From a refrigerator full of cricket balls to Inzamam’s disputed 100: Let me tell you some unheard stories of umpires and scorers

Can you imagine a cricket match without an umpire or a scorer? They are indispensable to the game, yet among its least celebrated figures. Players get the applause, headlines and photographs, while those who keep the game running often go unnoticed.

I remember an umpire telling me plaintively, “ Kabhi hamara naam bhi daal do yaar paper mein (Please mention our names in the newspaper once in a while).” Another responded cheekily: “Make a mistake, and he’ll mention you!” That neatly captures the media’s relationship with umpires. We quickly highlight errors but rarely acknowledge a good day’s work.

An early lesson came from my Sports Editor, S. Krishnan. After I described an umpiring decision as dubious in a match report, he called to ask where I had been watching from. “The press box,” I replied. “Were you in a better position than the umpire?” he asked. That silenced me. It is easy to criticise from a distance; making a split-second decision in the middle is another matter.

Over the years, I have befriended several umpires and scorers, enjoying their stories and watching them work. Scorers, though, are best left undisturbed. Their job demands immense concentration, and even a small interruption can disrupt their rhythm.

Some stories from this world are too good not to tell.

Take the case of the new cricket balls that went missing, even though they were not really missing. They were sitting comfortably inside somebody’s refrigerator. It happened during a Ranji Trophy match in which a new ball was due in the final session. The visiting captain wanted to claim it, but the umpire advised him against doing so. The captain was understandably puzzled. Why would a team not get a new ball when it was due?

The umpire explained that there were no new balls left in the room. “How can that be? That’s not fair,” the captain protested. The match was heading for a draw, and the captain eventually decided not to press the matter. But the umpire was not satisfied. He subsequently questioned the association about the absence of a reserve supply of new balls. The response was rather embarrassing: there simply weren’t any.

The umpire contacted the board office and was told that a new box of cricket balls had already been dispatched and received. The mystery was soon solved. The box had been delivered to an official’s house. The official was away, and his wife, assuming that it contained mangoes sent from Goa, had promptly put the contents in the refrigerator. So there they were: cricket balls chilling alongside the household groceries, mistaken for a box of mangoes! It was a hilarious episode, but it also prompted changes to ensure that such a situation would not recur.

Some of my fondest memories, though, have nothing to do with officialdom. They concern the little friendships and eccentricities that make cricket such a wonderful game.

I remember covering a Duleep Trophy match in Rourkela, in December 1994, where R.T. Ramachandran was one of the umpires. His partner was Subrata Porel, a former Air Force fast bowler who had taken up umpiring. Porel’s son now plays for Bengal. The two were roommates. Ramachandran had a curious habit of coming up to me quietly and slipping me a ladoo. He would do it rather discreetly, almost as though he were passing on something confidential.

On the third morning, Porel finally noticed. “What did he give you?” he asked. “A ladoo,” I replied. Porel was visibly disappointed. “See, he isn’t giving me any! I knew he was hiding something in his suitcase.” These are the little things you remember when you spend time with people away from the spotlight.

Kamal Juneja, who once travelled on the floor of the August Kranti Express to reach a match involving Sachin Tendulkar, recalls the extraordinary journeys and unforgettable moments that came with being a cricket umpire. | Photo Credit: Special arrangement

One of the most remarkable journeys I heard about was that of Kamal Juneja, whom I have known for many years. Juneja had always wanted to officiate in a match involving Sachin Tendulkar. That opportunity finally came his way in January 1996. Sachin was approaching the peak of his powers, and Juneja was asked to travel to Thane for a Ranji Trophy match as a replacement for S. Venkataraghavan, who had to travel to Dubai. Juneja was to join A.V. Jayaprakash, the original official.

For Juneja, this was an opportunity he simply could not afford to miss. He had to get to Mumbai in a hurry. The confirmation had not come through in time, and he boarded the August Kranti Express without a proper seat. He travelled sitting on the floor. At one point, the ticket examiner told him that he would have to get down. Juneja pleaded with him, explaining that he had played for Uttar Pradesh in the Ranji Trophy and was travelling to officiate in an important match. The ticket examiner eventually relented. But Juneja still did not get a seat. He reached Mumbai, spent the night at a friend’s house and travelled to Thane the following morning.

