Plagued by an inept articulation, this much awaited autobiography turns out to be, (whether intentionally or accidentally), an exercise in futility. While Sachin’s book fails to make a mark on multiple counts, the most explicit travesty is an overwhelmingly liberal usage of the vowel “I”, drowning out muted references to the preferred words “us” and “we”. This even, accepting the fact that an autobiography necessarily has to emphasise, to a certain extent on the “I”.
The book represents an inexplicable Dr,Jekyll and Mr.Hyde paradox. A genius with the willow portraying a pristine picture of poise, equanimity and exquisite humility throughout an illuminating career spanning a staggering two-odd decades, pitted against a metamorphosed author who seems intent on being egotistical to the point of absurdity.
All ruminations, reminiscences, remonstrations and recriminations seem to be the sole prerogative of the protagonist much to the exclusion of the rest, with a precision that would put a surgeon to shame. The book though contains its moments of inspirations, but they are so far and few between that the reader is hopelessly lot trying to grasp on to such precious gems. Once the fracas swirling around this greatly anticipated offering begins to wane away (as is bound to happen), the remnants will clearly denote one lamentable fact:
For once Sachin has “Not Played It His Way!”
