One day between the 14th and 18th of November, depending on the match situation, Sachin Tendulkar will walk off the field for one final time. I am not certain yet whether I will wear only black on the day or perform some other mourning ritual, but given that I have no recollection of watching Indian cricket without this man in the team, the significance of the moment will not be lost on me.
He is a man whose name is synonymous with purity, of technique, philosophy and image. If Ian Botham can be seen as the Errol Flynn of cricket, or Viv Richards as the Martin Luther King, or Shane Warne as the Marilyn Monroe, or Muttiah Muralitharan as the hobbit, Tendulkar is surely the game's secular saint.
Much has been said about the timing of his retirement, by both experts and general fans alike. Opinion have ranged from "he left it too late" to 'he had one last great series left in him' and everything in between. I myself had gone from hoping he would retire while he was still at the top of his game, to silently accepting him going on and on.
But there was something heroic about his stubborn refusal to give-in and disappear into the sunset.
We can all make our best guesses, but only Tendulkar knows what kept him going for so long - whether it was records, advertising revenue, or some other inner Olympus. He and only he alone could have known When, finally, enough was enough !!.
The fact is, for the best part of 20 years, he was one of greatest batsmen the game had ever seen. He was someone who realized he had a gift, worked tirelessly to hone it, and reaped the rewards.Along the way he amassed wealth and fame beyond the wildest dreams of all but a handful of our countrymen,
but he also represented our country with understated grace and dignity, both increasingly rare commodities in modern sport.
Young cricketers revered him, his peers respected him, and old-timers unapologetically fawned over this precocious kid who made it big.
Tendulkar wore the India flag on his helmet with pride; he cared passionately about winning, and he was determined to be the best.
I would even go as far as to say that this sort of sustained excellence by one individual is unprecedented in the history of Indian sport. What better role model for a country which so often content with mediocrity?
That's not to say, there were no detractors or voices of dissent. In our culture where success is often envied more than celebrated, Tendulkar has copped more than his fair share of criticism. The most common complaint has been that he was a selfish player, someone who was part of a team but played largely for himself.
Statistics were produced by people who sought to sum up a man in numbers. His talent may never have been in doubt, but his motives and goals often were.
I would say that it would be a travesty if Sachin Tendulkar's career is remembered for his numbers. It is unthinkable that two of his statistical peaks - 100 international hundreds and 200 Tests - will ever be bettered, but numbers are a somewhat cold and impersonal way to remember sporting heroes by.They are best remembered by the memories, by the way they touched our hearts and lit our lives. And on that count, Tendulkar is unlikely to ever be surpassed.
I believe Indian cricket owes much of its current status to Tendulkar. He defined and transcended the game, and played a key role in keeping it relevant through the barren 1990s when Indian cricket seemed in danger of going the same way as hockey. Our once-world-beating team had inexplicably turned distinctly average, but in Tendulkar we still had a genuinely world-class player, or "prized asset", as marketing executives might say.
For me, and a generation of fans, Indian cricket was indistinguishably linked with this one individual. In our minds, they were one and the same. He grew up with us, and we grew up with him. He was special, and yet one of us. Throughout my life, whenever and wherever I've had a conversation with someone about cricket, Tendulkar's name has always been invoked. When people from other countries, especially England, the "spiritual home" of cricket, have raved about him, I've felt more than a twinge of satisfaction, even pride.
Tendulkar was embedded in our collective consciousness, part of our life. He was the common language that everyone who cared about the sport understood. The thought of surveying a cricketing landscape without him will be to chart new and unfamiliar territory.
This man was meant to be ageless , to be around for the ages; the human equivalent of the Taj Mahal.
And when he steps out in India colours for the penultimate time in his life he will indeed want to soak in every second of the atmosphere. He will want to live his dream to the fullest, that of playing for India for two final times in his life. And what about us? What will we do? The very least we can do is just be there, watch him stride out, take guard and take strike and hope the final ten days don't end. They will indeed but memories will always be there to fall back on.
And so, as the date approaches, I am steeling myself. Maybe it's the time of the day, or maybe it's the time of my life, but when I imagine this cricketing colossus departing the arena one final time to the chants of "Sacchiiin, Sachinnnn",
the only thing I can think about it is the closing scene from the movie Gladiator, the one in which the Emperor's daughter stands beside a fallen Maximus and makes one short, simple exhortation to the masses:
"He was a soldier of Rome. Honour him."
