The Tendulkar Generation

By Gaurav Parab

Growing up is never easy. The pace and inescapability of the whole process is perhaps the toughest part. A moment ago, there we stood - out of sepia, and stepping into technicolor. On the bus to school, hoping that the earth opens up and swallows everything before that Math exam. And here we are now. Logged on to Picasa, married to college sweethearts, surrounded by new friends, and trying to hold on to the colors of the time we left behind. Desperately trying to hold on to memories.

Enter Sachin Tendulkar. The canvas which never changed.

The constant.

Boy, Genius, Savior, Super Human, God. The bridge spanning a generation’s evolution from the late nineties to a new century. The unstoppable time machine, the delightful album which keeps adding new pages. We could as well be still adjusting rickety antennas to get that elusive Doordarshan signal instead of browsing through this fancy DTH menu.

Last week, as Sachin Tendulkar reached another milestone and almost slayed the Aussies single handed, I experienced something remarkable happening everywhere around me. Out on the streets, in brightly lit drawing rooms, and in hundreds of run-down dormitories across India – a lost generation switched T.V sets on once again as word of the Tendulkar magic spread. A nation was in love again.

For some of my younger friends it is difficult to imagine the Tendulkar obsession in the days of ‘match winners’, ‘finishers’, ‘fearless young guns’, and ‘dime a dozen big hitters’.

India after all, is the ‘I’ in BRIC, we are recession proof, and we as a nation are learning to take on bullies at different forums.

Things were different back then. We were honest, yet we were bankrupt. We worked hard at getting noticed, but the only global we got was Madonna putting on Mehendi.

Enter this young man with a twinkle in his eyes. Small even by Indian standards, naturally gifted even by Indian standards. Unassuming, not realizing that as his blade dispatched magic balls hurled with guile and speeds not imaginable today - he punched away the blues of a nation in transition. And he did it again and again. Perth, Sharjah, Mumbai, Centurion, and Lords became theaters to the Tendulkar show. Bullies were packed off; and brilliant men drafted to plot his downfall finished. A Tendulkar dismissal meant mothers reluctantly dragging themselves to the kitchen, fathers glaring at children and unfinished homework, and kids scurrying away to their rooms to stare at the Sportstar Tendulkar poster.

Dear Youngistan, Tendulkar was our evening. Tendulkar was the good news in the newspaper in the morning. He was the guy who returned from his father’s funeral, to stand up for India. To live our dream. To live it forever with humility and grace.

And as newspapers changed, editors retired and mere stars were twenty twentized to iconic status, an old man with the heart of a young curly prankster kept on churning those big scores out. As gawky teenagers changed to executives, Tendulkar changed gears too. The Ferrari became the Rolls, the Rolls that had not forgotten to take flight.

And as blasphemous as this may sound, many of us did not give a damn about the result that day in Hyderabad. We sat transfixed in front of the Television screens as Tendulkar went on and on. The match was only coincidental. Sure, tears escaped our eyes as a needless run out stopped the Indian juggernaut, but most of us cried for Sachin. And what must be going on his mind. Do the ghosts of Chennai still haunt him?

And if I can let you on a secret, all of us knew India would lose when Tendulkar got out. It had happened to us a million times in the past, when all that stood between an improbably victory and defeat was the little guy in the Boost commercial. Cricket was so much simpler then. Eight International Teams versus Sachin Tendulkar.

Of course, the cynics always question Tendulkar’s ability to finish the job. This is unfair. For starters, Tendulkar has won more matches for his team than anyone else in the world. In one day internationals, Tendulkar has been an opener for more than 15 years, and to expect him to carry his bat through the innings is like asking a guide to take you on top of Everest, and drop you back home to Chandni Chowk as well.

And most importantly, oppositions want Tendulkar out. That is the simple truth. A bull with a big red target slung across his jersey, surrounded with young stallions who often slip under the opposition radar to do their bit. Indian opponents dedicate exclusive team meetings and space on their Macs to find kinks in the Tendulkar armor. Young new bowlers, who have grown up watching Sachin beat the stuffing out of their illustrious seniors start their run up realizing that to get a Tendulkar would be as big an achievement as perhaps playing international cricket. What a story back home on the streets of Durban! Remembered young Phil? He got Sachin Tendulkar out!

Now, as a new generation searches for new Tendulkars, an entire era hangs on to every Tendulkar moment to stay in touch with who they were, and where they came from. The critics have come and gone, and life changes every moment, but surely – Sachin Tendulkar is the immortality in our lives?

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