Of mice and men

A little more than a year into retired life, I am still struggling to find my place in the sunset of my life. The jewels I had counted on to adorn my crowning glory after 35 years are rusting swiftly like the 100-day plans which normally meet their demise in the vast nameless bowels of the hard disc of countless computers and flash drives after shining briefly in the neon lights of power point presentations.

Robert Burns said it nicely more than two hundred years ago:

“But mouse-friend, you are not alone

In proving foresight may be vain

The best-laid schemes of Mice and Men go oft awry,

And leave us only grief and pain

For promised joy!”

I had it all planned out on the eve of my superannuation. After more than three decades of staring at blank walls and running around like captive mice in a laboratory maze, retirement was an invitation to start anew with a clean slate. Visions of rolling golf greens and cozy watering holes on the nineteenth jostled with images of eagles and birdies scores being chalked up with languid ease to the appreciative applause of fellow golfers. The Golf Course being a stone’s throw away, I had envisaged daily visits without having to wait for week-ends and holidays to toss the old golf bag into the trunk of the car. However, a sinister design and pattern soon snaked its way into my paradise. I found my swings and shots invariably interrupted by calls enquiring, “did you buy the chicken?” or “Get some eggs”. A delayed response, apart from being fatal to your shot, would result in the equally deadly “Where are you?” A little further into the conversation and it would escalate to “But you played last month dint you?” Gradually I began yearning for the old days when week-ends were sacrosanct and not merged into week days. I have now started visiting famous courses on Golf apps persuading myself that golf is golf whether on the actual greens or on your iPhone!

I had also planned my post-retirement driving strategy. Being a back seat driver for many years had not stopped me from picking up some valuable tips and clues from my drivers and other fellow journeymen on the streets of Delhi. Expanding my Punjabi vocabulary was one such important trick. Assuming the guilt of the other party instantaneously was another. Being however a rather nonviolent type, largely due to my slight frame and lacking altitude rather than attitude, my aim was to disarm the perpetrator with a volley of choice words and then make a swift escape from the scene claiming a short and sweet victory. Unfortunately, I do most of my driving now in my second home, Guwahati. Here, the average driver, apart from not being able to distinguish between Punjabi and Greek, also treats you and what you have to say with the same bored disinterest as he does the traffic rules! After scraping your car, honking incessantly behind you, blocking your passage and insisting on passing you come what may, all he does is give you a smile and wave you on with nonchalance. And before you can fire away your volley of verbal bullets, he has already retreated in to the dusty camouflage of the city’s roads.

Retirement suddenly plunged me into the world of lines and ques in banks, CGHS dispensaries and airports. Mentally preparing myself, I trained standing in imaginary lines and picking up my bags on my own with the resolve of a marathon runner. Alas, without a coach! Unfortunately, I did not receive expert guidance on how to stand in a queue or carry my own bag at the airport. This has led to serious post-retirement trauma. Sometimes, I wander around inside an airport like a zombie wondering who to hand over my bag to. When the check in staff tells me that the flight will depart from gate no 10, I am confused and annoyed—how am I supposed to get there? Is it even inside the airport? Talking of airports, this may be a coincidence but recently I found that the popular liquor shop at Terminal 3 has been replaced by Haldiram’s, landing yet another blow on many retired sarkari but not necessarily sanskari souls who would have happily carried a few bottles to their destination, unless of course they were heading home.

My journey from citizen to senior citizenship is quickly moving on to secondary citizenship. If old men have little value in politics, it diminishes further in ordinary life. Pension not only cuts your pay into half but it also cuts you down to dwarfish size. One starts buying petrol in installments of ten liters, and each time, you look suspiciously at the meter and the pump operator, convinced that both are conspiring to cheat you. Young people rush past you on the streets asking you to step aside. It is bad enough being called uncle by middle-aged women but the painful truth finally hits home squarely when someone shouts behind you “Arrey Tau, side ho jaa”!

For all your planning, nothing prepares you for old age and retirement and the shocks they keep delivering at regular intervals. Take the daily to-do lists I am in the habit of making. The to-do items often remain pending for days as unforeseen chores and events keep elbowing them out. When you plan for an uncertain future, you want to carry along some of the baggage of the past as crutches. But time changes the value and even the meaning of what you may have held dear for many years. I realised that when getting a name plate to adorn the gate of my Guwahati home. I asked the name painter to add “IAS(R)” after my name. He gave me a puzzled look and then asked with a straight face, “Is this some new degree?” I nodded and walked away with at least one burden of the past no longer weighing me down.

Views expressed are personal