had been fixed at 4 p.m. on a Wednesday afternoon in November at his flat on Dilkusha Street in Calcutta. I arrived on the dot and rang the bell. Ali’s daughter, nine-year-old Zarine, opened the door and asked whom I wanted to meet. I mentioned her father’s name. She went inside to tell him, then returned to ask my name. She went in again, came back, and asked where I had come from. I replied, and she went in once more. When she returned yet again, she had a welcoming smile on her face (had this girl already become media-savvy?). So I stepped inside.
A few feet away from the door, Akhtar Ali stood barefoot in the drawing room, hands on his hips but with a welcoming smile on his face. I wondered to myself why he hadn’t come to the door.
It was a well-appointed flat, tastefully decorated. A wooden cabinet against one wall contained several trophies, all won by his son Zeeshan. There was an A/C in one window, small tube lights embedded in the false ceiling, and a soft carpet on the floor.
We sat on the sofa, and after a couple of minutes spent discussing the result of the last one-day match between India and New Zealand in Bombay, which India had won, I detailed the topics I wanted him to speak about. Akhtar Ali was launched. And when I say launched, you had to take it literally — like a plane going up into the sky.
Once he started talking, he was in non-stop mode.
His English was fluent, the sentences rolled out of him easily and confidently, and he had a garrulousness that made Javed Jaffrey seem as if he were suffering from laryngitis.
Undoubtedly, this man had energy, enthusiasm and a still youthful intensity.
Here are excerpts from the four-hour interview.
On his early life
I was born in 1939 at Allahabad. At that time, my grandfather had a coal business there. Then one day, my father came on a visit to Calcutta and he liked the place. Luckily, he had a friend who worked at the Saturday Club, and this friend managed to get him a job as a squash marker. So it was as a marker that my father began to make a living.
I was born in Allahabad, because my mother still lived there with my grandfather, but we used to come to Calcutta on holidays. I was ten years old when we moved permanently to Calcutta.
I started playing squash at the Saturday Club. I picked up the game quickly and became a very good player. But when I was about 13, there was a complaint among the players that I should not be allowed to play.
Firstly, because I was the son of a marker, and secondly because I was beating a lot of older, more experienced players.
So what did you do?
Nothing much. I just hung around. In squash, you can play alone and still have a good time. But one day, I remember it was during the Puja holidays, I went to the Barrackpore Club, where my uncle, Syed Ali, was a tennis marker. There was a Merchants’ Cup tennis competition. I took part and did well.
At the age of 15, I played in the Bengal Lawn Tennis Championships. I won the tournament by defeating the No. 1 seed, Dennis Ford. That’s when I started to think seriously about playing tennis. Next, I played the junior national championships and once again reached the final. But despite these performances, I experienced a lot of difficulties from the very beginning.
What sort of difficulties?
Tennis, in those days, was played by people of high society, and they could not tolerate the fact that a marker’s son was playing alongside them. High society always felt that they were very superior. So, as a result, they always looked down on me.
When people looked down on you, did you feel an inferiority complex?
No, surprisingly, I have never suffered from an inferiority complex just because I was a marker’s son. I always told myself, Upar Allah, neeche ballah.
What does ballah mean?
Ballah means racket. That means: forget your background and speak with your racket. If you are rich, you are rich. That’s okay with me. But come to the tennis court and I will show you.
What other obstacles did you face?
In 1955, when I was going to play the junior nationals, there were objections once again. People said that since I was the son of a marker, I was a professional player. When that argument did not work, they said I had to show a birth certificate to prove that I was below 18. But I didn’t have one.
So I got a certificate from the Islamia School where I was studying, but the tennis association did not accept it. The deadline was approaching.
On the day before the Championships began, the officials said that if I didn’t produce the certificate by 6 p.m., I would be disqualified. Both my father and I did not know what to do.
Then a European at the Saturday Club came up with the solution. He asked my father whether he had a marriage certificate. My father said yes. So we went with the marriage certificate and showed it to the officials.
Sir William Mitchell Moore, the President at that time, saw that my parents had been married for 16 years, so as the eldest child I had to be below 18. He allowed me to play. I reached the final, defeated Pakistan No. 1 Rahim, and became the champion.
Then what happened?