All that effort was worth it. He got to stand in a match involving Sachin, who went on to score a hundred (81 and 151). Juneja later told me, “What more could I ask for? I just wanted to watch him for a while. And here I was, standing in the middle when he was scoring a hundred.” He also interacted with former India speedster Ramakant Desai, who was managing the Bombay team. For him, it was an extraordinary experience to meet two personalities he admired.

But what stayed with him most was not just Sachin’s batting. It was something the young batsman did after an appeal for leg-before. Juneja had turned down the appeal. Sachin did not question him on the field. Instead, he waited until the interval, walked up to Juneja and quietly asked, “Sir, what was that? Was it missing the stumps?” Juneja explained that the ball was missing the stumps. Sachin accepted the explanation and walked away. For Juneja, that was a wonderful demonstration of humility.

There are other stories that are funny in a rather different way.

Gursharan Singh, a dear friend who played a Test for India and captained Punjab during its only Ranji Trophy triumph in 1993, once narrated an incident from a match against Services at the Palam ground in December 1992. Gursharan had been dismissed leg-before to a spinner after playing on the back foot. He was not particularly happy with the decision and lingered at the crease before returning to the pavilion. Bishan Singh Bedi, who was in charge of the team, was waiting for him.

“What were you doing out there?” Bedi asked. “When the umpire gives you out, you have to come back. You played on the back foot. Where is the question of escaping that leg-before?” Gursharan agreed that he had played on the back foot. He also agreed that the umpire was absolutely right. There was, however, one small problem. “The ball did not hit my pads,” he explained. “It hit the wicketkeeper’s pads!” Imagine the situation. The ball had apparently struck the wicketkeeper, but the umpire had given Gursharan out leg-before. Even so, Bedi’s point was that he should have walked back without remonstrating with the umpire.

G. R. Vishwanath was a batsman whose sense of fair play is legendary. He was famously known for walking rather than waiting for the umpire’s decision. There are even stories of him walking before being given out leg-before. I. Sivaram, an international umpire based in Hyderabad, once told me about an incident involving Vishwanath.

Sivaram was an efficient umpire, known for his strictness. He recalled an occasion from the Moin Ud Dowlah tournament when Vishwanath was caught and bowled. The batsman did not immediately walk. He stopped, looked at the umpire and stood there for a moment before eventually leaving. Sivaram was surprised. Vishwanath was not someone known to show dissent, so the hesitation was unusual. It turned out that the batsman was not protesting at all. He was simply surprised. He later explained that although he had been caught and bowled, the ball had come off his pads before travelling back to the bowler. It was an unfortunate dismissal, and Viswanath’s reaction was one of disbelief rather than dissent.

The importance of an umpire’s authority, meanwhile, was brought home to me during a match in Amritsar in 2004. It involved East Zone and England A, with Kevin Pietersen in the visiting side and Mahendra Singh Dhoni also playing. The game at the Gandhi Sports Complex was becoming increasingly acrimonious. There was plenty of shouting, and players were exchanging insults. The umpires, Vijay Chopra and Sivaram, decided that enough was enough.

At one point, I noticed that the game had been stopped. Chopra and Sivaram were speaking to the England captain, Matt Prior. I checked with them later to find out what had happened. They had warned the captain that if the players continued their behaviour and another instance of dissent occurred, the offending player would be sent off the field. It was an important intervention. The umpires had made it clear that they would not allow the match to descend into chaos. East Zone won that match. I remember having a long conversation with M.S. Dhoni on the ground’s balcony while watching the game. He was still a young cricketer, and at one point he asked me, “Sir, will I ever get a chance?” What could I tell him? He went on to score runs in that match (52 and 24). This was 2004, and he would soon go on to play for India. We all know what he eventually became.

