The story of SARFARAZ KhaN

By Ajaz Rashid

This is an  examination of the unforgiving landscape of Indian cricket, a talent factory unparalleled in its output, where even the most glittering diamonds can get lost in the sheer volume of precious stones.

The air around Indian cricket, particularly the Ranji Trophy, often vibrates with the raw, visceral sound of a bat meeting ball, the cheers of a sparse but passionate crowd, and the whispers of a thousand dreams. For Sarfaraz Khan, those whispers have grown into a deafening silence from the corridors of power.

 “Talent is temporary, auction day is permanent. 73(22) is a loud statement that went unheard. Disappointing, to say the least.” This lament, a poignant distillation of a cricketer’s anguish, encapsulates the perplexing saga of Sarfaraz Khan, a man whose domestic record screams for attention while the national selectors seem to have misplaced their hearing aids.

Let’s start with the cold, hard facts. Sarfaraz Khan’s First-Class record reads like a statistical anomaly: an average comfortably nudging 70, placing him in the elite company of Bradman, Sutcliffe, and Headley – albeit with a smaller sample size.

He has scored runs with a voracious appetite, not just cute little fifties, but towering hundreds, often at a strike rate that makes Test match purists blush and T20 fanatics cheer.

He has rescued Mumbai from precarious positions, dismantled formidable bowling attacks, and shown a consistency that many established international players can only dream of.

The 2019-20 Ranji season saw him amass 928 runs at an average of 154.66. The 2021-22 season, 982 runs at 122.75. The 2022-23 season, 556 runs at 92.66. These aren’t just good numbers; they are historical, almost mythical.

So, why then, is Sarfaraz not donning the blue or white of India? The conventional wisdom, often whispered by anonymous sources and amplified by social media, points to two primary factors: fitness and perceived T20-centric batting style.

Let’s tackle the fitness aspect first. Indian cricket, under Virat Kohli’s captaincy and Ravi Shastri’s coaching, underwent a paradigm shift towards extreme fitness. The Yo-Yo test became the gatekeeper, a non-negotiable benchmark. While Sarfaraz may not possess the chiselled physique of an elite athlete, his ability to grind out long innings in gruelling Indian conditions, his quick singles between the wickets, and his athleticism in the field (though perhaps not top-tier) should certainly be considered.

Are we saying a player with an average of 70 is unfit to represent his country, while others with lesser numbers but a more athletic build walk straight in? This argument, while having some merit in the context of modern sports science, becomes a convenient shield when deployed against a player of Sarfaraz’s run-scoring prowess. Is the goal to pick the fittest players or the best cricketers? Ideally both, but when there’s a trade-off, where do the priorities lie?

Then there’s the ‘T20 batter’ tag. This is perhaps the most egregious mischaracterization. Yes, Sarfaraz can score quickly, as evidenced by the “73(22)” reference in the prompt, likely from an IPL knock. But his First-Class numbers, achieved over long formats, with patience, technique, and temperament, utterly contradict this narrative. He constructs innings, adapts to situations, and has shown a remarkable ability to convert starts into massive scores. To pigeonhole him as a T20 slogger is to willfully ignore the voluminous evidence provided by his red-ball cricket. It’s a convenient label used to sideline a player who doesn’t fit a pre-conceived mould.

The truth is far more complex and resides in the sheer, suffocating depth of Indian cricket’s talent pool. This is where Sarfaraz’s story intertwines with a tapestry of similar tragedies, players whose brilliance was overshadowed not by their own failings, but by the relentless abundance of talent around them.

Consider Amol Muzumdar, a name synonymous with domestic greatness. He amassed over 11,000 First-Class runs, captained Mumbai with distinction, and played for nearly two decades. His elegance, his grit, his sheer volume of runs were legendary. Yet, he never played for India. Why? He played in the era of Sachin Tendulkar, Rahul Dravid, Sourav Ganguly, and VVS Laxman – a middle order carved in stone, seemingly unbreakable. For Muzumdar, the timing was cruel. His peak coincided with the golden age of Indian batting, leaving no chink for him to exploit.

