We have now entered the home stretch of Movember. A mere five days lie between now and cool, clean-shaven elation. Despite the free burgers and the many kind donations that have poured in for this important cause, I will admit that the end cannot come soon enough.
It has been an interesting three weeks so far. The physical transformation has been more radical than anything I imagined, such is the ineffable power of facial hair. That, combined with a hat (and, occasionally, thick rimmed glasses) has made for a such a complete metamorphosis that close friends no longer recognise me on the street. It is as if I am a stranger to them; perhaps even to myself.
A few days ago, I had to take a passport photo and I almost returned it thinking it must have been a mistake. But of course, there was no mistake. It was, after all, a photo booth. Soon that photo will be printed in a visa or some other official document, destined to be inspected closely over the course of the coming months by some over-eager official either at Border Control or my local Cineworld. They say everyone gets 15 minutes of fame. Infamy, however, tends to last a little bit longer.
I can see it now, the photo hinting at a mysterious, almost criminal, past, bearing no similarity whatsoever to the shiny-smooth live specimen. And then the confusion, mixed with incredulity, spreading slowly over the hapless official's face. Perhaps finally I can use the Bob Dylan line I've always wanted to but never quite found the right moment for- You see, officer, I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now.
And it will all be worth it.
PS: Please donate while you still can. Movember page, replete with stunning high-quality photographs, is here.
"We all have a little part of our brains that Tendulkar owns. Maybe that’s a much bigger accomplishment than owning the 22 yards of the cricket pitch."
Please read the full article on Sachin by my friend Sevanand here.
On a related note, it's nearly two weeks, and still can't quite watch the video below without a lump forming in the throat. And no, it's not an inflamed tonsil.
It is 5 pm in Green Park. But of course there is nothing green about it. For a few hours between 7 am and 2 pm there may have been something of a faint autumnal brown to it, but now it is just black. The sun has long gone; trees stand like mute sentinels along the edges of what just a few short months ago was a verdant lawn. To walk through Green Park at this time of day is not unlike drifting through outer space; an endless black nothingness save for the glow of a distant, soon-to-be-dead, star. The streetlights emit something but it would be a stretch to call it light, it appears to emanate from an indeterminate source in a neighbouring solar system. In fact, in the time it takes for the light to travel through the mist and fog and reach Green Park, the streetlight itself has probably disappeared; such is the mind-bending reality in which he finds himself.
It is also cold. It is the sort of cold that seems to seep in through the pores of your skin and take up permanent residence in your bones. The ground beneath his feet, once a firm path occasionally strewn with poetic, wind-swept leaves, is now implacably treacherous; when the light does occasionally hit it, it is revealed to be not dissimilar to satellite images of the Sea of Tranquillity, but without the tranquillity because each step makes a loud squelch; an almost celebratory coming together of wet mud, leaves and traces of dog shit. To travel fast is to risk potentially fatal injury and embarrassment, to tread slowly is to allow ice particles to form in your eye lashes and deep-freeze a femur in mid-stride. It is, obviously, not much of a choice.
It seemed to happen - somewhat ironically, given the darkness - in a flash. One moment he was marching very confidently towards his destination, the next moment he was lying very meekly on his face. Up close, the smell of freshly-squelched mulch is overpowering. He tries for a few seconds to isolate the smells of mud, leaves and shit, but he gives up and holds his breath. His heart beats in sync with the sound of passing feet. The numbness in his limbs has not protected him from the pain of impact; it has merely postponed it to a later time. Tomorrow, perhaps, when he awakes in instalments, he will relive this moment in his mind. For now, there in the still air of the mid-winter evening, he turns his head towards the stars, and longs for home.
And the King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’ Matthew 25:40
If true love really is to look beyond the imperfect body and into the soul of another human being, then this is one of the most enduring images of that love I have seen in a while.
In an interview following his encounter with Pope Francis, Vinicio Riva, who suffers from a rare genetic condition, said that being embraced by the Pope made his heart beat so fast he thought he 'would die'. No words were spoken. Words are often over-rated anyway.
'The work is done,' grown old he thought,
'According to my boyish plan;
Let the fools rage, I swerved in naught,
Something to perfection brought';
But louder sang that ghost, 'What then?'