V.N. Kulkarni, a no-nonsense umpire who stood his ground even when confronted by some of Indian cricket’s biggest names, had his share of memorable encounters, including sending Sanjay Manjrekar off the field for a session over dissent. | Photo Credit: Special arrangement

I am reminded of V.N. Kulkarni, a highly respected umpire from Bengaluru. He continues to contribute to the profession by preparing a booklet each season to help umpires understand the laws and changes in the game. Kulkarni famously sent India batsman Sanjay Manjrekar off the field for a session during a Ranji Trophy match (Bombay versus Maharashtra at Solapur in 1994), reportedly for dissent. Manjrekar later wrote about the incident in his autobiography. “I deserved to be sent off the field,” he wrote. What I admired was his willingness to acknowledge that he had been wrong and apologise to Kulkarni for his behaviour.

Kulkarni, who worked with the State Bank of India, had begun his umpiring career in the Karnataka state cricket league, earning just [Rs. 5 per match]. His first major assignment came in Delhi in 1992, for a Ranji Trophy match between Delhi and Punjab. Those contests were never ordinary cricket matches. Kulkarni remembered them as wars. Delhi followed on in that particular game, and he recalled an incident involving Bedi, who was coaching Punjab.

He noticed Punjab players practising close to the centre wicket and went across to address the matter. Bedi saw him approaching and asked, “Have you come to tell me that we can’t practise here? What are you going to do?” Kulkarni’s response was measured. “Sir, I am not going to do anything. I will only mention it in my report to the BCCI. You know the laws.” Bedi understood the position, called his players away and stopped the practice. That was Kulkarni. Strict, well-versed in the laws and never afraid to carry out his responsibilities.

But even the most experienced umpires can find themselves caught up in the absurdities of cricket administration. Kulkarni once travelled from Bengaluru to Delhi for a match between Delhi and Bengal. Somewhere near Agra, he spotted in a Hindi newspaper that the match had been cancelled following Bengal’s suspension. Kulkarni was stunned. He had not even reached Delhi. The match was off, and he had travelled all that way for nothing. He had a return train ticket for the fifth day, but the BCCI was kind enough to arrange an air ticket back to Bengaluru.

On another occasion, he was asked to travel to Delhi as a replacement umpire after the originally appointed official had withdrawn due to an emergency. Kulkarni boarded the Karnataka Express. Unfortunately, the train was delayed. There were no mobile phones in those days. The association was left wondering what had happened, and Kulkarni could only explain himself once he reached his destination. He arrived at his hotel at around three in the morning. The hotel manager told him that they had waited until 10 p.m. before giving his room to somebody else. Kulkarni had to sit in the reception and request permission to freshen up and change. He eventually made his way to the ground at 6.30 in the morning. He left for Bangalore the same evening. His summary of the entire adventure was priceless: 79 hours on the train, seven hours on the ground!

It tells you everything about the life of an umpire. It is hardly a glamorous profession, and it is certainly not a particularly thankful one. When you do a good job, nobody notices. When you make a mistake, everybody does.

Some of the most difficult situations I witnessed involved Delhi and Punjab. Their matches could be fiercely contested, and the tensions occasionally spilt over into questions about who was appointed to officiate. In January 1991, an umpire failed to turn up for a Delhi-Punjab match. S. Venkataraghavan was present, and Pritam Sood, who happened to be in Delhi, was asked to stand in. The moment Sood arrived, Bedi objected. His argument was that Sood was from Delhi and should not officiate. Venkataraghavan explained that Sood was a first-class qualified umpire and had been called in because the appointed official had failed to turn up. Bedi was not convinced. He refused to allow Sood to stand.

The match had to begin, and there was little time to find another official. Anil Chaudhary, who would later become an ICC umpire, was also present. He had a good understanding of the laws, so he was asked to help. Venkataraghavan officiated from both ends, while Chaudhary stood at square leg. That arrangement continued through the first session. Eventually, Bedi was persuaded to allow Sood to officiate. Venkataraghavan himself acknowledged how difficult it would have been to umpire from both ends for an entire match. Ideally, they needed a neutral umpire from outside the state. Sood completed the match. Punjab had several prominent players in that game, including Vikram Rathour, Gursharan Singh, the two Bhupinders, junior and senior, and the immensely talented Dhruv Pandove. Ajay Mehra was also part of the side. Those were different times. Even the appointment of an umpire could become a talking point before a ball had been bowled.

