Brad Hogg

At the end of the match Hogg gave that

Ball to Sachin for his autograph.

Sachin put his sign with one beautiful sentence,

"IT WILL NEVER HAPPEN AGAIN." –

Sachin Tendulkar's all-round greatness means he will not be surpassed by Dileep Premachandran

To understand what Sachin Tendulkar has meant to Indian cricket, it's necessary to look beyond his record-breaking 169th Test appearance, achieved yesterday in the series against Sri Lanka, and his batting heroics. Think instead of a man who has 198 wickets, 154 of them in one-day internationals, an individual who has never been less than fully involved out on the field despite having been around since the days when Mike Gatting was leading a rebel tour of South Africa.

Think back to a World Series game in Australia in December 1991. The West Indies were waning as a limited-overs force, but when they skittled India for 126 in Perth, few gave Mohammad Azharuddin's side a chance of salvaging anything from the game. But West Indies then fell apart themselves and it was left to Curtly Ambrose and Anderson Cummins to get them within range. Ambrose was run out, and Cummins and Patrick Patterson then levelled the scores with Azhar having turned to Tendulkar's medium pace as a last resort.

With the last ball of his only over, Tendulkar tempted Cummins to flash outside off stump. Azhar took a fine catch in the slips, and the game was tied. Two years later, the boy with the golden arm was at it again, this time in the Hero Cup semi-final against South Africa, a team who were coming into their own as a one-day powerhouse. Again it was Tendulkar that Azhar turned to, with six needed from the final over. He gave up just three, and went on to sneak one through Brian Lara's defence in a final where West Indies were routed.

In Tests, Tendulkar's partnership-breaking ability came to the fore in matches where he didn't contribute as heavily with the bat. In India's most cherished victory of all, at Eden Gardens in 2001, he made 10 in both innings. But facing a race against the clock to bowl Australia out on the final afternoon, it was his intervention after tea that effectively killed off Steve Waugh's hopes of clinging on to a series lead.

On a worn pitch and with the capacity crowd bellowing approval, he ripped the ball at near-right angles to supplement Harbhajan Singh's heroics at the other end. Adam Gilchrist, Matthew Hayden and Shane Warne all fell leg-before, unable to fathom the extent of turn as Tendulkar tossed up leg breaks, googlies and the odd quicker one.

More than two years later, at Adelaide, he made 1 in the first innings of a game made memorable by the batting of Rahul Dravid and VVS Laxman, and some rare Ajit Agarkar moments in the Test-match sun. With Australia setting India a target on a surface where chasing has never been easy, Tendulkar made his mark when it mattered most, with Australia 142 ahead and having seven wickets in hand. Damien Martyn and Steve Waugh were undone in successive overs, both by prodigious turn and edges to Dravid at slip.

In Multan the following spring, he produced another Warne-like special to bowl Moin Khan through his legs to ruin Pakistan's hopes of saving the follow-on. India went on to win by an innings and 52 runs, and the dismissal buried some ghosts from the recent past. At Eden Gardens in 1999, Moin's gritty 70 had been pivotal as Pakistan recovered from 26 for six to win a Test match.

His last Test wicket came at Wellington in April 2009, and you have to go back a further 18 months and a game against Pakistan in Guwahati for his last ODI wickets. A shoulder that required surgery has been keenly felt on Asian pitches, where his spin and ability to wobble the ball off the seam gave his captains an option well worth checking out.

Mahendra Singh Dhoni, the current India captain, will console himself with the thought that the bowling decline has gone hand-in-hand with a batting resurgence. In seven Tests this year, Tendulkar averages more than 96, and has five centuries. Overall he is averaging 56.25 in Tests.

Back when he started playing, 20 Test centuries and 10 more in the one-day arena marked you out as one of the all-time greats. The benchmarks he has gone on to set in both forms of the game make a mockery of everyone else who has played in this era.

