Farewell, Dada

Farewell, Dada

Paddy Shivalkar, my idol, is no more. He passed away yesterday at the age of 84. To the world, he was one of India's finest left-arm spinners, a magician with the ball. But to me, he was so much more.  

He was my Dadar Portuguese Church neighbour, the humble forever-smiling man with a cowboy walk who sometimes told his younger brothers Chotu and Das to let me carry his cricket kit to Shivaji Park; who I never saw eating a vada pav himself but always bought me one, along with a slice of watermelon from the cart next to Shivaji Park Gymkhana; who I can still see strolling through our lane to his small ground floor home in Thatte building next door, tirelessly pressing that spring contraption in his left palm—always strengthening, always preparing; who we knew was back from his domestic tours when we saw his konkani speaking Aai drying his whites along the church wall; who loved to sing old Hindi songs on his rickety harmonium; who was a chief guest for the building cricket tournament on our gachchi; who stood with the building boys post dinner discussing overflowing gutters and haphazardly parked cars in our lane; who used to give us old cricket balls to play hockey;  who was not Padmakar or Paddy but always Dada to us; who was happiest when I became a sports journalist in 1979 and came from his new home in Prabhadevi to wish me well. 

Rest well, Dada. The Hamzoo Terrace lane and our memories will always miss you.

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