Started From the Bottom, Now We're Here

Sarfaraz Khan, at long last

The best time to visit Azad Maidan is around 7 am. As the rest of Mumbai shakes itself awake, this patch of earth is already a theatre of action. A swarm of young cricketers, mostly clad in white shirts and tracks, take their positions in different pockets of the ground. From a drone’s gaze, it is a living mosaic of white grains on an orange canvas. The percussive rhythm from hundreds of concurrent footsteps creates a backdrop for the visual marvel, while the sizzle from the vada pav seller’s pan fills in as sensory candy.

Some here are training in net sessions, under the watchful eyes of bespectacled, floppy hat-wearing mentors. Most others are engaged in competitive matches. Venture inward, about fifty steps from the main entrance, and you find yourself ensnared in a kaleidoscope of games - eight, ten, who's counting? No matter where you stand in the ground, there is always a risk of getting sniped by a flying red projectile.

White clothing and red leather. Sixteen years have rushed by since the Indian Premier League changed the colour palette of Indian cricket. Yet here, in the beating heart of this sport's modern nucleus, the aspirants cling to this tradition, almost as a rule.

Under the golden light. Credits: Will Salkeld.

I digress. It is hard to even take a ballpark guess at how many white-clad torsos are simultaneously shuffling around the maidan, but anywhere between 400-700 would not be too far. With dreams as fresh as the morning dew, these kids are ready to take another swing while most others their age are still pouring out of bed. Only a handful will make it to levels that send them to better grounds. But tell that to the boy who has lugged his heavy kit bag through a forty-five minute train journey just to get here.

A good practice, after taking in the insanity, is to sit near one of the tents pitched by cricket clubs that run in Mumbai. You can get a cultural history lesson on Mumbai and Indian cricket by just existing within the earshot of a keen observer. They make the air hum with tales - of triumphs and near misses, of sweat-soaked jerseys and sunburned dreams. Without needing to introduce yourself, you are already included in the conversation. They nod at you while talking about the importance of a good forward defence, you nod back. Over a cup of cutting chai, they share gossip, secrets, and predictions.

“Koi dikha kya, Ranji material?”, you hang the question like a well-flighted leg-break, hoping to lure a response. The syntax is important: you must ask about Ranji with sincere intent, as if you are looking for the next international superstar amongst these starlings. In Mumbai, the Ranji Trophy, India's foremost domestic competition, is more than just a tournament. It is a rite of passage.

The question will elicit answers from the many seasoned heads around you. They will point to a few matches, call out a handful of names, but warn you that it is all about the work ethic. Mumbai believes in grit. The cliché that one needs a miner’s sweat to make it in this city is truest for its cricket.

Enter Sarfaraz

Sarfaraz Khan is a product of Mumbai's maidans. About a decade and a bit back, many were pointing in his direction, talking up a boy who seemed destined for floodlit matches on manicured lawns. And he soared. As a 12-year-old, he batted for ten hours to score 439 runs in one innings in a Harris Shield match. Playing bowlers much older than him on pitches that give everything but consistent bounce, he announced himself as the next thing.

Here we go. Source: AP.

After that 439 knock, he was swarmed by journalists. Just twelve, what were his ambitions? Ranji Trophy, he is believed to have said. Lurking nearby, a silent sentinel to this blossoming flower - Naushad Khan, father and coach. Naushad, too, had stood at maidan gates, clad in similar whites. But life's script unfolded differently for him. In Sarfaraz - and later, Musheer - he saw an adjacent projection of his dreams. Along with all his gifts, Sarfaraz also carries the tailwind of Naushad's youth.

And so, he eventually got his Mumbai whites, aged 17, with a hype to match the ability. A debut at the hallowed turf of Eden Gardens. His innings lasted four balls, but more would come. Mumbai cricket knows how to nurture talent. Within another couple of seasons, Sarfaraz consolidated his reputation as a guaranteed India prospect. He made it to the under-19 World Cup team in 2016. The final ended in tears, but the scorecard tells a story. From 50-5, Sarfaraz dragged India to 145 against a West Indies team that harboured three future international fast bowlers. In the IPL, he was already an X-factor player, a sparkler in a batting lineup that held Chris Gayle, Virat Kohli, and AB de Villiers.

“The look on Shane Watson's face says, 'Who is this guy?’”

This clip, a fleeting glimpse of early Sarfaraz, defies chronology. At that age, you should not be toying with Shane Watson and James Faulkner. They were World Cup winners. Where are the jitters, the nerves, the anxiety that accompanies such a stage? Sarfaraz, it seems, had already outgrown his adolescence.

Yet, the spotlight flickered, its beam fleeting. By 2018, India's under-19 team was on another juggernaut, a new batch emerging as a league above their peers. Sarfaraz must’ve watched Shubman Gill and Prithvi Shaw with a hollowness in his gut. Both Shaw and Gill made their international debuts within the next twelve months; Shaw, his friend from Mumbai, doubled up with a breathtaking century on his first bow.

Tough gig

Indian domestic cricket is a conveyor belt of batting talent. Every year, it tosses up a new set of youngsters, all seemingly more equipped than the previous bunch. It adds to the complexity of the path an average cricketer has to navigate to even start featuring in selection conversations. A couple of decades back, Subramaniam Badrinath was pillaging runs, bashing bowlers from all parts of the country. Year in, year out, he would feature around the top run-getters in domestic cricket. And yet, his Test career lasted one series against the best bowling attack in the world.

