My Dad, My Parent

I saw my dad recently. Saw him for what he looks like now. In the hurry to meet up with life’s commitments, all of which are my choice, I have not had the time to meet my parents for an extended conversation over any meal except for a quick darting in and out of home while I am on some errands. Yesterday, late in the night, dad waited for me outside the gate of our building as I zipped by to drop off some groceries. I saw dad and realized he has indeed grown old. At 75, dad looks a little tired, perhaps world weary and a little less like the dad I have always known. You know the kind – stern, serious.

When did dad grow so old? As I dropped off the groceries and bid him good bye, my thoughts swung back and forth on the gate where dad had stood for a few minutes till I moved off; to the time I had seen dad in complete control of himself and his surroundings. Now, dad’s hands shake a bit. There are a few seconds of struggle before the fingers clasp the grocery bag, a pause before he talks and tiredness to the voice. When did my dad grow so old? And why?

Why do any of us grow old? Why does the skin move stealthily off the flesh, almost as if scared it will be caught in the act? Why does the hair refuse to conform to its lifetime of a single tone? What makes it decide to go grey, white and even yellow? The failing eyesight, which pole vaults into youth for some resulting in glasses, shows up exaggeratedly while reading or watching television as age sets in. The glasses have to be then removed and the page brought up close or held far to be read. Why? Why do the laws of gravity decide to wreck the body and show up its trophies – sagging chin, distended bellies and what have you!

Age is a state of mind. I have read this statement countless times. Yes, it is. But what about the tell-tale signs? When the mind refuses to believe the body and still tries to race up the stairs and down to catch a train, for instance; only to realize after a few steps that it just isn’t possible to run any further. The body is slowly winding down. Yet, the mind holds dear, images that can be summoned up instantly – the bench that one sat in Class VII or the occasions one bunked a lecture and whiled away the time in the college quadrangle or even the colour of a dress that was once a favourite in school. Like snap shots in an album, they whirr away on the edges of the mind bringing into sharp focus the reality that is today. The mind is still struggling to accept: yes, the body is slowly inching toward a life that has no bearing on it.

I wonder why dad walks slowly and with so much care. Why does he have just two meals a day? I don’t remember him ever saying when I lived with him that fruits constituted a meal. Yet, it is for him now. When did sleep become the prime activity of his day? I want dad to scold me for coming late. I want dad to say, 'That’s a job well done'. But he does neither. He is happy to ask little and I feel, is not bothered with the replies.

I am furious -- life has seized dad in its grip and shorn him off his youth, calibrated his agility and cranked down his enthusiasm. But I like to pretend my dad is still the same. So I ask him to get me my favourite sweets, throw a child’s tantrum when he does not and still complain he loves me the least amongst his children.

Whoever said age is a state of mind was out of his/her mind. Of that, I am sure now.