GROW UP, DO

- The insanity over Tendulkar in India

First Person Singular

I have hesitated a while before venturing on this piece. Persons are around who can write, with competence and much greater authority, on the matter I have in mind. Unfortunately, none of them has done so, at least to my knowledge, till now. So here I go: I am bound to raise the fury of a very large number.

Sachin Tendulkar is, no question, a great cricketer. He is principally responsible for Indian cricket reaching the status — and popularity — it has reached at present. He has innumerable achievements to his credit and has broken record after record in the course of over two decades in international cricket. Near unanimity prevails over the proposition that he is next to Donald Bradman, the most iconic figure in the history of cricket; some Indian zealots would of course go even further and rate him above Bradman. Whatever that be, a grateful nation has showered him with all possible honours. These include his recent nomination, as a most distinguished citizen who has made significant contributions to the cause of the country, to the Rajya Sabha, the superior House of the national legislature.

We, as a people, though, suffer from a collective deficiency: we lack a sense of proportion. Mere admiration is not enough, it swiftly turns into adoration, which shades into adulation, and adulation in no time is rendered into idolatry. That is what has happened in the case of Tendulkar too. He is no longer a cricketer of extraordinary genius, he is, to the people of India, a god, no less. The attainment of divinity, however, creates problems. The gods are eternal and indestructible, they go on for ever, they never retire. Tendulkar, too, it was apparently taken for granted, would go on for ever and never retire. This, by itself, poses quite a problem; the problem gets multiplied when the godly character himself lends credence to the popular notion.

Tendulkar is forty. The age was showing. He was getting out early in the innings much too frequently, either clean bowled or judged leg-before-wicket; sometimes he was missing the line of the ball, some other times he was unable to cope with the pace at which the ball was coming. A man with his vast experience should have realized much more than any outsider what was happening and straightaway announced his decision to retire, especially from international cricket. He could have taken the cue from the great Don Bradman’s example.

International cricket was on hold from 1939 to 1945 because of World War II. These years were therefore lost to Bradman. It was such a pity. He nonetheless knew his mind. When he led the Australian team to England in the 1948 Test series, he had already informed the authorities of cricket in Australia that he would retire from international cricket following the final Test match at the Oval. He was at the top of his form during that season in England and scoring double centuries one after another. Had he scored just four in the only innings he played at the Oval Test, he would have achieved the unbelievable Test average of 100. He was out for a duck. In spite of all the pressures mounted on him, Bradman did not waver, he stuck to his earlier decision. As a result he has emerged as an even greater and nobler legendary figure.

Tendulkar is, however, no Bradman. He had been adjudged to be god, and gods do not care for Test averages, which kept going down as he continued to play despite woefully below-par performance. He told his friends and perhaps even others that he would retire from cricket only when his inner voice told him to do so. This was a perfectly justifiable attitude on the part of an individual. Of course, he was extraordinarily passionate about cricket, which spelled his life and living, and he had the prerogative to decide when to terminate this love affair, no outsider has any business to butt in. The snag, though, was that after an interval, Tendulkar proceeded to inform the world that he would retire from international Test cricket after the West Indies series. He would play his 199th Test at Calcutta’s Eden Gardens, then play the 200th Test at the Wankhede stadium in Mumbai and, having reached that milestone, finally retire. Pardon me, but was this not highly presumptuous on his part? How could he assume that he would be selected for those two Test matches? He was simply taking the selectors for granted. He could do so because he was god, an others-abide-the-question-thou-art-free phenomenon, the selectors would not have the guts to drop him from the team notwithstanding the steep decline in his form and performance.

The gods select themselves; they also go into retirement — or hibernation — only at their own sweet will. The media — and the millions across the country — hastily endorse divine dispensations of all genres. Few pause to think that another point of view is possible, for the inclusion of Tendulkar in the India team in the West Indies series involved what orthodox economists used to describe as opportunity cost. Because Tendulkar had to be in, this or that promising youngster, who perhaps had been knocking at the door and deserved to be given an opportunity, had to stay out. For instance, if conceivably Rohit Sharma had not hit that magnificent unbeaten double century against Australia in the final One Day International, the selectors might have felt no compunction to keep him out of the Test series against the West Indies. However, because Rohit Sharma was accommodated, another youngster, Ajinkya Rahane, had to be disappointed. Or, had not a slot been pre-empted by Tendulkar, Suresh Raina could have finally made it to the Test team. One might even have the cheek to pose the query whether Yuvraj Singh’s overall performance since his return to the game following recovery from cancer was not superior to that of Tendulkar’s recent record?

It is, admittedly, pointless to condemn the selectors for their cowardice or to offer one or two sly comments on Tendulkar’s narcissism. Both are products of the nation’s fatal weakness: that we are bereft of a sense of proportion and unable to grow up.

The same waywardness was glaringly revealed at the almost obscene hoopla that took place at Calcutta’s Eden Gardens during the three days the Test match against the West Indies endured. Rohit Sharma’s great innings on debut failed to receive the accolade it so richly deserved. Yet another Test century by Ashwin, and scored in difficult circumstances, confirmed his position as currently the world’s leading all rounder; this achievement on his part was hardly noticed. And Mohammed Shami’s sensational arrival could have been much more warmly acknowledged had the insanity over Tendulkar been less strident: one can hardly remember any other Indian pacer of any generation with the ability to swing the ball both ways at such speed as Shami has demonstrated.

But the far worse shame is the contrived controversy over Umpire N. Llong’s decision to allow the leg-before-wicket appeal against Tendulkar. A god being a god, he could not be out leg-before-wicket, how dare the umpire do so, period. The Indian commentators, both in the print and the electronic media, went berserk. Convoluted and voluminous words were spent to convey their firm belief that the ball had brushed Tendulkar’s bat before reaching the wicket keeper’s gloves. Alternatively, that ball had sailed six inches above the wicket. Tendulkar apparently had muttered this opinion, and of course his opinion was what mattered, not that of the beastly umpire. And the final desperate theory was that the bowler — Shillingford or whatever his name — was a chucker.

Is it not high time for some rude plainspeaking? Indians cannot have it both ways. For years on end, the Indian cricket authorities have refused to accept the DRS — the decision referral system — which has been accepted by other countries. India has thereby abjured technological evidence to confirm or nullify the field umpire’s decisions on border-line cases, for instance a leg-before-wicket appeal. India has been doggedly insisting on going by the verdict of the field umpire. That being the reality, nobody over here has any right to take pot-shots at the umpire. If they have any ire, it is the Board of Control for Cricket in India that should be targeted.

A sad story, a depressing story. One feels like posting an entreaty echoing the agony-ridden refrain of the ancient Beatles song: grow up, do.

Courtesy: The Telegraph