Everywhere he turned, he would only have felt the euphoria over his final Test match rising towards a crescendo; it is all so reminiscent of the days when he was the solitary king of Indian cricket, the biggest icon in the country.
Even he must be astonished, if not bewildered, by this outpouring of love and affection; just like the golden times, everybody wanted just one glimpse of him; the more adventurous ones, like earlier, sought autographs and even photographs.
Of course, Sachin has never enjoyed the privilege of solitude, or a few moments of space in his 24-year career; at the most, he has had to share them, with the newer heroes and the brasher young generation as they too blossomed into match-winners.
At the Wankhede, on Wednesday at high noon, though, he was the lone star once again.
As he practised one last time in national colours, he was the cynosure of all eyes; everybody else might as well have been part of the background, if not invisible. Sachin himself had two quick sessions, fine-tuning his footwork and driving as he was wont to many, many seasons ago.
There was no sign of anxiety or trace of eagerness that had become part of his body language in recent years; one could only see the same nervous energy of yore that was a telltale sign of a booming century on the anvil; the old twinkle in his eye, and the uneasy laugh, were also back in place and you knew that some bowler is going to pay on the morrow.
It was almost like he was starting all over again, the beginning of the Sachin era.
Surprisingly, or maybe it was just the mind playing tricks, the rasping sound of his shots overpowered all other noise; they went off his willow cleanly, as they used to, and everybody lined up to watch the spectacle of supreme batsmanship. One last time.
The odds are in favour of his scoring a century, or a duck just like the greatest other batsman.
Will Sachin have tears in his eyes as he walks up to the crease and takes guard? Will he miss the line, length or flight of the delivery and surrender to the moment, to the overriding emotion?
In Bradman's case, the last innings' duck has a sense of romance, accentuated by the grandest century that he missed; in the Sachin story, it will only be reduced to an irony, like an anti-climax. He has to go on a triumphant note, if not for anything but to give one last glimpse of his superlative talent.
So far, despite the injuries and the cautious approach to his art, he has only enjoyed a fair-tale; who else would have won the World Cup on his final attempt, that too in front of his home crowd? Who else could have overcome every hurdle, every challenge in a humble way to conquer one record after another?
It is ordained that he will fade away on a high; the finale has to be memorable, not just because for the first time his entire family, and all his friends and dear ones, will be out there, but because he is Sachin Tendulkar. A once in a lifetime player.
It has to be yesterday, once more.
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