It's 7.15am in Mumbai. The blessed are asleep, the not-so-lucky grind their way through urban monotony in compressed local trains. But why would any person - let alone a few dozen - banish the comforts of the bed, or abandon the call of duty, to hang onto a railing that offers an obscure view of a cricket net more than 100 yards away? Or wait endlessly to snatch a glimpse of the owner of a burgundy Mercedes? Sachin Tendulkar is practising batting, silly. Would you miss a chance to see Muhammad Ali shadow-box? So what if he hoodwinked a few by opting for a less-visible early-morning session from his late-afternoon slot last week. Doesn't he know the nation has missed him terribly for two months now?

It's a curious collection of onlookers at the Middle Income Group (MIG) Club: half-a-dozen photographers, a couple of reporters, a bunch of tots accompanied by equally star-struck elders, a few seasoned autograph hounds, and an entire bunch representing the archetypal Indian middle-income-group male.

Keeping them politely restrained is a North Indian watchman whose scimitar nose, warrior eyes and silver Bali earring cannot quite mask his childlike mix of glee and pride. He puffs his chest and absorbs everything around him. He has an eye for details too. In crisp, hilly Hindi he explains: "He [it's never 'Sachin' or any other name, always He or Him] has been reaching here at 7 o'clock for the last few days. He jogs around the ground five or six times. Then he goes to the dressing-room for ten minutes and then bats for one hour. Then he leaves. No gym."

Pointing to the set of five bowlers - three right-arm medium-pacers, one left-arm fairly quick, and a legspinner - he continues: "That bowler there ... he opens the bowling for MIG, and the one in front of him, he bowls first-change. The chap with his collar turned up, he is Atul Ranade, his best friend [and a former Ranji Trophy player for Mumbai]. The person with the long hair behind the nets, that's his brother, Ajit." He breathes deeply and surveys the small crowd that is building at the main gate.

The net session starts. Instantly, you can feel everybody's attention, rather like the response to the national anthem. Ajit Tendulkar discusses technical nitty-gritty with a few learned cricket observers, and photographers scout for every available angle. Tough boys in vests and bike-shorts find it the perfect time to take a breather from their workout, veteran walkers reckon that the best place to stop and tie their laces is just behind the net. Regular members coming in for their morning swim stop and ask "Aala kaa?" ("Has he come?") to a bearded security man.

I don't have an appointment, so I watch from behind a small gate at roughly deep backward square leg. It's a poor seat, but the gunshot boom from the three-pound bat soon pierces the morning and makes it worth my while. The position also allows me to concentrate on his most un-Indian batting trait - the ability to play so surely and so naturally off the back foot.

The little boy next to me, full of life, full of dreams, seems to enjoy it even more. "Does he play cricket?" I ask his elder companion. "It's the only thing he loves. He is from Latur and had to come to Mumbai for brain-tumour surgery. He stays in a nearby hospital and watches cricket all day. He brought me here when someone told him that Sachin practises." It's the sort of story you would only find in Reader's Digest, but it does explain why he was allowed through the first gate, where all the others were halted.

Sachin, meanwhile, chooses to practise the drive against the back of the net. It means I am now at deep extra cover. With every well-rehearsed cover-drive, his elbow points decidedly to the centre of my forehead. and the bat comes through to complete the arc. After 20 minutes of head-down, straight-bat driving, he's done for the day. The club members unfreeze from their positions, but the day has only just begun for those at the gates. He'll be coming out now.

Sachin makes his way to the Mercedes. Its number-plate reads 9999: he is after all, at 28, the only man to pass that figure in one-day cricket. The bearded security man makes the cardinal sin of opening the gate before Sachin steps into the car, and the autograph-hunters zero in like moths to a flame. Two or three get lucky, while others, including the little boy, smile excitedly as the car zips away.

Rahul Bhattacharya is a staff writer with Wisden.com in India.

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