Sachin Tendulkar: God as I knew him

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.