The Interview Series — Sachin Tendulkar
Mattresses on the floor, fire escapes and DNA swabs
But for Ferrari, I have no idea how long I might have had to wait. In April 2000, as I performed my grandfather’s last rites, I promised myself that I would one day interview the cricketer he had loved watching the most. There was just a tiny hitch. I was only joining my first proper cricket-journalism job a week later. I had yet to report on even a Ranji Trophy game. Frankly, walking on the moon seemed as feasible as interviewing Sachin Tendulkar.
That first big job was with a magazine and website owned by WorldTel, who also managed Tendulkar. Even after I left in 2001, I would periodically message a colleague there asking if an interview was possible. I knew what the answer would be, but it didn’t stop me trying. Soon after the 2003 World Cup — Tendulkar had been leading run scorer, even though India lost the final — I put in another request. This time, there wasn’t even a response.
But those were funny times. A counterculture had sprung up, where it was considered fashionable to trash Tendulkar and downplay his achievements. He was ‘selfish’, and no leader. It was no coincidence that this coincided with a clutch of players having established themselves as genuine stars of the game. Rahul Dravid had transformed himself into the most reliable of middle-order batsmen. Sourav Ganguly was Captain Fantastic. Virender Sehwag had taken the blitzkrieg-opening-batting baton from Sanath Jayasuriya and run even further. And VVS Laxman would always have the Miracle of Eden Gardens (2001).
Tendulkar had been around nearly 14 years, and familiarity had finally started to give rise to some contempt. The Ferrari controversy added a few gallons of high-octane fuel to it. Back in the summer of 2002, after Tendulkar had equalled Sir Donald Bradman’s tally of 29 Test centuries in Trinidad, FIAT — owners of Ferrari, the world’s most famous brand — had decided to gift him a 360 Modena. As FIAT’s brand ambassador in India, Tendulkar had been pivotal in increasing sales nearly fourfold.
Faced with an import duty of 120 per cent, Tendulkar asked for an exemption from the government. They granted it. But the reaction was akin to what it might have been if he’d asked to drink the blood of a toddler. Even the Delhi High Court had its say. By the time FIAT stepped in to say they would pay the duty amount, the damage to his reputation was immense.
This time, when I made the call, the answer was very different. The Indian players were in Bangalore for a preparatory camp ahead of the new season, and I was told that an interaction was very much possible. All his agent suggested was that I steer well clear of Ferrari. Having agreed to that, I waited for the call.
When it came, I drove to the Le Meridien opposite the golf course and waited in the lobby. Soon after, a security guard escorted me upstairs. I’m not a nervous character by nature, but that evening, my palms were clammy and my knees a bit wobbly. The agent, who I’d worked with earlier, opened the door, and introduced me. Even as I mumbled ‘Hello’, I was distracted by the sight of a big mattress on the floor in the sitting area.
Tendulkar followed my eyes. “The soft hotel beds aren’t good for my back,” he told me in a low voice. “I had them bring in a firmer mattress.” That broke the ice, and I got through my set of questions without stuttering and seizing like an old jalopy. It wasn’t a memorable interview. Maybe I was too overawed to ask the really tough questions. And he was definitely still subdued after the controversy. I recall him getting animated just once, as he spoke of how the intolerable pressure of an India-Pakistan World Cup game had kept him awake nearly a fortnight before he went out and smashed a memorable 98.
There was also the impish smile that I would see a lot of in future when I asked him about the savage pull for six off Andy Caddick in Durban. Had it been pre-meditated, especially after all the trash talk from Caddick in the build-up to the game? He gave me a banal answer, but the grin was enough to read between the lines.
A few months later, the Sunday Times asked me to write for them on cricket in the subcontinent. Soon after India had returned from a first victorious tour of Pakistan, the sports editor contacted me to ask if a Tendulkar tête-à-tête would be possible. England was hosting the Champions Trophy later that summer, and India — endorsed by no less a figure than Steve Waugh — were being seen as the main challengers to Australian dominance.
This time, when I spoke to his agent, there was an additional carrot to dangle. The newspaper wanted it to be The Big Interview, typically the two middle pages of the sports section. No Asian sportsman had made it to those pages. The previous year’s interviews had featured names like Sir Alex Ferguson, David Beckham and Seve Ballesteros.
This time, we spoke for nearly an hour and a half. Several of the questions had to be fairly Anglo-centric, but there was a greater depth to his answers. I was less intimidated too, and confident enough to deviate from script on a couple of occasions. When I asked him what advice he would give to budding cricketers, he spoke most movingly and with a tear in the eye about the counsel his late father had given him.
About a month later, I got another call, asking if I could pop across to Colombo to interview Muttiah Muralitharan. Channel 4 in the UK were doing a documentary on the battery of tests his bowling action had been subjected to, and the paper wanted to steal a march on its rivals in print. India and Sri Lanka were about to contest the Asia Cup final, and I was more than happy to have unexpected access to the game as well as the chance to quiz one of the sport’s greats.
The Sunday Times’ secretary had kindly emailed me two copies of the newspaper with the Tendulkar interview, and I decided to take one to Colombo with me. After practice on the eve of the final, I walked across the outfield holding it in my hand. Tendulkar, like many other sportspersons, had occasionally been on record saying that he didn’t read the papers or watch TV analysis of his batting.
After we exchanged pleasantries, I extended my hand with the newspaper in it. “I thought you might like a copy,” I said. “Oh, I already have one,” he told me with a grin. “I asked a friend in the UK to send it to me.” So much for not reading the papers!
