by Anupama Krishnakumar
Two days back, while I was doing my routine evening walk inside my apartment complex, there was this more-than-usual commotion in the senior citizens’ park. Now before I tell you more, let me describe this area of the complex referred to as the “senior citizens’ park”. This is that spot which is conveniently located at the corner of one of the four lanes that run across the complex; the place is characterised by two or three badam trees, plenty of green grass, and four blue benches that can seat about five people each – similar to the ones found in parks. This is the daily evening hangout zone for the senior citizens of the residential complex and to be more specific, this location belongs entirely to male senior citizens and again to be even more specific, almost all of them over the age of 75. The women too have their spaces but they are usually found sitting on benches elsewhere inside the complex or near the temple or just walking around in trendy-looking walking shoes, well, discussing cooking and daughters-in-law.
Now to the commotion that I just told you about. I think I would call it a flurry of excitement. There were loud laughs, almost all of the men in the group were standing and as I narrowed my eyes and paid close attention, I realised that the spotlight was on one Mr.Natarajan or Nattu mama (a popular figure and a friend of the father-in-law). So the thing was – Nattu mama was plagued by various health issues typical of a man in his early 80s, had spent a good part of the last four months making his way in and out of the hospital and finally, after all the ordeal, coupled with the mental torture of missing his routine evening walk and chat sessions with his pals at the senior citizens’ park, was back. The hiatus would have been a rather painful one for him as well as his friends, I assume, as he himself sounded quite excited and relieved about being back, when I asked him how he was doing.
Every time I have passed through this area that is totally owned by the really old lot, I have always thought what a powerful space this is. The writer in me has been intrigued about the different stories that would do the rounds there and the different words and thoughts that would float about in the air surrounding the region. I would often wonder if the trees, grass and benches would absorb these thoughts and words of a generation that is well past its prime, the thoughts and words of a generation that often feels insecure, is filled with a longing to return to the past, is full of unpleasant opinion about the workings of today’s world and people, is craving to be held ‘important’ and is often filled with morbid fear of the inevitable – the rather sickening realisation that with every unavoidable tick of the clock, a day in the chapter of their lives close, never to return, and that they have taken one more step ahead towards the finishing line. Yes, this could be true for anyone, but when you are old, you just fall short of one more reason that keeps you going optimistically about life – biological ageing.
And soon that one question that I know I will never be able to find a complete answer to unless one experiences it personally, would creep slowly into my mind – what does it mean to be old? Especially when one has crossed the 75-year mark? Much of my answer to this question has been gathered from my observations of such old people – the way they behave, the way they react to situations or just simply the way they approach every single day of their lives that in all worldy sense lacks a ‘specific purpose’. And this lack of ‘specific purpose’, I believe, moulds much of their behaviour and attitude towards the people around them. I believe this is true of both men and women. It’s just that the areas in which they try to streamline whatever is left of their energies and spirits are different. Men have a wider variety of things to indulge in while women, thanks to societal attitude that was even more conservative in the past, continue to restrict themselves to cooking, spirituality and sometimes, grandchildren and great grandchildren.
My 94-year-old paternal grandfather is a perfect example – a great case-study for understanding how someone functions at such a ripe age. Quite contrary to old people of his age, who usually battle serious health issues, my grandfather is a rather healthy man, with all his basic health parameters such as BP, sugar and heart conditions certified as ‘absolutely normal’. This and his age, are his reasons for pride, and so is his past – he grew to be a teacher par excellence in a typical rags- to-riches story. And so, every single day now, he just needs a person or two, to listen to his life’s story, of his glorious years – a thread that would connect him with his ‘meaningful past’. Sometimes, much like a child, he would insist that he wants to eat ‘hotel food’ and worse, travel to Bangalore or Chennai, much to the anxiety of my parents! His key idea is to seek ways to be ‘active’ and elude the ultimate fear, keep it at bay, as much as possible. He constantly tries to divert his attention, resorting to watching cricket, news and teary soaps (shedding tears himself). Nights are his nightmarish times as he struggles to sleep with morbid thoughts plaguing his mind. Often, he breaks into a cold sweat and summons the entire family to his side, panting, speaking faintly, mumbling his gratitude to my parents and quite often and cinematically enough, divulging details of his ‘property will’.
My 85-year-old paternal grandmother is a more withdrawn personality, always, like a “dutiful” wife, anxious about her 94-year-old husband and his health, that she considers it her life’s purpose to keep a watch over him all the time. She is often filled with remorse at the thought of not being useful to the family and just being a ‘burden’, feeling insecure and throwing a baggage of questions for the simplest of things. She is perpetually haunted by the fear of confronting the worst of situations during a brief period when she is left alone. Often times, she would fold the newspaper in such a way that she can focus on one section of it, which is the obituary column, and peer intently through her glasses at the tiny letters, moving her wrinkled, trembling fingers over the names of the deceased. I wonder what would run in her mind as she reads the names – would there be relief that there is no one that she knows up there? Or if there is someone, how firmly would the chilling fear of death grip her weakening heart? I don’t know.
Of the other old people I have met, I have seen how many of them resist change and insist on carrying on with life the way they have lived it, not willing to attempt a compromise; there are some who can’t stand the current crop of youngsters, shunning the ‘progress’ of the current generation as mere farce. There are many who rue the fact that people are slowly losing sight of cultural values. There are some who feel it utterly important to religiously attend association meetings, election meetings and stand in long queues for government-related work (a case in point being the Aadhar application process where many of the people who stood in the queue and complained incessantly in my apartment were the old ones). Well, these are also the ones who try hard not to get bogged down by feelings of neglect, uselessness and the lack of strength and will power of their younger days. They are also the ones who pray incessantly for the well-being of their off-springs, no matter the various grudges they nurse against them.
There are also a few of them who have accepted ageing gracefully and carry on with life till the point it decides to take them. There are some who have lost their children while they continue to live on, facing the agony of losing a child at an age when they are readying themselves to bid goodbye to the world.
It’s a strange phase, this one, this old age – not something that can be easily broken down into logical blocks of behaviour; it rather is a very fuzzy ball of a whole range of emotions. Living old age, perhaps, like any other phase of our life, is entirely in our hands, yet, never as easy and maybe the most difficult chapter of all – for, when physical strength isn’t by our side, life can never be as energetic and normal and would demand quite a bit of effort, something honestly, that is now beyond my imagination, that unless I get there, I can never be sure of what it takes. Never.
Anupama Krishnakumar loves Physics and English and sort of managed to get degrees in both – studying Engineering and then Journalism. Yet, as she discovered a few years ago, it is the written word that delights her soul and so here she is, doing what she loves to do – spinning tales for her small audience and for her little son, bringing together a lovely team of creative people and spearheading Spark. She loves books, music, notebooks and colour pens and truly admires simplicity in anything! Tomatoes send her into a delightful tizzy, be it in soup or rasam or ketchup or atop a pizza!
