Repaying My Debt to Mohammad Shahid: A Turf for a Titan

I had joined Diesel Locomotive Works, Varanasi, in 2001, still the new face in the unit, learning the smell of its steel, diesel and bureaucracy as yet. Before I could settle into my role, the General Manager decided to hand me another hat, that of Honorary General Secretary of the Sports Association, perhaps because I had active interest in sports.

It sounded straightforward enough. Then they told me I would be assisted by one Mohammad Shahid, the Assistant Sports Officer.

Mohammad Shahid! Even the name was enough to make the air stand still. Shahid—the hockey wizard whose stick could bend a match to his will; the man whose artistry had delivered India its golden moment in the Moscow Olympics, and whose genius had lit up the international hockey arena many times over.

His story was the stuff of quiet legend. Born into a modest family in the narrow lanes of Varanasi, he had risen to dazzle the world as India’s ace forward. The Indian Railways (IR), recognising his genius, brought him into their fold. First in the inspectorial non-executive cadre, then, through promotions, to officer rank, subsequently relocating him back to his home city.

I was eager to meet the hero. But when I finally did, my world tilted a little. Here stood a man whose name was etched in India’s sporting history, saluting me—a sarkari bureaucrat—with complete humility. No arrogance. No bitterness. Just quiet grace. And as we worked together almost daily, organising local and inter-railway sports events, I felt a gnawing discomfort. Who was I, really, to be treated with such respect by this son of India? And is this what we do to our champions? Tuck them away into dusty offices until they fade from public memory. No wonder so many young athletes see no future in sports beyond cricket.

But somewhere in those days, we became friends. We shared drinks—he bore my bawdy jokes, I suffered his ghazals, rendered in that inimitable Banarasi accent. The banter was easy, the camaraderie genuine.

Then life moved on. I was transferred. Our contact thinned to occasional calls and invitations—twice I brought him in as Chief Guest for minor sports events. But the closeness of those Varanasi days became a memory.

Years later, cut to 2018. I was General Manager of Integral Coach Factory, Chennai. It was a time of change: we were designing and building new trains, including Train 18, the Vande Bharat Express; transforming systems; greening the factory and colony; introducing art into industrial spaces; creating sports facilities, community hubs, galleries, museums and even an Eco-park.

One day, I learnt that an AstroTurf stadium had been sanctioned by IR years ago but lay untouched by the concerned zone for four long years. I persuaded the Railway Board to transfer the project to ICF. They warned the money, around 4 crore, might not be enough. I told them - the shortfall would be my headache. By the end of 2017, the sanction was in my hands.

In my mind, this stadium already had a name. It would be the Mohammad Shahid Stadium. He had passed away by then, but his memory deserved to live on in a place where young players would chase the same dreams he once did. The proposal for naming it so went to the Board. Silence. Repeated reminders. More silence.

Meanwhile, the ICF sports team of Amlan Tirkey, the Sports President, Xavier Sebastian, the ace swimmer and ICF’s Sports Officer, Lakshmikant, a hardworking XEN, and Andrew Jacob, a reputed hockey player of his time, and many other gems not named here, threw themselves into the project. They worked with the dedication of craftsmen building a temple. In just nine months, the stadium stood almost ready.

Then, just days before the scheduled inauguration, a desperate call came: the stadium would be named after Shahid and could we open it quickly? I found the sudden urgency puzzling and at once amusing. Later, I learnt the truth: Shahid’s widow, Ms. Parveen Shahid, had threatened to return his medal, frustrated that promises made to him by the state and central governments had been left to rot in files. The press was splashing it all over, and the powers-that-be wanted to be seen as making amends.

And so it happened. Soon, the Mohammad Shahid AstroTurf Flood-lit Hockey Stadium at ICF, Chennai, world-class, state-of-the-art, fit for national and international matches, and only the second such flood-lit facility in Chennai, was ready for dedication to his memory.

For the inauguration, we invited Padma Shri Ajit Pal Singh, the Hockey World Cup-winning captain, who agreed without hesitation. I insisted that Smt. Parveen Shahid be present. When told that their daughter would also join but could not be provided an air ticket as she was “not a dignitary,” I said—Get her ticket. And if there’s a problem, deduct the price from my salary.

That day, the stands were filled not just with spectators, but with history. Indian hockey Olympians and celebrated players—V. Bhaskaran, R. Prabhakaran, Dinesh Nayak, S. Thirumalvalavan, Charles Cornelius, V.J. Phillips, B.P. Govinda, Mohammad Riaz, Munir Sait and Adam Sinclair—walked onto the turf. They graciously handed me a hockey stick signed by all of them. It remains one of my most treasured possessions.

On this Independence Day, I look back at that day not just as an official function, but as a moment when the past and present clasped hands. The turf gleamed, the stands roared, and a name that had once electrified stadiums, shone again. For me, it was the quiet joy of keeping a promise—of honouring the humility and grace of Mohammad Shahid, the friend who once treated me, a bureaucratic nobody, like the captain of his team.

…

References:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qp0MvDVz5Xs

https://twitter.com/gmicf/status/1036265945990291457

https://m.thehinduimages.com/details-page.php?id=204501697&highlights=SHAHID%20NAGAR