Batting positions can be complex things. They are tactical devices that require specialised skillsets. Badrinath was a middle-order batter at a time when the Indian middle-order read like a roll call of batting royalty. Dravid, Tendulkar, Laxman, and Ganguly. Even Yuvraj Singh had to struggle for his chances. People of a certain vintage remember Padmakar Shivalkar, a veteran of the Mumbai circuit. He picked more wickets than even he could probably remember, but the international team already had four of the best spinners India would ever produce.

After every such season, the path became clearer for Sarfaraz: score until there are no more runs left to get. And score he did, with an appetite of someone famished. 2466 runs in his last 27 first class innings, at an average north of 90. That's, to be honest, obscene. To average 90 over four years, even while playing for a strong team, is stupid. It’s unfair on bowlers.

The selectors, those gatekeepers of destiny, stared at their scouting tools every few months. Perhaps they muttered an expletive or two as Sarfaraz's numbers danced before their eyes. But the call-up? The summons to don the India jersey? Silence. Not even a nod against perceived minnows.

“Jo mera khwaab hai, aankhon ka hissa kyun nahi hota? Diye hum bhi jalaate hain, ujaala kyun nahi hota?”

Why can't I see what I dream of? I too light the lanterns, then why can't I feel the glow?

Sarfaraz is, after all, a middle-order batter at a time when India already had Pujara, Kohli, Rahane, Shreyas, KL Rahul, Jadeja, and Rishabh Pant. That is a lot of exceptional batters, with accomplished records, to drive past. Everyone wanted him to get the call, nobody quite knew who would have to leave the building.

Sarfaraz's pain was perhaps amplified as he watched much younger players, with a comparatively pale footprint in domestic cricket, get their handshakes. Prithvi Shaw, Shubman Gill, and Yashasvi Jaiswal made their international debuts before turning 22. All three are top-order batters, and India's recent struggle with producing enough high-quality openers has opened up the door for them.

The depth of talent that doesn't even make it to international reckoning in India is either a strength or a problem, depending on where you sit. Sir Gary Sobers is said to have told an Indian journalist once, “You forget more cricketers than we produce.” It wasn’t a compliment. For every star that graces the international arena, there's a constellation left unmapped. When a player with the ability and CV of Sarfaraz is held back, it becomes a nagging question for selectors, player, family, and fans alike. What more can he do?

The answer is complicated. Selectors have to weigh talent against circumstance, ambition against pragmatism. They have a duty to back players who might be stumbling but have a ceiling high enough to reap great rewards. Hindsight is always 20-20 vision, isn’t it? You look at Shreyas Iyer's recent form and think, “Why was Sarfaraz not selected over him in the last few months?” But Iyer, a graduate from the same Mumbai school of cricket, was the trailblazer tearing bowlers apart in domestic cricket a few years back.

And so Sarfaraz went back to the drawing board. He wrote more pages in this chapter - a long passage of resilience inked on the parchment of patience. In an odd way, every blow of disappointment was making him a hungrier batter.

“We take 40-50 minutes to get ready, and are at the ground by 6.40. It is still a bit dark, so I warm up by running and then practise from 7 to 9. If there is Mumbai practice, it is from 11 to 2. Then I return home, rest for an hour, and practise from 4 to 6pm.” - Sarfaraz to IndianExpress in 2022

Catharsis

Finally, at long last, after absences and injuries forced their hand, the selectors looked at him. He was going to play against England at Rajkot. After receiving the Test cap from Anil Kumble, he sprinted, his heart racing, to his father and wife. Their tears, like monsoon rain, baptised the most precious piece of clothing Sarfaraz Khan will ever own.

The BCCI media team sought out Naushad Khan after the tears of joy had given way to a most radiant, beaming, smile.

“Raat ko waqt do guzarne ke liye, suraj apne hi samay pe niklega.”

Be patient as the night passes, the sun will rise.

Sarfaraz wears the number 97 on his jersey. Split into two, it reads Nau and Saat in Hindi. A silent nod to the man who laid the foundation. Naushad Khan’s name is forever woven into the fabric of Sarfaraz's cricket journey.

He had to wait four more hours to get a crack. What's four hours when you have waited for almost a decade? All his runs, etched in the ledger of sweat and sacrifice, led him to this moment. He batted like he owned the pitch. If anyone was expecting a debutant's nerves, Sarfaraz concealed them behind flamboyance and audacity. Even James Anderson, that old, relentless warrior who has troubled three generations of batters, was met with a casual stroll down the pitch for a deftly-placed double. Those 62 runs came like a cool, soothing breeze. His exuberance portrayed a palpable lightness, but it stood upon a reservoir of talent and homework - hours dissecting deliveries, nights spent visualising glory. This was no rookie.

He has arrived. Source: Reuters.

At the end of the day, captain Rohit Sharma went over to congratulate Naushad for his work in developing such a fine cricketer. Naushad replied with, “Sarfaraz ka khayal rakhna.” Take care of Sarfaraz.

It was less a message to Rohit Sharma and more a plea to Indian cricket. Give Sarfaraz Khan his due; you won’t regret it.