He’s perhaps a perplexing enigma. Thanks to Harsha Bhogle’s
book on him, we get to know that Azhar’s room had designer suits next to his
prayer mat; stylish designer glasses next to the amulet; and for a boy who
wasn’t allowed to watch films, ended up marrying an actress. He is known as a
cheat who sold his soul, a man who loved the high life, and an arrogant chap
who clipped his toenails in a press conference in Sharjah.
All of this makes him a great study in psychology. Yet, his
game is a serious study in aesthetics.
His communication skills could put a Trappist monk to shame.
But he spoke through his batting. In free verse. His wristy strokes were
impossibly carefree. His cover drives, a delight to the senses. As a result,
the ball caressed through the greens to the boundary, waltzing its way in
delight. He was our David Gower. Lazy elegance and incredible mastery rolled
into one. And what about his fielding? The backhand flip was perhaps the
visual rendition of Keats’s famous line – a thing of beauty is a joy forever.
Azhar was a consummate artist. A rare breed who befuddles us
with his flaws and finesse alike.
