Sevantibhai: To a mentor, with love

For nine years between 1981 and 1990, I worked as a professional cricket writer at Sportsworld, edited by Tiger Pataudi.

In the interim (around 1985), I was seduced into the stock markets by the heady optimism of a pilot-turned-Prime Minister who promised economic reform.

As I started investing successfully, I became two people in one: cricket writer and punter. I needed to move from the pond to the ocean but the only credentials I possessed were a flimsy BCom Pass degree and some ability to write English. At 23, it looked like a doomed ‘nakaam hasrat’ existence.

In 1985, I began to co-review the stock markets for The Telegraph newspaper in Calcutta. When my collaborator shifted to Chennai in 1987, he suggested that I meet his ex-boss each Saturday morning to derive a ring-side insight into the floor-play of the market so that my Monday review would reflect the touch of a wizened expert.

The man to whom I was dispatched as a glorified stenographer was Sevantilal Shah, senior partner, Stewart & Company.

Big man on Kolkata’s equity markets in more senses than one

‘[Sevantibhai] would wear a safari suit that made him look imposing; if he looked at you and didn’t speak for five seconds your kidneys would give up…’

Sevantibhai was a big man on Kolkata’s equity markets in more senses than one; he would wear a safari suit so that made him look imposing; if he looked at you and didn’t speak for five seconds your kidneys would give up; if he invoked his legendary yell, you were frozen by the sinking feeling we experience when we are 50,000 long on Reliance and the stock tanks Rs 150; he would jhaaro his most trusted Marwari sub-broker with the standard “Fin tum faaltu baat kar-riya hai?” and by the time the poor sub-broker would struggle to a “Lekin babu, hum…” he would be intercepted by another volley.

So when it came to assistance for my Monday column, Sevantibhai’s diktat to me was “Sanivaarey aanth vaagey”, which meant that I had to present myself dutifully at his Bowbazar residence at 8am for stenographic dictation. I was 25; he was 57; he would be immersed in The Economic Times by the time I would reach; he would continue reading; eight minutes later, he would look up and say “Oh, tu aaivo chhey? (Oh, you have arrived?)”, motion me to sit, then turn to his wife (who at that moment would be somewhere in that vast home inspecting an unswept window ledge) with “Ay Krishna, jov kaun aaivyu chhey…kai laav? (See who has come, can you get him something?)”, before he would begin to dissect the market movement: “Tu lukh ke ‘Market was in overbought condition before clearing and high badla resulted in bull liquidation by Bombay operators that technically corrected market for next round of teji’… haan parn teji nahi lakhto, em lukh ke next round of bull phase.”

Sevantibhai with his wife

And before he could continue there would be a call from a market broker. Sevantibhai would continue at a leisurely telephonic pace, then he would turn to dictate another three sentences before his barber would lather his cheek, then another three sentences before a newly empanelled sub-broker would come to touch his feet before starting a new career and that would be another 10 minutes gone, before Sevantibhai would turn to me with “Hu kya hathoh? (Where was I?)”

‘Start attending my office Stewart & Company from tomorrow’

Then one day, Sevantibhai extended beyond the dictation: “Tu office pachhi su karey chhey? (What do you do after office?)” I must have indicated that I maaro adda with my pals sitting on the bonnets of parked cars on Mission Row, so he said “Tu kaal thi Stewart aava nu start kar. (You start attending my office Stewart & Company from tomorrow.)” So after I would finish at Sportsworld at 5.30pm, I would be off to Stewart & Co — with no assignment, no work profile, no desk, no typewriter and no remuneration. Except for Sevantibhai’s second directive: “Maara chamber ma besvaanu. Seedha andar aav-va nu. (You will sit in my chamber and you will not knock the door on entering.)”

There were dozens from Kolkata’s middle-class to whom Sevantibhai said: ‘Somvaar thi Stewart aavi jaajey’ and have since gone on to become multi-crore tycoons

I floated through Stewart & Co for a couple of years in the late Eighties — more in the hope that I would chance upon a whisper of a ripening stock that would transform my destiny. That didn’t quite happen but the one occasion in 1988 when I did make a killing was when I confided in Sevantibhai that one of my corporate informers mentioned that Tata Tea would report a Rs 60-lakh loss in its half-year performance to be announced the following day. Sevantibhai’s eyebrows arched with wonder and a long-drawn “Emmmm?”

Sevantibhai at his Bowbazar residence

And then Sevantibhai did something that will always be cited as his integrity certificate

The next evening when I reached Stewart & Co., someone passed the word that babu was looking for me. I presented myself in Sevantibhai’s granite presence. He looked up in slow motion from his sheet glass-topped desk: “Tu aaiyvo?! Kya thi khabar laaiyvo toh? Saahith lakh noj loss aaiyvo! (You’ve come?! Where did you get the information from? There was indeed a Rs 60 lakh loss!)” And then Sevantibhai did something that will always be cited as his integrity certificate. He opened the left drawer of his desk, picked out an envelope and placed it in front of me. “Aa taro share. (This is your share.)” It would have been impudent of me to tweak the envelope open in his august presence so I politely excused myself to the loo half an hour later, widened the lid of the envelope to find Rs 10,000 sitting pretty inside. The equivalent of four months of my day-job salary at Sportsworld.

‘Apna hi ladka hai. Kaam pe lagaana hai’

In 1990, when I had enough of cricket writing for Sportsworld, Sevantibhai drove me on a July Sunday to stockbroker Ajay Kayan’s residence and said: “Ajay, apna hi ladka hai. Kaam pe lagaana hai.” Within 15 days, I had started a research team to prospect equities — one of the first such teams in India at that time. When I thanked Sevantibhai for hand-holding me from a space where I had everything going for myself (I had written two books on cricket by then, made a film and would travel with the Indian cricket team wherever it toured) to a space where I was a professional misfit, all he said was: “Tu mara Yogu jeevo chhey. (You are like my son Yogu.)”

Sevantibhai's photo above those of other luminaries at the author's home. Below, a close-up of the signed photo

I was not alone. There were dozens from Kolkata’s middle-class to whom Sevantibhai said: “Somvaar thi Stewart aavi jaajey” and have since gone on to become multi-crore tycoons. I was fortunate to have known in Sevantibhai someone who helped people with cash without wanting it back or without charging interest. I was fortunate to have known in Sevantibhai someone that just about everyone on the stock markets went to if they had a transaction dispute because he would be impartial, could keep a secret and if he couldn’t get them to agree, would say: “Chalo rupiya main bhar detaa hoon, aur kuch?” I was fortunate to have known in Sevantibhai someone who would consider a Muslim boy as one of his own, to the point that when I needed to grow the research team in space, he said “Aapru joonu Bowbazar nu ghar chhey ne! (Our old Bowbazar residence is there!)” and that is how I came to set up my desk and typewriter in the same space where Sevantibhai would deliver his Saturday morning dictation.

Years later, when I bought my home, I put framed pictures of all those I had worshipped on a wall. Ranji. Imran Khan. Gavaskar. Satyajit Ray. Don Bradman. Ambani senior. Fazal Mahmood.

Sevantibhai’s picture was placed highest.