Consider this to put things into perspective – Andrew Flintoff is five years younger and his peak lasted six years, from the hundred against South Africa at Lord's in 2003 to the Ashes-winning encore of last summer. Tendulkar was scoring match-saving Test hundreds at Old Trafford when Flintoff was 12, and he'll play his sixth World Cup next spring, while Fred watches from the sidelines.

As Sharda Ugra, who has seen Tendulkar progress from prodigy to old hand, asked in Cricinfo: "Stretch the imagination 22 years ahead and see if you can pick any fresh Test stripling of today – Umar Akmal, Eoin Morgan, Steve Smith, Adrian Barath – to go past 170 Tests." You can't, can you? Few records in sport are safe, not Bob Beamon's, not Hank Aaron's and not even Jack Nicklaus's of 18 majors. But Tendulkar, like Bradman and his 99.94, will endure. No one else will even get close.

The Worst Sachin Arguments

Remembering the most foolish things ever said about Tendulkar.

The male analysis of Sachin Tendulkar is a two-decade long confession of Indian men. When they speak of him, usually through pilfered opinions, they reveal fragments of their own fears and private grouses. So when a guy says that Rahul Dravid is a more useful Test player than Sachin, he means to say, ‘I am an ordinary person and I want the ordinary to triumph over the flamboyant, I want hard work to be accorded the same respect as unattainable genius, otherwise what is the whole point of my existence.’ When he says Laxman is more beautiful to watch than Sachin, he is saying, ‘I want you to believe that I am classy, an opera among rock concerts.’ And when he says that Ganguly was a better one-day opener than Sachin, he is saying, ‘I am a Bengali.’

As Tendulkar now absurdly escalates his game in what should have been his commentary years, as he stands alone as the rightful owner of One-Day’s most prized batting record, as all his old rivals have fallen whispering in their final moments that this man is the best of their times or even the best ever, it is easy to forget the many moronic things that were said about him. There is a huge quantity of third-rate literature, now deservedly serving as cones for peanuts, that once berated him in the masquerade of cricket analysis. Views that were, and still are, reproduced as the opinions of millions. Till recently, the most stupid Indian arguments were usually about Sachin. How many times have you heard someone say, ‘he does not win matches’. Increasingly, people who do not have mental problems are abandoning this line of thought, even refusing to admit that they ever held such an opinion. But not very long ago, it was a popular view.

Also, his centuries, apparently, did not result in Indian victories. Considering that he did not waste balls when he was in the middle, could it be that there were other reasons for our defeat apart from his centuries? Also, it is alleged, he never lasted till the end. As if it was his wish to go have a shower before the match ended. Could it be that the mathematical probability of an opener lasting till the end is very small?

In the past two decades, several batsmen have been regarded as Tendulkar’s equals. In columns, essays and drunken conversations, some batsmen were even considered better than him if the game were split into narrow genres. At some point or the other players like Inzamam, Ponting, Lara, Bevan, Sehwag, the brothers Mark and Steve (Waugh) have been placed by his side to see if his light dimmed. Sachin is like the digit in a stopwatch that remains unchanged even as the numbers in the units place go through a furious shuffle. But in the end, the contenders have diminished or vanished. Except Lara, who is the only batsman whose right it is to deny Tendulkar the honour of being considered the greatest of his time (though Lara himself has no doubts in this matter).

There were periods in Lara’s astonishing career when Indian men gleefully pointed at him and said, ‘this guy is better than Sachin’. The glee is the whole story. Many men, for different reasons, nurse a hatred for Sachin. It could be the complicated nature of male love, which has a bit of malice in it. Or it could be that Sachin reminds some men of their own worthlessness. Or it could be that people with low self-esteem, of whom there are many, rate everything that belongs to them, like Tendulkar, as inferior to what is foreign.

It is not surprising that the way Indian men talk about Sachin is exactly the way Caribbean men discuss Lara. “Lara has done nothing for us, nothing,” a man from Trinidad told me about three years ago. “Great batsman but a selfish fellow.” Haven’t we heard that many times in India—about Tendulkar? The same gloomy force that makes Indian men rate Lara higher, inspires Caribbean men to rate Tendulkar higher than Lara. A few years ago, when cricket fans in Guyana were asked to decide who was better, 85 per cent voted for Tendulkar. As we can see, the male analysis of Tendulkar and Lara says little about the batsmen but a lot about men in general.

