BIRTHDAY THOUGHTS
(Nothing is quieter than the sound of hair turning grey)
Birthdays keep reminding us of the distance we have travelled in terms of years. Wedding anniversaries do enlighten us about the length of our monogamous (read monotonous) existence in linear time. But even so, sometimes, the realization of the time elapsed comes as a surprise to us. One relaxed morning, a shaft of grey hair reminds one that he is no longer that young. Or sometimes, like the stunned emperor Shahjahan, he stares into the mirror with all his hair turned grey overnight. Nothing is quieter than the sound of the hair turning grey, someone has wisely said.
For me time has always moved stealthily. When youth evaporated and middle years started melting into old age, I did not notice. But certain stray incidents do stick out in memory which made me realize, albeit with a hint of surprise, that I have crossed a specific age barrier and entered another stage of life.
One evening almost two decades ago, I was returning from my office at Shimla, I saw a jean-clad girl walking with quick steps slightly ahead of me. A perfect hourglass figure, her silky hairs were undulating in the air in rhythm with her sprightly gait. Dying with curiosity to see her face, I quickened my pace. I walked past her and turned my head sideways to have a look at her face. I was greeted by a cheerful smile, “Good evening, uncle.” She was the charming daughter of our next door neighbor.
Uncle! It was for the first time that a young girl addressed me as uncle. That evening I woke up to the fact that I am on the threshold of middle age.
A few years ago, I was chatting casually with a younger colleague, A probationary Officer in our Bank. Somehow the topic of Indira Gandhi’s murder in 1984 turned up. I was describing to him the precise moment the news of the brutal was broken to me. At that time, I was posted at a remote branch in an obscure terrain of Himachal Pradesh. Sitting in my cabin, I was enjoying the calm, sunny landscape of Satluj valley through my window. I was attending to some official correspondence, half listening to the radio commentary of the Indo-Pak cricket match in progress at Lahore. Suddenly the commentary was interrupted, the play being abandoned to broadcast the news of Mrs. Gandhi’s death.
After narrating the episode, I asked in a conversational tone,” By the way, where were you at that that historical moment?’
The officer hesitated a bit before replying, “I am afraid, I had not heard of Mrs. Gandhi at that time.”
I could not believe it, “Why so?”
“At that time, I must be studying in KG or Class one cramming my nursery rhymes,” the officer said with a pleasant laughter. And with a mild shock I realized that a gap of more than twenty years separated me from my colleague.
Presently, I am preparing myself for the ultimate age shock which is not very far. A few years from now, I can visualize myself enjoying my favorite Fashion TV channel in the evening when my daughter comes holding a baby in her hands and exclaims to the little one, “Meet your grandpa, baby.”
Birthdays keep reminding us of the distance we have travelled in terms of years. Wedding anniversaries do enlighten us about the length of our monogamous (read monotonous) existence in linear time. But even so, sometimes, the realization of the time elapsed comes as a surprise to us. One relaxed morning, a shaft of grey hair reminds one that he is no longer that young. Or sometimes, like the stunned emperor Shahjahan, he stares into the mirror with all his hair turned grey overnight. Nothing is quieter than the sound of the hair turning grey, someone has wisely said.
For me time has always moved stealthily. When youth evaporated and middle years started melting into old age, I did not notice. But certain stray incidents do stick out in memory which made me realize, albeit with a hint of surprise, that I have crossed a specific age barrier and entered another stage of life.
One evening almost two decades ago, I was returning from my office at Shimla, I saw a jean-clad girl walking with quick steps slightly ahead of me. A perfect hourglass figure, her silky hairs were undulating in the air in rhythm with her sprightly gait. Dying with curiosity to see her face, I quickened my pace. I walked past her and turned my head sideways to have a look at her face. I was greeted by a cheerful smile, “Good evening, uncle.” She was the charming daughter of our next door neighbor.
Uncle! It was for the first time that a young girl addressed me as uncle. That evening I woke up to the fact that I am on the threshold of middle age.
A few years ago, I was chatting casually with a younger colleague, A probationary Officer in our Bank. Somehow the topic of Indira Gandhi’s murder in 1984 turned up. I was describing to him the precise moment the news of the brutal was broken to me. At that time, I was posted at a remote branch in an obscure terrain of Himachal Pradesh. Sitting in my cabin, I was enjoying the calm, sunny landscape of Satluj valley through my window. I was attending to some official correspondence, half listening to the radio commentary of the Indo-Pak cricket match in progress at Lahore. Suddenly the commentary was interrupted, the play being abandoned to broadcast the news of Mrs. Gandhi’s death.
After narrating the episode, I asked in a conversational tone,” By the way, where were you at that that historical moment?’
The officer hesitated a bit before replying, “I am afraid, I had not heard of Mrs. Gandhi at that time.”
I could not believe it, “Why so?”
“At that time, I must be studying in KG or Class one cramming my nursery rhymes,” the officer said with a pleasant laughter. And with a mild shock I realized that a gap of more than twenty years separated me from my colleague.
Presently, I am preparing myself for the ultimate age shock which is not very far. A few years from now, I can visualize myself enjoying my favorite Fashion TV channel in the evening when my daughter comes holding a baby in her hands and exclaims to the little one, “Meet your grandpa, baby.”
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