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The Little Master, Sachin Tendulkar

T Wignesan Avatar T Wignesan - LIFETIME Premium Member T Wignesan - Premium MemberPremium Member Send Soup Mail  Block poet from commenting on your poetry

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The Little Master, Sachin Tendulkar

The Little Master, Sachin Tendulkar

At Wankhede Stadium in Mumbai,
   The Little Master chose to say good-bye;
His Rembrandtesque canvass hat shading eyes,
   He whispered thanks up to high-open skies.

Gods spurned earth but as living Avatar
   Though Sachin was not from Superman star,
Yet rolled cork and leather, he hit so far
   Which soared not from willow but from his roar.

And when his bat was laid up for the day
   After ferrying his side to safety bay,
He donned his landscape painter’s sunshade hat
   And took his long-on stance as humble brat.

A twelve-year old watched India lose the Cup,
   At thirty-seven roused his side, backed up
To the topmost crest in cricketing tide
   And put one voice in a people torn aside.

A whole nation woke to the cry: Tendlya:
   Beggar, Brahmin, Bhai and even infidel.
All drenched in the tide of common feeling
   For one novelist’s second book breeding.

Only five-foot five, strong neck in between
   Body made to withstand pace bowling steam:
No bumper nor full toss cowered him down
   Not even that mean ball bled his nose brown.

At Wankhede Stadium in Mumbai
   The Little Master chose to say good-bye,
His Rembrandtesque canvass hat shading eyes
   He whispered thanks up to high-open skies.

Then the nation held its breath at ninety-nine,
   While Sachin knocked nineties, not the last nine
To make that long-awaited world history,
    Until Bangladeshi ODI test victory.

Over heads of cover and point with off-lifts
   Elegant leg glances through long-stop rifts
Straight drives above umpires’ dreamy heads
   Dashing pulls past gaping square leg dreads.

Back to back boundaries and easy singles
   Late cuts through second slips’ shocking bungles
Then the home-stretch past the century post
   When India at last roared in burning thirst.

Myriad mrthangists thumped the beat
   Plaintive senais by the million broke out neat
Temple bells joined in the merry festival:
   Ton-up! O! Ton-up! No more survival !

But the Champ had other ideas in sight
   Like the fastest one day fireworks of might,
So he flashed his blade all over the tight field
   To rob the world of its remaining shield.

Now he says forty is not really old
   Cricket’s not the only thing to be sold:
To be a god in Hindustan is not all
   To be a PM is not given to all.

Not one vote will go to the other men
   Not one voice will be raised against batsmen
Who put the nation on the map of runs:
   The man with the bat is the man who runs.

At Wankhede Stadium in Mumbai
   The Little Master chose to say good-bye:
His Rembrandtesque canvass hat shading eyes
   He mumbled something to himself between sighs.

© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013

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