Suresh Shastri found himself at the centre of a memorable Ranji Trophy controversy in 1995, when he accused Manoj Prabhakar of tampering with the ball. What followed the next morning was even more unexpected. | Photo Credit: The Hindu Archives

Another Delhi-Punjab contest, this time a Ranji Trophy semifinal in March 1995, remains etched in my memory for a completely different reason. Suresh Shastri was appointed to officiate. Shastri became the first Indian umpire to officiate in 100 First-Class matches, achieving the mark on December 30, 2013, during a Ranji Trophy match between Hyderabad and Kerala at the Rajiv Gandhi International Cricket Stadium in Uppal. He was a straightforward umpire who knew the game and the players well. One evening, we were told that Shastri wanted to hold a press conference. We went along, and he produced the match ball. It had been tampered with. There was oil on it. Shastri alleged that Manoj Prabhakar had tampered with the ball.

There had been a heated episode on the field, and Shastri had decided to bring it to the authorities’ attention. In those days, there was no match referee to deal with such incidents. The umpire had to take responsibility and report the matter to the BCCI. The context of the game was interesting. Delhi had made 554, but Punjab replied with 780. Bhupinder Singh Jr. scored 297, while Pankaj Dharmani made 202. It was a huge total, and the contest had become bitter. Prabhakar, too, was known to be an explosive character.

The newspapers carried the allegation the following morning. One might have expected relations between the two men to be rather strained. But cricket has a way of surprising you. The next morning, Prabhakar drove Shastri to the ground. Shastri lived close to Prabhakar’s house, and the latter had simply offered him a lift. I asked Prabhakar whether he had really brought Shastri to the ground after the previous evening’s episode. “Yes, yes,” he replied. “He was near my house, so I brought him.” The two had arrived together.

There was another lovely detail. Prabhakar gifted one of his best bats to Shastri, whose nephew was also a cricketer. Shastri had asked for it. Think about that. One evening, there was a public allegation of ball-tampering. The following morning, the two men were travelling together, and one was gifting the other a bat. That was the nature of relationships in those days. A controversy did not necessarily destroy a friendship. The episode was quickly forgotten, and cricket moved on.

The people behind the scorebook

If umpires are often forgotten, scorers have perhaps an even harder time getting noticed. Their work is just as important, but their contribution is rarely acknowledged. I have always been fascinated by scorers, too. Scoring is an art. Umpiring, on the other hand, is about concentration, judgement and the ability to make decisions under pressure. Watching a scorer at work is quite an experience. I used to watch them with their scorebooks and an assortment of coloured pens. Each colour had its purpose. Certain entries were highlighted in red to stand out, while green was used for batsmen and bowlers. There was a method to everything, and the scorebook became a beautiful collage of colours.

I remember the conditions under which scorers were sometimes expected to work. At certain grounds, there was hardly any proper space for them. They would be placed in temporary structures near the boundary, exposed to constant disturbances. The Chandigarh-based Rakesh Sanghi, who was particularly protective of scorers, was very careful not to be disturbed. I could see how difficult it was for them to concentrate in those surroundings.

Eventually, associations began making better arrangements. Gurgaon stood out. An elevated temporary platform was constructed, giving scorers a more suitable place from which to work. I remember climbing such a platform and sitting with them for a while. It gave me a much better appreciation of their working conditions.

Among Delhi’s most respected scorers was N.K. Lakhotia. He was exceptionally brilliant and had a graduation degree in mathematics from Hansraj College. He could have pursued other avenues, but cricket scoring became his passion. He began scoring in 1981 and eventually qualified as a BCCI scorer in 1997. He was one of those people whose knowledge of cricket went well beyond the numbers in the scorebook.

I remember him telling me about a Test match between India and Zimbabwe at the Kotla. There was an incident involving Andy Flower and his brother Grant that left him rather flustered. Scorers routinely make notes during intervals, recording details such as which umpire is standing at which end and which batsman is expected to take strike. Lakhotia had made a note for Andy not to take a strike after lunch. But when play began, he was surprised to see Flower taking strike. He realised that something had gone wrong, but it was too late. Andy had played the ball. These things happen.

