Sachin Tendulkar never made me a better batsman; he darted two runs in the time I could run a single; my leg spin never landed and I couldn’t play pranks as dangerously.

So what the hell did Sachin Tendulkar teach me in 24 years?

That it is possible to be big and small at the same time.

That in a fast-paced world you can get by with slow-paced values. Unbribable. Not swear. Not booked for drunken driving. Not caught two-timing. Be a Sixties man in a Googling world. Almost expect him to wear his trousers rolled and write people’s names ending with “Esquire”.

That “values” and “value” can be mutually exclusive. In 1987 (still two years away from a Test debut), when Tendulkar was offered a bat endorsement deal, his father politely refused, saying that “it might affect his performance”.

That at a time when it is fashionable to ascribe one’s success to Stanford or a Syracuse, Tendulkar still says “family”. Two hundred Test matches and no autobiography. Dozens of doctorate offers but a polite “no”. Suggestion for a lavish commemorative dinner after his 100th international century to raise Rs 100 million countered by a raised family eyebrow.

That at a time when every young kid considers a better elder just another so-and-so, Tendulkar prefixes older cricketers (some he played with) with Mister. “More than once I have had to tick him off for calling me ‘Mr Botham’,” said the great all-rounder.

That at a time when we all want to appear bigger than who we actually are and pass this failing under fashionable jargon like “positioning” and “branding”, Tendulkar knows his place under the sun. When an ad film maker suggested that a fly swatter be used instead of a bat to emphasise his greatness and the ball be sent spraying all across Mumbai, Tendulkar was horrified; it would make him appear larger than the game.

That at a time when most sportsmen would be only too pleased to monetise their reputation, he hesitated before signing a dozen large pictures I once presented to him, fearing that these could be e-Bayed. When he was assured that these were for displaying on our office walls, he relaxed and requested if some of these enlarged pictures could also be gifted to him.

That passion is the ultimate currency. Always five minutes early for any practice session, team bus or meeting. Always the first to be involved in a tennis-ball cricket “match” in the dressing room during rain breaks. Always carry bats to the hotel at the end of the day’s play, spend time in putting out the laundry, place bats in one place, make the bed and keep the hotel room tidy.

That there is always room for propriety irrespective of where one reaches in life. When presented his Man of the Match champagne bottle at 17, he politely told the presenter, “I do not drink.”

That he knows how to reach out and make a fuss-less difference. When I requested him to sign three bats that would be sold to raise funds for the second floor of a Tikiapara school, he immediately scrawled in bold black on the bat (the floor now provides education for 200 children).

That he knows how to say thank you. When it was time for him to build a bungalow in Mumbai, he provided a home for his uncle and aunt from Dadar with whom he had stayed a part of his childhood, saving him a long commute from Shivaji Park to home.

That he still knows where the sun sets. The family is seldom interviewed. It is ages since his brother was last photographed (till the Wankhede Test). Pictures of the Tendulkar home are not exactly on Facebook. His mother waited 200 Tests before seeing her son bat “live”.

Forget whether Tendulkar will make me a better batsman. If only I can extend some of his learnings into my life space….

Mudar Patherya watched Tendulkar make his Test debut in Karachi in 1989