The kiss of death: When you become 'Uncle'

As I find it a little more difficult to get out of bed each succeeding autumn morning, my mind (what’s left of it, that is) inevitably wanders to thoughts of ageing. The process is very gradual and kind of sneaks up on you: the cells stop multiplying but continue dividing, not unlike the BJP; the telomeres stop communicating with each other, à la Mr Gyanesh Kumar and his colleagues; the joints protest loudly like Mr Kejriwal at any sudden move; the memory starts playing tricks, as it frequently does with Mr Rahul Gandhi on the stump; and one begins to speak like Shashi Tharoor — in words that no one understands, certainly not my sons, nephews and nieces, weaned on the two-syllable patois of Twitter and Instagram.

So slow is this process, however — like being murdered by a four-toed sloth — that one is not even aware of it.

And then one day — WHAM! — it suddenly hits you full on the geezer. It can happen in different ways: getting up in the morning feeling half-dead and having to check the obituary columns to determine whether one is still alive or dead; that alarming ECG report when you take out a new health insurance policy; or the moment when your son is blessed — is that the right word these days? — with his second child or third divorce.

It can even happen as it did to Groucho Marx. You are standing, grieving, at the graveside of your batchmate, all alone because everyone else has left, when a chap sidles up to you and whispers, "Not much point in going back home, is there?"

My own epiphanic moment, however, came in an entirely different and discomfiting way.

I usually travel by Metro because I need to reduce my family’s carbon footprint, which rivals that of Bigfoot or Godzilla, thanks to my wife, Neerja. I seem to have spent my entire life following in her trail like an excited puppy. Earlier, it was so that I could scoop up the random smile, the casual word of endearment, the fleeting expression of affection — all too precious to be left discarded by the roadside.

Now, however, I do it so that I can switch off the fan, lights, AC, geyser or heater in her wake. She NEVER switches them off because God himself once said, "Let there be light!" and she’s a deeply religious person.

She HAS to say hullo to her mum, sister and bevy of friends six days a week, and — you guessed it — it can’t be done over the phone because Airtel may tell everyone about it. In any case, they all have to see who is wearing which type of Banarasi saree that day.

So she burns hydrocarbons as though Mr Mohammed bin Salman were giving them away for free, presumably to atone for blowing away Mr Khashoggi — not a recommended use of wind power.

So here I was on the Delhi Metro one day. It was crowded, and I was standing in the aisle, hanging on to a strap like yesterday’s washing.

Suddenly, a pretty young girl got up from her seat and offered it to me with words I shall remember until my dying breath: "Uncle, please take the seat."

UNCLE!

When a beautiful member of the fair sex calls you Uncle, you just know there’s no point in going on living. It’s the kiss of death, and you now belong with the dinosaurs.

It was at that exact epiphanic moment that I realised I was now a prime candidate for the geriatric ward. I had boarded the train as a sprightly 75-year-old but deboarded at Mandi House a broken relic. My metamorphosis was complete: I now belonged to the ages.

One year later, however, after 12 months of this fossilised existence, I must concede that things are not all that bad. Being a dodo has its upside.

I no longer mind the aching joints when I wake up every morning because they indicate that, at least, I’m still alive. The best thing about getting old is that all those things you couldn’t have when you were young, you no longer want — and therefore don’t miss them any more.

I no longer fret and worry about where my wife goes of an evening, simply so that I don’t have to go along with her.

Mrs Sitharaman gives me an additional Rs 50,000 exemption on my income (before she mops it all back up with incessant cesses, of course), and the Railways give me a concession on the fare, even though the train is 12 hours late and/or cancelled.

The government respectfully refers to me as a 'senior citizen' before asking me to line up for four hours in various queues.

And, most important of all, I’m gradually moving out of that lethal 'MeToo' zone which has felled many a perpendicular stalwart, if you get my drift.

Though, if accused of molestation, I might well be tempted to follow the example of that zippy 81-year-old who was recently accused of doing just that. Standing in the dock, he could barely conceal his pride at having been conferred this honour at his age. When asked by the judge, he pleaded guilty! The judge, of course, was having none of this and fined him a thousand rupees for lying under oath!

Or consider that other old dodger who was approached by a hooker outside a bar. She propositioned him thus: "Hi, Dad, I’m a great believer in barter. What do you say to some sex for some beer?"

The ancient geezer thought for a long moment and replied, "What kinda beer you got?"

Ah, the arrogance of old age! As Oscar Wilde almost said: the young know everything, the middle-aged suspect everything, and the old don’t give a damn about anything!

And that, dear reader, is the problem with the kiss of death: you’re dead but don’t know it. The walking dead.

Views are personal. More of the writer's works here

Avay Shukla is a retired IAS officer and author of The Last Sky — Countdown for an Endangered Planet and other works. He blogs at avayshukla.blogspot.com