On Growing Older

My husband and I slipped into our senior citizenship some years ago. Yes, we are officially older than that comfortably nebulous category of middle-age though we may fight shy of regarding ourselves as properly old. Well, I don’t feel old, I don’t think old either. Of course, my body may contend otherwise, but my mind tells me that I am as sharp and sprightly as ever. Anyway, we marked the occasion quietly, without too much ado, and then carried on much as before. Adding on the days, weeks, months and years without even noticing it. 

Of course, time takes its toll. My mirror tells me that I have seen better days, though my husband very gallantly assures me otherwise. I know I can’t run as I used to. I have learned that if I fall, my bones break. I can’t digest everything as before. I need spectacles to read. I need to pick and choose my wardrobe carefully, camouflaging the bulges that I’ve acquired over the years, those tell-tale symptoms of my eternal love affair with food. Until recently I would colour my hair to mask the growing greys but I’ve abandoned that habit now, finally owning up to my silver mane, my mirror and my vanity making peace with my convenience.

But other than these inevitable changes I still feel more or less the same as I used to, say, ten or fifteen years ago. And I am optimistic enough to anticipate not feeling any different over the next ten-fifteen years either, assuming, of course, that I have that many! I know that I am as curious about people, events, places and news as I was before. I want to stay connected, in touch with everyone and everything. There are times when on the receipt of some especially happy news I still break into a child-like jig, however clumsy and unbecoming it may seem. Yeah, my joints may creak but my spontaneity is still on fire. I still laugh raucously or shout loudly on occasion, or far too often as my husband would hasten to say. I don’t feel mellow or ready to let go as yet.  I want to hear the latest songs, read the latest books, watch the latest movies. I still want to, and do, meet new people, make new friends, explore new eateries, try out that new recipe, experiment with a new bandish, chase new ideas, travel to places I have never been to before, write a new story, make a fresh memory. Learn a different language. Pick up a new hobby, a new pursuit, a new skill. My lust for life is intact. My age is just a number.

Of course, how that number is viewed is relative. Decades ago when I was in my mere teens, sixty loomed as terribly old, eighty as doddering ancient. I remember my Aji (grandmother) dragging her arthritic leg about, inhibited by the pain of movement. Diabetes had already denied her much of her pleasure in food, her craving for sweet heightening as time wore on. Towards the end dementia snared her in its cruel grip, robbing her of her past and present, robbing her of herself. I would roll my eyes at the horror that awaited me, shuddering to think that I too wouldn’t have the use of my limbs one day and worse, of my mind. But as those distant years inched closer, they didn’t portend to be as prohibitively painful or morbid. Fortunately, science too has advanced with me and has made life a lot easier.

It’s interesting how different people age differently. Some I know use their advancing years as a legitimate excuse to get out of responsibilities and jobs they’ve always hated. Some begin to shut down, cutting down on activities before their body tells them to, losing interest in life, almost meeting their mortality halfway. Some try to preserve themselves, trying to push back that eventuality, afraid of doing anything that may hasten it, obsessing about their fragile health, almost afraid to live. Some try to hold on to their vanishing youth. Some go in for cosmetic fixes while some hit the gym with a vengeance. Some are in denial, refusing to acknowledge that growing number in that one slot of their personal data. Some try to squeeze the most out of their remaining years, living each moment to its fullest, as if they were on a timer. Some are depressed, lonely. Some cantankerous while some quietly resigned. Some fiercely independent. Some senile. Some lost.

Some of that stems from how society may view the aged. Unproductive, past their use-by date. In frequent if not constant need of expensive care and tiresome attention. Frustratingly inflexible, clinging obdurately to opinions and habits that they had formed eons ago, the only ones they are still comfortable with. Dwelling in nostalgia rather than in the present, looking back fondly, wistfully at what has passed than expectantly, hopefully towards what is to come. This rapidly changing world doesn’t want to be held back by them, it doesn’t want to be dragged back into a time that it has long left behind. Then, the loneliness of those on the way out screams silently against the noisy hustle and bustle of those still firmly in. And this continues through successive generations.

