Reminders of Ageing

Every day we age, but we are not conscious about it, unless something, someone reminds you about it.  Today, I checked my ''real age" today on a website:  realage.com.  I am 58.1 years old, 2.8 years younger than my calendar age, so, I feel good, despite being obese.  

 

My childhood on-wards, I am  an Anna (elder brother), I have two younger brothers and three younger sisters.  Around 18, I was called a ‘Master’, because, I did some private tutoring to kids in the neighborhood.  At 24, I was called a ‘Sir’, why not, I am now an Assistant Lecturer at a University.  I did not think these salutations had anything to do with my age.  They were about what I did or who I was. So, none of these made me feel that I was getting old.  

Then the thunder struck.  At 26, I was at a super market in Texas.  I was not used to supermarkets in Sri Lanka.  We did not have them those days.  I needed some help.  I walked to a young shop attendant and sought help.  She was probably not the right person to answer my query, but she wanted to help.  She had to call for her supervisor to help me on their PABX.  She announced to the world that a ‘Man’, needs help at aisle whatever.  The young boy inside me was killed instantly, and a man was born.

Years went by, my friends had children, who would call me an Uncle, that’s OK, and they were only 3 or 4.  Then I had kids, who call me dad.  Its a pure joy.  

 

Life went on till 50, my salutations were recycled as I changed jobs, till I was in a bus in Coimbatore, India.  I was not steady, because of rapid accelerations and breakings.  An old man – well that’s what I thought – got up from his seat, and said, Periyannai – ithile irungo (Elder brother, please sit here), in typical Coimbatore Tamil.  That was very kind, but I am now an elder brother of someone almost my age.  Not a good feeling.  A few years ago, in a Delhi Bus, a man almost my age – well may be a few years younger, called be Bapu – Father, and offered his seat.  Days and months passed by, I became used to being called chacha (Uncle) or a Bapu, in Delhi.  I smiled and accepted their greetings.  

Everything changed when I traveled by a suburban train in Sydney, only a few months ago.

 

I sat in front of a couple, whom I readily recognized as South Asians.  They were about my age, I thought.  The man smiled, I reciprocated.  He then initiated a conversation in broken-English.  Now I know that they are from Pakistan, own a jewelry shop, travel to different countries each year.  They knew that I am from Sri Lanka, but settled in Sydney.  

He wanted to know more about me, and asked for my age.  I said I am 61.  Mashah-Allah, (an Arabic phrase that expresses appreciation, joy, praise, or thankfulness to God), he said and paused.  Then he completed his response by saying that in Pakistan, that I would have been dead by now (or something to that effect expressed in words and gesture of being dead).  I did not know how to react.  But more and more I think about it, I think I should be grateful for being alive and in a reasonable health.

Is ageing such a bad thing?  We get tired quickly as we grow older, and we are more and more impatient, I think.  We are set in our ways, and have difficulties making adjustments to others around.  Younger ones – my siblings, students, subordinates, who looked up to me and sought guidance, do not need me anymore.  Thank God, they can take care of themselves.  Their priorities and needs have changed.  That’s the way it should be.  Still at times my ego is hurt because I feel ignored, I must admit.  Then I talk myself out it.

Recently, after meeting with two childhood friends after 35 years or so, I feel ageing is not bad after all.  If I was able to do many things when I was young and was  happy doing them, I am now able to recollect those fun-filled days and again be happy.  So, as I aged, I am glad that I have accumulated many pleasant memories.  They include various reminders I received as I aged.  

NIMBY Diwali

In the late seventies, the acronym NIMBY, Not In My BackYard came to fore.  I just witnessed what it meant in real world.

This is my second year in a row celebrating Diwali in Delhi.  Delhiites really put out a great show.  Houses decorated with running bulbs, and all sorts of decorations.  Some even hire professionals to decorate their homes.  A walk through the suburban streets at night is a treat, but, its really not safe.  There are firecrackers, loud and very loud everywhere.  Last year Delhiites spent one crore rupees on fireworks on Diwali.  Beautiful rockets and all sorts of fireworks.  So, the safest place is to be on your own balcony.

But there is a problem, no one wants crackers lit n front of their house.  As I watched a young man try to set a cracker on the road, the woman lives in the flat above me shouts - not here go forward, I do not like the smoke.  Then she coughs.  The young man obliges and move his anchor forward.  Guess what, the man from the opposite balcony yells, not here my boy, my new car is parked here.  The frustrated boy puts his head down.  Remove the anchor and gets into his house.  I wondered why he would not light it in front of his own flat.  May be elders in his home told him not to do that.

About 15 minutes later, on lookers from both balconies have gone, except me, I see the boy coming out of his flat with his father.  Puts the firecracker just where he wanted in the first place, as the father provides cover for the operation.  Well  he need not.  There weren't anyone to protest.  But the whole thing ends in anti-climax.  The firecracker fizzled!

Mrs Murieal Fernando’s Cabin - Where Winners are born

I set my eyes by-passing a palm tree on the ship that was receding into the horizon.  I was sitting on a plastic chair, a big one, generously arranged by Mrs. Murieal, the owner of the cabin.  This is a cottage with palm leave roof on Mount Lavinya Beach.   It has a verandah with beach sand as floor, and a few cubicles, face open to the sea providing absolute (well almost) privacy if one, I meant a couple, want.

Mrs. Murieal was sitting in a similar comfortable chair reading an English newspaper.  She sits like a matriarch, there were three young men waiting for her call or instructions.  She fielded one of them to attend to my needs – I needed Arrack, which is not available.  No worries, a phone call arranges the delivery of the Arrack bottle.  She is willing for a brief chat, and I reveal to her that I am from Jaffna, but working in in Delhi.  All is well.

As I sipped my way into abyss, I could not help watching her customers. 

A tall white man walks in after a dip, he was wearing undies- which cover his genitals, but a good art of his ass was exposed.  He is wearing a flip-flopper (we used to call it a sandal), and a baseball cap.  As soon as he gets in a chair and a short table was arranged, one of the young men brings him a brand new note book.  He checks an old note book and starts to write.  Possibly he is writing a journal.  He was there for about half an hour and then left.  Before he left, he instructed that one of his friend is coming.

Another middle age white man came, he was wearing proper swimmers, flip floppers, baseball cap, and he sit and waits.  Then come three young boys to meet him.  They speak to him in broken English, the man checks their age, I heard one saying seventeen.  The man orders coca cola, boys felt treated well, then all walk into the sea, to have fun?!  I could not help thinking that the man is a pedophile; and come to think of it, both were.

This is happening in front of Mrs. Murieal, and she is oblivious to her surrounds and keeping busy reading her newspapers.

Now comes a SL man with his friends and a son.  He gives Mrs. Muriel a big hug, calls her Mom, and introduces his son, of twenty or so years.  I continue my travel to abyss, when I hear him saying, this must be a Tamil gentleman sitting in front.  I straightened myself, turned the chair towards him and said, yes.  Conversation continued, I said the same thing about myself to this man, he said he too is a Tamil from Nallur, a nephew of GG Ponnambalam, had a heart attack, had a by-pass, he is 62, married to a Sinhalese lady, he used to be a sailor, the son wants to play club cricket, and he is trying out in Sri Lanka.   Then he invited me for a drink at his hotel room, I politely declined, and then he left. 

Why am I reflecting on these people?  What do they all have in common? 

All three are from the west, and I think by any standards, all a bunch of losers in the west.  They have a few dollars which convert into a lot of LKR.  So, with that, in Mrs Muriell’s cabin, they are winners.  That’s the magic a thatched roof cabin in SL has!