Take A Bow, Master

By Betzy Brize

There was a time when India paused for one man. A time when streets went quiet and living rooms overflowed. A time when radios crackled with excitement and old televisions flickered with hope. A time when the nation’s heartbeat followed the sound of a cricket bat. That man was Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar.

Tomorrow, he turns fifty two. But for us, he is still the boy in the blue jersey with dreams in his eyes and a bat in his hand. A boy who became a legend. A legend who became an emotion. An emotion who became God.

He had many names. Some called him the Master Blaster. Some called him the Little Master. To millions, he was simply the God of Cricket. But to us, he was just Sachin. Our Sachin.

_{^{The day India won the 2011 World Cup, Sachin was carried by his teammates in celebration.}}

He taught us how to believe. He made us proud to be Indian. He made cricket more than just a sport. For many of us, cricket was Sachin. His every shot carried a piece of our dreams. His every run made our hearts beat faster.

There was an era when people talked about Sachin more than anything else. In buses, in tea stalls, in classrooms, in office corridors—“How many did Sachin Score?” was the question on everyone’s lips. Politics could wait. News could wait. Life could wait. But Sachin? He was always the headline.

Some of us put up posters of him on our bedroom walls. Some cut out his pictures from magazines and kept them safely in old notebooks. Others saved every newspaper that featured his face on the front page—folded gently, as if those pages held something sacred.

We played in the streets, in the dirt, in the rain and the scorching sun—just to imitate him. We copied his stance, his strokes, even his silence. Every paddy field, every alley, every open space became a pitch. And every village had a joy: we talked about Sachin. We lived Sachin.

And yes, we argued. We fought. With anyone who spoke against him. With friends, cousins, even strangers. Because to us, Sachin wasn’t just a cricketer. He was ours. And when someone mocked him, it felt like they were mocking our faith, our childhood, our pride.

There was a generation who read the newspaper from the back page first. Just to see how many runs he scored. Just to see if he made us smile again. Children skipped school. Workers took sick leave. Families gathered in front of one small TV. In those days, not every house had a television. But no one wanted to miss Sachin’s batting. So people sat outside neighbours’ homes. On the floor. On the steps. On the streets.

Inside, mothers would be cutting vegetables in the front room with their children beside them. Nobody touched the remote. Not even during the ads. Because Sachin was on screen. And that moment was sacred.

And sometimes, when he got out and began that slow walk back to the pavilion, we would quietly turn off the television. Because for many of us, he was the only reason we watched the game. Without him, it did not feel the same. It did not matter who won or lost after that. The match had already ended in our hearts.

When he raised his bat after a century, we felt like we had scored. When he walked back with his head down, it felt like our hearts had broken. But we never blamed him. Not even once. Because we knew he gave us everything he had. Every single time.

He was not just a player. He was our pride. Our joy. Our hope in difficult times.

And then came the day we never wanted to see. The day he said goodbye.

November sixteen, two thousand thirteen.

He stood at Wankhede Stadium. His voice shook. Our eyes filled. He thanked everyone. But it was us who owed him everything. That day, many turned off their televisions not for a moment—but for good. Because for many, cricket without Sachin felt empty. The joy was gone. The magic had left the field. That day, a part of our childhood walked away with him.

The whole stadium roared his name. Sachin... Sachin...
And we, sitting at home, in front of our TVs, did the same. As loud as our hearts could manage. As if he could hear us through the screen.
Sachin... Sachin...
It was not just a chant. It was a prayer. A celebration. A farewell. A thank you.

It was not just the end of a career. It was the end of an era. A chapter closed. A silence fell. And for some of us, cricket was never the same again.

But even now, years later, Sachin is still with us. In every child who picks up a bat. In every cheer from the stands. In every memory of a six over mid-wicket. He lives in our hearts like a soft echo from a golden past.

Today, we do not just wish him a happy birthday.

We thank him.

For the dreams. For the pride. For the joy. For giving us a childhood we will never forget.

Thank you, Sachin.

You did not just play cricket. You gave us a reason to believe.

Forever our God. Forever our Master Blaster. Forever our Sachin.