Open letter to Sachin Tendulkar from a cynic

Sachin Tendulkar

Dearest Sachin,

It is with as much hesitation as discomfiture that I address this letter to you. With billions around the globe worshiping you as the solitary deity of their religion for the last two decades, I wonder if you have ever had the misfortune of receiving a letter from a cynic.

It is, essentially, in this aspect, that you may find this letter unanticipated and unprecedented (so much in contrast to your statement of retirement), but I vouch for the fact that what ensues are precisely my thoughts and feelings, unadorned and guileless, ever since I began following cricket.

It is not rigorously astonishing that my introduction to cricket, like many others, circumnavigated around one 5’5” figure with messed up hair. Yet, unlike my peers who proclaimed themselves as distinct followers of this man, I, somehow developed an aversion towards him.

A short figure dominating the grotesque bowlers, fending them off with one careless brush of the willow, wasn’t a particularly welcoming sight to a novice who had anticipated strength and musculature to govern the game. The fact that this guy was way younger than his teammates made it all the more bizarre and intriguing.

Being a left-hander personally, imbibed a certain bias in me that I would go on to exercise in those breakfast table debates pitching you against Sourav Ganguly. Throughout such debates, I would desperately rummage around for your inabilities and would end up empty-handed.

I remember the 2003 World Cup where you had almost taken India to the pinnacle of success. But why? Why did you fail when it mattered the most? Why couldn’t you take us home against your favorite opponents? Everyone lauded you after the campaign; held you in veneration; worshiped you as their savior. But Sachin, there was one person perhaps in the whole world who wasn’t convinced – me.

Almost a decade later, I was one of those who rallied for your departure from cricket. I was scornful when the emotional Indian cricketers dedicated their World Cup victory to you. It was unfathomable to me how the personality of an individual could emerge above the accomplishment of a nation riding on the sentiments of its people.

My cynical facade was oblivious to the innumerable instances when that same individual had sacrificed personal egos for the sake of the country. I was blind on those frequent occasions when Sachin Tendulkar tried to hit a six and got caught in his nineties only because his team needed to accelerate. I was ignorant; I preferred to be so.

Yet, I was among those who shamelessly questioned your selflessness time and again. That forged feeling of achievement when I highlighted your reduced feet movement and slow reflexes in recent years (yes, finding a flaw in the seemingly flawless is an accomplishment in itself), that exhilarating moment when my opinion was endorsed by a handful of critics – every emotion of mine, strangely, appeared to be intertwined with the career of one man.

I had been cynical about a man carrying on his career at the topmost level even in his late thirties. More than two decades in the international arena is exhausting, even for the followers of the game. Yet you, Sachin, never seemed to tire. Shouldering the overwhelming burden of a billion hopes is an unimaginably daunting task and that you never created the slightest huff about it made me envious.

What is it about you that are so divine? Your cricket defies the hypothesis of acquired flaws over the years; your impeccable technique flouts the theory of mortal mistakes; your fitness is a serious challenge to the rules of wear-and-tear; your unruffled disposition breaches the laws of human psychology; your perseverance, dedication and passion violates the ideas of boredom.

How can a mere mortal just walk out into the field regularly for 24 years and never grow weary? How can one who has reigned on the outlines of perfection for so many years stride out once more into the nets for more and more practice? How can one redefine humility and modesty even after making it a habit to scale peaks and script history?

I know, Sachin, I had no right to decide on your career. At a time when India struggled to cope up with the aftermath of Laxman and Dravid’s retirements, I had been among those who had called for your head. I had been desperately ignorant of the obvious disasters that would have befallen the cricketing nation if you had vacated the spot in the squad.

You will always remain irreplaceable. I feel embarrassed to admit that Yuvraj’s six overboundaries, Gayle’s belligerence, McCullum’s records are merely statistics in the face of the finesse behind your straight-drive, the surgical precision behind your picking up the gaps in the covers, the wristy flick through the square-leg that charmed the entire nation and weaved magic in the spectators’ hearts.

Now that you have left the nation weeping, I feel obligated to introspect. I brood over all the delights that have escaped me while establishing my obstinate antagonism; I regret missing out on the taste of your greatness. I had preferred to remain prejudiced – steeped in futile envy disguised within an envelope of iniquitous skepticism.

Forgive me Sachin, for I have been unfair. I am that derailed critic swimming in the sea of repentance, struggling to stay afloat. I have one final opportunity to atone for my deeds – when you take guard one last time against the West Indies. Trust me Sachin, I will not let this go.

You will be my path of salvation, Sachin. One last time.

Yours truly,

A biased cynic.