Time hurries on...

Here are just some ways to tell that you are getting old

 

It was while lunching with my closest girlfriends last week that the epiphany first struck me: it’s a sure sign that you are growing old when half your stories begin with the phrase, “Remember when…” Well, at least, that’s the way the conversation tends to go when I sit down for a catch-up with my girl gang. We have been close for more than two decades now and our memories are inextricably wound up in each other just as our lives are closely intertwined. So, yes, meeting up now means reminiscing about our past adventures as much as it does about discussing what the future holds. 

 

I guess that’s what happens when you reach a stage in your life when you have more yesterdays than tomorrows. But thinking about it, I realized that this is not the only sign that age is fast catching up with me. Quite apart from my creaking knees and dodgy back, there are many indications that I am rapidly approaching my dotage. Or should I call that my anecdotage, given the propensity of people of my vintage to repeat stories that others have heard a thousand times before – all because they have forgotten that they ever related them in the first place.

 

For me, one of the first signs of ageing came when FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out) was replaced by JOMO (Joy Of Missing Out). There was a time in my youth when I would have been bitterly disappointed not to be invited to some glittering reception, a glitzy fashion show, or even a fancy brunch that all my other friends were attending. Now, I actively look for excuses not to attend even those events that I am invited for. Honestly, it seems such a palaver to get dressed in the evening and put a full face of make-up on when I could be chilling on my sofa, cooking a meal, reading a book, or just hanging out with my husband.

 

Along with JOMO, I am also experiencing what I like to call my DGAD (as in Don’t Give A Damn) years. After spending my childhood and youth being an inveterate people pleaser, I now find myself completely indifferent to what people may think, feel, or say about me. And that applies equally to real life as it does to social media. So, no more trying to explain my point of view to friends, to defend myself against gossip and innuendo and certainly, no arguing with strangers on the Internet. What others think about me (or the state of the world) is entirely their business, not mine.

 

One sure sign that you are growing old – or even just older – is the thinning of the ranks around you. It’s not just that parents and aunts and uncles pass away, leaving you in the awkward position of being among the family elders. You also end up losing friends – some to disease and death; others to misunderstandings and quarrels; and some others to geographical (and then emotional) distance. But while some attrition is inevitable as the years go by, the flip side is that every surviving relationship gets even stronger as a consequence.

 

They say growing old is not for the faint of heart; it involves guts and gore. But, honestly, it’s not so bad when you consider the alternative.

 

Past perfect

There comes a time in life when looking back is as much of a joy as looking forward

The older I grow the more I find that nostalgia is the governing emotion of my life. This was brought home to me even more strongly last week when I went back to Jaipur’s Rambagh Palace for a brief visit. The moment I walked through the sofa-lined verandah that runs in front of what used to be the Jaipur royal state room (and is now rather prosaicly, a restaurant), I was transported back to my first visit to this iconic property.

I was a young rookie reporter, barely out of college, and had been assigned to cover the General Elections by following the erstwhile royals on the campaign trail. We (I was accompanied by the magazine’s photographer) were in Jaipur to cover the former Maharaja, Captain Bhawani Singh’s, campaign and stopped by at the Rambagh for a quick coffee. 

Imagine our excitement when we saw, in the verandah where I now stood some three decades later, Rajmata Gayatri Devi, resplendent in chiffon and pearls, talking to a friend. We immediately sidled up to her, waited respectfully for her conversation to end, and then asked if we could speak to her.

Much to our surprise, she ignored us completely, refusing to even acknowledge the question. Both of us were crestfallen but couldn’t quite understand why we had been snubbed so comprehensively. It was only later when we shared the story with the hotel manager did we realize what we, in our naivete, had done wrong. Instead of addressing her as ‘Rajmata Saheb’ as was customary, we had referred to her as ‘Mrs Singh’ (on the grounds that she was stepmother to ‘Captain Singh’; what can I say, we were young and callow). Of course, such lese-majeste had to be punished. 

Later, as I gazed at a beautiful portrait of Gayatri Devi in her younger days that was hung in pride of place in my room, I was transported back to my youth as well. Suddenly, all those memories of driving through dry, dusty Rajasthan in a clapped-out Ambassador with no air-conditioning as we tried to keep up with the likes of the Maharaja of Jaipur and Maharana of Udaipur came flooding back. I remembered going days without drinking water because I knew that there would be no decent loos on our route. I remembered the dodgy hotel rooms we stayed in, a far cry from my salubrious surroundings of today. But mostly, I remembered the energy and enthusiasm of my younger self, and the self-belief that I would give anything to possess today in my advancing years.

I had much the same experience when I visited Kolkata a few years ago – though, I have to confess that it will always be Calcutta to me. This is the city where I was born and raised, where I went to school and college, and got my first job. No surprises then that every street sparked a memory, every building evoked emotions, and even a walk in a park triggered a strong dose of nostalgia.

