Goodbye, Sachin

One day between the 14th and 18th of November, depending on the match situation, a certain cricketer by the name of Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar will walk off the field for one final time. I am not certain yet whether I will wear only black on the day or perform some other mourning ritual, but given that I have no recollection of watching Indian cricket without ‘Tendlya’ in the team, the significance of the moment will not be lost on me.

Much has been said about the timing of his retirement, by both pundits and general fans alike. Opinion has ranged from 'he left it too late' to 'he had one last great series left in him' and everything in between. I myself have gone from hoping he would retire while he was still at the top of his game, to silently goading him on- to rage, if you like, against the fading of the light. There was something heroic about his stubborn refusal to give in and disappear into the sunset.

Even now, as Mumbai prepares to lay on a farewell party for its favourite cricketing son, the debate rages on. Inevitably, it is along the lines of ‘no-one is bigger than the game', 'the opposition has been picked for his benefit’, 'what is all the fuss about?' or all of the above. Of course, this only proves that you can't please everybody all the time. Over the course of a 25-year career, Sachin Tendulkar probably knows this better than most.

For what it's worth- here are my thoughts. We can all make our best guesses, but only Tendulkar knows what kept him going for so long- whether it was records, advertising revenue, or some other inner Olympus. And he alone could have known when, finally, enough was enough. The fact is, for the best part of 20 years, he was one of greatest batsmen the game had ever seen. Here was someone who realised he had a gift, worked tirelessly to hone it, and reaped the rewards.

Along the way he amassed wealth and fame beyond the wildest dreams of all but a handful of his countrymen, but he also represented his country with understated grace and dignity, both increasingly rare commodities in modern sport. Young cricketers revered him, his peers respected him, and old-timers unapologetically fawned over this precocious kid who made it big.

Tendulkar wore the India flag on his helmet with pride; he cared passionately about winning, and was determined to be the best. I would even go as far as to say that this sort of sustained excellence by one individual is unprecedented in the history of Indian sport. What better role model for a country so often content with mediocrity?

That’s not to say there were no detractors or voices of dissent. In a culture where success is often envied more than celebrated, Tendulkar has copped more than his fair share of criticism. The most common complaint has been that he was a selfish player, someone who was part of a team but played largely for himself. Statistics were produced by people who sought to sum up a man in numbers. His talent may never have been questioned, but his motives and goals often were.

Even so, aside from the fact that selfishness can sometimes be a virtue- particularly when your pursuit of excellence spurns those around you on, I believe Indian cricket owes much of its current status to Tendulkar. He defined and transcended the game, and played a key role in keeping it relevant through the barren 1990s when Indian cricket seemed in danger of going the same way as hockey. Our once-world-beating team had inexplicably turned distinctly average, but in Tendulkar we still had a genuinely world-class player, or ‘prized asset,’ as marketing executives might say.

In the new millennium, as the team’s fortunes changed, Tendulkar continued to be the talisman, its most recognisable (and therefore marketable) face. The game, now fuelled by corporate sponsorship and lapped up by a booming middle class, weathered the storm and is now bigger than it has ever been. While it might be stretching the point to say that Tendulkar single-handedly saved Indian cricket from oblivion, I doubt this narrative would have played out in quite the same way without him in the lead role.

For me, and a generation of fans, Indian cricket was inextricably linked with this one man. In our minds, they were one and the same. He grew up with us, and we grew up with him. He was special, and yet one of us. Throughout my life, whenever and wherever I’ve had a conversation with someone about cricket, Tendulkar's name has always been invoked. When people from other countries, especially England, the ‘spiritual home’ of cricket, have raved about the ‘Little Master’, I’ve felt more than a twinge of satisfaction, even pride.

Tendulkar was embedded in our collective consciousness, part of the lexicon. He was the common language that everyone who cared about the sport understood. The thought of surveying a cricketing landscape bereft of him will be to chart new and unfamiliar territory. This man was meant to be around for the ages; the human equivalent of the Taj Mahal.

And so, as the date approaches, I am steeling myself. Maybe it's the time of the day, or maybe it's the time of my life, but when I imagine this cricketing colossus departing the arena one final time to the chants of 'Sacchiiin, Sachinnnn', the only thing I can think about is the closing scene from the movie Gladiator, the one in which the Emperor’s daughter stands beside a fallen Maximus and makes one short, simple exhortation to the masses: He was a soldier of Rome. Honour him.

Note: This piece was published in it's entirety by ESPNcricinfo with the title 'As the curtains come down'. Please visit the page here and leave a comment, if you are that way inclined. Thanks :)

Craft is Graft

craft (kraft) noun- meaning skill, dexterity 
graft (gra:ft) noun- British slang for hard work or labour 

I have long held the view that these two things were incompatible, and there was nothing in common between them except a similar spelling. Craft, I reasoned, was like art; something you enjoyed; a skill or ability that comes naturally and is therefore, by definition, almost effortless. Having to work at it, putting it next to words like 'hard' and 'labour' in the same sentence, by definition takes away from the enjoyment that practicing a craft should bring. Graft was for the less endowed, the ones trying to get to their destination with only half a tank. It could be a virtue, but it was definitely not fun. 

I now realise this was not only arrogant, but profoundly flawed. Craft and Graft are actually not strangers, they are not even just identical conjoined twins, they are in fact the same thing. The graft is what transforms something illusory into something that's held up for the world to see. Graft takes the talent that lurks in the shadows and drags it, sometimes kicking and screaming, into the unforgiving light of the sun. Graft is the voice that says- 'Here, I MADE this.' If it wasn't hard or scary, it probably wasn't worth it to begin with. 

This new belief was reinforced by something I read recently. In a certain part of the world, according to the locals, water used to be found at 150 feet below the ground and now you have to drill down to 1500 feet to get to it. This seemed an apt metaphor for how sometimes the things that once used to be easy - back in the heady days when youth and time seemed infinite - inexplicably becomes harder. There can be many reasons for this, and it’s tempting to treat each reason like one more brick in the protective wall you build around yourself. But it is more important than ever to try. Like that water, if you know in your heart the thing you want exists, the ONLY way is to keep digging till you find it. 

PS 1: Obviously this is not a revolutionary thought. And I’m aware that coming to this realisation so late in my life makes me look even more foolish than I actually am. 

PS 2: Like most of the posts on this blog, all of the above can be summarised in one line- anything worth doing, is worth doing with your heart and soul. 

PS 3: It is late now. I am going to bed.

Two videos- one for the head, the other for the heart. 
I'll let you decide which is which.