A year or so ago, during WhatsApp call with the extended family, a much younger cousin who was meeting me after ages remarked on how ‘different’ I looked now, from the last time she had seen me. Her tone was one of disbelief, with just a hint of I-don’t-know-what, but my hackles rose in defence.
Oh you think so? I can’t imagine why… After all, it’s just been twenty eight years since we last met, right? I said with withering sarcasm-
No I didn’t.
I wanted to, but couldn’t. Primarily because I suck at smart repartees, having neither the presence of mind nor the confidence to pull one off in time. As it was, a good five minutes had gone by before I could think up this one – by which time the collective conversation had thrice moved topics.
So I just smiled benignly while fuming a little inside.
Later, I scrutinised myself in the mirror and decided that things were not as bad as her tone implied. Just a sagging neck, a couple of extra chins, some ridges on the forehead, a frizzy grey wing on my right temple, and maybe a ton or two of extra flesh.
So?
The mirror is kind, especially if the light is soft and you scrunch your eyes a bit. The camera, though, is heartless!
Whoever first said ‘age is just a number’ must have died young. Else they would’ve choked while eating their words.
One thing I find really annoying is how people rush to reassure me whenever I mention something age-related. Oh, you’re not that old! No, ma’am. I’m not whining. I’m just stating the truth: my body doesn’t heal as quickly as it used to. It’s science, not self pity. I don’t think any less of myself because my hair has turned grey. If anything, it’s the opposite.
Yet, no matter how prepared you think you are to ‘age gracefully’, you’re taken aback when it actually happens. Maybe because you didn’t notice time creeping up on you quietly, taking over one cell at a time, while you were still eight-ball juggling with life. And then, one fine morning, you come face to face with a greying, slightly eccentric middle aged woman with a rather loud laugh. You.
Didn’t see that coming, did you?
The real tragedy of ageing, however, is not the loosening skin, the thinning hair or the aching knees. It’s the tectonic shift from naivety to awareness, from hope to acceptance. You were all set to change the world, but now you know better. Therein lies the tragedy.
Ignorance waited with hope. Knowing broke your fragile world into fragments. You’re still standing at the edge of the chaos, wondering what to do with its remains.
:
Back in my childhood, there was a Tuesday ‘chanda’ (market) in the ground near the Ganapathi temple in my hometown of Nalleppilly. We used to buy almost all of the week’s supplies from there – everything from cheap stainless steel vessels to coloured glass bangles, from dry fish to firewood to vegetables, fruits and flowers. The vendors usually came from across the Tamizh Nadu border – mostly loud, outspoken women with weathered faces and oily hair.
The farm produce invariably came from Pollachi, and were sold in small heaps called kooru made on rags spread on the ground. The women would measure them out with their hands, so each kooru would vary slightly in size from the others. It’s up to you to pick the larger one and haggle for prices. If they liked you, though, they might throw in an extra vegetable or fruit.
Ulli oru kooru, oru kooru pachamulaku. Randu kooru vendakka… Oru kashnam injeem randu koth karueppelem idan marakkanda!
Maybe that’s what I’ll do. I’ll make tiny piles of my debris, and spread them out on an old bed sheet. You can go through them, pick the heaps you like, and haggle for price. And if I really like you, I might throw in a piece or two of pointless advice – who knows?
Oru kooru ‘Complex Trauma’, randu kooru ‘My Parenting Errors’, oru pidi ‘Money Management Mistakes’… oru kashnam ‘Love or Something Like It’… Ngaa…pinne, randu kothu ‘Vaiki Vanna Self Awareness’ vekkaan marakkanda…
Though there’s always a chance that once you reach home, you may still find a worm or two. Just throw that one out, ok? The rest should be enough.
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To be continued…
shoes 'n ships 
Very relatable, Mini. But if there’s tragedy to the loss of naivety, the wisdom of our experiences is a gift, no matter how painfully acquired.
And with respect to looking older, I once had a client who suffered a sudden traumatic amnesia and lost 30 years of his life. His wife and sons were strangers to him. At one point he went home to England, in part to see if memories would be triggered. He told me that when he met up with old friends his first response was invariably “My god you’ve aged!” to which he would typically get a response like “Well, you’re no spring chicken yourself.” There’s one to keep handy. 🙂
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I’ll keep that right in my pocket for ready use. 🙂 The only thing is, I know I’ll still fumble when the time comes.
Seriously, though, I’m so much more comfortable in my skin now than I was in my twenties, thirties and forties.
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Loved the easy , almost lazy swirl of your words weaving your experiences and thots in your life’s journey together …in awe !
Like i responded earlier,if not wisdom , the
courage and candour that comes age is very empowering ..,wudnt give that up for anything…even if you promise to waive away grey hair , fine lines and the extra folds ( err..maybe a lil of this disappearing wud help !)
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Thank you, Asha. You’re so right! I wouldn’t ever want to go back to a younger age for all the physical benefits that come with it. Unless armed with the learning that came with five decades plus of living. Once the grieving is done, knowledge is liberating.
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