Farewell

to Sachin Tendulkar,
and to those moments when meaning birthed in our lives because of you

It is 15:33 (IST) on this 14th day of November 2013. Unfortunate like so many others around the world to
not have a ticket, Im following the second test match against West Indies at Wankhede, Mumbai, on my
television set. About six hours of play on this first day of the test match have passed. India has not only
wrapped the first inning of the guest team at 182 but is looking poiseddue to an accelerating
partnership between its opening batsmento overtake the Indies total, when, abruptly, Shane
Shillingford, the West Indian off-spinner, threatening to repeat his spell of the first test match at Kolkata
a week earlier, halts the Indian inning: first to fall is Shikhar Dhawan, with scorecard reading 77/1. The
crowds excitement, which has been soaring since morning, drops a little.
What happens next, though, is in the realm of strange human behavior, for immediately as the second
wicket falls, the India scorecard now reading 77/2, people inside Wankhede take off from their seats,
turning their eyes toward the pavilion and beginning to clap and scream noises all around, at first
incoherent and scattered, soon come together in a magnificent display of human connectedness and
become a deafening roar. Even though Murali Vijay, the second opening batsman to be out, is walking
off the ground dejectedly, the Wankhede crowd, along with millions of television audience, has only
begun to erupt in joy at the loss of his wicket.
Sachin Tendulkar appears on the pavilion stairs. He descends the steps with his head down, trying to
shut off the crowd screaming into his ears from only a few feet away beyond the fences of pavilion
staircase. There is an urgency in his walk, as if a confident youngster is coming out to bat on his debut
match with a desire to prove himself; only this youngster-at-heart is forty years old. He steps over the
boundary line onto the green grass and looks skyward, unable briefly to find the sun that hes looking
for, until his searching eyes find it behind his left shoulder and close, not from its blinding glare but out
of a ritual that has gone on for over twenty-four years to offer his respects to and seek blessings from
the gods. Not far from the pitch the West Indian players have lined up. As Tendulkar passes through
their guard of honor he cant help but lose some of his focus which he has been trying so hard to

maintain at the moment. He nods to the opponents and the umpires, thanking them in his characteristic
shy smile, and acknowledges his young batting partner, Chateshwar Pujara, who comes up to greet him.
Have you always wanted to be a cricket player? asked Tom Alter, the actor, in Tendulkars first ever
television interview in 1989, the year he made his test debut. The then Sixteen-year-old Tendulkar, with
his childhood innocence, answered simply and honestly, I want to play cricket. Two hundred tests
matches later, and concluding a love affair with the game that has spanned nearly a quarter of a
century, he now gets to the Wankhede pitch, bows down to touch it in reverence and takes stance to
play his cricket for the last time.
These words are being written down at a time when Tendulkar is at the crease, batting probably for the
last time in his international career (unless India gets to play the second inning as well). And while there
are, and there will be in coming days and months, many exhaustive articles about Tendulkar and his
game, these words are an attempt of an ordinary man to collect, shape and set downusing the
twenty-six letters of the English languagehis memories and thoughts of growing up watching arguably
the greatest batsman ever to have played the game.
In the 1990s, Tendulkar was already on path to become one of the all-time greats, and like so many
children in the country at that time it was the growing popularity of the gameboth in terms of its
television coverage, and the number of gully-or-backyard matches one played under the influence of
cricket-crazy siblings and friendsthat drew me to it. One man in particular, Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar,
was becoming largely responsible for my cricket craze and about to deeply influence the childhood of
many like me.
His influence was twofold: on ones approach to the game, and on ones personal character.
No matter where I played, in schools, streets or cricket clubs, I tried to grip my bat like Tendulkar. When
I went to bat I imitated his stance: standing in front of the leg stump with slightly bent knees, narrowly
spaced feet and perfectly aligned toes, hitting the bat on the soil behind the back foot, never attempting
a high back-lift, and always, always waiting for the ball with a steady head. For children like me, copying
his stance was just another way of realizing our dream of becoming the next Tendulkar.
When I heard Tendulkar played with a heavy bat, I wanted one, too. If Tendulkar, during his childhood,
had practiced knocking a ball suspended from the roof, I had to practice the same way, too. I wanted to
play with a straight bat like him and tried to copy as many strokes of his as I could into my batting

