Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar: The People’s Champion

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 100^th 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.