My family didn’t own a television set back then, and we were
living in this about-to-collapse dilapidated chawl. I remember running back
home and telling my brother, “India won. Sachin took an outstanding catch.” I
had just seen a match peeping through the window of a house that boasted of owning
a rare colour television. But the catch that Craig McDermott offered at long-on
was as straight forward as any would be on that day at Perth during the Benson and
Hedges World Series in Australia in 1991. Something that even I would have
caught in my sleep! But, I made that catch sound almost Jontyesque to my
brother.
That is something Sachin made most of his fans do. He was
just two years into international cricket, but was already the darling of the normal
Indian cricket fan. Or at least for me, he was! He was yet to hit a century in
ODI, but had started showing promise, and prowess in the longer format. One
could almost smell the fragrance of greatness written all over him. He was
destined. Destined to excel. To break records (almost every single one in the
book!) To be the best in the business. But more importantly, destined to
entertain close to a billion, leaving them, at times, gasping for breath!
In the 90s, he was the only one they could rely on. “If
Sachin plays, we would win!” became an irritating truth. It was no secret that
his dismissal meant many houses saving on their electricity bill. Televisions,
coloured or black-and-white, went off. At the Varghese residence, the radio
commentary wouldn’t sound more boring.
Then came that famous Desert Storm! Pictures of Shane Warne
with his mouth open swatting a fly was recently brought back to my memory by a
colleague. That picture told a few thousand stories. Not a single one of clarity
within Shane Warne’s head. The late Tony Grieg’s “What a Playaa! What a
wonderful playa!” would play in our ears repeatedly. In his dressing room, he
would sit with his helmet on during the literal desert storm. Superstitious or otherwise,
we didn’t care. He got us over the line. The Aussies were stunned. The Tendulkar
madness had risen to another level. That season (98-99), arguably his best, made
sure comparisons with Sir Don Bradman would rise to a higher decibel.
A few years later, he would get used to the sound of massive
ovation every time he stepped on to the field. India would lose its second
wicket in a test match. The crowd would erupt. It didn’t make sense. India was
playing in its home territory. Going by how we Indians usually behave as a
cricket audience, there should be a deathly silence. For them, that wicket
meant their hero was walking out to entertain. Television producers, at least
towards the end of his career, ensured that they caught him entering right from
the time he was descending the stairs of his dressing room. Commentators would
go quiet. The cameras would roll with sound of the audience giving him that ovation
he so richly deserved. At times, even the air-time for advertisements would
wait. Or the producers would just be kind enough to show a replay. Not of the
previous dismissal, but of Sachin’s entrance. Pictures that would remain etched in our memories for ages. An image (or countless ones) of
Sachin walking out to do what he does best. Bat tucked beneath his arms. Handle
usually pointing in the direction of the ground. Donning his gloves. Looking
skywards. It was almost gladiator-like.
His wicket meanwhile brought out the other extreme. Heads in
hands. Faces covered. Pin-drop silence. Almost a scary one. If I was the
batsman coming before or after Sachin, I would be one depressed soul.
I had the privilege of seeing his only T20
century Live! From listening to a running commentary description on radio of Sachin’s straight drive
to seeing that magical moment right in front of my eyes – the wait to see the man in action was
worth every second. We got our monies worth when we saw that trademark straight
drive! It was something that I could take and store in my museum if I could.
That was my ‘gasping-for-breath’ moment. Then, as if that wasn’t enough, he
also played a helicopter shot. And finally the 100! Mumbai lost the game, but
we didn’t care. “We saw a Sachin 100!”
Much like how my office canteen reacted when Hashim Amla
saved a certain boundary of Dhoni’s bat of the last over against South Africa.
They stood up and applauded Amla’s effort who kept it to a single. Never before
and never after will we see an opposition fielder being appreciated so much for
saving a boundary. Sachin was on 199. We wanted him to get to that double, a
milestone that no man had reached before. The “superman” obliged. Offices across
the country had low productivity that day.
At a high-level senior management conference where
incidentally Rahul Dravid was our guest speaker, a top-executive of the company
proudly announced that Tendulkar has finally reached the 100th 100
landmark. India lost that match.
And that was the story of countless Indians. Many didn’t
seem to care whether India performed. For them, Sachin was India. India was
Sachin.
Even before his retirement, he was the headline for many editions.
The primetime for many news channels! He was the “happy news” that Indian
Cricket was desperate for. He was the ‘positive story’ for the media. He was
their TRP! People loved to watch him play. They loved to watch (and read) anything
about him.
The sad smileys and depressing status messages on his
retirement were a testament to the man Sachin is. A true ‘People’s Champion’,
with due apologies to Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson. My co-commuters in train did not want to read
the newspapers this morning. “It’s way too depressing!” they said. For me, I will have a
few cut-outs preserved for my grandchildren. I saw this man bat.
Thank You Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar.