repertoire. In fact, such was my height of imitating the great man that, while taking stance, I used to
adjust my abdo-guard (or L guard) just like he so often did.
Here, as a child, my underlying motivation was always the same: to become like Tendulkar, to play with
perfection just like he did, and to gain the kind of recognition he commanded though during this
outward imitation I was simultaneously, and unconsciously, copying aspects of Tendulkars personal
character as well.
Every time I lost my wicket I tried to quietly walk out of the ground, without showing a reaction, because
Tendulkar did the same, even if his dismissal was wrongful. And if he knew he was actually out, he didnt
wait for anyone else to tell him that and preferred to walk back to the pavilion (Tendulkar perhaps could
be regarded as the first player to start a cricketing tradition of being a walker), even if his presence
might be crucial at that moment for the teams victory. This was a lesson in being unselfish, being true
to oneself first.
As much as it was possible, I tried avoiding confrontation with the bowlers or, in general, with other
players because Tendulkar did the same on the ground. Strip away all theatrics, fashion, ego and fame
and you see the game as it fundamentally is: a confrontation between bat and ball, about how well your
opponent can handle a bowl and you a bat. Throughout his twenty-four years of career, Tendulkar
played cricket at this fundamental level, focusing on the performance of his bat than anything else. His
approach may be less entertaining than usual theatrics, indeed even boring for some, but it is an
individual choice and Tendulkar stuck to his, serving his work rather than himself. This was a lesson in
sportsmans spirit and honoring ones work than oneself.
For examples of Tendulkars devotion to the game and humility toward others, Ill turn now to two
images etched in my mind that pop out whenever his name is mentioned.
The first image is from the semifinal match of the Coca-Cola Cup, Sharjah, 1998, more popularly known
as the Sandstorm inning for the way Tendulkar had stormed through the Australian bowling attack to
help India qualify for the final (he batted similarly in the final, hitting another century, to help win the
tournament), much like the sandstorm that night that had forced its way into the stadium for a short
while. The sandstorm hit the stadium soon after the start of Indias chase after a big Australian total. The
sand swirling all around forced the players and the umpires to leave the ground; people in the stadium
stands tried to cover themselves up; the game came to a halt. On the television screens the green
ground was barely visible, but through the windy cloud of sand one could make out the speck of blue

that was Tendulkar in his India team colors, sitting on the pitch on his haunches, holding his bat with
both hands and keeping his head down between his arms and chest. Was he simply trying to shield
himself against the storm? He didnt need to. He could have easily walked off the ground with others.
But he chose to stay there. He knew he had to stay on the pitch that night for as long as he could.
Perhaps he was simply trying to keep his focus, playing the Australian bowlers in his mind before he
would actually play them. This was a lesson in devotion and obsession for ones work.
The second image is impossible for me to place in time and space, for Ive completely forgotten when
and where the following incident had actually occurred, largely because while watching it unfold on
television I was so deeply moved and influenced by it that it took over all that had happened before it.
Here is the moment as it had occurred: it was one of Tendulkars recent one-day matches because he
was in Team Indias Bleed Blue colors. Tendulkar was returning to the pavilion, happy as a child
because India had won. He had played a good knock toward that victory. Now, close to the boundary
line, match officials and groundsmen were crowding near him, trying to shake his hand and pat him on
the back. A grounds-man held his hand out. Amid the people bustling about him, it seemed at first
Tendulkar didnt notice this hand held out toward him from a couple of feet away on his left side. But
just when he had almost passed by the outstretched hand, Tendulkar turned back, to his left, bent down
slightly over the grounds-man whose legs were missing from the hips below due to amputation, and
took his hand with a polite smile. Did you see that gesture? I asked my older brother who was
watching the match beside me. My brothers eyes stayed on the television screen. He didnt need to
reply because his gaze had an appreciation and his face was brightening with a smile after witnessing a
humble Tendulkar. This was a lesson in humility, in staying rooted to the ground no matter how high
ones flight is.
Sadly, I cant furnish references to prove that the incidents described in above two paragraphs actually
took place. Even though I believe them to be as real as my own existence, it is entirely possible that the
Sharjah image and the one describing Tendulkars humility are simply my imaginings, that neither of
them actually unfolded in the real world but are merely a projection of the kind of values I yearn for,
and hence have conjured up to associate with Tendulkar in order to experience them myself.
However, that is where Tendulkars god-like status and wide following comes from, for he has lived and
worked for twenty-four years in such an ideal manner that he now cuts a heros personality in our mind,
making us subconsciously associate our beliefs and desired principles with him to fulfill gaps in our own

