Calling it a day

Where will you head when retirement beckons?

My cousin is on a bit of a high these days. Both literally and metaphorically. Her dream house in the mountains, with a spectacular view from every window, is finally coming together. The woodwork is done, the plumbing works, the furniture is in place, the curtains have been hung, and the kitchen is on its way to being fully functional.

This is where she intends to retire when her work is finally done. Living blissfully among the clouds, breathing the fresh mountain air, cooking the vegetables she grows in her own back garden, going for long walks, spending endless afternoons reading and drinking green tea.

It sounds like an idyllic retirement, doesn’t it? Well, I guess it does to most people. But when she showed me the pictures of the house and the view – both amazingly beautiful – and told me of her plan, the first thought that popped into my head was: “Where is the nearest hospital?”

No, of course, I didn’t actually say that out loud. That’s not the kind of thing you say when someone you love announces the fulfillment of the dream of a lifetime. Stamping down on that voice in my head, I went through all the pictures and told her how spectacular it looked – and it truly did.

But all the while I was making the right noises I was thinking about logistics. How long it would take to get to a doctor? How she would negotiate the steep climb up if – well okay, when – her knees went? Instead of voicing these concerns, however, I restricted myself to encouraging her to persuade her sister and brother-in-law (both doctors) to buy a house nearby so that they could serve the tiny community’s medical needs.

Yes, I know, I sound like a complete nutcase. But the truth is that when I think of my own retirement plans, the one thing that takes precedence over all else is the proximity of medical facilities. I would never dream of moving to a faraway village in the hills, no matter how lovely, if I wasn’t sure that there was a good hospital a short ambulance ride away.

The other thing that I am obsessed about is having a single-level house. I have done my share of duplex living, trudging up and down from bedroom to living room and back again. But as my knees begin to twinge every time I walk down a staircase and my heart rate goes up when I walk back up, I have come to realize that I can’t keep this up for long. In another two decades I will need a living space that allows me to shuffle slowly from one room to another, without negotiating any steps along the way.

And where would I like this home to be located? Well, having being born and bred in one big city and lived in several others, I know that country pleasures are not for me. Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy a trip to the beach as much as the next person. I love to take a break in the mountains when the heat in the plains gets too much. I read, I sleep, I take long walks, I revel in the natural beauty, I unwind, I detox, I distress. I slow my life down, tune out the static so that I can hear myself think. I get in touch with myself.

But after a week of this enforced calm, I start to get itchy. The quiet seems to weigh heavy upon me. I start to miss the energy and excitement of the big city. I begin to long for a visit to the cinema, a quick trip to the shops, eating out at my favourite restaurants, meeting up with friends, catching an exhibition, attending a music recital, or just sitting at a coffee shop, sipping an excellent cappuccino and watching the world go by.

All of which leads me to believe that I would not enjoy a retirement spent in the mountains or beside a beach. The truth is that I only ever feel truly alive while living in a big city. A city that keeps me engaged through night and day, through the seasons, and indeed, through the years.

A city where there are enough public spaces where I can spend an hour or two with friends, with a good book, or even by myself. A city dotted with museums and monuments, where you can drop by when you want a sense of the past that shapes our present. A city that hosts everything from plays, art exhibitions, musical evenings to seminars and international conferences, to keep your brain stimulated in the best possible way. A city with enough beautiful green areas so that taking a walk doesn’t seem like drudgery. A city that is safe enough for a single woman to negotiate on her own, no matter how late she is getting back home.

At the moment, the city that best fits the bill is Delhi – with its verdant Lodhi Garden, its amazing monuments like Purana Qila and Humayun’s Tomb, and the full menu of programmes at such venues as India International Centre and Habitat Centre. The only area where it falls short is on women’s safety. But with luck, by the time I am old and doddering, that problem will be sorted out.

Until then, I live on a hope and a prayer in my one-level apartment, a stone’s throw away from the All India Institute of Medical Sciences (AIIMS). And take comfort in the fact that at least medical help is only a (very) short ambulance ride away.

