Max, Hotel Budapest & the BOAC Bag
Travels with KH
In the two summers of 1979 and 1983, Shahzad Humayun and I toured England watching and reporting on the cricket matches in the company of Khalid Hasan and a gallery of some unique characters. These are some of those moments.
Merry Max, Maqsood Ahmed, the dashing batsmen of Kardar’s 1954 team, was, many years later, part of the Corolla party and was inseparable from his blue BOAC bag, which contained just about most spirits produced then in the western world. It was a bar that traveled with Max wherever he went.
We arrived at the outskirts of Headingley one late afternoon on June 8th 1979. The Corolla was full and spilling over. Athar Ali, Fakhre Humayun, Jungle Fresh, Shahzad Humayun, myself and the great helmsman, Khalid Hasan were all inside a car which didn’t even have room for a sardine. To add to the prevalent chaos, Max was also in the party clutching his blue BOAC bag. At the sight of Headingley, Max who had been studiously imbibing all the way from London sprang into action. ‘Hotel Budapest,’ he chanted. ‘We stay there. Rosie is there.’ The B&B search had already commenced and so suggestions were not entirely discouraged. However Hotel Budapest was nowhere to be found. The only thing Max said before disappearing in his BOAC bag was that it was near the cricket ground. When we asked him the last time he had been at Hotel Budapest, Max slurred and said what sounded like 1954. That was about 25 years back. ‘My sweetheart lived in Hotel Budapest,’ said Max before dissolving into tears. ‘I loved her,’ he added. ‘Have another drink Max,’ we suggested.
Cursing the British for the amount of shrubbery they plant everywhere, we looked in every nook and cranny near the cricket ground and finally found Hotel Budapest tucked behind huge trees. Before the Corolla could come to a stop on the gravelly path, Max was out like greased lightening and ran towards the B&B calling out ‘Darling, Darling, it’s Max.’ A plump and well endowed woman of obvious Eastern European descent emerged wringing a wash cloth. ‘Darling,’ said Max. ‘It’s me!’ The woman was clearly mystified but then a smile broke across her face. ‘Max,’ she said. ‘Max? Is it you?’ Max made for the steps but took a tumble, BOAC bag and all. ‘Darling,’ Max gurgled. ‘It is me.’ ‘Oh my God,’ she replied. ‘It’s been years.’ ‘1954,’ Max supplied and grabbed her. Behind the lady tractor driver now appeared a young stunning girl and an older man, obviously the father. Max was crying and wiped his tears as the Corolla crowd watched the pantomime from the driveway.
He soon spotted the daughter (Max said she was his love child) and made a bee line for her, quite forgetting that Rosie was around. By this time, we had started hauling bags and went up the Budapest. From around then till 9 pm Max was steadily drinking and making passes at the mother and occasionally at his ‘daughter.’ At some point in time, Max fell down the stairs and we had to carry him to his bedroom. He was the correspondent for The Muslim but we all knew he wouldn’t be reporting from England. Eventually Shahzad did all of Max’s pieces and I chipped in with some which we faxed to ZIM who was at a desk in Islamabad ‘constructing’ the tour.
The next day Pakistan was playing at Headingley but by 10 am we knew that nothing could stir Max. When we last peeped in, he was sleeping like a baby clutching his beloved BOAC bag. The bag was a heady collection of just about most spirits you could think of. Vodka, Scotch, Brandy, Gin and wines intermingled most indiscriminately. As far as Max was concerned however, there was no distinction. What of course this did inside his system can only be guessed. Max slept through Headingley where we beat minnows Canada by 8 wickets and only woke up in time for another Pakistan match that we were playing at Trent Bridge, but that was five days later. This was an Australia vs. Pakistan key fixture that had to be played on June 14th, the reserve day as the inevitable rain washed out the first day. Pakistan beat Australia by 89 runs. It was here that Dickie Bird ran into Jungle Fresh. Ken Palmer was the second umpire. It was also the delayed match that caused the Corolla crowd to head for the Sherwood Forest to find a place to sleep, ending up with the old bag that Shahzad thought was a serial killer.