He is a man whose name is synonymous with purity, of technique, philosophy and image. If Ian Botham can be seen as the Errol Flynn of cricket, or Viv Richards as the Martin Luther King, or Shane Warne as the Marilyn Monroe, or Muttiah Muralitharan as the hobbit, Tendulkar is surely the game's secular saint.
Much has been said about the timing of his retirement, by both experts and general fans alike. Opinion have ranged from "he left it too late" to 'he had one last great series left in him' and everything in between. I myself had gone from hoping he would retire while he was still at the top of his game, to silently accepting him going on and on.
But there was something heroic about his stubborn refusal to give-in and disappear into the sunset.
We can all make our best guesses, but only Tendulkar knows what kept him going for so long - whether it was records, advertising revenue, or some other inner Olympus. He and only he alone could have known When, finally, enough was enough !!.
The fact is, for the best part of 20 years, he was one of greatest batsmen the game had ever seen. He was someone who realized he had a gift, worked tirelessly to hone it, and reaped the rewards.Along the way he amassed wealth and fame beyond the wildest dreams of all but a handful of our countrymen,
but he also represented our country with understated grace and dignity, both increasingly rare commodities in modern sport.
Young cricketers revered him, his peers respected him, and old-timers unapologetically fawned over this precocious kid who made it big.
Tendulkar wore the India flag on his helmet with pride; he cared passionately about winning, and he was determined to be the best.
I would even go as far as to say that this sort of sustained excellence by one individual is unprecedented in the history of Indian sport. What better role model for a country which so often content with mediocrity?
That's not to say, there were no detractors or voices of dissent. In our culture where success is often envied more than celebrated, Tendulkar has copped more than his fair share of criticism. The most common complaint has been that he was a selfish player, someone who was part of a team but played largely for himself.
Statistics were produced by people who sought to sum up a man in numbers. His talent may never have been in doubt, but his motives and goals often were.
I would say that it would be a travesty if Sachin Tendulkar's career is remembered for his numbers. It is unthinkable that two of his statistical peaks - 100 international hundreds and 200 Tests - will ever be bettered, but numbers are a somewhat cold and impersonal way to remember sporting heroes by.They are best remembered by the memories, by the way they touched our hearts and lit our lives. And on that count, Tendulkar is unlikely to ever be surpassed.
I believe Indian cricket owes much of its current status to Tendulkar. He defined and transcended the game, and played a key role in keeping it relevant through the barren 1990s when Indian cricket seemed in danger of going the same way as hockey. Our once-world-beating team had inexplicably turned distinctly average, but in Tendulkar we still had a genuinely world-class player, or "prized asset", as marketing executives might say.
For me, and a generation of fans, Indian cricket was indistinguishably linked with this one individual. In our minds, they were one and the same. He grew up with us, and we grew up with him. He was special, and yet one of us. Throughout my life, whenever and wherever I've had a conversation with someone about cricket, Tendulkar's name has always been invoked. When people from other countries, especially England, the "spiritual home" of cricket, have raved about him, I've felt more than a twinge of satisfaction, even pride.
Tendulkar was embedded in our collective consciousness, part of our life. He was the common language that everyone who cared about the sport understood. The thought of surveying a cricketing landscape without him will be to chart new and unfamiliar territory.
This man was meant to be ageless , to be around for the ages; the human equivalent of the Taj Mahal.
And when he steps out in India colours for the penultimate time in his life he will indeed want to soak in every second of the atmosphere. He will want to live his dream to the fullest, that of playing for India for two final times in his life. And what about us? What will we do? The very least we can do is just be there, watch him stride out, take guard and take strike and hope the final ten days don't end. They will indeed but memories will always be there to fall back on.
And so, as the date approaches, I am steeling myself. Maybe it's the time of the day, or maybe it's the time of my life, but when I imagine this cricketing colossus departing the arena one final time to the chants of "Sacchiiin, Sachinnnn",
the only thing I can think about it is the closing scene from the movie Gladiator, the one in which the Emperor's daughter stands beside a fallen Maximus and makes one short, simple exhortation to the masses:
"He was a soldier of Rome. Honour him."
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