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| An old tree in my village |
When I was in
my late twenties I used to long for death. I didn’t want to go on beyond my
thirties at least. Middle aged people were the greatest bores I had ever come
across and I didn’t want to reach that stage. Moreover, I worked as a
schoolteacher in Shillong in those days. The remuneration was a pittance whose
lion’s share disappeared as house rent right at the beginning of the month. The
end of the month would usually demand some tightening of the belt. Not a very
charming existence even without the boredom added by the middle-aged moralists
of various hues.
My
middle age turned out to be the best period of my life, however. Life proffers
interesting ironies. I landed in Delhi at the age of 41 with nothing more than
some meagre savings and an attenuated willingness to experiment with life. The
job I received at a residential school in Delhi had the charms of a Homeric
Siren: at once enchanting and enslaving. The enslavement was as much a delight
as the enchantment especially for middle-aged people. Psychologist Erik Erikson
theorised that middle age is the period when people want to experience
volunteering, mentoring, and making social contributions. Few other places can
offer you more opportunities for those than a residential school.
Now
I am a senior citizen by my country’s official reckoning. I live in a funny
country which, instead of helping ‘senior citizens’ to take care of themselves,
makes them pay literally breath-taking taxes for health insurances. As soon as
I turned 60, the GST on my health insurance jumped to about Rs4000! My country
seems to be telling me that it is time for me to leave the place altogether. My
insurance agent tells me that it’s going to be much higher next year unless our
very “caring” Prime Minister condescends to cut some of his Himalayan taxes
which is not a likelihood at all.
The
juvenile death-wish doesn’t care to haunt my soul anymore, maybe because there
is too much insurance to sustain me. There are no serious worries, in fact. All
those people who wanted to reform my recalcitrant soul for decades have
apparently given me up as irredeemable or too old a dog to learn new tricks.
The best thing I love about this senior citizenship is precisely this liberty
or liberation from missionary spirits. [I hope after reading this they won’t
take out their worn-out cudgels against me. Mercifully, most of them have grown
old like me and must have also realised the futility of their missionary zeal.]
A
contemporary of mine sent me a WhatsApp message this morning that 60-70 is the
most productive age of a person, 70-80 being the second-most productive period.
The claim was attributed to a study published by New England Journal of
Medicine. I checked the claim online but could not determine its veracity.
It is true, however, that some of the best novels were written by people in
their sixties.
Psychological
research says that “the potential for high-functioning brain activity peaks in
our 50s but remains high until our 90s and functional into the 100s”. That is
for the above-average brains, okay? “The average person peaks at 30 and
declines to a non-functioning state by his or her late 80s.”
It
looks like I have to wait for another 20 years to see whether my brain is above
average. That’s as good a reason to go on as any other.
Nice sharing Sir. People like me can get insight into the functioning of human-life and the world around from this account of yours.
ReplyDeleteI have a strong feeling with sufficient rational backing that old age can be an interesting phase, more interesting than the others perhaps. We just need to be a little more patient and enduring. Thanks for your appreciative words. They help too.
DeleteAge is just a number so carry on regardless:)
ReplyDeleteThank you 😊
DeleteGood read!
ReplyDelete