Adieu, Sachin!

The second test match of a seemingly unexciting home series against one of the weakest teams wouldn't normally be expected to bring one back to watching live test cricket after a hiatus of almost six years, that too in the middle of the night. It's slightly different, however, when the match happens to be the last in the career of a man who was by far the biggest star the game of cricket had ever seen. 

I grew up in a time, when, propelled by the World Cup victory, and through increasing commercialization and media coverage, the popularity of cricket was attaining a level of religious fervour in India. Live telecast of international matches on television brought cricket into the living rooms of the middle class, and it quickly became one of the biggest means of entertainment. 

The nineties in India were not a cheerful period. In a nation ravaged by abject poverty, rampant corruption and communal violence, frustration and disillusionment were widespread, and there was little to look forward to. When almost everything else about the nation was discouraging and sad, cricket became our only source of inspiration. The nation needed heroes. We did not find them among our morally bankrupt political leaders, but among our cricketers; and never ever was there a greater hero than Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar. 

There was no IPL in those days. The national team was the only team to cheer for. The passion for cricket got intermingled with zealous patriotism. We did not perceive the Indian cricket team as employees of the BCCI, or even as just a sports team to cheer for, but as representatives of a nation. As the most prolific member of that team, and as the only unchanging face in the squad for two and a half decades, Sachin Tendulkar became the man who bore on his shoulders the hopes and aspirations of a billion people. 

There were no expensive merchandise back then, or even if they were, they were not the means through which fans channelled their devotion. Our veneration was expressed through the excessive purchase of  bubble gums to collect the cricketers' cards that came for free, through posters and photographs collected from sports magazines and Anandamela, and through compilation of newspaper cuttings of scorecards in days when cricinfo was unheard of. If not a religion, cricket in India was certainly a cult, and Sachin was its central deity. The nation was united in the extolment of this man, and his flamboyant straight drives could bring smiles on the faces of a seven year old and a seventy year old with the same ease. 

For the 15 years or so that I avidly feasted on cricket, Sachin Tendulkar was the man to watch out for.  The fall of India's second wicket was always met with a huge cheer in home grounds, often much to the bewilderment of foreigners, for it marked the arrival of Sachin Tendulkar at the crease.  When there was a big target to be chased, we would often only watch as long as Sachin was batting.  Sachin's dismissal commonly resulted in the turning off of a few million television sets, with people grudgingly going back to their daily chores. 

We watched with awe how he amassed hundred after hundred, often under difficult conditions, when all his teammates failed; how he massacred the greatest bowlers of his times with his impeccable stroke play; and how he, often with single-handed efforts, saw India home, match after match. On tours overseas, when all the other batsmen faltered on fast, green wickets, Sachin Tendulkar stood his ground, firm and determined, and saved the nation's grace. We watched how he decimated the Australian bowling attack in Sharjah, how he went after Henry Olonga, how he danced down the wicket to Shane Warne in India and gave him nightmares (literally), and how he slaughtered the likes of Wasim Akram, Waqar Younis and Shoaib Akhtar at the 2003 World Cup. We also watched, often with tearful eyes, his vulnerability: matches where he could not make us win in spite of all his efforts: the world cup semifinal in 1996 on that sinister wicket, the Chennai test against Pakistan where he almost succeeded in leading India to an unlikely victory despite being in excruciating pain. 

Notwithstanding the jokes in social media that predicted a career lasting for eternity, Sachin Tendulkar's retirement was, of course, an inevitability. The fact that he could survive, nay dominate, close to 25 years of international cricket speaks volumes on his tenacity and perseverance. But all good things must come to an end, and so must the career of Sachin. Tonight as I watch the man bat for one last time in an international test match, I cannot help feel sad for having missed dozens of matches in the last six years or so, partly because of being in a different time zone, but mainly because the passion, enthusiasm and romanticism of boyhood and early youth had disappeared slowly over the years.

Perhaps, Sachin Tendulkar's retirement makes us sad and contemplative not only because we would never get to see him live in action, but also because he was a symbolic link between the present and the past, because he was like a living memory from a period otherwise only remembered through fond reveries along the streets of nostalgia. With him gone, a bit of our childhood is gone forever.  

