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I know that Sachin Tendulkar would not have liked it at all. As the country took drum-beats and hit the crowded streets, celebrations taking on their contagious frenzy, and the entire country and beyond heaved a collective sigh of awesome relief at the amazing comeback of the Little Master, everyone had conveniently forgotten that India had on some atrocious regulation called Duckworth-Lewis been technically fouled , and had lost the match against West Indies in the DLF Cup at Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia on the convoluted run-rate calculation. But hey, who cared a rupee?
Sure, Thursday was a day of Amazonian proportions in terms of Breaking News; in Jharkhand ( unfortunately, I have no trademark rights on that title) there was a change of government after much sensational power-play of the preposterous kind. The BSE Sensex, that deadly deceptive alluring band of share prices, where both bountiful fortunes are made and destinies casually wiped out by- the- second had breached the consecrated 12000 mark. And the 1993 blast verdict was being read out in small installments , with all the intriguing plots being awaited with bated breath , a-la Ekta Kapoor serial. Yet, and despite such hostile competition, it was Sachin Tendulkar who stole the headlines, almost with casual disdain. Just the way he hit a bouncing Bravo into the stands.
Tendulkar, once again, returned from the dark deep precipice of nagging injuries and faltering form. Like he did when he came back, a slight stubble the only perceptible sign of the fact that he had just lost his dear father, in Bristol, England against Kenya in a World Cup match.
By a strange co-incidence, he scored 140 runs in 101 balls, pausing in between to look up at the skies, a picture of tragic poignancy. Yesterday, he scored 141 not out in 148 balls, looking for every 5ft 4' whatever, a true blue majestic monarch, a terrible tormentor on field, a royal regality off it.
I was there at the dilapidated Wankhede Stadium, not so long ago, when Bombay's so-called chatterati-South Bombay type watching India crumble against England in a Test match, created ignoble history when they together booed the hometown Bandra ( East) boy as he trudged disconsolately back, fully aware that his return to international cricket was now solely dependant on a London-based surgeon and his professional expertise with knives.
In an age of instant idols and quickly -flushed out villains, there are some who stand out as classical master-pieces, like a Collector's Edition. It is about time as Tendulkar reaches the November-December of his career ( two solid years of vintage batting, hopefully), that we treasure his very presence on the field.
That stocky, short man in a dark helmet and India blues. The characteristic shuffle of the guards, and his stance.
The eyes , a personification of meditative concentration. And above the din of the crowd, and the pandemonium around, the sound of bat meeting ball. A brief millisecond interaction, rudely terminated as the red cherry rolls at break-neck speed towards the ropes. And the crowd erupts. And a nation sings.
Welcome back, Sachin Tendulkar!
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