After Fiat gifted him a Ferrari and he applied for a duty waiver of Rs 1.6 crore on it, there was a huge uproar. That was the first time he was slammed in the media. ‘How can he be so greedy’ was the cry of Indian men, all of whom spend a lot of effort evading taxes themselves. Rs 1.6 crore is a considerable sum even for Tendulkar. What was so morally bereft in trying to save that money? Are we morally compromised when we try to save a few thousand every year in tax exemption?

But the worst argument against Tendulkar will always be the myth that he was a bad captain. The truth is: his presence in the dressing room is such that as long as he plays he will be the only captain, whether he is called that or not. All men who tried to defeat his presence hurt themselves. Ganguly was a tortured soul. When he arrived at an airport or at a press conference, if there was Tendulkar, Ganguly was never granted the dignity of being captain. It was Tendulkar people wanted to see, hear. Dhoni’s great fortune is that his mind is clear, he knows his place—Captain and No. 2.

Tendulkar is a victim of not just mediocre analysis but also meaningless compliments. He is often described through a sentence that appears to be a unique Indian expression. No other nation is as fond of this line: ‘What strikes you about him is his humility’. It is a compliment usually given to a celebrity with good manners, who has made a journalist feel comfortable, who has offered him a glass of water to drink. How many times have we seen Tendulkar being described as humble, and readily accepted that view. But, are we confusing his endearing decency for humility? And his self-centered caution that ensures he does not always speak his mind, are we misinterpreting that disappointing aspect of his personality for humility? He might be humble, as somehow required by all his devotees, but my point is we don’t know.

Then there is the other annoying epithet—Little Master. You think he likes being called Little?

http://www.openthemagazine.com/shorts/smallworld/2010-03-20

Simply Sachin!

