In the great theatre of Indian spin, Srinivasaraghavan Venkataraghavan rarely occupied centre stage. He was neither flamboyant nor volatile, neither poetic in motion like Bedi nor mysterious like Chandrasekhar. He did not produce magic with the wrist like Prasanna, nor did he invite gasps with violent turns off dust-laden tracks. Yet, Indian cricket could not have survived without him.
Among India’s famed spin quartet — Bedi, Chandrasekhar,
Prasanna, and Venkat — he was the spine. The quiet one. The intelligent one.
The one who, while others dazzled, held the attack together. And, perhaps, the
one who gave the most and took the least. His story is one of service over
stardom, of integrity over indulgence, of duty over drama.
The Least Glamorous,
the Most Grounded
Ramachandra Guha captured the paradox best: “Of the great
spin quartet, he (Venkat) was unfortunately the least glamorous (only
cricketing-wise, that is, for he was by far the best-looking of the four).”
Indeed, in cricketing circles, Venkat was sometimes seen as the one who merely
“filled in the overs” between more mercurial spells. But that analysis misses
the essence of his genius.
Where others conjured brilliance, Venkat imposed control. He
bowled with robotic precision, repeatedly landing the ball on a coin-sized
patch, working the batsman over inch by inch. And he did so, knowing fully well
that his role would often go unnoticed. Sunil Gavaskar later wrote that Venkat
“sacrificed his natural loop and flight” to provide control while Bedi and
Prasanna attacked — a sacrifice of artistry for effectiveness.
In a different team, he may have been a frontline
match-winner. In this one, he chose to be the foundation.
A Scholar in Whites
Venkat was not just a cricketer. He was an engineer with a
First-Class-First degree from the Madras Institute of Technology — the same
institution that produced India’s future President, Dr. A.P.J. Abdul Kalam. His
intellect was never compartmentalised from his cricket. He read widely,
reflected deeply, and even on cricket tours, displayed a curiosity for history
and archaeology — once even expressing a desire to visit Mohenjo-daro and
Harappa on the 1977-78 Pakistan tour, stunning his teammates.
That blend of intellect and athleticism made him a rare
breed — a mind trained in calculus and a body tuned to reflex catches. Guha
described him as the embodiment of mens sana in corpore sano — a sound mind in a
sound body — the classical ideal.
A Cricketer of
Versatility
Tall (5'11½") for an Indian spinner, Venkat developed a
style that could adapt. He bowled around and over the wicket with equal
comfort, and delivered off-spin at varying paces and trajectories. He was among
the earliest Indian off-spinners to master a quicker, skidding delivery — akin
to a flipper — which surprised even accomplished players like Viswanath. In
domestic cricket, he was aggressive, often running through line-ups. He finished
his Ranji Trophy career with 530 wickets, second only to Rajinder Goel, and
his First-Class tally of 1,390 wickets at 24.14 remains one of the finest
by an Indian.
And yet, Venkat was more than a bowler. He was the best
batsman among the quartet and an exceptional fielder, particularly in
close-in positions. His 316 First-Class catches and pivotal moments in the
slips elevated Indian fielding standards. Long before India was known for
fielding brilliance, Venkat was setting the benchmark, one pluck at a time.
The Quartet’s
Outsider
Despite his abilities, Venkat’s journey with the Indian Test
team was often turbulent. He made his debut in 1965 and played until 1983 — a
career spanning over 18 years, second in longevity among Indians only to
Tendulkar and Lala Amarnath.
But even across such a long career, his place was never
secure. He was never the first choice when Pataudi captained India — a leader
who preferred Prasanna’s variety and loop. Venkat’s rise coincided with Ajit
Wadekar’s captaincy, and in 1971, he finally found his moment: India’s tour of
**West Indies and England** saw him emerge as the highest wicket-taker in the
Caribbean and a pivotal figure during the historic win at The Oval.
But cricket is cruel. The next year, he found himself
dropped. His trajectory, unlike Chandra or Bedi, was never stable. For every
triumph, there was a setback. For every captaincy nod — such as the 1975 World
Cup — there was an abrupt axing.
He was, in every sense, the spin quartet’s sacrificial lamb.
The Umpire of His Own
Destiny
Venkat’s story did not end with retirement. In fact, it
gained a second wind — this time, in the white coat.
A man who knew the rulebook “back to front,” Venkat became
an international umpire of the highest repute. He officiated in 73 Tests and 52
ODIs, including two World Cup semifinals
and the 1999 World Cup final (as third umpire). His integrity was never in
doubt, his knowledge of the game revered.
In an era of growing scrutiny and technological intrusion,
Malcolm Speed, then ICC CEO, called Venkat’s tenure “a testament to endurance
in an exceptionally demanding profession.”
He also served as a selector, a team manager, and even as Secretary of the Tamil
Nadu Cricket Association— a multi-faceted servant of the game.
A Figure of Dignity and Discipline
Venkat’s calmness and dignity made him respected, even when selectors and captains made puzzling calls. Whether he was replaced on tour without explanation or dropped despite success, he seldom complained. H. Natarajan described his work ethic as “tunnel vision,” and Ajit Wadekar praised his unwavering morale and discipline.
Yet, captaincy did not sit easily on his shoulders. As
Gavaskar later noted, Venkat was a perfectionist — perhaps too much so for his
time. His insistence on fitness and high standards made him a tough, sometimes
unpopular leader in a team that hadn’t yet professionalised its habits. But his
principles never wavered.
The Legacy of the Unflinching
Today, when India’s cricketing history is written, Bedi’s
flight and fury are remembered, Chandra’s wristy madness celebrated, and
Prasanna’s loop lionised. Venkat, meanwhile, resides in the footnotes — a man
whose figures were modest, whose role was thankless, and whose sacrifices were
many.
But history, as it matures, begins to respect the unflashy
pillars on which eras are built.
Venkat was that pillar — quietly enduring, correcting, quietly enabling.
He was the bowler who gave up his attacking instincts for
the good of others. The vice-captain who did not sulk when dropped. The fielder
who made catches look routine. The umpire who brought calm to chaos. The
thinker who turned action into intellect.
In an age that celebrates visible brilliance, Venkataraghavan's
brilliance was invisible — and thus, even more rare.
Thank You
Faisal Caesar
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