The attitude to middle age

Why tell everybody how old you are? My young European friend is bemused by what he perceives is the Indian obsession with ageing. The West obsesses too, but differently. For both peoples, perceptions derive from the traditional meaning given to life and living - with their modern twists. Tough it is to find common ground between the diverse cultures!

The West is focused on just one lifetime. They must achieve their destiny during it - today, rather than tomorrow, because finally and inevitably, death claims all. With life goals in sight, and limited time in hand, they work long and hard to improve skills throughout young adult life, and play hard as well. It is growing older that then presents problems. The face in their mirror they see changing, harbinger of the imminent, raises fears of the unknown. This is compounded by the tacit social bias against ageing.

They may become preoccupied with retaining youth to remain relevant. A great many go through lengths of excruciating pain repeatedly to preserve or create physical attractiveness, and prolong the fun of life with toy-boys and trophy wives. These seem patterns of repetitive behaviours, experiences of same old, same old, over and over again. The relentless pursuits of pleasure that blur or even remove boundaries between generations cannot and do not, however, change the final outcome.

 

Eastern philosophies, on the other hand, see life as a continuum, stretching over lifetimes. There is no end as such, death merely signals the beginning of a new spiral. There is hence little need to bother with achievements in this lifetime. The preference instead may be to leave matters to fate. It is far more important to build ties in the community, supporting family and lineage.

I try to explain to the Western mind the significance of age in India. It has to do with respect, for and between generations. Age defines the social boundary. Interpersonal communications too change accordingly. It is customary to use the formal form of address in speaking with the elderly. Younger generations bow down with respect before their experience of life, and in devotion, touch their feet to seek their blessings.

 

The traditional practice of community living is inherited from ancient Hindu rites. The individual lifespan is structured into four distinct stages. The first quarter is the brahmacharya, the studentship, wherein boys and girls gain knowledge and skills that will sustain them as they take their place in society in later life. The next quarter is grihasta, the householder, with marriage and living within the family structure, with spouse, children and extended family. Then comes vanaprastha, which literally means to head for the forest - I think of it as detaching from the personal accumulation of worldly possessions and giving back to the community. And finally, the sanyas stage that calls for tyag (renunciation), residing on a spiritual plane in anticipation of being freed of the present, preparatory to moving into future journeys.

The European is unimpressed with my lecture. The shortfalls of my personal experience, probably makes it all sound very theoretical. Furthermore, this common collective structuring is unacceptable to the concept of individual choice. With a quizzical look, he inquires, what about you? He is of the opinion that chronological age should be immaterial. What one feels, is instead more important. If one feels like 27, then that is it, no matter what the actual age is. That sounds a little bizarre to me. He asks what age I feel with.  I can’t say, since logically, if we are to have an age based on feelings/emotions, we must accommodate several other age types as well – physiological age, mental age, psychological age and spiritual age, which together make for more confusion! Because in each, we may be at a different age of being, and hence, which of them is it?

We are not sixteen any more, my classmate from college often reminds me.  She holds that we should not only accept the irrefutable, but also live by its traditions. Act our age and keep our dignity should be the guiding principle. She was a vivacious person in those days, but has since chosen conservatism as her hallmark. In public, she drapes in traditional saris and seriousness, because, as elders, it is our duty to maintain a distance between generations. Seems to me however, therein are elements of self-imposed isolation and loneliness. The elder might cling to the projected image, and pontificate rather than share details about their mistakes in life. Actually, as mentors and role models, they can be agents of change. Genuinely helping others find answers, they gain insight, about themselves as well.

The reality is that the ancient practice of community living is almost obsolete in this country, as self-interest grows more prominent. Extended community ties have faded, and the sense of family shrunk to the immediate household. Neither vanaprastha (giving back to community) nor sanyas (spiritual journey) is invested in. With nothing further to do in life, middle age now signals game over. Ageing parents are accessories to the lives of their grownup children – minding the household while others are at work, babysitting the grandchildren and so on. Senior citizens are apathetic about developing themselves further. Many a breakdown occurs post-retirement from the work or family organization identified with for decades. They give up on life itself, regressing into absolute dependency in old age.

My young friend’s objection to the word old may be its connotative association with decay. Ageing is a factual reminder of our mortality, but what is important is the attitude we cultivate in that knowledge. Overcome with negativity in middle age, we tend to become stagnative. Our fear of the unknown attenuates positivism in life. Our activities become repetitive, ritualistic. We fail to question, to search answers, or discover new fulfilling purpose for ourselves.

It is the attitude that counts. We need to break out of the fearful moulds that constrain us, and find ourselves again.  We need to give rein to our curiosity, to stimulate creative thought, and look forward to the re-experience of “Aha!” moments in breaking new ground. These replenish us; they make us upbeat, and we discover joyous meaning in life and living. Infused with its energy and enthusiasm, no, not at all old, we can be ageless.

Imagery in being lonely

“I wandered lonely as a cloud/that floats on high o’er hills and vales/when all at once I saw a crowd/a host of golden daffodils…”

Wordsworth, I think it is, who turns the mundane sense of sight into exuberant imagery. I can almost see for myself, the riot of colour in the countryside unblemished by the clutter of housing projects raising ugly fingers to the sky. Who can remain lonely with words so effused with joy! Easy it is to escape the daily demands of tasks, the negativity of co-workers, and ethical conflicts, to float away light and carefree above the humdrum, in communion with Nature, at one with her creations. 

