Sachin Tendulkar: God as I knew him

Countless books, articles, interviews, stories of which the focus has been the demigod, the master blaster, the best batsman in the world – Sachin Tendulkar. Reams have been written about Sachin Tendulkar, about his temperament, his consummate team-player attitude, his larger than life image and of course, his incomparable batting talent. But to the average cricket fan, growing up in the 90s, Sachin Tendulkar represented something else – a sole ray of hope around which a ramshackle team huffed and puffed for more than a decade, in its much too often attempts to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. The Hero Cup final in 1993, the twin innings in the Coca Cola Cup in 1998, the futile Chennai Chase of 1999 and most importantly, the World Cup 1996 debacle at the Eden Gardens – these are more than a collection of remembrances that everyone who has been part of those moments, whether on the ground, in the stadium or glued to their TV sets will never forget: they were instances of genius attempting to burst through cobwebs of mediocrity. Many times, it was successful. Yet, heartbreakingly often, it was not enough.

The first time I saw Tendulkar bat was in a 1992 World Cup match vs Australia. A fierce pull that sent the ball racing to the mid wicket fence was followed by the commentator’s stentorian voice “And that is why this young man is one of the most promising batsmen in limited overs cricket today”. Promise, a synonym for talent perhaps, or was it heavily veiled sarcasm, aimed at a nation that regularly produced oodles of talent but had made little impact since the great Gavaskar bid adieu in 1987. Yes, the Azhars, Shastris, Vengsarkars and Kapil Devs were all there – on paper, India was a talented squad. But since the 1989 Pakistan tour and especially after New Zealand 1994, a young boy was called upon to uphold a nation’s cricketing honour when the men around him surrendered meekly. I have followed Sachin’s career, as have a million others, for the past 24 years and the thing that has most impressed me most about this little man is his aura of quiet aggression – something Bruce Lee described as emotional content, not anger – the ability to intimidate opponents with his creativity and attitude, rather than physical presence.

The 1996 World Cup, held in February-March 1996, in my mind was the showcase of Tendulkar’s early career – the firebrand batsman, at once cautious and carefree, carrying the fragile hopes of a billion people, yet expressing himself with abandon when opportunity presented itself. He had not yet graduated to the senior statesman that he is today, letting experience dictate his decision making and shot selection. No, he was very much the instinctive young predator – patient enough to wait for openings and play according to situations, but arrogant enough to hit a bowler of Glenn McGrath‘s stature for three boundaries in an over in an era when cricket was much more sedate and such feats were unheard of. The event was especially important, coming just before India’s golden generation of batsmen took their first steps, starting with the tour of England in the summer of 1996, towards reinventing a long forgotten batting pedigree and rediscovering national pride on the cricket field, the most shining example of which was achieved at Chennai in 2001, when India conquered the unbeatable Australians.

In the match that I earlier referred to, Gavaskar, now a cricket pundit, had predicted that it would be a close game, with the Australians coming out victorious. Though his prophecy came true, yet to the millions who bore witness, it was the presence of Tendulkar that saw the prediction fulfilled in its entirety. When he got out for 90 aggressively made runs, stumped of a wide, Sachin’s blitzkrieg (by the early 90s standards) had accounted for 60% of the Indian total; a jet propelled impetus to an antique aircraft that finally crashed and burned with the final destination in sight. The feat, repeated, despite high fever, in a winning cause against the still proud West Indies and a soul crushing loss against the newly resurgent Lankans, brought home the cruel fact that if we were to make the finals in our own homeland, a man who measured 5’4 in his socks would have to stand tall. With the spectators baying for blood in the 100,000 strong amphitheatre that was the Eden Gardens then, the Indians made a hash of a seemingly possible chase, reduced to weeping cricketers, raining missiles and public humiliation in the international cricketing scene. But what remained with me, was that for the first 99 runs of the Indian chase, what shone through was Sachin’s technical brilliance on an unpredictable wicket, his all consuming desire to take the cross upon his shoulders beyond the finish line; in other words, the ease and comfort with which he batted in the face of immense adversity and expectation. Kambli was never expected to be our messiah, yet he cried openly on national television – I wonder how, hidden away in a curtained dressing room, the light of our hopes would have reacted.

I shall touch but briefly on the Sharjah innings of 143 and 134, that first rocked the Australian boat, admittedly in the absence of McGrath, Hayden, Gilchrist and Lee – players who formed the core of the “Invincibles”. What stays with me till this day is that at a crucial moment in the match, a sandstorm swept across the ground, forcing players, umpires and spectators to take evasive action, shielding their eyes against the whirling dust. Yet, one man had his eyes wide open, staring about in anticipation, walking around to release nervous energy, showing despite himself, how much he wanted to win, how much he had waited for this chance, how much he despised this natural break and cursed the Gods who impeded his victory march. It’s well documented that Gary Kasparov’s innate competitiveness, even in the little things of life, was the secret to his domination of the chess world. To me, at the age of 25, SR Tendulkar, was equally, if not more, competitive.

Over the years, Sachin has never been one to give vent to his feelings overtly. Yet a tear or two has glistened at the corner of his eye, when the occasion has been too emotional to face with his usual calm, unflustered demeanour. The first time I saw that happen was when India fell an agonising 12 runs short of the Pakistani score of 271, after an epic innings from the grievously injured genius who had braved the Chennai heat, a back that refused to hold up his proud head and the world’s best fast bowlers and off spinner, who had ripped the rest of the Indian batting to shreds for a mere 112 runs. Neither Dravid’s dogged defence, nor Ganguly’s silken drives, not even Azhar’s years of experience could keep Akram, Younis, Mushtaq and nervousness at bay. But up stepped the little master, for he had become a legend by then, to attempt the impossible. As he stood up tall to punch the ball on the rise, squatted low to paddle sweep, refused a runner to preserve his ownership of his shotmaking and frequently grimaced in pain to beat away the demons ravaging his body, everyone who was watching, I am sure felt a sense of impeding doom. But who knew when the innings began, how special it was going to be and how much 12 runs could hurt?

Very honestly, if that magical chase had not happened, the defeat would have been easier to take. But as the cuts, drives and sweeps began to flow and Nayan Mongia held up the other end, hope began to form a crust on the underlying sense of failure – perhaps he could deliver us against our arch rivals. But a falsely played shot saw the ball balloon up into the sizzling afternoon and its downward trajectory mirrored the trajectory of our hearts, which finally shattered as the ball settled softly into a fielder’s outstretched hands. I have seen Tendulkar submit to emotion when he was chaired around the Wankhede after India won the 2011 World Cup but that victory belonged to many – Dhoni, Gambhir, Kohli and company. But back in the Chepauk, 15 years ago, the despair was only his, as victory would have been.

Tendulkar’s achievements, other than his heroics in the 2003 World Cup, since the turn of the millennium have been partially, if not completely, shared by India’s quartet of world class batsmen – Dravid, Laxman, Ganguly and Sehwag. But people like me, who have not grown up on the Blue Brigade’s successes, remember a time when a curly haired head bore the brunt of expectations, demands and even the adulations that came with being the one man army of the world’s largest cricket playing nation. We remember a time when the legend of Tendulkar was in its infancy, we remember God before he became God. That is how I know him.