The following piece appeared in the July issue of Wisden Asia Cricket. For an entire generation of Indians, Sachin Tendulkar is not a person, he is an occurrence, a phenomenon whose uniqueness does not carry the rust of time: to watch him is akin to seeing the Northern Lights or taking a trip to Lourdes. A young man arrives in Mumbai on the day of Tendulkar's wedding and, unable to get a glimpse of him, takes down the number of Tendulkar's car to show his friends he was there. Is it a myth? Does it matter?

Watching Tendulkar goes beyond a cricketing experience for the mob, an occasion beyond the mere matter of the fine geometry of his strokes. It is almost more a religious occasion than it is an aesthetic experience. He is more saviour than artist.

India has been blessed with fine batsmen, but only for Tendulkar do we reduce cricket to an individual game. In 1999, during the Asian Test Championships, Shoaib Akhtar rearranges Rahul Dravid's stumps. Some display of public grief is mandatory. Instead, it is met almost with thanks, for Tendulkar is next man in. First ball, Tendulkar is bowled too, and disbelief marries despair. The world has stopped turning for a while, for some people.

Irrational passions define Indian cricket. The game is escape, it is identity, it is hope, it is national well-being, and reason is not invited. Tendulkar, more than his predecessors, has embodied all this. India has never seen anything like this and it will not either. It is not that there will not be a more commanding Indian batsman in future. It is not that there hasn't been one equally accomplished in the past. (Critics have mulled over the fast bowlers Sunil Gavaskar faced and the rival batsmen of his generation, and Tendulkar's status appears less exalted, but Sunny is history, and history has scant value in modern times.)

Tendulkar's repertoire is not open to question. His pursuit of excellence is undeniable, his strength of character constantly advertised. But his powerful effect on India, his state of grace, is born not just of genes, natural ability and sweat. He is also, like most champions, a triumph of circumstance, of timing. Would white America have been ready for Michael Jordan 40 years ago? Probably not.

It is presumptuous to define Tendulkar as the last Indian hero; that he is a hero in a time when there have been few is less an exaggeration. We are not overly keen on politicians and generals, artists and thinkers, and even if we are, they do not breach India's vast cultural and social divide. Mostly it is cinema and cricket that link a disparate nation; as if opinions on these subjects are an essential ingredient of Indianness. Shahrukh Khan and Tendulkar everyone knows. The actor leaps tall buildings, which is about where the batsman sends Shane Warne occasionally. But there is a difference. The actor is, in fact, a fake, a teller of tall stories; Tendulkar's art is no lie.

The actor owns the big screen, Tendulkar the small. Fortuitously, he is the child of a sophisticated moving picture revolution. Every innings we saw in pristine colour, every shot was replayed into the memory, and it became the vehicle of his gospel. We were all fellow travellers on Tendulkar's journey. He sold televisions, and television sold him. When Mark Mascarenhas bought the rights to Tendulkar for $7.5 million, it seemed excessive, but Mascarenhas was prescient. Money was pouring into Indian cricket, the game had spread, and it was embraced by an increasingly consumerist middle class. The market had found its man.

There was also something (apparent if you interviewed him) disarming and decent about Tendulkar: he didn't court controversy or dress himself in arrogance. Self-indulgence was not his style. To classify it purely as a manufactured image would be unfair. If the Palmolived Kapil Dev was earthy, then Tendulkar was wholesome. A batting god disguised as the boy next door.

And this empowered his legend. For when he went out there, shorn of gum-chewing swagger, just a little fellow with a little voice, and then savaged the bowlers, sending the ball galloping into the boards, well, you had to be seduced, you had to be moved. And it was not only the skills that captivated, it was the assurance. My God, this Indian did not feel awe, he evoked it!

But all this was not enough. The romance was built on one last substantial piece, the very heart of all worship.

It was the way he played. Not so much the repertoire or the technique, but the intent. Sure, he could be delicate and precise, but they did not come to see that. They waited for Conan to let loose, the beauteous brutality to flow. The more dominant and destructive he was, the more strident the howls of approval. This was an age of violence, of risk, of speed, and he was all that. As much as Sunny may have defined a more sober era, Tendulkar, all magical mayhem, fit his times.

Some of his effect on the Indian game is obvious, the rest will be distilled in time. He is the best batsman of his generation (his consistency defeats Brian Lara), and has brought pride, delivered recognition and ensured riches, not just to himself but to his team and the Indian game. He has spurred a revolution, for as academies take root across India they are populated with young boys who see him in every stance they take.

His peers speak glowingly of his single-minded focus, his poise, his work ethic, and some level of osmosis must have occurred. (Although, some merely say, "we cannot do what he does", and it is left at that.) Through his nerve and ambition, this son of a professor-poet has suggested to his unsure peers, and to a somewhat hesitant nation, that all things are indeed possible.

Inconclusive for some will be his winning of matches for India. How much did he do will be faced off against how much more could he do. For a decade, Indian cricket has leaned on his shoulder; it is a weight that has not defeated him, but occasionally he leaves more of a memory than an impact.

When he finishes, he will hold most batting records that matter: most Test and one-day runs, most centuries in both forms. When he is done, he will possess a scrapbook of compliments, from the Don to Warne, from Viv to Akram, and somewhere in India, statue-carvers will rub their hands gleefully.

As an Indian cricketer, Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar stands unique, and perhaps alone.

One of India's finest sports writers, Rohit Brijnath is a columnist for Sportstar magazine.

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