To everybody the "greatest of the greats" the way he made batting look like child's play...

The Little Master, Sachin Tendulkar - Ballad

(TRIBUTE to the most outstanding All-Round Cricketer of all time: Indian Captain (standing at only 5’ 5”), highest-ever scorer with 100 centuries in international Five-Day drawnout Test-jousts and One-Day 50-Over clashes, spin bowler, extraordinary mid-fielder who began at 16 representing INDIA and before he retired after 25 years service had turned the game into a free-for-all “riotous” International Festival for both-gender native supporters and opposing teams and their fans. This poem chalked up 10,948 hits as of date on PoetrySoup.com - without a single comment: Hurray !)

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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, November 18, 2013/July 1, 2020
Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2013