Sachin Tendulkar: A tribute to the timeless master

He wore the Indian tricolour on his heart and helmet, but managed to remain unbelievingly untouched by jingoistic jousts. He never abused the opposition (well, Glenn McGrath is allowed to take offence to that), never brought the game to shame, and never let go off his middle class values.

Despite flashing a Ferrari, he made a virtue out of simplicity. He stuck to his roots while he soared, giving us a case study on striking the fine balance between wisdom and vanity. He was a dream that we chased, for as a nation, perhaps we were never too convinced if we really deserved him. In more ways than one, he embodied a nation and its nationhood more fittingly than career nationalists.

Sachin Tendulkar reacts after scoring his 100th century

From Manchester to Mumbai, Sharjah to Perth, Cape Town to Karachi, Nagpur to Nairobi, he implored us to strive until we gave in. By the slightest, even nonchalant waftures of his willow, he turned our clocksb- and stopped it too. Like a seasoned romantic blessed with magical charming powers, he came riding on his unmistakably ageless aura, descended to levels of mortality, extended his soft but strong hand to us, and whispered things that silently sneaked in our psyche and soaked our souls.

With succulent sophistry and relentless regularity, he asked us to believe- in victory and wisdom, in love and life, in dreams and desires, in simplicity and serenity, in impossible probabilities coming true and established norms going haywire- and needless to mention, we tried our best to oblige.

Thanks to Sachin Tendulkar, we started to dare and dream. When he blasted the blinding pace of Allan Donald and company in Cape Town, we knew we can catch up with a world that had hitherto seemed too fast for our liking. When he tore into Warne in Chennai, we knew we were better than the very best. When he stood up to Wasim and Waqar in Sharjah, we knew we can be dignified neighbours. When he launched into Shoaib Akhtar in Centurion, we knew the phantasmagoria of Miandad had been laid to rest.

Each time he walked out to bat, a nation walked with him, hoping fervently for their sole hope to deliver. He carried the yoke of being an Indian from an India that was yet to look beyond its colonial masters for acknowledgement and appreciation. He was the legitimacy we craved for, the representative we had always wanted, the idea we never knew existed. He was our passport to acceptance; our gift to the world.

Indeed, he was the one who freed us from the bondage of Indianness, and fired us up with the kind of pride that had more meat than myth. He was Sachin Tendulkar, the man who mastered and served 22 yards of dust, soil and grass for 24 years of his life; the man game loved back.