personality, just like we derive satisfaction from a fictional hero in a story, with whom we venture into
the unreal world and accomplish those deepest values which may remain unfulfilled in our real world.
At any rate, are these imaginings really that much in contrast with Tendulkar so as to stir doubts in our
mind on his ability to act according to them? I know for most of us the answer is no. Tendulkar is indeed
capable of living such values.
Tendulkars unfailing conduct of himself over these many years has only strengthened the credibility of
his character. In fact, for many, he is their idealism realized. He mirrors an innocence and passion that is
reminiscent of the childhood. He reminds us of a child in all of us who once had an innocent dream, a
true passion and a pure heart to follow that passion simply for its own sake; a child who was yet
unaware of the logics of the practical world and was trying to trust his character than to compromise it.
But then we grew out of that childhood. Through Tendulkar we get to feel the presence of that kid
inside us once again. And while most of us will never be able to attain the kind of talent he has, these
character traits he has demonstrated under greatest of scrutiny and pressure are surely not out of our
reach.
Tendulkars last inning in international cricket has come to an end. But even in this last, commanding
knock of 74 runs he left us wonderingwith the way he was middling the ball, forward-defending it,
sweeping it, punching it on the back foot, straight-driving it to the boundaryif we had sinned in
vehemently demanding his retirement, whether we should have rooted for this forty-year-old man
who seems only a young little prodigy, just fresh out of domestic cricket, starting his careerto continue
his stint with cricket.
And that was another aspect of Tendulkar his batting style. When Tendulkar took the bat, he
demonstrated what David Foster Wallace, the late American novelist, called kinetic beauty. Its power
and appeal are universal, wrote Wallace in his essay on Roger Federer. It has nothing to do with sex or
cultural norms. What it seems to have to do with, really, is human beings reconciliation with the fact of
having a body. Theres a great deal thats bad about having a bodyThere are wonderful things about
having a body, too, obviously its just that these things are much harder to feel and appreciate in real
time. Rather like certain kinds of rare, peak-type sensuous epiphanies (Im so glad I have eyes to see
this sunrise! etc.), great athletes seem to catalyze our awareness of how glorious it is to touch and
perceive, move through space, interact with matter. We experienced this same appreciation for the
human body when Tendulkar batted, witnessing the range and depth of movements that a human body

was able to createin fractions of time-interval and between twenty-two yards of space (the cricket
pitch)in combination with as simple an object as a wooden club against a speeding or turning leather
projectile. And we expressed our appreciation in these moments of epiphany with a sudden utterance of
a ah!, beauty!, gorgeous!
Our entire life is a struggle against boredom and apparent meaninglessness of existence. All our
endeavorspursuing work and passion, nurturing family and relationships, seeking knowledge and
adventure, creating art and religionare an effort to either fill this void, or avoid confronting it. In the
quest for this unattainable meaning of existence, we constantly keep hopping in our lives, from one
change to another, changes which could be often trivial and at other times significant.
In the face of this crisis the only thing that makes our existence a worthwhile experience is our ability to
go through a whole range of feelings and emotions. That is our defining quality, our sole true loss as a
consequence of our physical death. To experience an emotion in a moment in life is really the birth of
meaning at that point in an otherwise meaningless existence. However transient it may be, it is only
during the experience of feelings and emotions that our lives become meaningful.
Tendulkar, unintentionally, generated emotions in us and thus created meaning in our lives.
Throughout his career of over twenty-four years, both with his batting and his overall approach to game,
Tendulkar kept spurring our emotions, thereby producing innumerable, transient moments when our
lives became meaningful. Anyone who has a doubt in this regard only needs to revisit the pictures of
Wankhede during Tendulkars 200th and final test match: the deafening roar as he arrived to bat, the
happy cheers as he built that last inning, the sudden silence that fell as he lost his wicket, the standing
ovation as he walked back to the pavilion, the millions of sad faces and tearful eyes as he said goodbye
and the seemingly unending applause as he took his lap of honor all tells you that Tendulkar has
transcended race, color, cast, age, gender and nationality to touch us where we are most human and
singularly united. We were connected together in that moment of his final goodbye only by this
explosion of emotions inside each one of us that he had managed to create. Doesnt a poster like I will
tell this for the rest of my life: I was here, and a line like lucky to be alive in the same era that he
played, tells you how significant and meaningful we had come to feel in those moments when
Tendulkar was on the ground?
Most of us are trying to experience emotions constantly in order to feel alive and meaningful. Tendulkar
not only experienced his, but managed to create, though inadvertently, some emotions in us too.

And as Tendulkar turned away from the Wankhede pitch after bowing down to it one last time in
respect for the game, we bade farewell to not only him but to all those moments when our lives had
become transiently meaningful because of him.

By Prateek Mala Tiwari

References:
1. Sachin Tendulkars first ever interview (1989):
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uv_Ir7bu-CU
2. Federer as Religious Experience by David Foster Wallace:
http://www.nytimes.com/2006/08/20/sports/playmagazine/20federer.html
3. FOOTNOTES Federer as Religious Experience by David Foster Wallace:
http://www.nytimes.com/2006/08/20/sports/playmagazine/20federerfootnotes.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0#footnote1