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.