“But we don’t judge a cricketer so much by the runs he scores as by how he scores them.” In both literature and finance, says Washington Irving, “a lot of paper and a lot of poverty can coexist.” And cricket can also be associated with a lot of racing and a lot of boredom.

If cricket is threatened with progressive paralysis it is because it is losing the spirit of joyous adventure and becoming a mere instrument for compiling tables of averages. There are boring, mechanical types who produce runs with as little emotion as a machine produces pins. There is no color, no enthusiasm, no character in his game. Cricket is not an adventure for them, it is a business.

So it was with Shrewsbury. His technical perfection was amazing; but the soul of the game was missing. There was no sunshine in his game, no sudden surprise, no splendid generosity. And without these things, without joy, daring and a spirit of sacrifice, cricket is a dead thing. Now, the Jam Sahib has the root of the matter in him. His game is as sony as his face. He is not a miser who accumulates careers, but a millionaire who spends them, with a splendid but judicious extravagance. It’s like his pockets are full of cum that he wants to shower with his blessing on the waiting crowd.

It is not hard to believe that in his little kingdom of Nawanagar where he holds the power of life and death in his hands, he is extremely popular, for it is obvious that his pleasure lies in giving pleasure.