Anatomy of a partly wasted life

Most of us seek wisdom by reading tomes by wise men and Shashi Tharoor, but once in a while, going through a book for some entertainment and fun, we come across something that makes us think and exclaim: Hold on! This is bang on! Why didn't I think of this earlier?

The other day I was reading a book by one of my favourite writers, Jeremy Clarkson (of BBC Top Gear fame), when I came across this gem: 'If you die with a hefty bank balance and a clear conscience, it means you have led a wasted life!' I poured myself a stiff single malt, lit a cigarette and went into a meditative torpor — by Jove! there was a lot to think about here!

Clarkson's aphorism, of course, applies to middle-class folks like you and me, not to the fat cats. The Adanis and Ambanis have no choice but to die with hefty bank balances for they are too big to hit minimum balance, and have too much moolah to spend or give away.

Anyone whose monthly residential electricity bill runs to Rs 76 lakh is not the type of guy Clarkson was thinking about: the only way they can shuffle off this mortal coil without a hefty bank balance is if the five biggest banks in India collapse, St Kitts and the Cayman Islands disappear under the waters, or they enter into a partnership with Trump.

Clarkson's thesis that a good life means that we live beyond our means applies to the Gen X,Y and Z of the EMI and credit card culture, but not to the fossils of my generation. We were taught to live below, not above, our means, to build our little nest eggs hidden away from Ms Sitharaman, to be left behind when we cross the rainbow, for our Hindu faith tells us that we will be reborn in the same family, so why not begin the second innings with a little advance deposit in the State Bank of India?

Creating that nest egg, however, from an erratic pension from a bankrupt state government and sliding repo rates, 6 per cent inflation, sin taxes on liquor and cigarettes, and Mr Gadkari's toll tax, is no easy matter. It can only be done by adopting the virgin's SOP — say 'NO' to everything.

Which is what I do. The membership of the Noida Golf Club will have to wait for a rebirth, as will that trip to Switzerland to catch up with my old friend Jogishwar Singh, or that Arctic cruise which costs an arm and a leg whether you see a polar bear or not. The single malts are reserved for special occasions, the books are purchased once a year at the World Book Fair from the second hand stalls, Old Spice will have to do in place of Paco Rabanne, the kababs are from Singh's Tandoor in Noida and not Le Méridien.

But here's the funny thing, Mr Clarkson: all this self-denial does not make an iota of difference to the quality of my life. I can meet Jogishwar in Delhi (if he's stupid enough to come to India), Blender's Pride tastes just as good to my untrained palate as Laphroaig, the second-hand books read as well as the new ones, the cologne doesn't matter since, insofar as attracting ladies is concerned, I'm well past my sell-by date, the best kababs are to be found in street food joints and not five-star hotels, and I can see as well through a pair of Lenskart specs as through a Ray Ban Oakley.

So I think I'll continue to live below my means, thank you, and invest in a little insurance for the next life and for the inevitable ICU (Incentive Care Unit in hospital parlance because the docs are incentivised to keep you there as long as possible).

On the other hand, dying with a tainted conscience (Clarkson's second imperative for having lived a good life) is much easier to do. It doesn't require much effort in a world of dog-eat-dog ambitions, competitive aspirations, television induced temptations, a culture of doing unto others before they do unto you.

Ask Moses, whose ten commandments became a hundred fragments even before he reached the bottom of the mountain. How, I asked my pooch after the third peg, does one retain a clear, spotless conscience when everything which is desirable is either illegal, immoral, or married to someone else?

Not that I haven't tried, in the best traditions of vanprastha. I've tried yoga, meditation, cold water baths and even suffered through a few 'Mann Ki Baat', but my conscience refuses to cleanse itself.

It acquires a new blemish every time I cast a second, furtive look at the neighbour's wife hanging out clothes on the balcony, my inner voice will not cease to wish that Netanyahu suffers as much as the 65,000 Palestinians he has killed, it insists that I do not have to disclose to Ms Sitharaman the royalty I received for my last book, it always argues that giving up my seat on the Metro for any woman is sheer stupidity, it tells me to ignore Neerja's glare and go ahead and have that last (fourth) drink for the gutter. 

And, having lost most of my spine during the course of 35 years spent in the bureaucracy, I'm in no position to stand up to that damned, tainted conscience which now resembles the typical American trouser bottom when they ran out of toilet paper during the initial days of Covid.

So it hasn't been a totally wasted life, Mr Clarkson: I have a nest egg tucked away where even my descendants can't find it, and a tainted conscience the devil would be proud of. What more can one ask for?  

Avay Shukla is a retired IAS officer and author of Holy Cows and Loose Cannons — the Duffer Zone Chronicles and other works. He blogs at avayshukla.blogspot.com 

More of his writing may be read here