There was a time, not too far in the past, when completing seventy years of life was hailed as a milestone. No longer – many deem seventy years neither ripe nor old. With the average life expectancy in India over 70 years, it does not cause much excitement; it merits only a qualified acknowledgement, if at all.
This may bring cheer to some, for old age is not fancied by many. Matthew Arnold, the famous Victorian poet and critic, says thus in his long poem, ‘Growing Old’:
“What is it to grow old?
Is it to lose the glory of the form,
The lustre of the eye?
Is it for beauty to forgo her wreath?
—Yes, but not this alone.
Is it to feel our strength,
—Not our bloom only, but our strength—decay?
Is it to feel each limb,
Grow stiffer, every function less exact,
Each nerve more loosely strung?
Yes, this, and more; but not,
Ah, ’tis not what in youth we dreamed’t would be!
’Tis not to have our life,
Mellowed and softened as with sunset glow,
A golden day’s decline…”
Written in 1867 in his mid -forties, Arnold’s view of growing old is a rather bleak one, equating the ageing process with a loss of remembrance of having once been young and a gradual dissipation of all feelings. But then, the poet best-known for writing ‘Dover Beach’ wasn’t in the habit of cheering others up.
There are few who find in old age a larger purpose. In one of his most famous poems, ‘Sailing to Byzantium’, WB Yeats found the thought of growing older – feeling out of touch, knowing the inevitability of the new generation superseding the older one, feeling surplus to requirements, waiting for death – rather sombre, but purposeful. The poem is about renouncing the hold of the world upon us and attaining something higher than the physical or sensual. Byzantium in the poem (also Istanbul and Constantinople) metaphorically represents a meeting-point for various ethnicities, cultures, religions, and traditions, as human existence must do:
“That is no country for old men. The young
In one another’s arms, birds in the trees,
—Those dying generations—at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long,
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect,
Monuments of unageing intellect…”
Old age usually precedes death. The thought of death dominates old age. ‘Tithonus’, an immortal poem written by Tennyson, brings out this painful apprehension very powerfully. But what perhaps best describes the regrets of old people, unable to get over the retrospective of youth and its associated pleasures, is this short poem by Thomas Hardy, ‘I Look into My Glass’:
“I look into my glass,
And view my wasting skin,
And say, ‘Would God it came to pass,
My heart had shrunk as thin!
For then I, undistres’t,
By hearts grown cold to me,
Could lonely wait my endless rest,
With equanimity…”
As one looks oneself in a mirror and see one’s wrinkled and ageing skin, one wishes that one’s heart were similarly weakened and reduced. Because the heart that beats in the aged chest is that of a young man still capable of feeling love, romance, longing, indiscretion, and infatuation. The physical infirmities perpetually and painfully remind oneself of an effervescent and colourful but ephemeral youth. It is a delicious regret delightful in replay.
We all have our own preferences, compulsions, or predilections of reminiscing about years gone by but reaching seventy certainly evokes a cascade of memories and emotions. Yet there is no writing that can faithfully reproduce the love and experiences of years gone by nor one that can capture the reflections and contemplations of life’s blessings.
There are two events, however, that I cannot escape mention as I look back on my life. These assail my emotional equilibrium constantly. One is my recovery from a near-fatal COVID infection two years ago. The experience is a reassuring reminder that God loves me. It is also a glowing tribute to the uncommon devotion and sacrifice of my wife and children. I can write volumes about this painful episode of my life, but I must save it for some future occasion. The other is my infinite gratitude to God for giving me the best grandchildren in the world. I am attached to them, and far more gratifyingly, they too are attached to me, giving me a very delightful and fulfilling reason to live for some more years.
It is a worn-out cliché to state that reaching seventy years is not the end, but simply another chapter in life’s journey. But this is possibly the best way to celebrate the day, if one indeed wished to do so. A positive attitude, a sense of purpose and a commitment to stay active, and one can still make the remaining years fulfilling, purposeful and enjoyable. As poet FW Sanderson has so eloquently put in his poem, ‘When We Are Old’:
“When are we old? and how and where,
When grey hairs steal in unaware?
May it be known by signs of care,
Or children’s children here and there?
‘Tis by the heart the secret’s told,
‘Tis by the smile we’re young or old,
‘Tis as the life its joy shall hold,
It is the laugh reveals the soul.”
In my life, there have been two individuals whose advise, counsel, restrictions, prohibitions, even admonitions have never failed to benefit me in immense measure and completely unexpected ways: my father, that extraordinary man whom I used to affectionately call ‘Babu Ji’, and my wife. These two people have shaped and sculpted me, my character, my value system, and all that can be said to be good about me. My whole being, my entire character is, in many ways, a quintessential personification of their sense of rectitude, propriety, fairness, of discharging one’s duties and responsibilities, of the need to repay the debts that one owes to others. As I look back, the strength and energy emanating from my father’s invisible but definitive presence and my wife’s continuing and abiding companionship stand out as my greatest blessing and bliss. Over two scores and four years of my journey has been undertaken in the company of the latter; she has impacted my life in such diverse and delightful ways that it will take an unspecified time to chronicle them.
Perhaps more in jest and less as a serious reflection, I must acknowledge my growing lapses on account of age-appropriate behaviour. To be censured for an improper dress or an inept comment was an experience I had not often encountered in the past. But I must deem it an essential aspect of growing old. And while such admonitions are invariably well-meaning and not to be taken as mere annoyed disapproval, it does dent a self-image of importance and discretion so assiduously built by me over years.
Ravi and Vinayak, my sons, distinguished and eminent in their own sphere, would like me to believe that the best in my life is yet to come. It’s more their exceptional love and affection and respect that is implicit in this sentiment rather than perhaps the truth. And yet I feel overwhelmed by their faith in me. If I were to wish for something special for them, my prayer today will be that I should be remembered by posterity as their father rather than their being remembered as my sons. As for me, I will be more than content if the future years ordained to me turn out to be substantially purposeful.
Patricia Fleming, the famous American poet known for her inspirational poems, poses old age in a new perspective. In a poem ‘I am Still There”, the purpose of life even when old comes out sharply, as does the depth of emotion marked by equanimity and resignation:
“So maybe to some I look ugly and old,
A person who barely exists.
I’m still quite aware of the beauty inside,
And my value should not be dismissed.
So, although not as strong and no beauty, it’s true,
I’m still here and want so much to live,
And I know that there’s no one in this world quite like me,
And no one who has more to give.”
As I negotiate the path ahead, I have no means to know in what ways the inscrutable will and hand of God will get revealed. But I am certain that the One who has so far steered me so mercifully and bounteously, and Who has never abandoned me, will surely illumine my path in the remaining years of life.
As I steel my resolve to strive to continue giving, a secret hope lurks deep within my heart. How much I wish He could, through His infinite grace, release me of my past karmas and liberate me from this cycle of births and rebirths.
scribo ad LX 