-William Butler Yeats
Dear Sachin,
There comes a time in everyone's life where the end of a road is reached. Sometimes you arrive at that point at a time and manner of your own choosing; other times, the end comes to you instead- forced perhaps by circumstance and other factors over which one has little control.
In your case, you've probably had a sense that the end of this particular road was approaching for some time. I suspect you would have gone through a process of acceptance, followed by meticulous planning and preparation. That seems to be your style. Fans the world over have felt obliged to weigh in with their own opinions, but in a few days’ time, once the cacophony around your last international game has died down, you may well feel the timing was spot-on. And so, here we are, at the cusp of the end of an era.
It's a funny thing, this reaching-the-end-of-the-road business. Your entire journey is played back, dissected and analysed. Highlight reels are prepared. Words like 'legacy' get thrown about. For most people, this happens privately; at the most shared between close friends and family. But you are not most people. You are, arguably, the most famous Indian alive. And so, your end-of-the-road moment is being played out by an entire country. It is a collaborative effort. It has become, like your journey itself, a national pastime.
Which brings us to the inevitable question- what next? What happens when you wake up on the morning of the 19th of November and your profession changes from Cricketer to MP? The fact that you have chosen to make a seamless transition into public service suggests a life of solitude is not what you are after. Quiet or noisy, what shape will the next innings take?
Gymnasts might start before they can barely walk and golfers might play on until they can barely walk, but these are exceptions. For the most part, the primary currency of professional sport is youth, and youth has a funny way of vanishing like the morning mist. And so you retire with your whole life ahead of you. At 40 you may be the elder statesman of international cricket, but in almost any other profession this would be the age when you finally find your feet. It is, in a sense, the 'sweet spot'- that age when you have just enough experience to filter your dreams, and just enough time to turn them into reality.
This most likely already occurred to you when you walked in to the Upper House of Parliament for the first time and discovered you were one of the youngest members there. This is the amazing thing- despite your remarkable achievements over such a long period, you have so much more to offer. And offer you must, not because you haven’t given enough already or because you owe it to your fellow Indians, but because you are uniquely placed to make a difference. With your profile and the resources at your disposal, you can make things can happen. When you speak, people listen. It is a privilege granted to the very few.
The outpouring of love from all corners of the world over the past few weeks is proof, if any more was needed, of how highly you are held in the public’s affections. You represent so many things to so many people, to the point where it stopped being about cricket a long time ago. You have become- even if against your own wishes- an icon, an emblem, a hero for these troubled times. You are in that small club of public figures that have emerged from the battlefield unscathed, with pride and dignity mostly still intact. There’s probably no President who has been as well known, and no Prime Minister as popular. The adulation often defies logic, but that does not diminish your capacity to bring about change.
What is this change? How does it come about? I am sure you are well aware that the right sort of intervention, at the right time, can more often than not be transformational. Families and communities can be impacted by a single act of giving, sometimes even a few words of encouragement. Not just sportspersons, but people in all walks of life can continue to be inspired by you, a young boy who dared to dream. Who took on the world and won. Maybe in time, more of us will be shaken from our slumber, our indifference, and our chronic commitment to mediocrity. We may begin to think differently, and share a vision for a different reality. It could happen.
Many different roads now lie ahead of you, but it is more or less certain that a life of anonymity will not be one of them, not while your name is Tendulkar and cricket is still played in India. Someone once said ‘A man spends half his life trying to be special, and the other half trying to be like everyone else'. Perhaps that will be your challenge. But even in the unlikely event that your name does eventually fade from the memory, there may well be another cricketer with the name Tendulkar on the back of his shirt soon, and you will be thrust into the spotlight again. What then?
I apologise if this is in poor taste. Maybe it’s none of my, or anybody else’s, business. This is, after all, your life we are talking about. You have earned the right to do with it as you please, and no-one will fault you for it. Still, the possibility that you might read this was enough reason for me to write it. With the comfort of financial security, and shorn of the relentless expectation of cricketing perfection, you can now take fresh guard. Whichever new road you end up going down, I hope it’s not one that leads directly into the sunset. The crowds in the stadium may not cheer for much longer, but outside, far from the bright lights of the Sachin Tendulkar stand, lies an incredible opportunity.
A nation awaits.