  

Take a walk

Trust me on this, it will do you much good; and not just by way of exercise

This is the only time of the year when it is a pleasure to take a walk in the park. The worst of the winter in over (in those parts that do, in fact, have a winter) and the searing heat of the summer lies in the hazy distance. There is a cool breeze wafting, the sun radiates its mild benevolence on all, the flowers bloom without the slightest sense of modesty, and the smell of roasting peanuts comes rolling in from around the corner.

How can you not enjoy a walk through the park when the whole universe is conspiring to please you at every turn?

Well, as you may have guessed by now, I can and I do enjoy it tremendously. I try and keep my afternoons free so that I can ramble through Lodhi Garden, taking care to stay away from the jogging track with its aggressive, Lycra-clad bullies who take particular pleasure in shoving slower souls like me off the path. Instead, I veer off on to the smaller pathways, some of them enclosed by bamboo trees, some bound by flowering beds, and yet others bordered by a quietly sparkling lake, where ducks and geese majestically paddle away, scarcely disturbing the calm surface of the water.

I turn my phone on silent and slip it into my pocket. For the next hour or so, I don't want to hear from anyone. I don't need music blaring through my earphones. I don't care for the distraction of my Twitter timeline or my Facebook feed. I don't want to take pictures that I can later post on Instagram.

This is my quiet time. A time when I need to hear myself think. And I find that I never think quite so clearly as when I am taking a walk.

This is the time when I work out the kinks in the plot of the novel I am halfway through writing. This is when I think of the topic of my next column. This is when I plan the menu if I am having people over for dinner. This is when I think of the cutting responses I should have used in the argument I had with a friend last night (I know, I know, it's too late, but even so...).

But most of all, I use this time to simply let my mind wander where it will. If it chooses to go back and examine a childhood memory, I follow it right there. If it wants to puzzle over why dog owners never pick up after their pooches, I allow it to do so. If it feels like ruminating over the book I've just finished reading, I let it. If it wants to examine the meaning of life, then I indulge it.

And I can tell that my mind really needs this because at the end of my perambulation I find myself feeling much lighter, more energised, and far less stressed than I was before I began my walk. And it's not just the physical exercise that makes me feel better about myself, it is also the mental stimulation.

It now turns out that I am far from being the only one who feels this way. A recent article in the New York Times detailed a University of Birmingham study that examined if people did feel better after a walk. The subjects were divided into two groups, one of whom walked for half an hour in their lunch break (they could pace themselves as they saw fit; going as slow or fast as they liked) while the other didn't. Those who did walk were asked to rate their state of mind afterwards on a specially designed app. At the end of 10 weeks, the first group had significantly higher rates of mental and physical satisfaction than the group that didn't walk. They felt better about themselves, were less stressed, felt more equipped to deal with problems and were far less overwhelmed by life.

After 10 weeks, the second group -- which had, until then, served as the control group -- was asked to walk during their lunch break as well. And -- you guessed right! -- they started feeling better about themselves as well after taking a half-hour lunchtime stroll. They felt refreshed, rejuvenated and ready on take on the world (I paraphrase, of course, but that was the gist of it).

Frankly, I am not surprised. My own experience has told me over the years that going for a walk leads to a sense of well-being that has nothing to do with aerobic exercise itself. A walk is much more than that.

For me, it is a period of quiet reflection, a time to switch off and spend time with myself. For others, who treat it as a communal activity, it may be a time to bond with friends, exchange gossip, or just a laugh or two. And then, there are those who treat it as an opportunity to listen to the latest music or even listen to an audio book, something that they don't otherwise have time for in their fractious lives.

But whatever the motivation, there is no denying that taking a stroll, no matter how gentle, is good for your general well being. So, what are you waiting for? Go on. Take a walk. You can always thank me later.

