The Hindu Business Line : The economics of growing old

Two white-haired, stoopy grandfathers were bartering tales of their times and their grandchildren while waiting under the copper pod tree on Link Road, for the school bus.

In their lives, there probably were no schools, no books, no teachers, no school buses in their villages; they probably saw their first school at the age of eight or nine; unlike modern times, when parents book seats in schools when the doctors confirm expansion plans in the family.

They had their homes and a plentiful mother earth with sunlight, moonlight and birds. Their grand-children, bent under knapsacks of books, like rag pickers roaming the roads, were not enjoying the wait for the school bus.

In the afternoons or evenings, they will be more chirpy, throwing their bags at each other or merrily kicking them along on the road. One joined the small crowd followed by grand-daughter Shreya and her favourite stray dog, she has named Bow-wow. She is the only kid, I know, keen on going to school. She has never feigned stomach aches or for that matter any ache. If the school had allowed it, Shreya would have taken Bow-wow to school. The other day, the school had issued a summons to her parents as the Lady was proving to be bit of a trouble. She rolls up paper balls and throws them at her friends in the class room, who hit back, starting off something of a pie-throwing scene in Laurel & Hardy films; sometimes, the paper balls land on the teacher.

When the teacher takes a small break, Shreya and her friends are out of the classroom to play in the corridor. Shreya seems to be have inherited something from my 70-year-old aunt, Girija, living in Bangalore. She hid small stones in paper balls and threw them at her teacher in an English school way back in the 1940s or 50s.

As her father was a prominent lawyer in Kottarakara, the teacher dared not crib while Girija kept up the practice for an entire year, if not more. Maybe, Girija was punished though she is silent on the issue. It is a two-hour school and one goes to pick up Shreya at around 12 in the afternoon and be with the same morning crowd.

Grandfathers and grandmothers, waiting at the bus stands, are busy debating share prices as most of them are playing the markets with monies saved over a lifetime of employment. To be fair, they are good at it as they pour over details in pink and white business newspapers. Incidentally, they are happy with the RBI Governor, Dr. Yaga Venugopal Reddy, as their bank deposits will earn higher interest rates.

One old woman, with her grand-daughter tugging at her saree, put it well, “At 12 per cent inflation, the higher deposit rates offered by banks still mean negative returns. It is like the 9 per cent Chidambaram GDP growth which excites business writers. A 12 per cent inflation means a negative or no-GDP growth though most business writers prefer to skirt the facts; but then they know better. Business reporting is being a trifle unfair.”

She reminded me of Fr. P. Turmes, my economics professor at the St. Xavier’s College, Calcutta. “Economics is all about the currency notes you hold in your pockets. If you have money, life, business is good and vice versa,” the loving Father Turmes used to say and dismiss the rest as footnotes to be skipped.

One could not pause to listen to the lady, a retired economics professor, as Shreya was thumping one’s back having a younger sister and a cat to care for. Come to think of it, Shreya decides my life, like editors determined my ways in years gone by. She will throw away her shoes and get her grandmother to pour out a plate of milk with powdered Britannia Marie biscuits.

Then, one has to take the plate and Shreya to a corner in the basement of our building where her stray, light yellow and white cat waits and mews.

She has dubbed it Meow and the animal brushes herself against Shreya in joy when the milk and biscuit offering is made. My Lady will wait till the cat licks up the last drop of milk.

For a few days last week, Meow went missing and one learnt a few residents had paid someone to dump it a few miles away at the IC Colony, leaving Shreya upset. It did not register in her that adults could be a tad impossible.

But Meow came back on her own, one morning to the delight of Shreya and that day she did not go to school playing with a member of the cat family. One is not sure whether Meow will be allowed to be around as some want the feline to go and fill the open spaces in the housing society with cars denying even playing space to their own children.

For now, however, Shreya and Meow are having a rare time. After feeding the cat, Shreya spends time on the swings in the kerchief-size park while her friends wait in the queue.

Her grandmother takes over the management by one in the afternoon as she is good at relating stories during lunch. Shreya needs a story every day, an old story repeated is good enough.

It draws one to my favourite essayist, Charles Lamb and the piece, Dream Children: A Reverie, starting: “Children love to listen to stories about their elders, when they were children; to stretch their imagination to the conception of a traditionary great-uncle, or granddame, whom they never saw. It was in this spirit that my little ones crept about me the other evening to hear about their great-grandmother Field, who lived in a great house in Norfolk….”

After a long while the reverie ends and Lamb writes: “ …. immediately awakening, I found myself quietly seated in my bachelor arm-chair, where I had fallen asleep, with the faithful Bridget unchanged by my side – but John L (or James Elia) was gone for ever.”

Possibly, Shreya is at her adult-best when playing with her little sister, who is a sleepy-head.

She makes an effort to become an adult (she will be in another 10 or 12 years) and shares her dolls and happenings. For another two years, Shreya will not have any homework or books to study at home. It is play time for her and this grandfather.

P. Devarajan

More Stories on : Lifestyle | Reflections

Article E-Mail :: Comment :: Syndication :: Printer Friendly Page

Stories in this Section
The economics of growing old