As a junior national champion, I started to play in the All-India circuit, travelling from place to place. Then I went to Jaipur, to play a very big tournament there and I won once again. The Maharani Gayatri Devi of Jaipur asked me whether I was planning to go and play junior Wimbledon, since I was the national junior champion.
I said that I didn’t have the money to go to Wimbledon. So she asked the secretary of the All-India Lawn Tennis Association whether he was planning to send me. He replied that the association did not have any funds. So, at a party after the Championships, the Maharani announced that her husband and she were going to take me to Wimbledon, all expenses paid.
So, in 1955, I went to Wimbledon for the first time. How was the experience? It was unforgettable. This was the first time that I was going abroad, so everything was new and fantastic to me.
Before Wimbledon, I played two tournaments and won and so I was feeling very confident. But a day before the Championships was to start, a funny thing happened to me. What was that? I got a telegram from India saying that my father had died. I started crying like hell. Then, through an acquaintance, we rang up the Saturday Club to find out more details. We found out that there was nothing wrong with my father. In fact, my acquaintance spoke to my father on the phone.
Who do you think sent the telegram?
Obviously, it was somebody who did not like me and who did not want me to do well.
But you never found out who sent it?
How to find out, you tell me. If somebody sends a telegram with no name, then how can I get the name?
So what is your analysis?
I was playing junior Wimbledon. There were some people who were hoping I would get upset and do badly. Maybe, it was because of jealousy.
Do you think people disliked you because you are a Muslim?
(A short pause): There was a lot of communal feeling at that time. After all, Partition had happened a few years ago. Yes, some people were even saying about me, Saala Mussalmaan hai. But I think they were very much in the minority. People like Gayatri Devi and later, Premjit Lal, Jaideep Mukherjee, Naresh Kumar and Ramanathan Krishnan never ever looked at me in a communal manner.
Would the same communal thing happen today in Indian tennis?
Of course, it has become much worse now.
Is it all because of the politics of the BJP?
No, I wouldn’t blame the BJP for everything. I think it is more to make a tamasha out of the whole thing. Our biggest problem in India is that we don’t look at people as Indians, but we are always categorising them…
Coming back to junior Wimbledon ’55, how did you perform?
I reached the semi finals and was leading 5-2, 30-15 in the third set. But I ended up losing the match to Lundqvist of Sweden. I started crying because I felt that I would never be able to play at Wimbledon ever again. But the Maharaja and the Maharani consoled me and said that if I did well, they would send me again the next year. And since I had reached the semi finals, I was eligible to play next year.
Just out of curiosity: how much was your father’s income as a marker?
Those days, he used to earn Rs 110 a month.
Apart from tips?
No, there was no question of tips. The club charged Rs 10 for playing and the marker got Rs 5. The rest went to the club.
Your father was earning decently, so you weren’t in financial difficulty?
No, I am grateful to God that I was not.
His father’s death
When was that?
In 1959, my father suffered a brain haemorrhage. The Nationals were about to begin. My match was scheduled for Monday at 11 a.m. But in the early hours of Monday morning, my father died. I went to the South Club and asked them to postpone my match. They refused. Some people ensured this, because they felt that if I didn’t play, I would lose ranking and not be considered for the Davis Cup team. Finally, with great difficulty, I got my match postponed to 3 p.m., instead of the morning session.
We buried my father, and I returned home at 2 p.m. I took a bath and quietly picked up my racket. My family got very angry. My uncle slapped me and said, “You’ve just lost your father and you want to play the Nationals?”
I replied, “Look, I lost my father. He is not going to come back. But if I don’t play in the Nationals, my future will be spoiled.”
Looking back, do you think it was the right thing to do?
Yes, otherwise I would have lost a year.
But wasn’t it a tragedy?
Yes, but my tennis career was at stake. My enemies were looking for every opportunity to keep me down. If I didn’t play, it would have been a victory for them. After that, I realised I needed to earn. I was the eldest, with sisters to marry and brothers to support. I was offered jobs in coaching and at the Saturday Club. But I refused. If I took those jobs, my career would be over. So I supported my family by playing tournaments. Krishnan got Rs 1000 to play; I got Rs 400–500 plus board and lodging. Then I started doing coaching for the rich in Calcutta and earned Rs 1000 a month.
On his career
In 1956 I qualified for men’s singles at Wimbledon and lost in the second round.
’58: Lost in the first round at Wimbledon.
’59: Lost in the second round.
’61: Lost in the second round;
lost to Rod Laver in the French Open.