Lakhotia also had an extraordinary eye for talent. In Delhi, the DDCA would often consult him about promising young cricketers. He watched the game closely and could identify players with potential long before they became household names. His recommendations carried considerable weight. Players he identified would be called for trials, and several went on to earn opportunities. He had a golden eye for spotting talent, which was perhaps another reason he was so respected.

When I asked him about his most memorable assignment, he recalled the 1999 India-Pakistan Test match for which he had been the official scorer. That, too, tells you something about the life of a scorer. They may not be in the middle, but they witness history from a very different vantage point. And perhaps that is what I have enjoyed most about spending time with these men. They see cricket differently. They remember the details that the rest of us miss. They know what happens before the first ball, between overs, during intervals and after the last wicket falls.

Rajesh Arora, a veteran scorer who moved from handwritten scorebooks to digital scoring, recalls the day he refused to add two runs to Inzamam-ul-Haq’s tally, even under pressure. | Photo Credit: Special arrangement

There is one more scorer whose story I must share. Rajesh Arora, a dear friend, has been scoring for 41 years now. His journey began at Sector 16 Stadium, where he trained and learned from the legendary D.P. Azad. One day, the regular scorer failed to turn up, and Azad casually asked Rajesh to take over. Rajesh agreed, perhaps not realising that a chance encounter would turn into a lifelong association with the game.

A piece of cricket history: the scorecard of Sachin Tendulkar’s first ODI double century, with Rajesh Arora among those who witnessed the landmark from the scorer’s desk. | Photo Credit: Special arrangement

By 1986, he was on the BCCI panel, earning Rs. 50 a day. Today, the figure stands at Rs. 15,000. That tells you how far things have come and how much the BCCI has improved its support for umpires and scorers. Rajesh has witnessed the transformation first-hand, moving from manual scoring to iPads. His career has also taken him to some extraordinary matches. He was the scorer for the India-Pakistan semifinal at the 2011 World Cup. He also documented Sachin Tendulkar’s One Day International double century in 2010 at Gwalior, a match he remembers with particular pride. I have his score sheet, too.

But there is another Gwalior story of his from 1999 that is even more intriguing. It involved Pakistan against India `A’, with Inzamam-ul-Haq at the centre of an extraordinary scoreboard controversy. Inzamam was batting on 98, but the official scoreboard on the ground was running two runs ahead. He was 98 when the fans saw it as 100. There was applause when he reached the supposed milestone; Wasim Akram declared the innings at 334 for six. There was immediate confusion. Inzamam insisted on resuming, but the declaration stood. What followed was even more remarkable.

Rajesh was asked to adjust the scorebook and add two runs to Inzamam’s tally so that he would be credited with a hundred. He refused. People tried to persuade him. They even approached the umpires, KS Giridharan and MS Mahal. A friend of mine from the Railways, Shubhankar Mukherjee, was roped in to convince Rajesh to make the adjustment. The message was simple: increase Inzamam’s score by two runs and give him his hundred. Rajesh would have none of it. He stood his ground and made it clear that he could not alter the score simply because somebody wanted the ground scoreboard to be right. He even warned those trying to persuade him that if the BCCI discovered what had been done, they could find themselves in serious trouble. Eventually, the idea was abandoned because Rajesh was not prepared to compromise the integrity of his work.

The players may be the heartbeat of cricket, but the game would not function without these people. The umpires make the difficult calls, the scorers keep the record straight, and both carry responsibilities that rarely come with recognition. We remember the great innings, the dramatic spells and the memorable victories. But there are stories all around them, too.

Sometimes, they involve a cricket ball mistaken for mangoes. Sometimes, a man travelling 79 hours for seven hours of umpiring. And sometimes, an umpire sitting on the floor of a train because he simply cannot miss the chance to stand in a match involving Sachin Tendulkar. These are the stories that make cricket richer. And these are the people who deserve to be remembered.