Beauty of Growing Old

There are millions of people in the world, but no one is the same as the other. Yet, in this world of contrasting childhoods, living and memories, there are a few things that are experienced by all and are irrevocable. Age, change and death aren’t things that anyone has control over. But I was fortunate enough to learn how beautiful these things are, despite the terror we feel on hearing them.

Ever since I entered my teenage, no day had been easier than the other. I spent hours questioning the purpose of my life, arguing with people and contradicting myself. I questioned if life would ever get easier once I got over my adolescence. But I could just not wait. Time was being hard on me. I no longer had control over my reactions, towards the things I loved and the things I hated. I was tired of my turbulent and repulsive nature.

Not that my years were miserable, I had tons of days to look back, pass a smile or grin at. The thing was, during this transition, I was little aware about the things that mattered and the person I was. And, it was on one such day, when I just couldn’t keep right with my mother that I went over my uncle’s home. Even if I was bound to be interacting with my relatives, I just wasn’t in that mood. I got a glimpse of a nanny, who lived just at the next door, when I was taking a rest at my uncle’s veranda.

Old people have always been my subject of interest. Even more, after I read Tuesdays with Morrie. I just couldn’t keep myself from striking a conversation with the old lady. I walked over to her, she was warm and welcoming. Sometimes, there are things that you don’t feel comfortable sharing with your family or friends but feel completely fine sharing with strangers. She was my confidante. I couldn’t have cared less. I shared with her my insecurities, anxieties and dreams. She was cool with all I had to say.

I sat beside her for hours. From when the sun was unbearable to when only its tail was visible, we didn’t seem to stop. She shared with me how she was full of insecurities and dreams, how little she knew of world, how lucky I was that I had all that was beyond her comprehension when she was of my age. But she did not say once that she was unlucky. I can bet, I wasn’t mistaken her eyes sparkled as she spoke of her life. Yes, she had her fair share of troubles and pain but, she claimed, if she were to meet any god someday, there wasn’t a thing she would complain of and instead she had so much to thank for.

I asked her of her aspirations, dreams and expectations. For this too, the answer was an optimistic one, the only world she knew was the little village she grew up in, shifting in the capital and getting used to this city life were things that came later, after her husband died and her son felt obliged to keep her at his place. She had no dreams in particular. Going to a school was a farfetched idea, it was a rare thing even for the sons. However, she had a dream, to live a satisfactory and settled life. She said, they were something one had control over. Once she learnt the secret, life was at least bearable, if not easy.

As for my grumblings about living an independent life, she said, “Independence is when you no longer place other’s reasoning on what happened to you.” That was the third last time I met her. Other times, I walked past her, always busy, stuck in the humdrum of my life, on the way to my school or work.

The words we exchanged let me understand the beautiful side of growing old.