Note: This piece previously appeared in The National with the title 'An open letter to Sachin Tendulkar'. You can visit the page here.
The rumours are true- I am indeed mentioned in a Bob Dylan song. The song in question is 'You gotta serve somebody' from the gospel album Slow Train Coming. The (unofficial) video is below. If you would rather skip straight to the magical point- it is at 4 minutes and 17 seconds.
It has to be said, Bob Dylan pronounces my name better than most people I know.
I am now a third of the way in to my Movember Challenge. My number one fear when I started was that my moustache would grow straight outwards from my face, to the point where it would enter a room before the rest of me did. I am pleased to confirm that this particular fear has (so far) not materialised. But with 20 days still to go, we're not out of the woods just yet.
It's not all bad, though- there have been a number of positives already; the main one of course being that I have raised £60 to date, with assurances of more to come. Thank you to everyone who has donated so generously and for those who haven't- I hope you take a good hard look at yourselves.
In addition:
As a reward for exceeding £25 in donations, I now have a voucher for a free hamburger every day between the 8th and 17th of Nov. This has been an altogether unexpected, but enthusiastically welcomed, development. So now I can continue with the important task of changing the face of men's health, and stuff my own face with meat while I am doing it.
On a side note- I did wonder why the free burgers were only for 10 days while the challenge lasts a month, but I suppose ten days worth of burgers is probably the most one can consume before running at least a slight risk of turning into a cow.
The final fringe benefit of my slightly disconcerting appearance is that fellow passengers now recoil just a tiny bit when I board the train after work (that's right, step away from the Mo!). These few extra millimetres are crucial as they allow me to commute with both my feet on the floor rather than in some yoga pose. My normal clean-shaven self will miss the luxury of personal space when it's gone, but for now my hairy-monster self is cartwheeling for joy. (Interesting mental image, no?)
That’s all for now. It’s time to go scare myself in the mirror.
If you are at a loose end in London on Saturday 16th Nov, please consider coming along to a charity fundraiser for the Kerala Christian Fellowship (KCF). It promises to be a fun evening, and is in support of a great cause.
You can find out more on the website here or on the Facebook page.
Three things I AM looking forward to:
1. Android KitKat (rumoured arrival- any time now)
No, this is not some new chocolate-covered robot I’ve stumbled across on my latest travels through cyberspace, but Google's latest operating system for mobile devices. Formerly known as Key Lime Pie, it replaces Jelly Bean. Yep, sweet. My thoughts exactly.
2. Starbucks Red Cups (rumoured arrival- Nov 1)
I'm not a year-round fan of this ubiquitous coffee chain, but- this time of year, every time I pass a shop those blasted festive flavours have a way making my credit card spontaneously climb out of my wallet, insert itself into the card reader, and wait expectantly for me to enter the pin number.
3. Christmas (rumoured date- Dec 25; in supermarkets three months earlier)
Celebration of the greatest event in human history. What's not to like?
Three things I AM NOT looking forward to:
1. Sunset at 2 pm (assuming there is a sun in the first place)
Yes, this is that time of year when every shift feels like a night shift. Will take more than a few red cups just to maintain the sanity.
2. Potentially looking like a creep for 'Movember' (ongoing)
This year, for the first time ever, I will be growing (sorry, rephrase: attempting to grow) a moustache for a whole month. On the plus side, I will be playing my part in a global campaign to help fight prostate cancer - the most common cancer amongst men. So, while my physical appearance may be dubious, the cause is most certainly not. If you are able to donate even a small amount, it would be much appreciated. My 'Mo Space' is here.
Special note to my Malayali friends- this is a humble request. Please avoid the 'Meesha Madhavan' jokes. If you do notice a passing resemblance to Mohanlal, however, it is ok for you to mention this. Valarey thanks.
3. Sachin Tendulkar's retirement (14-18 Nov)
I have already rambled on about this. (please refer to previous post below). My adult self will probably try to be all cool and unaffected by it. My 16-year-old self, on the other hand...
If you are looking for a Sachin fix, are curious about the great man's legacy, or in the extremely unlikely (and frankly preposterous) event that that you've never heard of him before, please head to Cricinfo's 'Farewell Tendulkar' site here. It is, figuratively speaking, a soothing balm for the troubled soul.