The proudest possession of Indian cricket is not yet done Have you ever thought of what will happen to Indian cricket after Tendulkar?” The air was full of anticipation as the question hung for an infinitesimal moment. In the small lounge of a five-star hotel, where a select gathering listened intently to every word he spoke, where the only noise that could be heard between the conversation was the click of the cameras, Sachin Tendulkar said: “Oh! I really don’t know how to answer this question. Of course, cricket goes on. There have been players in the past, our heroes, who retired and cricket went on.” The two are intertwined—Indian cricket and Tendulkar. So don’t blame him for not dwelling on it for too long. It is a question that a billion people would rather not ask themselves. People say Twenty20 cricket has brought an entirely new audience to cricket—women and children. Tendulkar did that way back, permeating through the collective consciousness of every Indian even before he completed his first year in international cricket. The 119* vs England in Old Trafford (1990), the 114 vs Australia in Perth (1991-92), the twin centuries against Australia in Sharjah (1997-98), the World Cup efforts in 1996 and 2003, the 155 vs South Africa in Bloemfontein (2001-02), the 241 at the SCG (2003-04)... the list is endless. All his innings, a nation sat hooked to its TV sets, unblinking, hoping, praying, crying, rejoicing. We watched wide-eyed as he ripped through a charging Shoaib Akhtar in Centurion in the 2003 World Cup. We did the same recently, as he valiantly tried to pull off a win against Australia in Hyderabad. There we were again, alongside the women and children, sitting with bated breath, watching the maestro exhibiting his class, in complete control, taking no risk yet unleashing his strokes to all corners of the park. This happened amid talk of the impending death of the ODI cricket with the advent of T20. Tendulkar and India proved the doomsayers wrong. The 20 years have amounted to 73,103 runs in 159 Tests, 436 ODIs, a T20 international, 261 First Class matches, 523 List A matches (domestic level of ODI matches) and 25 T20 matches. It may be impossible for even a die-hard fan to remember so many innings, but not Tendulkar. He can vividly recall each innings. He also has a photographic memory of his dismissals—he can describe it more correctly than any match report lying in newspaper archives. It is difficult to miss the excitement and joy in his voice as Tendulkar talks about his first century. “I was unbeaten on 96 overnight and couldn’t sleep. We [Sharadashram Vidyamandir] were playing against Don Bosco and I was impatient to get to my first ever century. Another reason for my impatience was that I had invited Achrekar Sir [coach Ramakant Achrekar] to dinner at my home, but he said the day I score a century he would come. Next morning my father took me to pay obeisance at a Ganpati temple. I scored the century in the very first over. The first thing I told Sir at the change room was that he now had no way out but to come to my house.” Tendulkar has made batting look so easy and complex at the same time. “Nothing is easy and you have to work hard for it. I’m a person who hates taking anything for granted, I want to prepare to the best of my ability,” he says. “I wanted to go out and express myself to the best of my ability, and if the pre-match preparation was good then I was in a position to go out and deliver, and that is something I focused on. There may be innings where you don’t do well, that’s fine, but as long as you’ve given 100 per cent, that is what matters to me.” Innumerable reasons are attributed to his genius. Talent, focus, discipline, hard work, but the basic reason behind it is that he takes his cricket extremely seriously. Yet, even for someone who started leaving his imprint on the landscape of cricket far and wide at such an early age, he admits to having his moments of doubt. “In the earlier part of my career, in the second Test at Faisalabad, I scored 58. But in the previous Test I had got out early and I had actually questioned myself whether I belonged there. I felt out of place, tense, and didn’t know what was happening around. In the second Test I went out and decided that, come what may, I’m going to be there. That innings was the turning point of my life because after that I felt I do belong here,” he says. Interestingly, while it is his ODI exploits that come forth in one’s memory—maybe because he has played so many of them—it is the Test innings that he brings up often in discussions. Tendulkar may have dished out hi-cal, instant gratification performances in the shorter version, but it is the subtle flavours of the longer version that he prefers. “We should play more Test cricket for sure. It is obviously not a great news that we are only playing five Tests this season. Ideally, for any team to progress you need to play more Test cricket as that is where the real cricket is,” he says. Tendulkar often speaks about how his game has evolved from the aggressive one a 16-year-old played to the vintage essays that come off his bat at 36. Brand Sachin, too, has evolved in a similar fashion. Tendulkar being a minor, his father, Ramesh Tendulkar, had to sign his contract with the BCCI on his behalf before his debut series against Pakistan in 1989. Six years later, in 1995, at 22, he entered into a five-year contract worth around Rs 30 crore with WorldTel, which made him the richest cricketer in the world. In 2001, a Rs 100 crore deal was signed with WorldTel. In 2006 he entered into a contact with Singapore-based World Sports Group. There he sat under dim lights, his charcoal grey Adidas T-shirt sporting another logo on the right side—ST, underlining his essential character, understated mostly, with glimpses of flashiness (as reflected in his love for expensive fast cars). ST branded cricket equipment and kids’ consumer goods, like clothing, food and toiletries sporting the brand, are some of the plans in the pipeline. Having never rushed in his career, he has mastered the art of patience (the 241 at SCG in 2003-04 did not have single one of his trademark cover drives). It is this patience which has seen him live his life under intense media glare. Yet, here he was, answering every query, which he had probably answered a zillion times before, with not a hint of impatience. His voice sounded tired after a few hours but a few cups of black tea kept him going. There were no grudges about what he has to do; just a simple, uncomplicated acceptance of how things are and how they have been. “This is the way I’ve known my life from the age of 14. That is when I started playing first-class cricket when I was part of the Mumbai Ranji Trophy team. But I’m comfortable with it,” he says. “People have appreciated me for what I am, so I don’t make any special effort to change.” That is Sachin for you—simply Sachin, even after 20 years.

The life and legend of Tendulkar

For a reluctant public speaker, Sachin Tendulkar's measure of words and timing of delivery today would be only a whit lower in impact than when he plays one of his exquisite straight drives.

I remember him as a man with monosyllabic responses to queries, but today he is a seasoned raconteur, with a sharp memory and more importantly a sense of humour.

