What happens when you have to stop doing, either voluntarily or owing to circumstances, what you very passionately love doing? And what if that thing is not just a hobby or a pastime but a lifetime or rather, a lifeline, profession or a higher calling? Of course, not everyone gets this unique gift of combining profit and passion and in most cases, work or vocation is a drudgery that fetches the daily bread while the soul seeks out other sources of self-fulfilment. Still, one tends to take this prize of providence for granted and plunges headlong, only to feel a profound personal pang when the time comes for parting.
That nothing lasts forever is no consolation and only a few make the transition in good grace. Sachin Tendulkar, India’s most prolific cricketer, is now on the threshold of one such precarious moment, having announced his retirement from a sport that he was synonymous with for close to twenty five years now. His 200th Test will be his last, but the real test lies just before and ever after. The nation and its 24/7 media, are already submerged by a tsunami of sadness and most bemoan what a huge setback his exit is for Indian cricket or for the game itself. Fans, fanatics and new fangled statisticians cannot be otherwise.
But very few can fathom the deep sense of loss that Sachin himself must be going through. To quote him: ‘I have not known anything other than cricket since the age of 11’. That says it all. His individual loss beats the country’s collective loss by an insurmountable lead.
Even now he seems a reluctant retiree, casting loving and longing glances as he leaves the crease that he occupied with such distinction. One only hopes he takes a leaf off his mentor and a predecessor and pioneer of sorts in sublime batting skill, Sunil Gavaskar’s glorious book and makes the switch seamlessly so that his pleasurable passion does not become a prickly pain.
Let’s bid adieu to Sachin now. In general, from sportspersons to actors to musicians to artistes of any kind, not to mention, er, writers, cessation of their favourite vocation undoubtedly leads to an existential crisis. At first the ego projects this as a desertion of one’s audience and admirers, the breaking of a promise to perform or at the least betrayal of a commitment to keep going. ‘I will be around as long as the people want it’ is a familiar refrain of all greats in all walks of life. But this hypocritic façade soon falls off to reveal the pervasive personal whim that resides in the psyche and propels the passion: After all adulation and limelight are addictive and cannot be shed just like that. But for a truly passionate performer this too is just passing phase as wisdom dawns that time and tide will keep throwing up new objects of public affection as they did in their own case once upon a time.
And then comes the truth, stripped of all trappings. The audience are a false alibi. The applause is a fake motivator. Altruism is a fickle excuse. One pursues passion because one wants to, come what may. Period. It is a mode of self-assertion, an assurance of one’s own relevance to oneself, an itch that needs constant scratching.
Those who keep doing what they love are not addressing a crowd. They are talking to themselves, always seeking the ratification of that unsparing critic or witness residing inside. You perform to the diktats of that and only that sole supreme spectator. And once we realise that we are doing things only for our own pleasure or just for the heck of it, quitting probably would not seem that big a mental burden. After all, there are not many people to consult or convince, now.
Just thinking aloud!
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