Look Below the Waist: Narendra Menon's Umpiring Creed and Indore's Quiet Classroom

It is half past seven on an evening at Indore's Central Gymkhana ground, and the light has not gone yet. Traffic hums from the road outside, but inside the field that noise dissolves into a single sound—the small tap of ball on pad, then the shout of boys. A 50-over match is under way; it started at half past three and will finish around half past eight or nine. One look at the scoreboard tells you something larger than winning is happening here.

At the edge of the field stands an 80-year-old man. There is no white coat in his hand, yet his gaze rests below the waist. He is Narendra Menon—a former international umpire, the man in the middle for two Ranji Trophy finals, later a national umpire coach. Today he is the man who tells boys: “Do not look at the face of any batsman or bowler; your job is only to see below the waist.”

Watching this from Bangladesh, my own early days return. The sounds of a ground, the scrape of pads, a whole stadium holding its breath for one decision—I know these. The Indore evening shows me that a large part of umpiring is making decisions, and an even larger part is teaching the Laws in silence, night after night until eight.

Narendra Menon's is the story of one man, but it is really the story of an institution. After playing first-class cricket, he entered the Indian board's first umpire intake in 2026. That batch was a turning point—S. Venkataraghavan and A. V. Jayaprakash came through alongside him. The board's decision brought first-class players to the judge's chair, so that experience from inside the field could turn into decisions.

Menon officiated international matches until 2026. He stood in the Ranji Trophy finals of 2026 and 2026, both in Mumbai. A Ranji final is the biggest domestic appointment; being called twice means lasting standing. In 2026 he became an umpire coach, serving about a decade. Four years ago, when his grandson began playing, he returned to the ground—not only to watch, but to teach boys the Laws.

One name is essential here: Nitin Menon. One of the finest umpires in international cricket, he has built trust in today's decisions in the white coat. Headlines often say “Nitin Menon's father.” The story of the man standing in the Indore evening is buried under that shadow, even though his own career is a complete tale.

So what lies at the heart of this story? To my eye, Narendra Menon's umpiring creed is a process principle—staying neutral to identity. “Look below the waist” sounds romantic, but inside it is a strict method. Beyond name, stardom and the pressure of the contest, see only grass, crease and foot position. Modern umpire training calls this neutral, stimulus-focused attention. Menon taught this principle to his own son—Nitin follows the same advice.

I believe this “below the waist” principle is, in effect, a bias-neutrality protocol. A star player's presence can unconsciously sway a judge's mind; the simplest way to break that pull is to stop looking at the face and see only the process.

Then comes rule literacy. Menon teaches boys that a run-out must be completed with the ball in hand, that the bails must be dislodged, and that a bowled dismissal needs no appeal. He teaches front-foot and back-foot no-balls inside the match itself—because, he says, some Laws cannot be learned from a book; they are learned under live pressure. This teaching is an invisible layer of the game's discipline. Fewer disputes arise; player conduct matures. Yet this invisible work appears in no board ledger.

The junior format is worth noting too. “Twenty-five a side”—the phrase is odd for cricket, where a side is usually eleven. It most likely means a rotating squad of about twenty-five boys per side. In other words, this is not competition; it is participation. Six straight hours from afternoon to night, the long 50-over format—the goal is not the result but repetition of learning. Such format design is rare at grassroots, and this is exactly where the habit of the Laws is built.

I have watched many matches where one decision changes a whole game's course. In Menon's memory one such moment is etched—the 2026 Ranji Trophy final, Hyderabad against Mumbai, the run-out of V. V. S. Laxman. The bat was just short of the crease, the bail had gone. The call was razor-thin, a judgement of one point. In first-class cricket this kind of boundary decision is the true test of an umpire's skill. Luck cannot be denied here—but the one who controls luck and still reaches the right call is the skilled one.

The ground is a character itself. Central Gymkhana—three cricket bodies at one place: Madon Young Cricket Club, Cricket Club of Indore, and the Indore Divisional Cricket Association. Traffic keeps the area noisy, yet the field is never empty. One of the clubs is run by Sanjay Jagdale, a former national selector. So Indore is not merely a mid-sized city—it is a recognised talent node, where selectors' eyes reach easily.

And here comes the number Menon himself gives: at least thirty boys have gone to the Indore division, five or six have reached the state side. These are his own figures, not independently verified—yet the pattern paints a real picture: this many players rising from one grassroots club means the lower rung is moving. Where much Indian grassroots talent is lost midway, this kind of continuity, however small, matters.

Menon's career circle is rare: player to umpire, umpire to coach, coach to grassroots mentor. India's umpiring pipeline stands on the shoulders of exactly such people. The 2026 decision was a governance milestone; the 2026 coach appointment gave it institutional form. I learned to commentate on resurrection—first the breath, then the signal, then the roar. Building an umpire works the same way: first discipline, then the decision, then the whole stadium's reaction.

Then comes the age of technology. Menon reminds us—there used to be five or six cameras, now there are twenty to twenty-five. This shift has made an umpire's job harder, because errors can no longer hide. He says plainly that an umpire cannot run away from any mistake. Once, Tiger Pataudi's famous line was “we don't need a third umpire.” That idea is history now. Menon stands at that junction, where the field's judgement and review-level judgement have become tangled. The more cameras grow, the heavier the trust placed on the human on the field.

Now comes the uncomfortable question this story raises. We read this tale as “the father of a star son.” That framing itself throws dust in our eyes. Nitin Menon's international reputation owes more to an institutional decision than to individual genius. Had the board not brought first-class players into umpiring in 2026, this pipeline would never have been born. Our collective memory keeps the individual and forgets the institution. Yet an umpire is not “talent”; he is a learned craftsman—and that learning comes from the system, not from personal magic.

Another reverse angle is our emotion. We think an 80-year-old standing on the field is only a heartwarming image. In reality it is also a warning. Five to six-hour junior sessions, standing continuously—physical strain for an 80-year-old. The pipeline that runs depends heavily on a few devoted veterans. What happens when they stop? We do not honestly have that answer. The man who teaches the Laws also creates a risk, because the system still depends on individuals.

One more thing to hold. When rain stops play, a ground falls silent—but that silence never lasts. At Menon's ground, when rain comes, parents run to bring the coach back. The match stops; the lesson does not. An empty stadium taught me that silence is not absence; silence is an archive with a heartbeat. Indore's classroom is the same: no crowd, no cameras, no scorecard—yet a game runs there every evening, and its real result is made in the future.

Eighty-year-old Narendra Menon leaves us a question. In the age of technology, in front of twenty to twenty-five cameras, who will teach the next generation that a run-out needs the ball in hand, that a bowled dismissal needs no appeal? Who will stand on a ground like Indore's, as evening falls and the Laws grow larger than the scoreboard? When the crowd is gone, the game becomes a letter written to everyone who ever sang—and we must teach that letter's language to new craftsmen.