In early February of 1989, I flew from Calcutta to Bombay to interview a boy – an encounter that would effectively alter my life. Cricket had yet to explode across the nation, money was tight at Sportsworld (salaries barely paid the bar bill), and teenagers who hadn't yet played for India came to the office and pleaded for a paragraph – you did not go to them. But this kid, even then he demanded your attention. Of course, it was a disaster. Sachin Tendulkar was 15, squeaky, uncomfortable, and in the end politely asked, "Okay, can I get back to the cricket?" For the first and only time, I agreed, with alacrity. Corpses have told better tales. The only story worth remembering was that he spoke cricket in his sleep, and surely still does: "Sourav, run, for God's sakes, run."

A decade and more later, the prodigy had turned master; everything had changed, and nothing. For the choirboy, interviews still resembled an appointment with a thumbscrew. Always there was this sense of a private man discomforted by this most public of lives. His art, he felt, was a sufficient explanation of who he was.

He was never going to be loquacious like Ganguly; still, to be fair, he would occasionally lift his veil (not on his personal life but on his cricket), and let you glimpse the mechanics of his genius. Like when he explained how he "compelled" bowlers to bowl a certain line to him ("I play in a particular fashion intentionally so he does something and I am prepared"); or his intriguing answer to the cliché that the tougher the situation, the more driven great batsmen are: "I don't really say that I wait for the big situation. I just like to maintain my standard. Why should I wait for the situation to raise my standard of play. Whereas if I continue the same way, that situation may not arise at all."

But it wouldn't have mattered if he had spoken in Japanese monosyllables, Tendulkar was still the biggest story we had. He was an inspiration for an entire generation of Indian sportswriters, and single-handedly responsible for the increased sales of Roget's Thesaurus (how many times can you say "brilliant"?) He was something we had never had before: genius close-up, and he challenged our imagination

Of course, he changed my life. If there wasn't a Tendulkar, India Today would never have spent lakhs allowing me to sun-bathe in South Africa and pub-crawl through England. Magazines hired palmists, or was it a crystal ball-gazer (this is true), to read his mind; when his back gave him trouble, Wisden was replaced with Grey's Anatomy, and we silenced Saturday night parties with lectures on his sacroiliac muscles.

And he? He seemed resigned, almost irritated, by this celebrity, asking me once, "I don't want a public discussion on it. Why is everyone so interested in my back?" How did one explain that, let alone his future, ours depended on it?

He could seem alarmingly ordinary, resembling almost some reluctant hero, averse to attracting attention to himself. This was not a champion who entered hotel lobbies with a strut, but with his head down, his yellow earphones standing out like a Do Not Disturb sign.

His manner was reserved, even at press conferences, and his view of the mike as a live grenade would hurt him as captain (furthermore, he was not accustomed to failure, and it showed). As he said when asked about this after the 1999-2000 Australian tour: "I'm more worried about what I should be doing on the ground than off the field. I'm good at cricket and cricket is only played on the field."

But of course, he was anything but ordinary. One afternoon in Sri Lanka, we played table tennis, a rare convivial moment. Except, he would not lose. The better I played, the better he did, game after game, refusing to submit: for an instant, a microcosm of what occurs on the field where we would never be, it was a taste of his flaring competitiveness. During interviews he rarely made bold statements, or used his untouchable status to bully the board (he should have done both), or vented his displeasure at a team-mate's performance (often you had to read between the lines, or put off your tape recorder, to be better educated).

He handled pressure with a quiet dignity, but there was, you sensed occasionally, beyond his powerful ambition, a certain frustration with the constant expectation that pursued him. As he said once to me: "People expect too much of me. A hundred every innings. They call and say, 'You scored a hundred in Kanpur, why not in Delhi?' They must accept my failure."

Mostly though, if he complained, it was in private, perhaps to friends; to do so publicly would bring unfair accusations of "petulance", and that he did not want. So his answers were very carefully calibrated, caution replacing spontaneity. He had an acute awareness of the impact of his words, which once said could not be retrieved.

Which is why he called one evening, the only time he did, to ask what headline I was using for the previous day's interview. Then captain, he had mentioned that India needed a foreign coach (for him, quite an admission), but one working in tandem with an Indian coach. It was the obvious headline, but he (perhaps disinclined to embarrass then coach Madan Lal, or even to vaguely spark a controversy) said, no, please don't, leave it in the copy, but use something else. I reminded him of my freedom to choose headlines; he laughingly reminded me of the access he constantly granted. Principle lost.

It was a minor matter. Still, personally, a certain leeway was extended to Tendulkar, not merely because of who he was, but because of his manner. His father, Ramesh, whom I met in 1989, appeared a gentle man and so was the son (when his father passed away during the 1999 World Cup, and I, like others, left him a note, he acknowledged it, despite the chaos surrounding his return. What his father's influence has been on him – and surely it has been considerable – is a story that has never been adequately told).

Access to him, considering his status, was not difficult. He did not agree to every interview, or acquiesce to every demand for a quote. But he did not rail, or snarl. His craft may be arrogant, but off the field he packed it in his suitcase. He was rarely brusque and abrupt like Azhar; or picked up the phone and pretended to be someone else like another captain. He was on time, unhurried, and in an era when 16-year-old wannabes across the globe couldn't pee without their agents holding their hand, incredibly, he was not protected by one. If you wanted to speak to him, you called him.

These days, I am told, he asks for money for long interviews. If so, that is unfortunate, for it scarcely corresponds with my experience. One in particular.

April-May, 1998, Sharjah, when he scored two centuries against Australia, illuminating the desert night with his batting, is a powerful memory, for various reasons. India Today had planned a major story on him and, after the tournament, I was to fly back to Bombay with Tendulkar and do the interview there. Except, after his first electric century on Wednesday night, my editors called, demanding the story on Thursday night. Impossible, we hadn't even spoken.

Friday, the day of the final, was his birthday, and on Thursday, the rest day, his manager, the late Mark Mascarenhas, threw a typically lavish party, flowing with champagne, populated by cricketers, socialites and celebrities. Tendulkar was in an ebullient mood; distracted too, his hand shaken, back pounded, surrounded by his faithful.

Yet when I explained the situation to him, he did not offer the obvious excuse. Instead, amid the clamour, he found a table in the middle of the party. I grabbed a napkin, and (if memory serves me right) Ayaz Memon, then of Mid-Day, opened his notebook, and Tendulkar gave us 10 minutes. It was an unforgettable act of generosity.

He was still the choirboy, still a tad uncomfortable, still polite and professional, but he gave me a quote that stood at the top of my story. "I don't think anything is impossible. Of course, I'm not always right".

He returned to the party, we to our typewriters. One more tale of Tendulkar to tell.

Rohit Brijnath is a columnist with Sportstar magazine

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