About 18 months later, I was at the Feroz Shah Kotla in Delhi as Tendulkar surpassed Sunil Gavaskar’s record of 34 Test hundreds with one against Sri Lanka and Murali. About half an hour before he reached the landmark, the BBC called me from London and told me they wanted me to go live to mark the big moment. I’d done snippets of radio earlier, but nothing like this. I still don’t know what I said, or how I said it. It’s enough to say that my respect for live-play callers increased immeasurably that afternoon.
In March 2006, after a largely forgettable tour of Pakistan and underwhelming displays at home against England, Tendulkar had shoulder surgery in England. We met a couple of months later, when he was training at the MRF Foundation in Chennai in a bid to be fit for a tour of the Caribbean. The mood was very different this time. He was outwardly cheerful, but there was a darkness and fatigue in his words. He was at his most articulate when talking of the impact the injuries had had on his psyche, and the insecurity that can afflict even the greatest performers. If you’d told me then that he would go on to play seven more years, mostly with great success, I wouldn’t have believed you. He seemed like someone who had little left to give.
We didn’t talk much as the Greg Chappell years unravelled, but he was never less than cordial when our paths crossed. I still remember an afternoon in Colombo during India’s tour in 2008. After practice on most days, I’d make my way to a French restaurant on Galle Road, and eat a savoury baguette while I worked on the stories for the day. A couple of days before the final Test was to start, Tendulkar and three other players turned up, taking a table just a few feet away from me.
After finishing their meals, they decided to order some chocolate eclairs. When they arrived, one of the players tilted his head in my direction, raising an eyebrow. Tendulkar turned around, saw me and just laughed. “Don’t worry, he’s not going to tell anyone,” he said. India lost the match and series, but I certainly didn’t write any Undone-by-French-pastry stories.
Not long after, OPUS Publications contacted me to ask if I’d provide the text for the limited edition they were planning to produce on Tendulkar’s career. There was a launch event in London in the summer of 2009, midway through the World Twenty20. It was one of the more bizarre events I’ve been part of, with his mouth swab being taken so that his DNA could be featured on the pages of a select number of books.
I’d invited two of my friends along for the event, and after it was over, we popped downstairs for a quick audience with the master. Tendulkar was usually reserved and guarded around strangers, but one of my friends managed to get him to laugh just by asking him what his favourite cheese was.
All this took place a month after our most revealing interaction, a world away from the bustle and glamour of Covent Garden. I still recall the date, May 16, because it was when the results of the 2009 Indian General Election were announced. The clash with those elections had forced the Indian Premier League (IPL) to move to South Africa for the season, and we were in Port Elizabeth as the competition entered its final stages.
Tendulkar’s Mumbai Indians needed to win both their remaining matches to have a chance of making the last four. St. George’s Park was grey and overcast that day. And despite the local association’s hospitality — we’d each be given a complimentary bottle of wine most days — there were only four journalists in the press box.
Chennai Super Kings won convincingly, and we were more than a little surprised when Tendulkar turned up for the Mumbai press conference. He answered three or four questions perfunctorily and as we got up to pack and leave, he beckoned to me. Behind the press conference table was a fire escape, and that was where we headed.
By this time, the temperature had dropped to about 14C and the wind whipping in from the Southern Ocean at more than 20 km/hr was enough to make the teeth chatter. Tendulkar though was incandescent, with rage. For a lot of people at the time, the IPL was a bit of a lark — a big pay day, lots of parties, a summer of fun. Not for him. I had seen him annoyed on the field before that, but I’d never seen him angry.
All the resentments and slights of the previous few weeks came out. It amazed me how much detail he could recall. Every narrow loss was forensically dissected, and blame apportioned. He hadn’t enjoyed the greatest tournament himself, but some of his highly rated young colleagues had been pitiful. As he continued to lash out, I thought to myself: There’s no way I’ll be able to publish a word of this.
After about ten minutes, the storm eased. “You can’t write this, okay?” he told me. Not that it needed to be said. We did talk on the record a week later, after the campaign was over, but that was a tame interaction next to what was shared on the fire escape.
There were no interviews after that, not while he was still an India player. When he retired, I thought about asking, but then wondered what he could conceivably say that offered any fresh insight. When he did finally sit down and chat again, it was about football, and his role as one of the owners of the Kerala Blasters.
The one thing I most enjoyed about our chats was his sincerity. He never pretended to be something he wasn’t. That was most apparent when we spoke about football. “I would be able to read what was happening on a cricket field, or what happens on the tennis court, to a certain extent,” he told me. “I would make out what’s happening and be able sort of to preempt what would happen next.
“But I can’t say that I know football to that extent. I’m getting to understand more and more now, slowly. But I understand just from a fan’s point of view. But not a hardcore football fan or even serious player — they think at a different level.”
Watching a game with him was a surreal experience, but this was not a man in his element. This was someone slowly adjusting to life after the glory years had been left behind. I felt the ‘real Sachin’ much more a couple of years later when we talked about the hundred he had made in Perth against Australia a quarter-century earlier. Again, his memory for detail was remarkable, and he spoke with real passion about an innings that he felt in some ways was the making of him.
“After that innings, I started thinking differently,” he said. “You know, if you can go on and score a 100 in Perth against a world-class bowling attack, then you can basically prepare to go to any part of the world and tackle any attack.”
He was nearly 44 by then, and entire chat felt like it was cloaked in nostalgia. I thought back to the first interview and how terrified I’d been. From that to the fire escape, and beyond. Somewhere buried deep in my archives, there’s a photograph someone took at the Iqbal Stadium in Faisalabad in 2006. We’re at the outdoor nets, and Tendulkar has just finished a practice session. He’s facing the camera, a cup of tea in his hand. I’m talking to him, with both hands tucked into my back pockets because of the cold. He had that knack of making you feel at ease, of letting you forget for a second that you were living a million dreams.
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