Dear Sachin
You are not god. Not even close.
At 16 years old, you were a precious little curly
haired boy who needed his daddy's signature on a permission slip, so that he
could go out and carry a nation's hopes on his shoulders for 24 years. No god
needs that.
At 16 years old, Waqar Younis broke your nose with a
fast ball. He made you bleed. What god bleeds? Never mind that you refused to
leave the pitch and hit him for a four on the very next ball.
At every loss, you apologized. You said you were
responsible. You carried the weight of every loss for a full 24 years. Which
god feels the need to apologize?
At 25 you wept at your father's death. What god
weeps? Never mind indeed that you then got on a trans continental plane, and
scored 140. One day after you'd lit your father's pyre.
At every practice session, you were on field first
and and you were the last one to leave. What kind of god feels the need to
practise after a 100 international centuries?
We've seen you in pain. Rarely have you walked out
onto the pitch without a bandage on. Which god feels pain?
We have never heard you praise yourself. Never.
We've never heard you revel in glory. What god is humble?
Mr. Tendulkar...hah, there's a joke. You were never
Mr. Tendulkar. You were sachin. In fact, you were sachin!sachin!, for over 2
decades. What god goes by his first name?
You are not god. We have seen you sweat, weep and
bleed for India. We have seen you feel pain. We have seen you lose. We have
seen you hold your head low in sorrow. Because you are mortal. A mere man. And
you know what?
We loved you. In ways that we have never loved a god
or a man before, or ever will. Thank you, for a lifetime of memories.