Tendulkar's formal education was truncated just after finishing school, but he appears to have learnt well from the 'university of life'. At the release of Shadows Across the Playing Fields (a book on 60 years of India-Pakistan cricket co-authored by Shashi Tharoor andShaharyar Khan) the other night, he had the audience in thrall with memories of his introduction to international cricket. Hesent me 20hurtling years back in time.

I was on that eventful tour of Pakistan in 1989, and remember the callow 16-year-old being the focus of attention of everybody -- not the least Pakistan's dreaded pace attack led by Imran Khan and including Wasim Akram and Waqar Younis. Though a raw youngster, for psychological reasons, he was the obvious target for the Pakistan team.

Ten months earlier Tendulkar had not been chosen for the tour of the West Indies despite scoring centuries in his first Ranji, Duleep and Irani Trophy matches because the selectors feared he might be hit by pace bowlers and lose confidence permanently. But in many ways -- some of which have been examined by Tharoor and Shaharyar in the book -- a tour of Pakistan was even more daunting.

Tendulkar recalled how jittery he was before his first innings, but I can vouch his teammates were perhaps even more nervous. Concern over Tendulkar reached a crescendo on the eve of the final Test at Sialkot when it was discovered that the young player would not just talk, but often also walk in his sleep.

Manager Borde, whose room would often become the hub for hacks in the evenings to sniff out stories, was most distraught. "Ab kya hoga?'' he asked the clueless press corps. As a precaution, I suspect he moved into the room adjoining Tendulkar's and kept vigil.

Tendulkar had enjoyed a modest tour till then, and then faced a trial by fire in the last Test when he was felled by a vicious bouncer from Waqar Younis. There was blood on the pitch as he swooned briefly from the blow, but got only muted commiserations from Imran Khan who saw this as a decisive psychological moment to win the series.

But Tendulkar was unfazed, and after some quick-fix remedy by the physio, was back into his stance. The next delivery from Waqar was sent scorching through the covers for a boundary. Imran's moment to put India on the mat had come and gone in a flash. Tendulkar had sealed his brilliant script with destiny forever.

It's almost 20 years since that day, and the marvel about Tendulkar is now not so much about his record-breaking feats as his longevity. Heck, twenty years transcends a couple of generations at least. There have been 15 cricketers who have played 20 years or more and in the early 20th century, England's Wilfred Rhodes's career stretched to a whopping 30 years and 315 days, but nobody has had the workload as Tendulkar who has played 159 Tests and 425 one day internationals.

This makes for arguably the most extraordinary story in Indian sport, and while every fact is well known, is still only half told. The other half should come from the man himself. For the sake of posterity, I insist, Tendulkar must start living his life again, as it were.

Ayaz Menon on Tendulkar's 20 years

Sachin Tendulkar completes 20 years in international cricket today. He made his Test debut against Pakistan at Karachi as a callow 16-year-old with a mop of fuzzy hair, a squeaky voice and a world record already under his belt.

Those with a penchant for seeing things through the prism of history might remember that this happened less than a week after the collapse of the Berlin Wall and less than three weeks before VP Singh was chosen Prime Minister of India to usher in the era of coalition politics.

In almost every which way, the world has changed for India since then, except for one constant: the sight of a 5 foot 5 inch batsman walking out with his inordinately heavy bat, doing duty for the country, carrying the burden of expectations of a billion people.

Barely a dozen players in the history of cricket have played that long but nobody has spent as many days on the field playing for his country with such remarkable consistency and virtuosity that the oft-abused definition 'genius' finds credence.

Three events early in his career convinced me of his mettle even before he had played for India. Almost 18 months before he made his international debut I went to see him bat in a school match at the Cricket Club of India in early 1988. He had by then already announced his arrival to the world with the 664 runs partnership with schoolmate Vinod Kambli, but journalists are skeptics by nature and I was seeking further vindication of his talent.

