Playing It My Way: My Autobiography Read online

  First published in Great Britain in 2014 by Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © Sachin Tendulkar 2014

  The right of Sachin Tendulkar to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  ISBN 9781473605190

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.hodder.co.uk

  To all my fellow Indians.

  The author’s proceeds from this book will be used to support two charitable causes: the alleviation of malnutrition in children and the provision of clean water to the underprivileged.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  1. Childhood

  2. Learning the Game

  3. My First Tour

  4. Foreign Conditions

  5. Anjali

  6. Years of Consolidation

  7. World Cup 1996

  8. Captaincy – The First Stint

  9. A Four-Month Honeymoon

  10. Tumultuous Times

  11. The Best Series Ever

  12. Standing Up for Myself

  13. A Glorious English Summer

  14. World Cup 2003

  15. Away Wins

  16. Under the Knife

  17. ‘Endulkar’

  18. Bad Language

  19. Bouncing Back

  20. The IPL

  21. Number One

  22. Staying at the Top

  23. World Cup 2011

  24. The Quest for the 100th Hundred

  25. My Last Full Season

  26. Winding Down

  27. The Final Test

  28. Last Word

  Appendix: Farewell Speech

  Career Statistics

  Picture Section

  Photographic Acknowledgements

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Who do I acknowledge first and how do I acknowledge the millions of cricket supporters who have stood by me throughout my career? My simple answer is to dedicate this book to those fans for their unwavering support and encouragement.

  The others who need to be thanked profoundly must quite obviously start with Anjali, my devoted wife and partner in everything, who felt I could and should tell my story for posterity. My readers will know if I have managed to do so well enough.

  Sincere thanks must also go to the following:

  Ajit, who grew up with me and made me the cricketer I was, and who shared my passion for telling my story. Thanks to him for reading and commenting on the drafts.

  Arjun and Sara, who when they read this book will know how much I have always loved them and how I felt at not being with them more in their growing-up years.

  Aparna Santhanam, family friend and much more, who was a real inspiration at the writing stage. She read each chapter and her suggestions proved invaluable.

  Vinod Naidu, my manager and good friend, for putting the idea of an autobiography to me in the first place and more importantly for being someone I have always been able to depend on for guidance in commercial matters over the past decade.

  Amit Bhangar, for constantly but gently reminding me of the deadlines and pushing me to complete the book in the time frame we were given.

  Roddy Bloomfield, my publisher, who has worked closely with me on the book from start to finish and who is a man whose judgement I have been able to trust; Fiona Rose, his able and helpful editorial assistant at Hodder; Tim Waller, the external editor, who has helped to shape and refine the manuscript.

  Finally, to Boria Majumdar, friend and co-writer. By sheer persistence he managed to persuade me over the last three years to spend endless sessions reflecting on every aspect of my life. His infectious enthusiasm and intelligent questions got me fully involved in animated, thoughtful and enjoyable discussion. Through his commitment and focus he has been able to convey the whole story in my own words, impressively expressing my thoughts.

  PROLOGUE

  On 16 November 2013, my cricketing journey finally came to an end at the Wankhede Stadium. After somehow managing to complete my farewell speech, I was having a conversation with my family, trying to soak in every moment, when my team-mate Virat Kohli walked up to me. He said, ‘Paaji aapne kaha tha aap ko yaad dilane ke liye ki aapko pitch pe jana hain.’ (You asked me to remind you that you had to go to the pitch one final time.) To be honest, I hadn’t forgotten; I was just trying to put the moment off for a little longer. It was to be my final visit to the 22 yards that had nurtured and cared for me for so long.

  As I walked across the outfield I knew so well, my mind was a complete blank. A lump was forming in my throat as I reached the pitch to pay my final regards. I was there for barely fifteen seconds and all I said was, ‘Thank you for taking care of me.’ As I headed back to the pavilion for the last time, my mind was suddenly a muddle of memories. In a matter of seconds I had traversed the entire twenty-four-year journey of my career – from my first net session with my coach Ramakant Achrekar, to getting out for 74 in my final Test innings against the West Indies.

  It seems to me that no autobiography can claim to document every detail of the author’s life. That’s impossible. There are bound to be issues that can’t be written about for one reason or another, events that are too personal or perhaps too sensitive. Yet I have set out to make this account of my career as close to the full story as I can. Many of the events I describe are, of course, well-known to cricket fans, but I have also tried to talk about a number of things I have not addressed in public before, some of them a little embarrassing, and I hope that readers will find plenty to interest them.

  Before starting this book, I had to think long and hard about whether it was the right thing to do. It wasn’t an easy decision. I am not in the habit of being sensational for the sake of it or saying things to ruffle feathers. That’s just not me. However, I knew that if I agreed to write my story, I would have to be completely honest, as that’s the way I have always played the game.

  So here I am, at the end of my final innings, having taken that last walk back to the pavilion, ready to recount as many incidents as I can remember from a career in which I was lucky enough to be able to spend my time Playing It My Way.

