Twelve runs, 18 balls, 22 minutes. Judging by the crowd's reaction to the demise of Tendulkar, the stats wouldn't have been out of place on a tombstone. It wasn't quite Sachin RIP, because peace is something he doesn't know. But for a split-second there was utter silence. In one of the noisiest cities in the world, you could almost – almost – hear yourself think. Poor Sachin. The pressure is inhuman. As the lights shone against a choking black sky, catching the orange of the Indian tricolours and illuminating thousands of excited faces, Tendulkar walked out to bat. This was his home crowd, and they were going berserk – sport meets theatre.

Tendulkar didn't face the first ball, but it didn't matter: as Andy Caddick ran in, the noise crescendoed anyway, before Virender Sehwag dabbed a single to third man. Tendulkar took strike in that unfussy way of his. The noise started up again, like some persistent mosquito in the dead of night coming back for more. But when Tendulkar resolutely got into line and played the ball back down the pitch, the crowd groaned. Sachin, how could you?

In fact it wasn't until his seventh ball that he finally nudged the scorers. A typically wristy flick for two through square leg off Darren Gough nearly brought the house down. The masses were still baying when Tendulkar lifted Gough's next ball over wide mid-on for four. And when he pulled Caddick for six soon after you worried for the 100 or so people who were gathered precariously on the roof of a nearby block of flats.

So far, so Sachin, but something odd was happening. His partner, a real Flash Gordon outside off, had been scoring more quickly, even prompting a brief burst of "Sehwag! Sehwag!" Maybe this stirred something in Tendulkar. In the Bangalore Test, he had responded to Sehwag's assault on Ashley Giles with some risks of his own. The result? He was soon stumped for the first time in 143 Test innings. Now Sehwag lacerated Caddick behind point, then cut him for six. Hell, he was stealing the show.

Then it happened. Tendulkar tried an ambitious forcing shot off the back foot and was caught behind, a carbon copy of his dismissal in the last match at Delhi. A small boy looked at his dad for some reassurance ("That didn't really happen, did it?"). A man in a white T-shirt who earlier in the day had conducted the singing in the stands now slumped in his seat. You felt as if you were intruding on private grief.

As Tendulkar trudged off, the crowd managed to drag itself to its feet and applaud, but it was half-hearted. There was to be no century from the local deity. The curtain hadn't fallen, but theatre had once more given way to sport.

Lawrence Booth is assistant editor of Wisden.com.

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