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.

  

The best time of your life

Which decade would you vote for: your 20s, 30s, 40s, 50s or even your 60s or 70s?

Okay, I am going to come right out and say it. I am not a fan of all this ageing malarkey. With every year I notch up, I seem to slip further down the sliding slope to decrepitude. The days when I barely broke a sweat during a two-hour long workout are long gone. These days, I huff and puff away on the treadmill and my joints creak when I go through my Pilates routine. It gets harder and harder to recover after a late night. And most mortifying of all, my neck is waging a relentless battle against incipient wrinkliness – and losing.

So, yes, I don’t get all this stuff about how ageing is such a marvellous thing. About how we should celebrate all our lines and creases as evidence of a life well lived. About how we should embrace every phase of our lives and enjoy what it brings us. I’m sorry, but I really don’t see what there is to enjoy about losing the fight to gravity. Call me shallow, call me vain, call me what you will, but that’s how I feel.

But it’s not just appearances alone. The decline goes much further and deeper. As you creep into your 40s, medical problems crop up with increasing frequency, wear and tear becomes a major issue, backs get thrown out, knees give up on us, the weight piles on despite diligent dieting and exercise.

As your middle gets thicker even as your hair gets thinner – now, why couldn’t that work the other way round? – it’s hard to see what there is to celebrate about getting older. And please, no nonsense about how the trick is to remain young at heart. The spirit may still be willing but what is the point of that if the flesh is just getting saggier by the day?

Given how I feel, imagine my surprise when a friend recently declared over lunch that her 40s were the favourite time of her life. At my look of bemusement, she explained: her 20s were spent trying to get out of home and create her own life; her 30s went by in a whirl of child-rearing and career-building while trying to muddle along in a joint family; but now that her kids were ready to fly the nest and she finally had a home of her own, this was her decade to enjoy.

I guess looked at that way it made a lot of sense. After a decade of juggling a demanding job and childcare, keeping the husband and in-laws happy, while trying to carve out some space for yourself, it must feel great to get a breather of sorts. And I suspect an increasing number of women – and I daresay, men – feel this way as they enter into their middle life.

But of course, not everybody agrees. For every woman who says she’s looking forward to getting some me-time, there are ten others who are mourning in earnest as the empty-nest syndrome hits them hard. For every man who is enjoying being at the peak of his career as he hits his 50s, there are a dozen others who are struggling with the loss of their youthful vigour or coming to terms with the demise of dearly-held dreams. So, I guess not everyone is a fan of middle-youth – as the trendies call their 40s and 50s these days – like my friend.

But I’m willing to bet that everyone has favourite decade, depending on their life stories during their period. There are some who plump for their early years, nursing rose-tinted memories of an idyllic childhood. There are a few who actually enjoyed their adolescence enough – despite the acne and the dating disasters – to vote for it as their best time ever. (No, I don’t get it either.)

Then, there are those who felt at their peak in their 20s, as they strode out confidently to conquer the world with all the arrogance of youth. Others felt more fulfilled in their 30s, when they had notched up a marriage and maybe a couple of kids and believed that their lives were finally on track. And then, there are those, like my friend, who love their 40s the most.

I’m sure there are as many people who are enjoying their 50s as they did no other decade, as the responsibilities of children or even ageing parents recede. And there are those who are revelling in happy retirement in their 60s and 70s and they enjoy the fruits of their life-long labours.

I can only hope that when it comes to it, I will be lucky enough to join their ranks. But for the moment, if I had to pick my own favourite decade, I think I would pick my 20s. The torture of incessant exam-giving was over, the agonising indecision about which career to choose had ended. I had a job that I loved, I was making new discoveries every day, nothing seemed impossible, the world was my oyster. And yes, gravity had yet to take its toll. So, that’s why – for the moment, at least – my 20s get the vote for the best time of my life.

But what do you think? If you had to choose your own favourite decade, which one would you pick?