R Sriman — A tribute

I see myself treading on a few toes as I venture to pay homage to a very dear friend -- `RS' -- not `Mr' or `Shri' any more. But `Late' fo...

I see myself treading on a few toes as I venture to pay homage to a very dear friend — `RS’ — not `Mr’ or `Shri’ any more. But `Late’ for all practical and referential purposes. We used to call him `RS’ with fond reverence. And he seemed to like it without any overbearing signs of seniority or a stif upperlip.

`RS’ was a giant in his professional field. Never an also-ran, also batted or also bowled. That is why I was slightly disturbed with the response of his own fraternity to his demise. It is not for me to suggest that a versatile doyan of sports journalism deserved more than just a passing mention. But that is what I am doing exactly. Not out of any obligation. But I genuinely believe `RS’ was the finest gift, in flesh and blood, from the South to the North of India. However, I am not too sure if we North Indians have been very upfront with our appraisal of a man whose heart beat for North in just about every sporting discipline that he covered.

Over the years that `RS’ lived in Delhi, I feel he made a very conspicuous attempt to shed his laidback (read timid) South Indian image. Unwittingly, he tried to get into the aggressive North Indian mask and might have even succeeded to a certain extent. My personal assessment is that `RS’ was at times overtly loud, without ever meaning to be deliberately so. I am certain his heart was as soft as cotton wool. He once expressed a desire to write an epitaph for a renowned Indian cricketer — (“Here lies a man who took everything from everybody and gave nothing to nobody”).

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Instantly, the soft interior broke open — (“My only fear is that I am going to die before him”).

I reckon I understood `RS’ pretty well. As a professional writer, he gave me stick from time to time. But there was never a moment when he gave the impression of a vindictive penpusher. `RS’ had a terrific memory to go with his numerous exploits, covering seven or eight Olympics, plenty of cricket and hockey tours. His memoirs would have done justice to the man’s colossal contribution to Indian sports. Alas, that was not to be.

The dynasity and alacrity with which he operated from the sports desk for close to four decades, was just not there in the post-retirement period. Towards the last few years of his life, `RS’ came to be known as a perpetual moaner as he allowed himself to be sucked in by certain developments over which he had no control. No, that is not the image I would like to carry or cherish.

For me, `RS’ was a master craftsman with his pen, always very generous in praise and very logical in criticism. He had superb nose for news, which is something the television might have snatched from the modern generation of sportswriters. `RS’ had a great will to fight for a cause — I was a beneficiary once and shall remain grateful eternally. His unflinching determination to fight for Dhyan Chand’s statue at the National Stadium is a profound testimony to his crusade for a national genesis (“Dhyan Chand was to Indian hockey what Bradman was to Australian cricket”). I heard this statement many times from `RS’.

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His sense of humour was pure magic. A crude Punjabi joke wrapped up in Tamilian flavour sounded good to the ears. `RS’, like most of us, could seldom see the funny part if the laughter was at his expense. His contemporaries have had the temerity to describe `RS’ as abnoxious. I would like to add that we all have our failings. Give me `RS’ any time, with all his shortcomings. I can assure you this world will feel the vaccum, minus Sriman. The profession of sports journalism will take a long time filling in the void of `RS’.

“You b…. Sardar, you write better than you could bowl,” was an affectionate tone of encouragement I received in abundance from `RS’. I have reason to believe he was a good soul. God’s own man. He was exceptional. Inevitably, he was lonely, too.