On 16th June Pakistan was playing England in one of the crucial ties of the Cup. The usual suspects had journeyed from London to reach Headingley, Leeds. Having pried him away from Hotel Budapest, we were to discover that what transpired here was vintage Max. The press box where we were seated had these huge wooden windows which opened so that you could hear the crack of the bat hitting the ball. Farooq Mazhar, Khalid Hasan, Shahzad and myself were watching Imran tearing in bowling to David Gower who was in magnificent form. We were engrossed so when Max lurched into the press box. We never heard him. We only did when Max and the BOAC bag collapsed between the benches and Max was down for the count. At about the same time, Gower was rapped on the pads by an express delivery from Imran. The team went up in an appeal that must have woken the dead in a hundred mile radius. Before the umpire could give his ruling, Max had struggled to raise himself barely to table level and announced, ‘Oye not out wey. Ball missing the leg stump,’ saying which Max fell down again. The umpire ruled a not out and it was left to KH who turned to Farooq and said, ‘Khawaja waisay Max nuhn game de barri samag wey.’ (Khawaja, Max really knows this game well). FM nodded and lit up.
The loser at Headingley would have to face the mighty West Indians in the semi final at the Oval and certain elimination from the final two teams. We were winning but in the press box, we were not at all sure. Farooq Mazhar wouldn’t stop smoking and nervously tapping his feet, Khalid Hasan cynically announcing that we would not win and the rest of us praying that for once we would beat the English. And it looked like we would easily, till a few grey clouds floated across a perfectly blue sky and Hendricks who was looking ordinary a minute earlier began to swing the ball prodigiously. From nowhere we were four down, staged a recovery, and then lost two more wickets. Defeat began to loom. Zia Moheyddin could take no more of this. ‘Shikast hamara muqadar bun chuki hai,’ (Defeat is our destiny) he intoned in his deep voice. More wickets fell, but Asif Iqbal was there and we were sure he’d take us past the modest English total. Sikander Bakht, the fast bowler was in. Asif walked down the pitch and began to counsel him. We could not hear what he was saying but it was apparent that Asif was pleading with Bakht to just block any delivery he faced and leave the scoring to him at the other end. Bakht nodded and proceeded to take an almighty wild swipe at the next delivery, missing it altogether. An anguished Asif rushed down the pitch and patiently took Bakht through the steps again. Bakht hoiked the next ball and it went right up as three English fielders gathered under it. Miraculously the catch was dropped and Bakht had got two runs. Asif was now livid and more counseling followed. Bakht crossed his heart and gave the ‘Don’t worry chief,’ sign to Asif. A mighty heave followed on the next ball. Bakht was out, caught. Asif Iqbal threw his bat down in disgust and was soon out. Pakistan was out of the Cup for all practical purposes. Hendricks had 4 wickets for a paltry 15 runs and when Asif was finally out for a gallant 51, all was lost. England had won by 14 runs.
Zia Moheyddin took a deep sigh and said, ‘tey fer roti tukar meray vul he kha laina,’ (So you all might as well come to my house and eat with me). As always Desi food had the last word.
The last Max incident that must be reported took place at the Oval. The great legendary E.W. Swanton, as was the custom, would roll up in his RR and always carrying two briefcases would make his way to his reserved seat in the press box. If he was not there, no one could use that seat. Max was lurching in and around the press box with his BOAC bag. Earlier he had left on a journey to the Dining Room where lunch was being served, but never arrived having fallen inside a telephone booth. Why he was there, I cannot recall. As the ‘goras’ ate on, KH picked up Max and we all then half carried him to the press box. In an hour or so, Max was back in business and the unfortunate Swanton came into view. Max tottered over to EW and tried to wrest the wine glass Swanton was nursing. ‘This is mine,’ Max told EW. Swanton was in a state of shock. As he struggled to save the glass, Max prevailed. The wine fell in a parabolic arc across Swanton’s silver grey suit and a few seconds later, Max, the glass, the BOAC bag all fell in the press box. Swanton left shortly thereafter muttering to himself. What he was saying one can quite understand but Max was happily unrepentant. ‘It was my drink,’ he said looking at the empty wine glass.
Mansoor Maujiz ‘Jungle Fresh’ had gotten tired of cricket and had also run out of supplies. I had christened him, ‘Obvious da Badshah,’ (King of the Obvious) because he would come up with the most obvious statements, particularly about cricket. ‘Partner why is that man in a white coat?’ or ‘Are you sure he is out?’ – this to a player who had his stumps shattered and was trudging back to the pavilion. He told us that he was returning to London to his flat in ‘Shefered’s Bush,’ – that is how Maujiz called it. He was planning to start a business called ‘Curry in a Hurry,’ long before anyone else had ever thought of it.