Why English Fails Tendulkar?
Last month, when Sachin Tendulkar blitzed through to his 200 in the Gwalior ODI against a clueless South African side, he completed a linguistic process that was set off in another millennium.
In 1988, Tendulkar was 15 years old, and had scored 326 in the Lord Harris Shield, an inter-schools event. When the stumps were drawn for the day, the first words the English-speaking Republic of India came up to describe him with were, Little Master.
Some 22 years of sustained batsmanship later, and with the ongoing IPL tournament only adding more feathers to an already ornate cap, the torrent of adulatory adjectives has run dry of descriptive energy. There are, after all, only so many synonyms for excellence.
The last definitive word used to describe Tendulkar after his 200 knock in the Gwalior ODI was neither an adjectival phrase nor even a nominal superlative. Tendulkar's genius had transported him to the realm of the inexplicable. He had turned God. Now you see it. You score enough runs and you just stop being human.
In fact, the day after his innings, one newspaper carried a large, frontpage picture of Tendulkar, bat in hand and looking at the heavens either in acknowledgement or identification, with just 'God' written across the photograph. Tendulkar had become the inexplicable.
True, during the Australian tour of India in early 1998, a series in which Tendulkar scored three consecutive centuries, he was already seen as an incarnation, prompting Mathew Hayden to say in all seriousness: "I have seen God. He bats at no. 4 in India in Tests." Evidently, a Christian had become a convert.
Since then, just about every word and phrase in the book for greatness have been tried on Tendulkar and have been found wanting: prodigy, master, master-blaster, genius, super, perfect, terrific, consummate, fantastic, incomparable, saviour, phenomenon, historic, legendary, maximum-man, titanic, humongous, tremendous, incomparable, and immortal. All said; yet, the man is not done. The essence of Tendulkar as a hero remains elusive.
Clearly, we identify Tendulkar with our deep-felt need for a totally desi hero: a small-built Indian with crinkly hair and a snub nose who is happily married, wears T-shirt and drinks Boost. Our own kind of Terminator, the guy who makes us feel OK to be Indian despite frequent bouts of suspicion to the contrary. Not the foreign hulk with 8-pack-abs and 18-inch-biceps, who uses four-letter words and is good at kissing and shooting in the same breath. It is a charmingly indigenous, middle-class notion. Tendulkar himself buys into it big time. He may make close to Rs 120 crore a year in emoluments, but conducts himself with the unassuming grace of a well-brought-up bank officer.
That is why, unlike others, when Tendulkar walks out to the middle, a visored warrior, a ragged nation rises to a man in appeal and hope. Our identification with the hero is complete.
India may lose a match; but if Tendulkar has done well for himself, we could live with the bad news. Tendulkar's art liberates us from shackles of the commonplace. In gratitude, as becomes a naturally garrulous people, we shower him with adjectives. Just as it is normal in the Hindu tradition to praise a deity in a thousand names.
Tendulkar, meanwhile, has evolved from an adjective or a heroic noun to a purer form of being: an act. Words tend to fail where sensations that a verb evokes predominate. Which is why next time Tendulkar plays the big innings, it might be a good idea for us to fall silent, and just meditate on the ball rise and rise towards the heavens.
The above article was written by C P Surendran on Mar 29, 2010 for Times of India.
In 1988, Tendulkar was 15 years old, and had scored 326 in the Lord Harris Shield, an inter-schools event. When the stumps were drawn for the day, the first words the English-speaking Republic of India came up to describe him with were, Little Master.
Some 22 years of sustained batsmanship later, and with the ongoing IPL tournament only adding more feathers to an already ornate cap, the torrent of adulatory adjectives has run dry of descriptive energy. There are, after all, only so many synonyms for excellence.
The last definitive word used to describe Tendulkar after his 200 knock in the Gwalior ODI was neither an adjectival phrase nor even a nominal superlative. Tendulkar's genius had transported him to the realm of the inexplicable. He had turned God. Now you see it. You score enough runs and you just stop being human.
In fact, the day after his innings, one newspaper carried a large, frontpage picture of Tendulkar, bat in hand and looking at the heavens either in acknowledgement or identification, with just 'God' written across the photograph. Tendulkar had become the inexplicable.
True, during the Australian tour of India in early 1998, a series in which Tendulkar scored three consecutive centuries, he was already seen as an incarnation, prompting Mathew Hayden to say in all seriousness: "I have seen God. He bats at no. 4 in India in Tests." Evidently, a Christian had become a convert.
Since then, just about every word and phrase in the book for greatness have been tried on Tendulkar and have been found wanting: prodigy, master, master-blaster, genius, super, perfect, terrific, consummate, fantastic, incomparable, saviour, phenomenon, historic, legendary, maximum-man, titanic, humongous, tremendous, incomparable, and immortal. All said; yet, the man is not done. The essence of Tendulkar as a hero remains elusive.
Clearly, we identify Tendulkar with our deep-felt need for a totally desi hero: a small-built Indian with crinkly hair and a snub nose who is happily married, wears T-shirt and drinks Boost. Our own kind of Terminator, the guy who makes us feel OK to be Indian despite frequent bouts of suspicion to the contrary. Not the foreign hulk with 8-pack-abs and 18-inch-biceps, who uses four-letter words and is good at kissing and shooting in the same breath. It is a charmingly indigenous, middle-class notion. Tendulkar himself buys into it big time. He may make close to Rs 120 crore a year in emoluments, but conducts himself with the unassuming grace of a well-brought-up bank officer.
That is why, unlike others, when Tendulkar walks out to the middle, a visored warrior, a ragged nation rises to a man in appeal and hope. Our identification with the hero is complete.
India may lose a match; but if Tendulkar has done well for himself, we could live with the bad news. Tendulkar's art liberates us from shackles of the commonplace. In gratitude, as becomes a naturally garrulous people, we shower him with adjectives. Just as it is normal in the Hindu tradition to praise a deity in a thousand names.
Tendulkar, meanwhile, has evolved from an adjective or a heroic noun to a purer form of being: an act. Words tend to fail where sensations that a verb evokes predominate. Which is why next time Tendulkar plays the big innings, it might be a good idea for us to fall silent, and just meditate on the ball rise and rise towards the heavens.
The above article was written by C P Surendran on Mar 29, 2010 for Times of India.
posted by Venky @ 8:03 PM
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