But it was a visit to my old college that really transported me back in time. I was walking through Park Street with my husband, marveling at how many things had changed while others remained just the same, when I came to the turn that led to my old alma mater, Loreto House. On a sudden impulse I walked to that familiar green gate and asked the doorman if, as an old student, I could have a little walkthrough. He agreed, and we walked into that driveway that I had traversed every day to go to class. 

We walked into reception and then into the hall in which we had held assembly on special occasions, where I sat for so many exams. I walked on to the stage on which I had participated in innumerable debates and plays – one of them written and performed by my English Honours class. It was on this stage where, at the end of my college career, I had been awarded the gold medal for most outstanding student of the year. And – pardon the boastfulness – did I mention that my name was immortalized in shiny gold paint on a board outside, along with all the other winners? 

But while places have their own role in jogging my memory, it is meeting people that brings on the strongest bouts of nostalgia. Meeting my childhood best friend in Cal, and remembering the first day we went to school, clutching nervously on to each other, as we navigated this new, mysterious world. Running into an old teacher, who didn’t just remember my name and face, but also an essay I wrote for her, which I have long forgotten. Going to the restaurant that was the haunt of us newspaper types as we worked late into the night and being greeted by the same waiter.

The memories come rushing back thick and fast no matter where I am or what I am doing. A visit to my sister results in us taking out old photo albums and reminiscing about our younger years. Meeting old colleagues means another trip down memory lane. And stumbling upon an old article of mine among the few clippings I have preserved transports me to an entirely different time and place.

My conversations these days are peppered with “Do you remember when” or “Remember that time”. I guess that is a good indication that I am finally at a place in my life when looking back is as pleasurable – sometimes even more so – than looking forward. Or, more bluntly, I am just getting old!

Counting down

If age is just a number, then mine is up!

There is nothing that makes me feel my age more than a long haul flight. Gone are the days when I would look forward to spending nine to 12 hours in an airplane, getting stuck into the champagne and watching one crappy movie after another until it was time to land. The length of the queues at immigration never succeeded in getting me down. And the moment I checked into a hotel, I was pulling clothes out of my suitcase to head out for a fancy meal.

That, suffice to say, is no longer the case. Now, much as I enjoy going on holiday, the very thought of a long-haul flight is enough to strike terror into my heart, which I try to quell by preparing for every eventuality. I put together an in-flight medicine bag full of anti-histamines and other sleeping aids – which I consume with the only glass of champagne I allow myself (drinking any more than that plays havoc with my sugar levels). I carry my own blanket so that I don’t get allergies from the ones provided by the airlines. And I pack a neck pillow to keep my neck supported while I read a book or watch a movie in an attempt to fall asleep.

But no matter how hard I try to have a restful flight that will allow me to hit the ground running at the other end, it never works out that way. The tiredness starts hitting me half-way through the flight and just gets worse and worse with every passing hour. By the time the flight lands, my back is hurting, my legs are cramping, my nose is stuffy, and I feel like a hundred years old.

By the time I have negotiated the horrors of the airport and got to the hotel, all I can do is collapse weakly on the bed and whisper, “Room service?” to my husband (who, annoyingly enough, is raring to go out and explore some restaurant he has checked out on the Internet). It takes one good night’s sleep in a normal bed before, well, normal service can be resumed, as far as I am concerned.

Sadly, this is not the only instance of my age finally catching up with me. These days, my life is littered with these daily indignities of ageing, all of them designed to make me feel every one of my decades and remind me that old age will be upon me sooner than I dared hope.

Here is just a random sampling of the age markers that are a part of my life now. If any of them sound familiar, well then welcome to the Club of Creaking Middle-Agers. (If they don’t, enjoy your youth while it lasts!)

• I visited a gurudwara after a long time recently, and as is the custom, did what we Punjabis call ‘matha teko’. That went off reasonably well, but trying to get upright afterwards was another story altogether. It took about five tries, my muscles creaking protest all the while, before I could get up from all fours. All of this rendered all the more horrific by the pile-up of people waiting behind me and the sympathetic eyes of those who witnessed my pitiful attempts.

• Low chairs and sofas have turned into my mortal enemies while I wasn’t paying attention. Now, they suck me into their contours so efficiently that more often than not I have to ask for a helping hand (or two) to get out of them. The same humiliation awaits when the seating has squishy cushions, the kind you sink into thankfully when you arrive and struggle to get out of when it is time to leave. 

• Stairs are no longer my friends. Instead they have morphed into a torture device that I attempt at my own peril. I am breathless after two flights (it’s the asthma, I tell myself reassuringly) and every flight after that brings me closer to that state when your heart is beating so loudly that you think it will burst out of your chest. And the way down is no easier, with my knees twinging with every step.

