He fooled batsmen with his changes of grip and action, as they misread ball after ball, until they were bowled, caught, lbw or stumped, looking rather foolish in the process. One famous victim was Sunil Gavaskar playing for Bombay University in 1970. The little master in the making once shouted to his partner Ramesh Nagdev at the bowler’s end that he could read Mumtaz’s wrong ‘un, only to be bowled neck and crop the very next ball, shouldering arms to one that came in sharply. To add insult to injury, the bowler stood there grinning wickedly at him. 

Wicket-keepers were not immune to the Mumtaz magic either. They had to resort to secret signals to anticipate what would come their way when he was in midseason form, though Mumtaz’s old mate P Krishnamurti read him better than most.

Fame and fortune flirted with Mumtaz briefly in 1966. Taking 48 university wickets for the season, a record until then, he was included in the Board President's team to play against the touring West Indies led by Gary Sobers.

Another left arm spinner in the squad was young Bishan Singh Bedi, a bowler of great promise. The chairman of selectors and former Test off spinner Ghulam Ahmed of Hyderabad, intent on being scrupulously fair,. decided to drop the local boy, when it came to a toss-up between Bedi and Mumtaz. Bedi took six wickets and the rest, as we all know, is history.

Had Mumtaz been picked for that crucial game, what might have been his future in the game? When Indian batsmen found him unplayable, would the West Indies batsmen and indeed other overseas players have fared better? It is difficult to resist the temptation to speculate that the Hyderabadi with his unorthodox wares might have made a sensational impact on the world stage. 

It remains an unsolved mystery why Mumtaz then gave up his variations in favour of orthodox left arm spin, trundling away for eleven long years, untouched by the greatness that might have been his, had he chosen the other path. Did his captain and seniors force him to change his style in the interests of economy and accuracy, as some of his teammates claimed, or did he do so of his own volition?

It took extraordinary circumstances to persuade Mumtaz to exhibit his variegated skills in a Ranji Trophy match. But for those circumstances, many of us who had not seen him in his university days, would never have caught a glimpse of those tricks. The occasion was a Ranji Trophy match against Kerala at Kollam.

“This is your last chance Taz. You'd better give it all you've got. I don't know what you'll do, but you must get wickets. If you don't, I'll have no choice but to drop you for the next game at Madras.”

Abid Ali, the Hyderabad captain, spoke these words in a matter of fact voice, but his heart was heavy as he uttered them, because the man he was addressing was his senior-most player. The selectors had made it clear to Abid that Mumtaz was on trial.

Mumtaz was close to the end of a career in which he had taken 173 Ranji Trophy wickets at less than twenty runs apiece. He had been a vital part of the Hyderabad spin attack, forging a successful partnership with off spinner Noshir Mehta, no longer a member of the team, having been replaced a few years earlier by this writer. 

Initially depressed and dejected, Mumtaz decided that it was time to unveil the bag of tricks he had kept hidden from public view for over a decade. The first innings was over at Kollam and Kerala was heading for defeat. Not bringing Mumtaz on at all in the first innings, Abid tossed him a ball which was barely seven or eight overs old. 

In his very first over, Mumtaz attempted a chinaman. The ball pitched short but the batsman did not take advantage. Very soon, his length improved but after long years of disuse he still tended to bowl a mixture of rank bad and unplayable deliveries. He finished with a bag of six wickets, though he was expensive. 

The next stop for the Hyderabad team was Chepauk, Madras. The Tamil Nadu batting line-up was formidable, with V. Sivaramakrishnan, V. Krishnaswami, T. E. Srinivasan and Abdul Jabbar prominent in it. This time Mumtaz was up against a foe of great talent. There would be no meek surrender, but continuing to bowl in the same uninhibited vein, Mumtaz enjoyed himself thoroughly, claiming five wickets. Sivaramakrishnan went chasing a delivery outside the off stump like one hypnotised, and Krishnaswami was bowled trying to withdraw his bat to a ball he mistook to be leaving him.

Essentially happy go lucky, Mumtaz, whom cancer claimed at the age of 52, had more than his share of woes in his short life. The loss of a daughter was a grievous blow. Yet the enduring image of my old team mate and colleague is that of a man of a cheerful disposition, ready to laugh at himself as much as he did at batsmen he deceived or teammates whose legs he loved to pull.