By the time I reached the ground Tendulkar was already past the three figure mark and striking the ball with gusto. To stem the flow of runs the fielding captain pushed his fielders deep prompting Tendulkar to change his tactics: from hitting lusty boundaries, he began pushing for singles and twos. When the fielding captain brought the field in again, he started hitting over the top again.

"This boy is destined for greatness,'' quipped the late Raj Singh Dungarpur, Indian cricket's eternal romantic."Batting is about making runs, but even more about knowing how to make runs." At 15, Tendulkar seemed to know this better than those who may have played a lifetime.

Some months later he made a hundred on debut in the Ranji Trophy, Duleep Trophy and Irani trophy and was on everybody's short list for the impending tour of the West Indies in early 1989. But when the team was announced, his name was missing.

On the eve of the team's departure, actor Tom Alter and I were to interview skipper Dilip Vengsarkar for a sports video and thought it would be a good idea to include a section with the young cricketer too. Tendulkar was visibly chagrined at his omission in spite of his prolific run-getting in the domestic tournaments.

"The selectors wanted to protect you from Marshall and Walsh,'' Tom and I told him. This appeared to rile him even further. "I'm not afraid of pace,'' he shot back, bristling with barely concealed unhappiness. "If I am hit, I will only learn faster.''

In his first series in Pakistan, in the final Test at Sialkot, he was struck on the nose by Waqar Younis. After the bleeding was arrested, he was back in his stance with determination multiplied manifold. Waqar's next delivery was hit through the covers for a boundary. A psychological threshold had been crossed.

Over the next few years, Tendulkar was to be acknowledged the world over as a cricketer who belonged to the 'rarest of rare' categories. In the 20 odd years since I have rarely seen him relax or take his success for granted. But I will desist from discussing his batting exploits here in any detail. These are easily available everywhere -- the fours, sixes, strike rate - all the stats anybody wants to know, though these are inadequate to convey the quality of his batsmanship.

Is Tendulkar the greatest batsman of all time? Since no other batsman has finished with a Test career average of even 75, leave aside 99.94, Bradman in that respect brooks no competition. Is he the best batsman of his generation? Likely, though Brian Lara and Ricky Ponting will have so many votaries that no clear conclusion is possible. Has he been better than Ranji, Trumper, Hobbs, Hammond, Hutton, the three Ws, Kanhai, Gavaskar, Border, Miandad, G Chappell - to name a few -- who have illuminated the spectrum of batsmanship through the past 150 years? I suspect there will be pros and cons in this debate too.

I would say, though, that Tendulkar must rate amongst the top 10 batsmen of all time in terms of technical certitude, style and consistency. He has scored the most runs and centuries in Tests and ODIs which in itself is enough to establish a giant. He would straddle across the game's history with his greatness unquestioned in any era, and be part of any team any time. The only bleak part in a glittering career would be his nondescript captaincy.

But to measure Tendulkar's impact only through runs, centuries and average is to assess him only as a cricketer and ignore an extraordinary sociological phemonenon. In a birthday tribute in these columns last year I wrote of the indelible impact he has had on the Indian psyche:

"Like cinema and politics, cricket is wholly integrated into Indian life. Tendulkar not only filled up stadiums around the country with his dynamic batsmanship, but also filled the nation with hope. At the physical level, he was playing sport, at a subliminal level he was nurturing the ambitions of a young country that was breaking its shackles from a restrictive past.'' If anything, my belief has since become stronger.

Indeed, I dare add that if Tendulkar were not around, the match-fixing controversy could have debilitated the game in the Indian sub-continent. It was primarily because of his personal and professional credibility (and by extension, of players like Ganguly, Dravid, Kumble) that Indian cricket could emerge from that crisis relatively unaffected.

Equally remarkably, for all his phenomenal fame, all the glory and the wealth that has come his way, Tendulkar retains his humility and childlike enthusiasm for the game still. He is shy -- a man of many strokes but few words -- preferring to let his bat do the talking. But when he does speak or take a position, however, the world listens, as happened in the Harbhajan Singh controversy in Australia in 2008.