• My days of drinking like a fish and eating like a pig are over. Oh okay, I exaggerate. The truth is that I still go on binges and benders once in a while. But I no longer wake up fresh as a daisy the next day. Instead, it takes me a week to recover from a day’s excesses, and every single time that happens, it seems less and less worthwhile to indulge myself in the first place.

• Then, to add insult to injury, there is my slowing metabolism. No matter how many calories I cut from my diet and how many steps I add to my Fitbit, the stubborn bulges around my body simply refuse to budge. And while it gets easier and easier to put on weight – even an extra piece of toast at breakfast does the trick – it has become nigh impossible to lose it. 

• And finally, there is the insomnia that keeps me tossing and turning until the early hours of the morning, and makes me wake up tired every day. But this cloud, at least, has a silver lining. I can get a lot of reading done while the rest of the household sleeps, and somehow that makes it all worthwhile.

Mid-life crisis

You know you are well and truly middle-aged when...

You know you're getting old when a historic anniversary comes along and you realize with a start that you remember the event itself like it was yesterday. Well, that's certainly how I felt when I read that Princes William and Harry were planning to celebrate their late mother's memory by installing her statue at Kensington Palace. This was where Princess Diana had lived and brought up her boys, and the brothers believed that this would be a fitting tribute to their mother on her 20th death anniversary.

It was the phrase '20th death anniversary' that took my breath away. I still have crystal-clear recollection of the morning Princess Diana died. I remember sitting on my purple polka-dotted wrought-iron chair to take a call on the landline in my little barsati in Defence Colony. It was my office calling from Calcutta to tell me that a) Princess Diana had been killed in a car accident in Paris and b) they wanted a feature story on her life and times by 5 pm latest.

I remember the utter shock and disbelief I felt when I first heard the words "Princess Diana is dead." I remember lurching to the TV to see for myself if this unbelievable news was true. I remember spending the day glued to BBC and CNN, breaking away just long enough to file my piece.

Was it really that long ago? Can 20 years really have passed by so quickly?

On a rational level, of course, I know that they have. Prince William is now practically middle-aged himself, loyal husband to his wife and loving father to two kids of his own. And Prince Harry is, well, still Prince Harry. So, yes, the death of the Princess took place a lifetime ago. And yet it doesn't really feel like that. And every time I think about the fact that two whole decades have passed since that horrific car crash in Paris, I can't help but feel terribly old myself.

Nor is it world events alone that make me feel every one of my years. There are many other things in daily life that conspire to make me feel more middle-aged every day.

Last night was a good example. I walked into a new, trendy watering hole in Delhi, with my husband, looking for a post-dinner drink. And the first person we bumped into was the daughter of a friend, a lovely young woman whom we have known since she was a child. We said hello, hugged her, and then exchanged a speaking glance. When you're called 'Uncle' and 'Aunty' the moment you walk into a bar, it may be the universe telling you that this place is not for you, after all!

Of late, these epiphanies pile up every day, telling me that I am now well and truly middle-aged. Here's just a random sampling:

* Watching the controversial Netflix show, 13 Reasons Why, with one of my young nieces, I was astonished to discover that she had never used a cassette tape in her life. When did they go out of fashion? Did nobody make 'mixed tapes' any more as presents for their boyfriend/girlfriend? Will this new generation just see them as a vehicle for a suicidal teen to send a message from beyond the grave? For some reason, that makes me very sad.

* Matters have improved since Donald Trump became President of the United States (now there's a sentence I never thought that I would write) but when Barack Obama was in the White House and David Cameron in Downing Street, I always felt that there was something wrong with the world. These people were my generation, for God's sake! How did they get to be in charge? Where were the real grown-ups? And then came the sobering realization that we were now truly the adults in the room. What a scary thought!

* I guess there is a first time for everything, but I never thought that the day would come when I would turn down champagne on a long-haul flight because it was too early in the afternoon. No, I said to myself, as the drinks trolley rolled up. If you drink that now, you will be ready for bed when you land. So pace yourself and hold out for a nice glass of red with dinner. Clearly, my days of irresponsible drinking and flying are well and truly over. Now, it's going to be middle-aged moderation all the way. (What a bore!)

* And then, there is the small stuff. When staying in sounds like a far more attractive proposition than going out; when you choose the elevator rather than the stairs even if you're only going up one floor; when a gentle walk seems more do-able than a full-throttle jog around the park; when a pair of ballet flats seem more enticing than vertiginous stilettos; when you need those glasses to actually read rather than just work the librarian-chic look; well, that's when you know that middle age has struck.

If any of this sounds remotely familiar, then I have bad news for you. No matter how glossy your hair, no matter how trim your waistline, no matter how trendy your playlist, no matter how exciting your social life, your youth is well and truly behind you.

You, my friends, are now middle-aged. Acknowledge it; accept it; and, if you can, embrace it.