Sachin Tendulkar leaves behind him a legacy comparable to few before him. We do not know yet the future of his records, or of his fame. Surpassing the runs and the number of hundreds he scored is going to be difficult, but not impossible. Perhaps there will come a day in our life times, when all these records would be broken, and new heroes would come to dominate the cricketing world. It is also possible, that some time in the not so distant future, test cricket would be deemed obsolete and rejected by the fans, one day internationals would become rare, and Twenty-20 would be the only form of cricket watched and appreciated. In such a hypothetical but not particularly unlikely future, the glory of the man who for over twenty years bore on his shoulders the hopes of an entire nation would be gradually forgotten. The happy memories that he leaves with the men and women of our generation, however, would last as long as we live; and we would, when we are old, frail and infirm, proudly tell our grandchildren that there once was a man called Sachin Tendulkar in this nation, and that we had seen him bat.   

Half-life

To quote one of our teachers from high school, our birthdays are the results of biological accidents, and as such, there is little merit in making a big deal out of them. Our ages too, one can say, are just numbers,

In Physics, half-life is defined as the time required for a quantity to fall to half its value as measured at the beginning of the time period. The term is primarily used in the context of radioactive decay: "the carbon-14 isotope has a half-life of 6000 years" implies that if a sample contains 100,000 carbon-14 atoms today, then 6000 years from now 50,000 are expected to remain, while the rest is expected to wither away.

Unlike carbon-14 atoms, human-beings are in general, not known to be radioactive. However, if there were some ways to quantify the vitality of our spirits; then there's little doubt that that quantity would undergo a decay much similar to that exhibited by radioactive substances. I'll venture to say that the half-life associated with our species is 30 years. That is not to say that I assign a pessimistic life-expectancy of 60 years at birth; it only means that when we are 30 we lose half of the life-force that we are born with.

On my thirtieth birthday, therefore, I reflect on how I expended the first half of that force. I remember my days as a child: the trinkets that my mother used to bring for me  on her way back,  our regular vacations to my grandparents' place at Santiniketan and the long walks with my father, and the stories told by my grandmother; who had a remarkable memory and knew all the classics to minute detail. My retrospection is filled with a myriad of fond images and experiences: of cheerfully jostling through packed crowds in Kolkata during Durga Puja, of playing cricket in severely constricted spaces, of the summer holidays spent immersed in Tintin, Enid Blyton and Satyajit Ray, of the games that my cousins and I used to concoct  and play, of the cricketers' cards that I used to collect and that I eventually started manufacturing on my own, of the poems and stories with which I filled hard-bound notebooks, of the stuff that I used to write in my journal; and so many more. I think of the things I learnt and the stuff I forgot; of the friends I made, and those that drifted away; and of the girls I had crushes on and those that developed a fondness for me. I recollect many trivialities and many of the little pleasures of life that had chanced upon me. For thirty years, I have had the joy of experiencing the sights, sounds and fragrances of this planet and that in itself I find fulfilling enough. 

But while the ride this far has been fascinating, the path ahead, still, is fraught with sudden turns and detours. It is generally expected that by the time one is thirty, one's life should be settled or at least in the direction of being settled. The lives of many of my friends approaching thirty follow this norm. They have good jobs, years of professional experience, regular salaries, well-planned financial investments, and loving spouses or fiances. Some of them share pictures of their children on social media while some share pictures of the houses they have purchased; some others do both. Most of them, while pursuing their career and personal goals, seem to be converging steadily towards a state of order and stability, towards a life that is regular and secure.

About thirty years ago, when my parents observed their thirtieth birthdays, they were married for six years, had  stable jobs in academia and were expecting a child. Of course, they still had a long journey ahead, but they knew where they were going, the path was in sight. 

My life, on my thirtieth birthday, however,  lacks more or less everything that society assigns value to. It would seem that I had clearer directions when I was twenty, than what I have now. I am still a graduate student, working towards an academic degree that, while self-gratifying; has little utility in the market, and my only experience in the industry was for a mere 10 month period some 6 years ago. Far from settling down, I have little interest in spending the rest of my life in the same country, even continent; and have no idea where I would be living in, in a year from now. Finally, the prospect of me marrying and/or starting a family is slightly more far-fetched  than that of an asteroid colliding with the earth. 

And yet, it is this uncertainty, this lack of direction, that makes the journey exciting. Like a particle undergoing Brownian motion, a life without stability can go in any direction whatsoever. Instability and lack of planning give rise to a lack of rigidity; potentially keeping open a sea of possibilities, and between a stable life of perpetual boredom and an uncertain life with the potential of unexpected surprises, I have already made my choice.  Today, therefore, I do not resent my uncertainties but revel in them; and when I think of all the places I want to visit, of the languages I intend to learn, of my unfinished novel and of all the remarkable things that can happen, I see no reason why the second half of my life's energy would not be spent in a way at least as interesting and as fulfilling as the first. 

