Match-fixing and nuclear physics have nothing in common, except that the end-products of both are mighty explosive. But Cape Town, 2000, is the cricketing equivalent of Chagai Hills, 1998. When 'Islamic' Pakistan went nuclear two summers ago, barely a fortnight after 'Hindu' India had, every major religion in the world, 'Jewish' Israel included, had joined the 'Christian' West and the 'Buddhist' East in having its own 'anu bum'.
Likewise, Hansie Cronje's confession. It may still fail to provide the kind of proof of player-complicity that will convince the CBI and bcci that something is rotten in the Gardens of Eden. But what it does establish is that nobody is above suspicion when it comes to dancing with the devil in the middle of the pitch. Australians, Asians, Afrikaners. Whites, browns, coloured. Christians, Hindus, Muslims.
Like infidelity, is match-fixing in our genes?
But Mohammed Azizuddin Azharuddin? Ten years ago, when he was 27, if there was one player who would have won automatic nomination of his peers as the second most popular cricketer in the country (the first, Gundappa Ranganath Vishwanath, is unapproachably ahead), it was the boy from Vithalwadi, Hyderabad, gifted with ball bearings, not bones, in his tungsten wrists, an artist not a scientist.
Sunil Gavaskar may've stared into the tiger's mouth minus a helmet, but it was "Vishy" who, in popular perception, entertained the crowds by slapping the ball past point. Ditto, Azza. Sachin Tendulkar may have overtaken him as the premier batsman, but for the sheer joy he provided in sending balls from second slip to deep midwicket, Azhar was difficult to surpass.
Yours truly once asked Viv Richards for his favourite Indian batsman (there was no dispute about his favourite bowler: Bhagwat Chandrashekar). The response: Azhar. "When he walks in, whether the score is 0, 10 or 100, it is phusk-phusk, phusk-phusk all the way from ball No. 1," said the man who became Sir Isaac, mimicking the sound in Azhar's wrists when he flicked the feather in his hand.
But above all, Azhar was seen to be a gentleman, in the Vishy mould. Not for him the chaalu-giri of the Mumbaikars, or the MC-BC stuff of the Punjabis. No, Sir. Our man was as sweet as Pulla Reddy's Sweets. He prayed five times a day. He kissed his talisman. He was happily married, had two lovely kids. On flights, he didn't indulge in the usual cricketers' hobby of cosying up to the hawai sundaris; instead he would ask for a Telugu newspaper and quickly turn to the sports page-ulu.
As his captain at college, Kiran Reddy, recalls in Harsha Bhogle's authorised biography on Azhar. "In spite of being in a college atmosphere, he didn't have a single point that in our society is called negative. He did not smoke, did not drink, never spoke to girls, didn't attend parties, and even kept out of college politics." He had to have gone to a school whose name was All Saints.
He also played lots of matches (99 Tests, 334 one-dayers) scored lots of runs (6,215 and almost 10,000) and won us lots of matches at home. He was a supreme athlete in a nation and team of fat slobs. How did such a boy of humble beginnings but extraordinary accomplishments become an arrogant so-and-so, who divorces his wife for a failed Bollywood beauty and now stands accused as a match-fixer?
What happened to Mohammed Azizuddin Azharuddin?
To say that success went to Azza's head is to be greatly unfair to his genius and personality. If it had to, it could have done so 16 years ago when he scored a century on debut (like Vishy), and then two more on the trot. If it had to, it could have done so when he had to graduate from the bicycle he called 'Honda' to his first car. If it had to, it could have done so when he began checking into star hotels as an India cricketer.
No, the eclipse of Azhar began not in 1984 or even in 1990 but roundabouts of 1993 soon after the erstwhile Raja of Dungarpur walked up to him and asked "Miya, captain banoge?" Or, maybe just a little after, by which time Ajit Wadekar and he had whipped up a magic concoction to ensure India's victories at home, before the 1996 World Cup, by which time Indian cricket was rolling in the money of sponsors and TV companies.
Suddenly, a simple story about a simple man became all about whopping deals and whoppier contracts. From there to whispers about the underground car parking lot in his house or the $15,000 platinum watches he wore was but a natural progression. 'Greased Lightning' had entered his life by then. Photographers got bashed around. An accessible, ever-smiling fellow became extremely reticent, even angry, as the press pounced on him. A decent captain answered reporters' queries while chewing gum and clipping his toe nails.
In his seminal sociological study, Richard Cashman writes that cricket in India, like cinema, is a social ladder for middle and lower middle-class people to move up. Azhar did that, but now he began jumping up several rungs at a time. A lifestyle change was soon to follow. He wore expensive watches and suits and carried them off with aplomb on magazine covers. The Mr and Mrs were an 'item' at social dos.
The ethical rahu-kaal began in right earnest three years ago when suddenly India began perfecting the art of snatching defeat from the jaws of victory into a near-science. As seemingly inexplicable things began happening on the ground, questions began to be asked. And the biggest question has been asked by Cronje. Sure, he's innocent till proven guilty. Maybe this is a South African conspiracy to deflect attention. Maybe Cronje is lying once again.
However, the question will be asked: whatever happened to the decent, dignified, delectable Hyderabadi batsman that he, and he alone, has been named from among the 250 or so cricketers who have played for this country by a man testifying under oath?
