Dear Sachin,
Let’s start off with the simple things. Congratulations. I’m wondering though, if that’s appropriate enough. Isn’t that what they normally say when one achieves something ? Not to you perhaps. To whom no encomium is sufficiently worthy, no reward fulfilling enough, no achievement befitting enough.
So you have it finally. It may have been Bangladesh. May have been a flat deck in subcontinent conditions on a 60-metre dimension cricket ground, against an unquestionably spineless bowling attack (if it could even be called that) but it’s here. The fact that it’s done now, matters more than anything else. Having followed possibly every innings of yours for the last 10 years, I must confess to a sense of befuddlement on discovering that you of all people in the world had fallen prey to the media-driven rancor surrounding the impending landmark. The very same curly-haired Bandra boy who’d carried the monumental expectations of a billion people on his little shoulders for over 22 glorious years falling prey to what’s at best, as many would believe a media-created spectacle that beckoned ? Thank God it’s over. I was half beginning to fear a Bradman-esque end.
But that tells me something significant. This has been an illuminating journey for everyone who’s watched you pick up the cricket bat and walk on to the field. You are by some distance the most awe-inspiring individual for this generation of Indians, sporting or otherwise. Your unparalleled feats and longevity have elevated you to the status of divinity. But what we have learnt through this frustrating spell is that you too are human. There I said it. It is the greatest lesson of this much reviled crass obsession for a statistic. You too are fallible. Sometimes consumed by self-induced apprehensions. That like the rest of us mortals, you too have the demons in the head to combat. Like the insecure software employee on a crumbling Wall Street, you have your share of insecurities and doubt. That sometimes talent and ability isn’t all it takes. That when uncertainty nibbles away, even great men flounder. It is when a Ravi Rampaul or a Michael Clarke can win a battle against Sachin Tendulkar.
This sport in its purest form, like you’ve experienced better than anybody else, is a grappling contest between bat and ball. In the ever-simmering cauldron of a good sporting contest, there are no certainties. No givens. Not even to a 16 time Grand Slam champion who’s had to bow out on a few occasions to a yearning scion; not to a Tiger whose woods are only getting thicker everyday; and not to you either, who for 33 long innings, made some of us think of some unimaginable possibilities. Made some of us speak what’s normally considered blasphemy in this country. I’m not entirely sure this is the renaissance of that aging body that has few parts free from past injury, but you’ve pushed yourself over the line to do something words cannot possibly amplify enough.
There is often an irresistible temptation for us devout followers of the game to draw comparisons among men of your elite ilk. Many have for years been in the religious practice of hailing you as the greatest batsmen to have played the game but my reading is that you’re a lot more than what that simplistic inference conveys. Through an era of the game that’s seen a few paradigm shifts, you’ve been a lodestar. When the game looked around for role-models in shenanigan-ridden times, nobody needed to look any further than you. Forget the game, to a country of over a billion people and to a whole generation of Indians, to say you’ve been a role model would be a massive understatement.
No innings of yours is ordinary. Replete with the finest mastery over the willow, like a craftsman at work, neatly and delicately packaging every innings of yours with those delightful shots that have now acquired a Tendulkar patent. Even the odd 20-30 is a treat to the eye. It’s a pity those highlights packages show only a glimpse of your genius. Nothing tells the complete story like sitting down to watch you bat, from gazing at the bowler’s wrist during a run up, to a follow through after your shot, watching you bat is a spectacle that requires no advertisement. And it has been that way, through changing calendars, and changing dressing rooms. The innately unshakable qualities of passion and hunger have been much talked about and revered, as they deserve to be. And they have kept your career glittering through the times, good and bad.
So today as I halted by at a roadside tea stall, where a huddled mob had assembled infront of a TV set, something not unfamiliar when you’re batting on a cricket ground in whichever part of the world, to watch you flick one caressingly to mid-wicket and stroll across the 22 yards, it reminded me why I was fortunate to be born in this generation. My grandson sure won’t be as fortunate. A 100 international hundreds are done for now. We’re still probably a while away from the day we’d write your eulogies and gaze in awe at those boots you’d hang up. Till then we will obsess. Journeys like yours are enriching.
And there I sign off, just another of your billion fans worldwide, fully mindful of the fact that a tribute to you can always only be just an earnest attempt.
Yours in awe,
Sameer Dharur
{Sameer Dharur is a plus two student}