But then, before my inward eye, flashes a different memory. I relive my leaden-footed foreboding all the afternoon my son fails to return or call, my repeated rings to his cellphone going unanswered; my uneasiness turning to anger with the policemen at the door seeking male family members to speak to, and my thinking 'there has to be a mistake' at the sudden mention of death. 

Here too is imagery, but, seared in indescribable pain, it locks in replay for a lifetime where no words can bring solace. I realize that the ‘lonely’ state of being varies with inputs of the emotional mind. I see one as a moment of quiescence awaiting direction, open to new experiences.  Like the eagerness of youth when resonating words, or slivers of wisdom, cut through the mists of confusion to shower light on the way to go forward. The readiness to meet head on all that the future brings unfazed by portents of failure; the undeniable urge to become, to combat challenges and, come hell or high water, to adapt to new reality. But the other state is different yet. A friend comments that our emotions appear to hang like garlands around dates on the calendar. Fact is the dates per se are not important, but associated events are. Snapshots of another place, another time, these past happenings burn into memory, and remembrances trigger the outpourings of emotions. 

I see again the astonishment on faces at the police station as I arrive alone. Nobody seems to want to speak to me, as I demand to see my son. They probably are afraid of women going berserk in the throes of grief, and tell me that since it is late night, it is best to return next day in the company of other relatives.  I refuse to leave my son ‘unidentified’, and eventually, they put the evidence before me - his personal effects. During the long wait for completion of the paperwork, I struggle to comprehend my reality. The other women there, eager to share their problems, look offended at my lack of empathy or response to their venting. I feel a disconnect with the immediate surroundings, in spiraling descent into the murky depths of impotent despair. Even a decade on, I touch my helplessness before the inexorable power of circumstances. 

Finally, against the backdrop of the callousness of the cadaver handlers, and their inquisitive chatter about me, I am confronted by the irrefuteable. I first recognize my son’s toes, the clothes on his body that look as clean as when he left that morning. I half expect him to jump up laughing uproariously at having fooled me silly  – and then I see the blood. The shock returns now as then, at the sight of his face smashed almost beyond recognition from the road accident that killed him, his one whole eye seems to stare into mine, his mouth open in a soundless scream… I wonder if I am delusional or in a momentary burst of light, the vision really does appear of an effulgent presence, before whom there can be no bargaining, and to whom I beg acceptance for my son. When consciousness returns of the dark, dreary environment of the morgue, and I am aware of silently mouthing the gayatri mantra (Sanskrit prayer), while my body seems to bleed profusely inside.

I wonder how other animals deal with such pain. Surely all their behaviours cannot be written off as mere ‘instinctive actions’ – what about the tiger mother battling ferociously to protect her young, elephant herds standing in respectful silence before the bones of their ancestors, the loyal companionships of dogs and other house pets? Relationships obviously matter to them as they do to us. Perhaps we are yet to fathom the depths of their conscious thought or feelings because they communicate differently. Their acceptance of the inevitable is definitely stronger, as is their dignity in moving on from personal tragedy.

My world shattered in an instant and I still grope to find the pieces. I am horrified that I, as parent, have failed in duty to protect, and that I outlive my son. Why did destiny have to ensure my being left behind? In my reasoning, had we left life together, we would hardly have been missed - not for long anyway. Truth is my focus had been on making him independent of me. I would relate as a lesson of life, the story of Flint, the baby gorilla that grew up so dependent on his mother, he just could not survive her death. ‘I won’t be around forever’ I would din into him. My intuition failed me there, because I never once visualized the necessity of my training likewise as well.

Humans mourn loss not so much for those who leave, but for their own voided future. Kubler-Ross theorizes five stages to the grief that must follow – denial, anger, depression, bargaining and acceptance. They have no specific time or order for appearance, they may or may not at all display in individual sorrow, and people may even be stuck in one stage or other.  

I must own to being laden with shades of anger from both within and outside of me. It came as aftershock that many distanced from me, fearing ‘infection’, and some dissected the event in secret joy at having escaped the attention of Yamraj (lord of death). Others of the extended family, especially the elder male relatives, voiced belittlement at not being consulted first, blamed the event on bad victim behaviours, bad parenting and bad fruits of karma. The social response was near unbearable then, and it bothers me that my son is now so easily forgotten. I cling to memories as all I have left of him, while to others he is lost without trace in the sands of time.  

Fact is the social fabric has not evolved with time, but has simply been adulterated. Through centuries of collectivism, community rituals dealt with occasions, both happy and sad, to continually refresh the cultural context giving meaning to life events.  Today, overlays of the individualism learned from other cultures have diminished their importance. Whether residing within the country or abroad, modernity has meant that only remnants of traditions carry forward, often as superstitions. In the electronic world, the social solidarity traditional group activities once generated to coincide individual and collective well-being are no more. Instead the interpersonal bonds have weakened, while fear and uncertainty abound about coping with the unexpected.

Technology is no substitute for the psychological development of people. The over-dependence on rationality to carry the day leaves the emotional mind backward and retarded. Individuals tend to adopt defence mechanisms – anger, judgement, selective memory and so on, to protect against the external. But memories are the internal stressors, reminders of devastation that, because one cannot change, one must endure. A random thought or association triggers feelings of profound loss or failure. That experience of defeat most unexpected is not at all easy to work out of, for alone or in the crowd, one is lonely. Unless the memories and their emotional attachments are put in perspective, they tend to grow unnoticed, and like a bomb buried live, just wait to explode someday.