  1

  CHILDHOOD

  ‘Son, life is like a book. It has numerous chapters. It also has many a lesson in it. It is made up of a wide variety of experiences and resembles a pendulum where success and failure, joy and sorrow are merely extremes of the central reality. The lessons to be learnt from success and failure are equally important. More often than not, failure and sorrow are bigger teachers than success and happiness. You are a cricketer and sportsman. You are fortunate to be representing your country, and that is a great honour. But never forget that this too is just another chapter in the book. Typically, let’s say a person lives for seventy or eighty years or so. How many years will you play sport? Twenty years; if you are very go
od, maybe even twenty-five years. Even by that yardstick, you will live the majority of your years outside the sphere of professional sport. This clearly means that there is more to life than cricket. I am asking you, son, to keep a pleasant disposition and maintain a balanced nature. Do not allow success to breed arrogance in you. If you remain humble, people will give you love and respect even after you have finished with the game. As a parent, I would be happier hearing people say, “Sachin is a good human being” than “Sachin is a great cricketer” any day.’

  My father’s words, which I often heard while growing up, encapsulate my life’s philosophy.

  I was born to a very close-knit Maharashtrian family in Mumbai’s Bandra East and lived in the Sahitya Sahawas colony, a residential co-operative for writers. I am one of four children, with two brothers and a sister. Nitin, Ajit and Savita are all older than me, and not only am I the youngest in the family but I was also the worst behaved.

  My father, Ramesh Tendulkar, was an acclaimed Marathi poet, critic and professor, while my mother, Rajani, worked for the Life Insurance Corporation of India. Humility and modesty were their hallmarks and I owe a lot of my personality to my upbringing. Despite all my unreasonableness and all the embarrassments I caused them, my parents never gave up on me. In fact, I have often wondered just how they managed to cope with such a naughty child. Though he must have been pushed to the limits sometimes, my father would never shout at me and was always patient when dealing with my mischief. This added to my respect for my father as I grew older. Losing him during the 1999 World Cup in England remains one of the most traumatic moments of my life and I will forever remain indebted to him for helping me become the human being that I am.

  My mother, the best cook in the world for me, will do anything to see a smile on my face. She used to make the most delicious fish and prawn curry, baigan bharta and varan bhaat (lentils and rice) for us at home, and I owe my appetite and love of food to her. I fondly remember lying on her lap after eating delicious home-cooked meals, as she sang the most beautiful songs while trying to get me off to sleep. Listening to her while dozing off at the end of the day instilled in me a love for music that has remained with me to this day.

  My brothers, Nitin and Ajit, have always backed me in my endeavours and, on the cricket side, I owe a lot to Ajit, who is ten years older than me and was a good club cricketer himself but decided to sacrifice his own career to help me achieve my potential. As I said in my farewell speech after my final Test, Ajit and I lived the dream together and he was always my most trusted critic and sounding board. I may have scored the runs, but Ajit was always there with me in spirit, trying to put me right whenever I made a mistake. Even after my last Test innings, we had a discussion about how I had got out and what I had done wrong, despite knowing I’d never play for India again. Ajit is not just my brother, but my closest friend as well. He was always available when I needed him and always put my cricket before his own work.

  My eldest brother, Nitin, easily the most creative of the siblings, was the strict disciplinarian in the Tendulkar household and helped rein in my exuberance when my mother had almost given up on me. He not only sketches really well, but is also an accomplished writer and poet and has recently written songs for a movie. Nitin, initially a chemistry teacher, subsequently worked for Air India and I remember on one occasion, when I was ten, his flight was delayed and he had to wait at the Centaur (now Sahara Star) hotel in Mumbai. Ajit and I went to have dinner in his room and for the first time in my life I tasted tandoori chicken, which subsequently became one of my favourite dishes.

  Savita, my sister, gave me my first cricket bat. She travelled to Kashmir for a holiday when I was five and brought me back a Kashmir willow bat. She is easily the calmest of the siblings and has a very reserved and composed demeanour. She stays unruffled in difficult situations and we often consulted her on critical matters while growing up. When she got married, I, not knowing much about rituals and customs, tried to insist that my brother-in-law should come and stay with us rather than Savita having to go away. I did not want to let her go and I must say I missed her terribly when she left home.

  Never sitting still

  Undoubtedly I had a fascinating childhood. My early years were never boring; in fact, quite the opposite. I can trace a lot of the stamina and inner strength that sustained me during my cricket career to those early years, which were full of fun.

  We had moved to Sahitya Sahawas in 1971. In my growing-up years, there was a great deal of construction work taking place there. This gave me and my friends the opportunity to play quite a few pranks on our neighbours. While we were never violent and never caused bodily harm to others, I’m ashamed to admit we sometimes enjoyed having a laugh at the expense of other members of the colony. For us it was fun, plain and simple, but looking back at some of the mischief we got up to now is rather embarrassing.