There are a few examples that I can quote as exceptions to this stereotypically bleak picture. One was my husband’s aunt, Akka Attya as she was known to us. She was a breezy, happy ninety-three when she breathed her last and was, until her penultimate days, as razor sharp and full of beans as any of her young blood. She had obviously lived through generations, experienced, endured and survived a lot personally, witnessed umpteen changes, upheavals and turnarounds in her own life, as well as in the lives of her family and friends. And one would understandably have expected her to be at least a little tired, a little out of touch with people and events, a little less able to recall names, dates and instances. But, every time I met her she appeared to be as alert and animated, as keen on life and living as before.

Of course, the body told a different story. She grew progressively frail, lost all her teeth, couldn’t chew much, struggled with failing eyesight, and had a host of similar age related physical issues. But her mind was always as remarkably and vigorously present as it was the first time I met her. Her memory remained acutely faithful and her swift grasp of new issues and new developments just as impressive. I remember her learning the ropes of the then recent phenomenon of the internet to send her US settled grandson her recipe of his favourite kheer! When I met her last she had been lying down, looking thin and spent, and I had felt reluctant to intrude into her quiet, withdrawn space. I remember hesitating. But she had firmly summoned me to her side, sat me down, and holding on to my arm, sat herself up and begun chatting. Eager. Enquiring. Enthused and engrossed. Her voice was firm, as was her grip on my arm. Her face though heavily creased with wrinkles, looked fresh. Focussed and interested. Every time I met her she had a different anecdote to narrate, a special memory to relate, new information to share. And she always remembered everything I’d told her before, down to every minute detail. Endearingly so. When I rose to leave that last time, she held my hand once more and entreated me to visit her again. That one last request exposed her age and its attendant loneliness, the craving for and clinging to fresh company. I resolved and assured her that I would. Alas. 

Her brother, my father-in-law, disregarded his age completely, climbing up hills come rain or shine, travelling far and wide with friends, eating and drinking as merrily as always. Picking up piping hot and wickedly spicy batata wadas from the corner handcart, sharing them with me, our monsoon ritual together. Urging me every now and then to cook his favourite chicken curry or a flavourful, zingy matar ussal. Sitting up late chatting with dinner guests, no matter what their age or generation or calling, and still waking up at the crack of dawn, magnetically drawn to his friends, walking with them, breathing in the pure morning air. He lived life with all the robust energy of a strapping young lad and passed away suddenly while on one such morning walk. Our old Baba died young.

Most of the Sathe tribe have this zest for life. Their spirit is just as youthful as ever, infectiously so. Their age too is just a number. For them as for me, it is merely the number of years we have lived, revealing nothing at all about how we lived them. Or how we are going to live the rest. I don’t feel unhappy or disadvantaged about my growing older, my ageing. Not at all. I too mostly disregard my age until my mirror reflects my reality. But it fails utterly in sobering me! In fact, I welcome the advancement in years quite cheerfully. I find that I can process things faster than before. I feel smarter! Sharper! Wiser! I am not as naïve as I used to be, nor as trusting, I always look for the hidden catch. More perceptive, more discerning, than I ever was before. And fortunately my memory hasn’t deserted me yet. Not yet. 

Of course, it may all change tomorrow. While I know my todays, I am as ignorant of my future as anyone else. All my givens now may melt away. My body may give way, my brain may also get worn out. My faculties may diminish. But I doubt that my appetite for life will wane. I hope not. I expect that I will still be as curious as ever. I hope I will still want to and be able to learn something new. Stay connected with the world around me. Want to know the latest news, argue with as much energy and conviction as before, relish all the latest gossip, remain in touch with everyone, know everything about all the people in my life. Want to hold on to them. Want to meet them again and again. Ask them to visit again and again. Then if anyone sees in me what I used to see in Akka Attya or Baba, I would take it as a huge compliment. And be truly flattered.