In the lanes of Mumbai, a boy once stood,
Bat in hand, with dreams so good.
Eyes on the sky, heart full of fire,
Chasing a dream, rising higher and higher.
With every stroke, he told a tale,
Of grit and grace that would never fail.
A child at sixteen, on the world’s big stage,
Fearless and calm, beyond his age.
The bowlers came, with fury and might,
But Sachin stood firm, a wall of light.
From Perth to Lord’s, his bat would sing,
The hopes of a billion, he used to bring.
He wasn’t just runs, or stats in a line,
He was poetry in motion, simply divine.
A straight drive pure, like a morning ray,
He made the game a lover’s ballet.
Through pain and pressure, loss and gain,
He played for pride, through joy and strain.
A century of centuries, a feat so rare,
With humble eyes and silent prayer.
When he retired, the world stood still,
No cheer loud enough, no voice could fill.
A hero not just of the pitch and ground,
But of dreams and hearts, where he’s always found.
So here’s to Sachin, the master, the man,
The little boy with the world’s biggest fan.
Legends may come, and legends may go,
But a name like his will forever glow.
July, 2025