  One of our regular tricks was to dig a deep hole in the sand left behind by the contractors and cover it with newspapers before disguising it with sand. Then we’d deliberately lure people to walk over it. As they sank into the crater, we’d be in fits of laughter. Another was to pour water on unsuspecting passers-by from our apartment on the fourth floor, and I remember that feasting on mangoes picked from trees we weren’t supposed to touch was also a favourite pastime. The forbidden nature of the act made it even more compelling and the complaints that would follow did little to put us off. Finally – and this is very embarrassing, looking back now – my friends and I would take pride in locking people in their flats. It wasn’t dangerous, but the resulting delay, which must have caused them immense frustration, seemed very funny at the time.

  As a child I was first enrolled at the Indian Education Society’s New English School in Bandra. I was a reasonable student and though I was never a class-topper, I did not languish at the bottom either. While school wasn’t altogether boring, the best time of the year was the two-month-long summer break. During the holiday period, I’d hurry down from our apartment at 9 a.m. and would be out in the sun playing for the rest of the day. The domestic help, Lakshmibai, (a common phenomenon in households where both parents were working) would have to bring down my glass of milk and sometimes she would also have to bring out my lunch, because I’d refuse to go up to our apartment.

  The sweltering heat was never a distraction and I’d be out playing till late in the evening. In fact, even after most of my friends had disappeared to their apartments, I would be out alone trying to amuse myself. There were seven or eight blocks in the colony and sometimes I’d just run around them to expend energy. I’d run seven or eight laps on the trot and do so barefoot. Only when my brother Nitin instructed me to go up would I rush back. I was a little scared of him. He generally didn’t say much to me but when he did it was always the final word. If my mother grew tired of trying to persuade me to come in, she would ask Nitin to perform the task.

  In our two-bedroom apartment, the four children would all sleep together in one of the bedrooms. I was always the last one to drop off and would keep tossing and turning as the others drifted off. Often, while they’d be lying north–south, I’d end up stretched out east–west, and I’d receive a mouthful when they woke up to find me lying across them. The reprimands were part of the bonding and I never took them to heart. The whole experience brought us closer together.

  A first taste of Chinese food

  As a child I loved food. I grew up eating my mother’s wonderful Maharashtrian home cooking and it wasn’t till I was nine years old that I first tried Chinese food. In the early 1980s Chinese cuisine was becoming popular in Mumbai and, having heard so much about it, my colony friends made a plan to go out for a meal together. We each contributed ten rupees – which was a lot of money for me at the time – and I was excited about trying something new. The evening, however, turned out to be a disaster as I paid the price for being one of the youngest in the group.

  In the restaurant we o
rdered chicken and sweetcorn soup as a starter. We were sitting at a long table and by the time the soup travelled to me at the far end, there was hardly anything left. The older members of the gang had finished off most of it, leaving very little for us younger ones. The same thing happened with the fried rice and chow mein and I barely managed to get two spoonfuls of each. The older boys had a great evening at our expense but I returned home hungry and thirsty.

  Dreaming of a bicycle

  As I kid I could also be quite obstinate. While most of my friends had their own bicycles, I did not and I was determined to have one. My father didn’t really like saying no to me and tried to placate me by saying he’d buy me one in a few weeks. From a financial point of view, it wasn’t easy to bring up four children in Mumbai, but our parents never let us feel any pressure. Not knowing what they had to go through, I remained determined to have my bicycle and refused to go outside and play till I had a new one to show off. It seems a little ridiculous now, but the truth is I didn’t go out to play for a whole week. I just stood on the balcony and sulked and tried to guilt-trip my parents into buying me a bicycle.

  It was on one of these days that I gave them a real scare. Ours was a fourth-floor apartment with a small balcony with a grille. As a small child, I couldn’t see over the top and, with curiosity often getting the better of me, I would try to get my head through the grille. On this occasion it resulted in disaster. While I succeeded in pushing my head through, I couldn’t get it back in and was stuck there for more than thirty minutes. My parents were flustered to start with, but quickly regained composure. After plenty of oil was squirted on my head, my mother finally pulled me out.

  Seeing my desperation and worried about what I might get up to next, my father rearranged his finances to buy me a brand-new bicycle. I still don’t know what adjustments he had to make to do so. Nor was I concerned at the time. All I cared about was the bicycle and I immediately showed it off to all my friends. However, my joy was short-lived as I met with a serious accident within hours of getting my precious new bicycle. A fruit and vegetable seller pushing a cart had come to the colony. As we came face to face, I was riding too fast and couldn’t slow down in time. New to the bicycle, I applied the wrong brake and, bang, I hit the cart head on, lost control and was tossed into the air. As I looked down on the world, my only concern was what would happen to my new bicycle. When I came crashing back down, one of the spokes went through the skin just above my right eye. The cut was deep and blood was gushing out of the wound. Far more importantly, my bicycle was badly damaged.