Lest We Forget

It has been exactly a month since the incident. Culprits have been arrested, we hear. Attention of the press has predictably drifted to regular topics. The black circles have mostly disappeared from  facebook profile pictures; and status messages are no longer dominated by angry outbursts. Apart from a few protesters at Jantar Mantar; for most of us, concerned or unconcerned; it is back to business as usual.

This was neither unexpected nor unusual. It is as natural for us to be alarmed, appalled, upset and angry when something bad happens; as it is for us to forget and eventually move on. Sensational news gets us excited and charged up but only for a limited period. Our lives are far too complex, far too eventful, far too burdened with our own petty problems to let anything linger for beyond a threshold period. Except for those affected directly, unpleasant news gradually gets buried under layers of busy life; only to resurface when something unpleasant of a similar kind happens again. The fire that devastated a building on Park Street, Kolkata in 2010 was largely forgotten until a similar tragedy happened in AMRI a year and a half later. Memory of the terrorist attacks in local trains in Mumbai in 2006 resurfaced in public psyche when the siege of 2008 happened. The massacre of Aurora came back to haunt us after the shootings at Newtown. It would have been more beneficial perhaps if we had better memories; for if such issues continued to make us ponder; we would have continued to push for reforms long after the events ceased to be subjects of recent news; but that is not how society works. In that aspect, the incident of December 16 is not unique. Like everything else, the frenzy associated with it, too, appears to have been a passing phase.

There is, however a significant difference between what happened in Delhi that night and other disturbing news that bring forth public response. As much as a lot of us would like to think, the former was not an isolated tragedy; not a random act of insane brutality. Rape (and other forms of sexual violence and molestation; and subsequent torture and murder) is more prevalent in India (and indeed, the rest of the world) than one is perhaps inclined to believe. According to the United Nations, there are about 20,000 rapes reported per year in India on an average; for the period 2004-2010; and the number seems to be increasing steadily (22,172 in 2010). This, one must keep in mind, is the number of recorded incidents; and rape still remains the most unreported criminal offense in the world; more so in a conservative country as India. Add to that the fact that Indian law does not recognize marital rape as a criminal offense. Indeed, 20,000 per year, then merely gives a lower bound to the number of incidents; i.e., there are at least about 60 cases per day. When one adds to that, the myriads of cases of "eve-teasing" (which, by the way, happens to be a strange euphemism for sexual harassment ) that happens across the country everyday, one only begins to get a picture of the seriousness of the problem.

What happened on the night of December 16 was horrifying enough to say the least. What is even more horrifying is that rape is so common in our country that it is no longer an issue of significance at the national level. It does not make frontpage news; nay, news even; as long as the venue is not high profile or the incident does not involve sufficient savagery. Unlike lunatic gunmen, brainwashed terrorists or irresponsible building personnel; sexual offenders strike every day; and if even a tiny fraction of such incidents were to be covered by the press as news of prominence; it would but be hard even for a patient of the most severe amnesia to forget and ignore. It would then be exceedingly difficult not to accept that violence against women is a serious problem intrinsic to our society.

A great many of us seem to be deeply concerned about ensuring the greatest possible punishments for the perpetrators. Unfortunately, the level of enthusiasm is not as high when it comes to try and identify the root cause of the issue. It is in fact fair to say that there is a general lack of response in that direction. A number of statements have been issued by our leaders; both political and spiritual; and an overwhelming majority of them have placed the responsibility on victims; and indeed, on the liberalization of our society under "evil" Western influence. Western outfits, item songs in Bollywood movies, discos, women staying out after dark, free-mixing through co-education have all been blamed. One leader has made disparaging remarks about the protesting women, while another (who incidentally is female) has falsely accused one of the victims of being a prostitute (with the bizarre implication that raping a prostitute is justified). Sadly, there has been little effort to put these people in their respective places; nor have these outlandish remarks made by leaders been countered by an equal number of balanced, thoughtful remarks from their peers. Over all, there has been a conspicuous lack of a call for introspection from the ruling class.

Elected leaders by and large represent popular opinion. And it is this opinion, this attitude that is the most disturbing aspect of the situation. As long as our press does not deal these matters with the seriousness they deserve; as long as we continue to remain in our state of denial; and as long as we fail to accept that we are a part of a system that reeks of chauvinism and encourages sexual prejudice; we would continue to encounter such incidents. A mere acceptance of the situation would not immediately solve it; but one must identify the disease before even attempting a remission.