’62: Lost in the first round.
Member of the Indian Davis Cup team from 1958–64. Played in Monte Carlo, Japan, Iran, Malaysia, Thailand, Pakistan and Mexico.
Akhtar Ali defeated players like John Newcombe, Alex Metreveli, Tony Pickard, Jaideep Mukherjee, and Premjit Lal.
He won several state and national titles. He was also the National squash champion in 1968.
How would you rate yourself as a player?
I was never a big player. I made it through sheer hard work. Better players like Premjit and Jaideep came up, so I focussed on coaching.
On his coaching
Australian player George Worthington taught me fundamentals: backswing, follow-through, positioning, volleys. Nobody had taught me this earlier. As a coach, I produced national champions like Gaurav Mishra, Bidyut Goswami, Susan Das, Reena Eeny, Susan Sinclair Jones, Chiradeep Mukherjee, Rico Piperno, and my son Zeeshan Ali (World No. 2 in juniors; No. 125 ATP).
I coached Vijay Amritraj for four years and was Davis Cup coach for over 20 years, including when India reached the final in 1974.
[Australian coach] Harry Hopman told me I had a good ‘eye’ and could spot weaknesses quickly.
Who is the best coach you have met?
Harry Hopman. He could turn promising players into champions. I remember in 1956, Laver lost 6-0, 6-0, and I laughed when Hopman said Laver would be a great player. Obviously, Hopman was right.
What is talent?
Talent is God-gifted. Someone like John McEnroe has it. But talent alone cannot make a champion. You need hard work and a good coach from the very beginning.
Do Indian coaches have technical knowledge?
No. Our coaches are never sent abroad to learn the latest methods. So we have different types of coaches. Some very good Under-12, Under-14 coaches. But they cannot develop a player to world standards. I myself could only take Zeeshan to No. 125. After that he needed a foreign coach.
On Zeeshan Ali
People say you concentrated only on Zeeshan. True?
Yes, I did concentrate on him. Every father helps his own son. Krishnan helped his son. Vijay Amritraj helped his brothers. Why should people talk when I help my son? At that time, I was a free agent. I wasn’t employed by anyone.
Did Zeeshan have talent?
Yes. But I wanted an expert opinion, so I asked my friend Krishnan. He watched Zeeshan and said he had wonderful talent.
But did Zeeshan have fire?
He was hungry, but not as hungry as I hoped. He had an easy life. It’s difficult to develop inner fire if life is easy.
What happened later?
He suffered a leg injury in 1989. He got injury problems, became depressed, lost motivation, felt the pressure of spending his father’s money. We were finding it hard to get sponsors. Many times he tried to give up. The pressure of not being picked for Hopman’s camp affected him.
A bit of hardship fuels the inner fire, doesn’t it?
Absolutely. A hungry sportsman is the best sportsman.
Do you have sorrow about what happened?
Yes.
What is Zeeshan doing now?
He is playing inter-club tournaments in Dubai.
On Drugs
Are players taking drugs?
Yes, many take drugs for recovery. If a player has a tough match, they take pills to help the body recover. This is necessary because of modern training loads.
It is four p.m. on a Wednesday in December at the South Club. Akhtar Ali is teaching very young students. They stare at him as he makes playing movements with his racket. I could not help but feel sympathy. A man with so much coaching experience, national coach, and personal coach of Vijay Amritraj, is now reduced to teaching rich novices.
Akhtar Ali’s present situation proves a singular point: the under-utilisation of worthwhile people in our country is a national disease.
He tells an anecdote: “In 1961, India was playing Pakistan in a Davis Cup match in Pune. As I was leaving the court, a mali [gardener] gave me a note: ‘Dear Akhtar, I would like to meet you. Come to my place. The address is… Yours sincerely, Sally.’ Naturally, I got excited.
I changed into fresh clothes and went to the address. It was the home of a Sardarji who recognised me and welcomed me in. We talked for half an hour. Then I asked, ‘Where is Sally?’ The Sardarji looked at me and said, ‘Mr Ali, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
I realised Jaideep had written the letter and changed the name to tease me. So I kept the note, changed the name back, and sent it to a Pakistani player. The fool landed up at the Sardarji’s place asking for Sally…”
(Published in Sportsworld, January 3, 1996)
(Akhtar Ali died on February 7, 2021, aged 81)
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