Tendulkar has frequently been compared to Don Bradman. This has its genesis in Bradman himself revealing in the late 90s that he saw shades of himself in Tendulkar's batting. But for me the greater similarity is in the influence they have wielded on the game and their respective countries despite the enormous pressures of public expectation.

No two wickets in the history of the game have been as coveted by opposing teams; no two wickets have meant so much for so many people for so long. Through their batting excellence, Bradman and Tendulkar not only established the identity of their respective nations but helped millions of their countrymen find their identity too.

The poet-writer CP Surendran wrote once somewhere: "Batsmen walk into the middle alone. Not Tendulkar. Every time Tendulkar walks out to the crease, a whole nation, tatters and all, marches with him to the battle arena. A pauper people pleading for relief, remission from the lifelong anxiety of being India, by joining in spirit with their visored saviour.''

That, I believe, is the true essence of Sachin Tendulkar.

Man-child superstar by Rahul Bhattacharya

Sachin Tendulkar comes to the ground in headphones. He might make a racket in the privacy of the bus, who knows, but when he steps out he is behind headphones. Waiting to bat he is behind his helmet. The arena is swinging already to the chant, "Sachin, Sachin", the first long and pleading, the second urgent and demanding, but Tendulkar is oblivious, behind his helmet.

At the fall of the second wicket, that familiar traitorous roar goes round the stadium, at which point Tendulkar walks his slow walk out, golden in the sun, bat tucked under the elbow. The gloves he will only begin to wear when he approaches the infield, to busy himself against distraction from the opposition. Before Tendulkar has even taken guard, you know that his quest is equilibrium.

As he bats his effort is compared in real time with earlier ones. Tendulkar provides his own context. The conditions, the bowling attack, his tempo, his very vibe, is assessed against an innings played before.Today he reminds me of the time when … Why isn't he …. What's wrong with him!

If the strokes are flowing, spectators feel something beyond pleasure. They feel something like gratitude. The silence that greets his dismissal is about the loudest sound in sport. With Tendulkar the discussion is not how he got out, but why. Susceptible to left-arm spin? To the inswinger? To the big occasion? The issue is not about whether it was good or not, but where does it rank? A Tendulkar innings is never over when it is over. It is simply a basis for negotiation. He might be behind headphones or helmet, but outside people are talking, shouting, fighting, conceding, bargaining, waiting. He is a national habit.

But Tendulkar goes on. This is his achievement, to live the life of Tendulkar. To occupy the space where fame and accomplishment intersect, akin to the concentrated spot under a magnifying glass trained in the sun, and remain unburnt.

"Sachin is God" is the popular analogy. Yet god may smile as disease, fire, flood and Sreesanth visit the earth, and expect no fall in stock. For Tendulkar the margin for error is rather less. The late Naren Tamhane was merely setting out the expectation for a career when he remarked as selector, "Gentlemen, Tendulkar never fails." The question was whether to pick the boy to face Imran, Wasim, Waqar and Qadir in Pakistan. Tendulkar was then 16.

Sixteen and so ready that precocity is too mild a word. He made refinements, of course, but the marvel of Tendulkar is that he was a finished thing almost as soon as began playing.

The maidans of Bombay are dotted with tots six or seven years old turning out for their coaching classes. But till the age of 11, Tendulkar had not played with a cricket ball. It had been tennis- or rubber-ball games at Sahitya Sahwas, the writers' co-operative housing society where he grew up, the youngest of four cricket-mad siblings by a distance. The circumstances were helpful. In his colony friends he had playmates, and from his siblings, Ajit in particular, one above Sachin but older by 11 years, he had mentorship.

It was Ajit who took him to Ramakant Achrekar, and the venerable coach inquired if the boy was accustomed to playing with a "season ball" as it is known in India. The answer did not matter. Once he had a look at him, Achrekar slotted him at No. 4, a position he would occupy almost unbroken through his first-class career. In his first two matches under Achrekar Sir, he made zero and zero.