The perfect getaway

We all need happy places that we can retreat to – even if they just exist in our minds

Breakfast at Tiffany’s – the book, not the movie – remains an eternal favourite of mine. Every year or so, I pick it up and re-read it, revelling in the antics of Holly Golightly, marvelling at her own particular brand of capricious madness. The title of the book says it all really. Of course, nobody ever has breakfast at Tiffany’s, which is a store that sells jewellery. But for Holly, Tiffany’s equals a magical place where nothing bad can ever happen. It is her own special ‘safe place’ where she seeks refuge when things tend to get too much for her.

Reading the book yet again recently got me thinking. Yes, safe places are all very well. But there’s a lot to be said for happy places as well, isn’t there?

Happy places. We all have them in our lives and in our memories. Places where we felt at peace, where we experienced joy, where we indulged in laughter or where we simply felt loved and cherished. Sometimes these places are associated with other people who are or have been special to us. Sometimes they are places that are significant only to us, our own personal islands where we spent some special time with ourselves.

At every stage of our lives, we all have our own happy places. And even though we may not always be able to access them physically, in times of stress even their memory is enough to soothe and please.

Even today, when the sun shines down warmly on a balmy winter day, I am transported back to my happy place in the house I grew up in. My favourite spot at home was a tiny little enclosed verandah in the front of the house, which got sun all through the morning. Once school broke for Christmas break, I would spend the entire day there, sprawled on an easy chair, reading my latest loot from the lending library, moving every hour or so to lap up the rays of the sun as it moved across the horizon. The reading was punctuated with parathas for breakfast, chomping down on sugarcane for a quick energy rush, and endless cups of sweet, milky tea before the chill of dusk sent me scurrying indoors.

At college, I found my happy place in the library, in the row of desks set against a bank of windows overlooking the central courtyard. I would sit there for hours on end, reference books open on the sloping desk, making copious notes when the exams came perilously close. When I wasn’t in the mood for serious study, I would choose an old favourite from the shelves heaving under the combined weight of the literary endeavour of several centuries. There was a special joy in simply reading a book, without bothering with the analytical stuff that comes with studying literature as a subject. My attention would wander from the printed page on to the flower-edged lawns below, watching the women come and go (with no thought of Michelangelo – or T.S. Eliot, for that matter).

More recently, my happy places have included the palm-fringed terrace of the barsati I lived in when I first moved to Delhi. This was the venue of many an impromptu party, a place where my friends could let their hair down over some pizzas and plenty of beer. This was where I organised a brilliant fireworks display for a friend’s young son only to have him cower in a corner all evening, looking frightened out of his wits. This was the vantage point from where I first fell in love with Delhi winters, with their mixture of mysterious fog, glorious sunshine, and the riot of colours as the seasonal blooms took over the traffic roundabouts.

Of course, there are plenty of other venues that qualify as happy places for me too. There is my favourite cafe, where I can curl up with a good book and a strong cup of coffee whenever I want some downtime. There are the green pastures of Lodhi Garden, the best place to go for a walk as the day winds down to an end, with Joni Mitchell singing to me from my I-pod. And strangely enough, I find long-haul flights happy places as well, where you can settle down with a glass of wine and watch crappy movies back-to-back without feeling the least bit guilty about wasting time.

I guess at the end of the day, a happy place is just someplace where you create some warm, fuzzy memories for yourself. For a young mother or father, it could be at the foot of their child’s bed, as they watch him snore breathily in the deep slumber of innocence. For a young couple, it could be the tiny little flat they moved into after their wedding, the venue of their first enthusiastic grapplings in the marital bed. For a 50-something man on the verge of retirement it could be his office, the scene of many professional triumphs over the years. For a 60-something woman, it could be the memories of her childhood home where she felt safe, secure and pampered before the vagaries of married life took over.

Yes, all of us have our own happy places. Sometimes they are just a car or plane ride away. Sometimes they are merely the stuff of memories. But even if they only survive in our minds, our lives are always happier for their existence.