AT 25, Sachin Tendu-lkar is like the Taj Mahal. There is nothing new to be said about either. Still, there are two strains worth pursuing. His impact abroad, and what it means to be Bradmanesque. In nearly a decade of international cricket, Tendulkar has done what no other Indian has—ensured that in his fans' minds, there is a split between his performance and that of his country. Even when Sunil Gavas-kar was making centuries in lost causes, he didn't evoke that kind of response.
It is almost as if fans are saying: "The result doesn't matter, so long as Tendul-kar makes his runs." In one-day cricket, there's a link between the two—when Tendulkar scores, India wins—hence the prayers of Indian expatriates wherever he plays. But the exclusivity is disappearing. Tendulkar is moving out of the confines imposed by nationality, and is seen as that rare sporting idol, the universal hero. In this he's closer to basketball's Michael Jordan than any cricketer.
The India-Pakistan rivalry is still strong, but even in Sharjah, where it was stifling, some of the intensity has gone. Tendulkar can take the credit for this, for suggesting that a loss to Pakistan is not the end of the world. There is great joy in the Pakistani sections of the crowd at the Sharjah Stadium when Tendulkar is dismissed, but, I suspect much regret too. People come as much to see their country win, as to see Tendulkar bat.
Some Pakistani friends of mine have, without being aware of it, repeated the modern version of Neville Cardus' prayer. Cardus was an Englishman, of course, but he revered the Australian great Victor Trumper. To reconcile patriotism with hero-worship he would pray: "Lord, let Trumper score a hundred for Australia in England's win." The ideal solution, thus, for many Pakistani spectators is for Tendulkar to score a hundred and Pakistan to win (leaving patriotism unstretched). In recent years, the most popular Indian cricketers abroad have been Sunil Gavas-kar (in the West Indies they sang calypsos about him), Kapil Dev, Bishan Bedi (in England, Jim Laker said his idea of Paradise was Lord's in the sunshine, Ray Lindwall bowling at one end, Bedi at the other), B.S. Chandrashekhar (in Melbourne, where he had Test figures of 6 for 52 twice in an India win, they're still trying to figure him out).
These players have been fussed over, loved, respected, but there was always an air of condescension, for they did things that weren't easily grasped. They were Oriental stereotypes, with supple wrists and boundless enthusiasm, and an air of mystery. Tendulkar, on the other hand, is easily understood in Anglo-Saxon terms. He can be explained in terms that are English, Australian, West Indian, South African. If Steve Waugh, for example, had a better eye and more strokes, he could be Tendul-kar who isn't a stereotype, but demons-rates what's possible if Anglo-Saxon bat-smanship were carried to its heights.
There's an air of unattainability about his batsmanship that can actually be quite discouraging to others. The sheer futility of attempting to bat like Tendul-kar might cause people to give up the game. It's like W.B. Yeats lecturing on the futility of writing poetry since no one could match Rabindranath Tagore. Over the years, Tendulkar, who gives of his cricketing talent so generously, has learnt to hold back as a person. He presents a dignified, statesman-like image to the public. In private, he can be fun, and speak unguardedly, but in public he will not put a foot wrong. The cultivated aloofness is a shield any icon must wear against exploitation. That was Don Brad-man's fate too. He had to be Bradman at all times, just like Tendulkar has to be Tendulkar at all times. The comparison with Bradman is inevitable. Both acted as the repository for all knowledge of batting available till their time.
Tendulkar is, like Bradman was, a one-stop shop where state-of-the-art batsma-nship is on display. You could go to different displays for specifics like the cover drive or the cut or the on-drive or the pull—or you could get them all under one roof as it were, with Tendulkar.
The obverse side of such near-perfection is there's no single shot with which he is associated. Bradman's defining shot might have been the pull, he sometimes times finished facing the wicketkeeper at the end of it. But Tendulkar's? The straight drive off the fast bowler with hardly any feet movement? The variations on the one-driving theme? The flat-batted swat through cover? At 16, Tendulkar was a finished product, in the manner of Ernest Hemingway, who found his voice at 21 and didn't need to work on it. The man Hemingway was indistinguishable from the boy Hemingway.
In Peshawar nine years ago, the boy Tendulkar, then not a serious contender for the one-day series, made 53 from 18 balls hitting leg spinner Abdul Qadir for 27 runs in one over. The first two sixes cleared the stadium; the third exhibited a perfect marriage of youthful exuberance and mature self-confidence. As Tend-ulkar stepped out, he realised he was not to the pitch of the ball. He was, technically, beaten—yet went through with the shot, relying on his strong forearms, and a natural sense of timing to see him through.
Compare that with his blistering knocks against Shane Warne last year, or his last innings in Sharjah against a marauding Zimbabwean Olonga. Again, he was beaten by the ball which he hit for six—nothing had changed in a decade for nothing needed to change. 'The best is yet to come' sort of adage holds true for Tendulkar only statistically. Yes, he will emerge the highest run-getter in either form of the game (Test cricket willing); he will get a double hundred and more.
He will be using the same mixture, though, only the proportions will be different. 'Tendulkarine' is an adjective awaiting entry into dictionaries.