Memory obscures telling details in the dizzying rise thereafter. Everybody remembers the 326 not out in the664-run gig with Kambli. Few remember the 346 not out in the following game, the trophy final. Everyone knows the centuries on debut in the Ranji Trophy and Irani Trophy at 15 and 16. Few know that he got them in the face of a collapse in the first instance and virtually out of partners in the second. Everyone knows his nose was bloodied by Waqar Younis in that first Test series, upon which he waved away assistance. Few remember that he struck the next ball for four.

This was Tendulkar five years after he'd first handled a cricket ball.

Genius, they say, is infinite patience. But it is first of all an intuitive grasp of something beyond the scope of will - or, for that matter, skill. In sportspersons it is a freakishness of the motor senses, even a kind of ESP.

	The wonder is that in the years between he has done nothing to sully his innocence, nothing to deaden the impish joy, nothing to disrupt the infinite patience or damage the immaculate equilibrium through the riot of his life and career

Tendulkar's genius can be glimpsed without him actually holding a bat. Not Garry Sobers' equal with the ball, he is nevertheless possessed of a similar versatility. He swings it both ways, a talent that eludes several specialists. He not only rips big legbreaks but also lands his googlies right, a task beyond some wrist spinners. Naturally he also bowls offspin, usually to left-handers and sometimes during a spell of wrist spin. In the field he mans the slips as capably as he does deep third man, and does both in a single one-dayer. Playing table tennis he is ambidextrous. By all accounts he is a brilliant, if hair-raising, driver. He is a champion Snake player on the cellphone, according to Harbhajan Singh, whom he also taught a spin variation.

His batting is of a sophistication that defies generalisation. He can be destroyer or preserver. Observers have tried to graph these phases into a career progression. But it is ultimately a futile quest for Tendulkar's calibrations are too minute and too many to obey compartmentalisation. Given conditions, given his fitness, his state of mind, he might put away a certain shot altogether, and one thinks it is a part of his game that has died, till he pulls it out again when the time is right, sometimes years afterwards. Let alone a career, in the space of a single session he can, according to the state of the rough or the wind or the rhythm of a particular bowler, go from predatorial to dead bat or vice versa.

Nothing frustrates Indians as much as quiet periods from Tendulkar, and indeed often they are self-defeating. But outsiders have no access to his thoughts. However eccentric, they are based on a heightened cricket logic rather than mood. Moods are irrelevant to Tendulkar. Brian Lara or Mohammad Azharuddin might be stirred into artistic rage. Tendulkar is a servant of the game. He does not play out of indignation nor for indulgence. His aim is not domination but runs. It is the nature of his genius.

The genius still doesn't explain the cricket world's enchantment with Tendulkar. Ricky Ponting and Jacques Kallis are arguably not lesser cricketers than he, but have nothing like his following or presence. Among contemporaries only Shane Warne could draw an entire stadium's energy towards himself, but then Warne worked elaborately towards this end. Tendulkar on the pitch is as uncalculated as Warne was deliberate. Warne worked the moments before each delivery like an emcee at a title fight. Tendulkar goes through a series of ungainly nods and crotch adjustments. Batting, his movements are neither flamboyant nor languid; they are contained, efficient. Utility is his concern. Having hit the crispest shot between the fielders he can still be found scurrying down the wicket, just in case.

Likewise, outside the pitch nothing he does calls up attention. In this he is not unusual for the times. It has been, proved by exceptions of course, the era of the undemonstrative champion. Ali, Connors, McEnroe, Maradona have given way to Sampras, Woods, Zidane, Federer, who must contend with the madness of modern media and sanitisation of corporate obligation.

Maybe Tendulkar the superstar, like Tendulkar the cricketer, was formed at inception. Then, as now, he is darling. He wears the big McEnroe-inspired curls of his youth in a short crop, but still possesses the cherub's smile and twinkle. Perhaps uniquely, he is granted not the sportstar's indulgence of perma-adolescence but that of perma-childhood. A man-child on the field: maybe it is the dichotomy that is winning. The wonder is that in the years between he has done nothing to sully his innocence, nothing to deaden the impish joy, nothing to disrupt the infinite patience or damage the immaculate equilibrium through the riot of his life and career.