Similarly, the spin duo of Rajinder Goel and Padmakar Shivalkar were wizards with the ball, both accumulating over 500 First-Class wickets with economy and guile. They were truly great. But they plied their trade in the era of the ‘Fab Four’ Indian spinners: Bishan Singh Bedi, Erapalli Prasanna, Bhagwat Chandrasekhar, and S Venkataraghavan. Their class was undeniable, but the competition was insurmountable. Goel’s left-arm spin, often compared to Bedi’s, simply couldn’t dislodge the incumbent. Shivalkar’s accuracy and control met the same fate.

Even players like KP Bhaskar, a prolific run-scorer in the 70s and 80s, found themselves in a similar predicament, overshadowed by the likes of Gavaskar, Vishwanath, and Vengsarkar. More recently, players like Sitanshu Kotak and Sujit Somasunder, brilliant domestic performers, simply couldn’t find a window into the national team. Wasim Jaffer, despite a solid international career, never truly cemented his place despite being a domestic behemoth, constantly battling for openings against Sehwag, Gambhir, and a rotating cast of partners.

Sarfaraz’s predicament is an echo of these forgotten heroes. He is operating in an age where the competition for middle-order batting spots is equally fierce, albeit with different characteristics. Shubman Gill is cementing his place across formats with elegant stroke play. Shreyas Iyer has shown strong performances in the middle order, especially against spin. Rishabh Pant, when fit, offers a unique brand of attacking wicket-keeping batting. Suryakumar Yadav, though primarily a T20 specialist, has found a way into the ODI setup with his audacious strokeplay. Ishan Kishan is another dynamic option. Each of these players brings something distinct to the table – youth, athleticism, a specific flair, or multi-format versatility.

The selectors, arguably, are not just looking for runs anymore. They are looking for “impact players,” those who can change the course of a game with a moment of brilliance, whether it’s an acrobatic catch, a scorching cameo, or a unique skill set. They are also, consciously or subconsciously, looking for a certain “look” – a physical manifestation of the modern aggressive Indian team. Sarfaraz, with his old-school yet highly effective approach, perhaps doesn’t fit this modern aesthetic as perfectly as some of his peers.

The IPL also plays a dual role here. While it gives players exposure and a platform, it also creates a different set of expectations and pressures. Sarfaraz’s IPL career, while having flashes of brilliance, hasn’t been as consistently dominant as his First-Class record. This sometimes biases selectors towards players who might have an IPL brand name, even if their red-ball numbers are not as compelling. It’s an unfair assessment, perhaps, but it’s a reality of the modern game.

Furthermore, the structure of Indian cricket, with its focus on grooming young talent through India A tours and specific developmental pathways, might inadvertently overlook those who consistently perform in the Ranji Trophy but aren’t necessarily seen as “future investments” by a certain age. Sarfaraz, still young enough at 26, might be perceived as having missed the initial wave of youth-centric selections.

The cruel irony for Sarfaraz Khan is that his biggest asset – his runs – might also be his biggest cross to bear. In a system overflowing with talent, simply scoring a mountain of runs might no longer be enough. You need to be seen as different, as fitting a specific mould, or as possessing an undeniable X-factor that cannot be ignored. Sarfaraz’s ‘X-factor’ is his relentless run-scoring, his sheer statistical dominance. But in a selection panel possibly swayed by other factors – perceived fitness, perceived style, the need for a particular type of player to balance the squad, or even just plain old subjective preference – his statement, no matter how loud, remains unheard.

The story of Sarfaraz Khan is a poignant reminder of the brutal beauty of Indian cricket. It is a system that produces legends but also, by its very nature, creates countless unsung heroes. For every Sachin, there are a hundred Muzumdars. For every Bedi, a dozen Goels. Sarfaraz Khan, with his mountain of runs, is the latest, most prominent voice in this chorus of the overlooked. His 73(22) remains a loud statement, a defiant shout from the domestic trenches, forever echoing in the vast, indifferent expanse of Indian cricket, a testament to what could have been, and a heart breaking narrative of a talent that, despite its brilliance, found no permanent home at the highest level.

Ajaz Rashid is a social and development entrepreneur. He can be reached at info@ajazrashid.org