I didn’t know of Mr Tendulkar in his first few innings. In those days, an actor by the same first name (no surname) was known to more people. For a billion of us, December 13, 1989, was destined to change that. A Waqar Younus bouncer felled a cherubic sixteen-year-old son of middle- class India. This was war. The Pakistanis roared just as our hearts sank. My mind, I must confess, even flirted with the horrible idea if this were the end-of-story, a re-enactment of Nari Contractor falling to Charlie Griffith. A few seconds later, the bonding of a lifetime was destined to be. A boy had fallen. But it was Mr Tendulkar who got up. Legend has it that he defiantly whispered, “main khelega.” A favourite son was born. His 57 saved us the Test—and for me, that “main khelega” meant moving mountains to tune in to nearly every inning the great man would play over the next 24 years. Oh, those eyes beneath the helmet with that little Tricolour!
For my father, fifty years older and never a great one for following the game ball-by-ball, Mr Tendulkar’s batting remained the exception even in the hospital bed.
Unlike millions, life has been good enough to afford me some meet-ups. Some were so short that Mr Tendulkar might need some help remembering them, but they always left me, ‘the ordinary devotee,’ marvelling at how a man with God-like following can be so thoughtful. Being a monk is difficult when random people thrust cameras at you at every step. You have the family by your side, and people are rudely brushing past. Yet, have we heard of the man losing his shirt? That’s Mr Tendulkar.
Vignesh Shahane on Sachin tendulkar
My favourite subaltern story is when we were onboard a commercial flight. Thanks to our common connection with Boria babu, Mr Tendulkar and I chatted briefly. Then the flight landed in Mumbai. I hit the sky bridge first. Behind me, I could sense that an entire entourage of ushers had surrounded Mr and Dr Anjali Tendulkar for selfies. Walking fast to avoid the melee, I gained over 50 metres lead. But what do I hear? The hooter of a golf buggy! I peer to my left, and who do I see? Mr Tendulkar smiled mischievously, signalling me to hop on even as a crowd scrammed to catch up! That’s Mr Tendulkar!
Likewise, the time that the autobiography came out. I sent Boria babu a case of 24, hoping to gift whatever number returned with ‘the’ autograph. Just four days later, what do I see? Every single copy was signed with a blue and green felt pen, Boria babu assuring me that even the Tendulkar family has yet to be able to get signed copies they are planning to gift. The recipients I chose looked happy getting the book, but no sooner I said it was an inscribed copy, each one broke into a radiant smile. That’s Mr Tendulkar!
You write well Rohit and Teldulkar is truly a cricketing legend. He also happens to be a supporter of wildlife!