Aging

Life, oh dear life! I think I have tried to keep it as simple as possible, constantly running away from any sort of complexity. It was never a choice, but more of a necessity for me. I just can’t stand complexities. Everything has been simple; always! Family relationships, friendships, or any other social relationships for the matter. The moment something got too complex for me to handle, I would abandon it and look beyond. This often required giving up on friends or bringing an end to such a relationship. If I liked someone, then it came without any strings attached to it. So there were always and always only two categories; people I like and the people I dislike.

Yesterday while waiting for a bus, I saw this very old woman walk up towards me. Probably in her 80’s she could hardly walk but still trying. I think I have always been good with elderly. No matter how impatient otherwise.

“Are you waiting for the 303?”

It is the only bus that passes through that bus stop connecting it to the rest of the “world”, so I answered with a simple polite “Yes”.

“You are a long way from home son!” with a gentle smile no different than what I often see on my grandma’s face.

My lips spread wide into a smile again, still trying to figure out as to what she might have meant. Unable to do so, I asked “Do you mean in Sydney or India?”

“You are a Sikh! Are you not?” answering my question with another question!

At that moment I gleamed with pride, a Caucasian knew what my identity was, till date very few people that I have met actually knew as to what Sikhs are. It feels good to be recognized, oh yes it does. Just imagine how screwed up you would be in a similar situation where someone tells you that you are Pakistani, Fijian or Bangladeshi. So this indeed was sweet; sweet as in nice. The conversation continued for another odd half an hour or so. We boarded the same bus, I helped her onto it, all the while thinking of my grandmother back at home in India. In the little less than half hour, she narrated to me a short version of her entire life’s story.

Her youth, her first love, the second world war, her brother in army, herself in army, the downfall of Japanese, her first marriage, her first child, her first car, her farms, her divorce, her second marriage, her second child, her third child, her second car, her third car and so on.

I just sat there looking into her eyes all the time, pretending to be listening to her while lending in an ear to my own thoughts.

Why? Why is she narrating all this to me?

Not really a question for me. All these years that I have spent with my grandparents, I learnt something, they all need one thing, someone to talk to. No matter what they talk about, they just need to know that someone is still there, some one still willing to listen to them, give them their time and attention. Someone to tell them, that yes, they are still an integral part of my world.

Back at home every night before I went to sleep, I would go into my grandmother’s room; always find her watching T.V. waiting for me to come in. I would sit besides her and she would run her hand on my forehead and then kiss it. Then I would massage her back and legs while she would narrate a totally new story from her life to me. She says the massage helps her fall asleep. I doubt it! I think all she wanted was my company, for me to sit besides her, for her to be able to tell me that once she was no different than I am, that she too had a life once.

A simple life, with complexities no different than the ones I face!