Sachin Tendulkar: From tomorrow to eternity

Sachin Tendulkar

What defines greatness? Is it an aura, cast in myth and forged in legend, tempered in years of penance and discipline? Is it the ability to lead, to set an example, to be an ideal for others to strive towards? Is it that fantastical blend of skill and sincerity driven by conviction? Or is it the courage to stand by a code of honour in the face of extreme adversity, the resolve to constantly be the best person you can be, and emerge shining through the darkest of condemnations?

Sachin Tendulkar is great not because he ticked the above boxes – he has imperfections the way normal people do – but because he never stopped trying to. Sachin is powerful not because he has a devoted following that could easily outnumber the largest army in the world; his power lies in the self-realization that his humility and reserve could channel this devotion into a drive to do great things.

Volumes have been written about why Sachin has been put on a pedestal higher than those reserved for the most distinguished mortals. Sachin is a sportsman, an exponent of a sport that is a residue of two centuries of tyranny and oppression no less. In a country ravaged by social, political and economic handicaps, where dreams nurtured by independence were turning to ash with increasing rapidity, Indian cricket realized its own.

In 1983, cricket became a national obsession because it was the first time in centuries that India had actually won at the global stage, a real-life fairytale akin to the age-old ones that mothers had been telling their children to pull them through hungry nights. Cricket taught us that we could win; with all the sorrows and shortages that we live through every day of our lives in this country, we could still be world beaters if we found eleven people from amongst ourselves to play good cricket. And when a teenager from the suburbs of our own City of Dreams began plundering through the greatest bowling attacks from around the world, this belief was hardened into fact.

A hundred Goliaths have charged in through the years, and we have watched teary-eyed as our David dispatched them all with unparalleled genius. We saw the world honour the one we celebrate like the living embodiment of a festival. We are a people who unite in our adoration for the lad while dealing with everything from wars to communal riots to open sewage drains. And we have watched him grow, from a stubborn lad whose idea of national duty was to torment the likes of Abdul Qadir and Merv Hughes, to the definitive gentleman who pulled off the responsibility of carrying a nation’s hopes on his shoulders with aplomb, even as we endeavoured to grow into a global superpower ourselves.

Come what may, a Tendulkar innings was something to look forward to. And every time he walked into a 50,000-strong furnace of scrutiny, we witnessed the impossible. All he did was bat, and yet he exorcised a country’s demons, dissolved differences, dared us to dream, made us believe.

He did this for 24 years. No more can be asked of him; he has given us memories to last a lifetime, a new set of fairytales to tell our children.

And yet, we cannot bear to part ways with him yet, and perhaps not ever. Final goodbyes are never easy, and Sachin Tendulkar has become so ingrained in our lives that his retirement is not unlike the loss of a near one, a friend, a son, a brother. Cricket loses its face; that timeless beauty has lost her most distinguished knight, the last of the masters who treated the game as an art and not a rock-concert.

Courtesy dictates this is the time to celebrate his glorious journey, and wish him a peaceful, blissful life ahead. Grief, however, has the upper hand now. Many nurture the hope of a return, and yet others hadn’t braced themselves enough for the shock. Sad smiles and tearful eyes see him out, and the applause is hopeful and muted. Acceptance of the preordained is a long way away, if at all. Cricket without Sachin Tendulkar is a whole new world for us, one that has been rudely thrust upon us, one that we are reluctant to take the first step into, to say the least.

When he walked out to represent India for one last time on November 16, I was waiting outside the ICU wing of a hospital – never a happy place to be in.

A small TV screen showed me what the world was watching, and a lone security guard joined me in my steadily growing sense of excitement and foreboding. Within the hour, West Indies was nine wickets down. I hadn’t noticed it yet, but a small crowd had assembled around me – attendants, kith and kin of patients, nurses, doctors. People passing by saw what was going on, and simply stopped dead in their tracks. Prayers of prolongation were ultimately denied, and the inevitable happened. Sachin raised his arms in exhilaration, and applause broke out. Not a very common sound in the area, I imagine. And then he spoke, of joys and memories and gratitude, and I heard the doctors call their colleagues to come join them, and instantaneous translations made sure everyone knew what he was talking about. When The Speech ended, teary smiles were exchanged. Some were too stunned to react.

People dispersed. It was over, and the finality with which he said ‘Goodbye’ would make the greatest optimist exhale in resignation.

And then I saw a man bring his months-old baby near the screen. The lap of honour was in progress, and he made sure the infant saw Sachin Tendulkar hoisted upon the shoulders of Indian cricket’s next-gen, the tricolour draped on his own. The infant watched, powers of comprehension clearly a few years away. The man whispered into its ear, “Beta dekho, Sachin”.

Unbelievably, Sachin had left me with one last miracle. The infant would grow to know his legend, as will every single person born from this day on. The echoes of that soul-stirring chant, “Sachiiin…Sachin”, would reverberate not just in the Master’s ears, but throughout the future of India.

Some miracles last forever.