Waiting for the Train

Waiting for the Train

Waiting for the Train

I was speaking with 96-year-old Naresh recently. A veteran from the Indian Army he served closely with Indira Gandhi (they shared a love for paapri-chaat), and enjoyed more than one overseas posting. Even the near death encounters only added an additional dimension to a life well lived. Some months ago he had an unfortunate fall. Since then his movement has become restricted. I was trying to persuade the General to allow a physiotherapist to help him get back on his feet again. He in turn was trying to persuade me that he had led a good life, that he understood that old age came with its frailties, and that he was not unhappy with his situation. Infact he hoped to die this year. It was said just like that. Matter of fact. Like he was at a station, waiting for the train to arrive so he could board.

My father, who is 86, also an ex-army officer, was the first person I heard say this – that he was good to go. My father plays golf every morning, goes for cards in the evenings; he goes to the hills in the summer and the beach in the winter. And yet, since the time he was 80 he has been telling us, “I have led a good life. If I die soon, I will have no regrets. There is no need to grieve for me.”

And lest we see this tranquil acceptance as a quality unique to army veterans, let me share my conversation with Rukmini. She is 87 years old. She has a led a good life and has many happy memories – of a husband who brought her flowers; of travels across the world; of loving familial relationships. She also fell recently and had a fracture but is determined to be on her feet again. She is regular with her physiotherapy and prides herself on her progress. Over a cup of tea, she said to me, “I really wouldn’t mind dying. Nobody wants to hear me say this, but it’s true. I have no fear of death. I just want to go with dignity.”

Death is a taboo topic for most people that I know. When older people bring it up we shushhhh them. Perhaps it’s our way of not wanting to deal with the inevitable – till we have to deal with it. Or perhaps we fear that talking about death will wake the “Grim Reaper” and bring him to our door. And perhaps it’s time to change that.

A Permanent Four Ball

A Permanent Four Ball

Golf Course image

I Have a Permanent Four Ball

Saroj is an avid golfer. She is in her late 70’s and often struggles to get a four-ball going. One morning, Saroj called to say, “I have some good news and some bad news.” “First the good news – I have a permanent four-ball” I was both delighted and surprised. “Who are these people you will be playing with,” I asked. She went on to name three other people, none of whom walked the earth anymore. Before I could react, she added, “Now the bad news, I have been diagnosed with cancer.” And she laughed.

A few months earlier I had read a beautiful piece by the late Indu Jain (Chairperson – Times of India). As I recall it, she wrote about having led a truly privileged life, filled with many adventures. She went on to say, “All these years I have always been restless for new experiences. Now, to tell you the truth, this life has become dull…. As an adventure traveller, the last frontier beckons, demanding to be experienced. Of this I am certain; the never-before destination, the great unknown will not disappoint me. Everyone has talked about its mystery…. I am eager to find out.” Reading this has given me a whole new perspective on the great beyond. I now envision grassy pastures, blue skies, and the fragrance of a million flowers.

Saroj, in the meantime, went for treatment to Mumbai, and two weeks after she was back home (and one week before the doctor had permitted it), she was back on the golf course.

Beauty in the Beast

Beauty in the Beast

Beauty in the Beast

One of my favourite people has early stage Alzheimer’s. I met her when she had already been diagnosed. She suffered the short-term memory lapses, the fear of not remembering, the bouts of frustration fuelled anger but none of it affected her sense of fun. She loved going out. She loved meeting people. She loved shopping. She had even learnt to use her memory loss to her advantage when confronted with things she should not be doing. But the most charming aspect of her was her ability to relish the same experience many times over.  She would tell me a story from her past (her long term memory was still strong) with the same excitement every time I met her, because she would not remember that she had told it to me previously. One morning I showed her a video clip of Vincent Van Gogh’s art, set to the Music of “Starry Starry Nights.” Vincent was her favorite artist (she herself was a design school graduate). It’s a beautiful clip and I was very gratified to see how moved she was. I met her again a few days later, and remembering how much she had enjoyed it I asked if she wanted to see it again. I realized when I played it that she didn’t remember it at all and so her experience was as powerful as the first time. Over the next few months I learnt that she had the capacity to respond with the same degree of emotion every time she saw the clip. And I thought to myself, “What a gift!” To be able to extract the same level of joy from an experience every time. Conversely, if she had a bad experience with anyone or anyplace, that would not stay with her for long. She would forget it, and in forgetting she would save herself much of the anguish of those who cannot forget. Having said that, none of this is meant to glorify the beast. Still, beauty must be appreciated wherever we find it.