December 02, 2011

Musings of a Superannuated Man

 

Webster defines ‘retired’ as someone who is ‘no longer working because of age’. To my mind, the word ‘retired’ stands for a person who was tired earlier and is now tired again, i.e. re-tired. He was tired working for a living ten hours or more every day and is tired now having nothing much to work for except to keep on living and growing older.

Retirement for such a person is a period in search of a purpose, a transition from being a player to a spectator – just a speck in the multitude watching the game.

Years back when I elected to retire, as the atmosphere of my last posting did not suit me at all, I decided that I would rather retread than retire in the literal term. Retiring from service, I assured myself, did not mean that one had to retire from life itself. I refused to be vocationally celibate, regarded as an ancient, spent force, or a player of a role-less role.

I had, let me admit, no idea as to what I was going to do. But, I was unwilling to accept that retirement meant an absence of ideas about what to do with oneself.

I found myself blessed with something I had desperately lacked throughout the 36 years of bureaucratic bondage: Time. Free time used to be the exclusive province of the country’s aristocracy – the feudal lords, tribal chiefs, and absentee land barons - the real rulers and owners of the country behind the facade of democracy!

I found it in my legitimate possession; the time I had hoarded over 36 years of working life. It was now at my disposal totally. Retirement struck me as a weekend that never ends, a perennial feast, a year-round vacation.

It was something I had earned by faithful and devoted service, a form of graduation into a new phase of life, a second spring.

I had also a strong feeling of liberation: of the absence of deadlines and work-related stress, of the end to the early morning wake-up alarms, of the absence of the moronic meetings --of being my own man and not the property of my bosses.

I was unwilling to share the proclamation of Scott Fitzgerald that there was no second act in life. There is, and I was ready for the second act. Leisure and disengagement wouldn’t make me dormant, I assured myself.

Cicero wrote centuries back, ‘Each season of life has an advantage peculiarly its own to be garnered each at the proper time’. In a somewhat similar vein, former US President Jimmy Carter has observed, ‘The retirement years are a time to define, or redefine, a successful life, both in retrospect and for our remaining years’, adding that this future definition is ‘likely to be quite different from that of our younger years.’

In my younger years, life struck me like a vast cornucopia full to the brim with opportunities, a buffet of career options to sample various offerings to decide on the choice suiting one’s taste. No hill was too high to climb, no river deep enough to deter swimming across. The buoyancy and exuberance of youth egged me on to accept challenges, overcome hurdles and keep pushing forward.

Retirement placed the facts of life in a different perspective. Obstacles became more ponderous, and experience forced the acceptance of an increasing range of limitations. I could scarcely shake off the feeling of emotional and physical vulnerability. Yet, I maintained that it was a much awaited and anticipated time, and I must treat it as the second chance to explore life’s varied opportunities instead of dissipating it in brooding over the past and its unfulfilled dreams.

What opportunities did life offer to a person like me? My colleagues who had retired earlier were of no help, as all of them were sitting at home waiting for someone to seek their advice on subjects they were considered authorities while still in service. No one sought their authoritative advice! They were no doubt honest, hardworking, and knew well their respective fields. Consulting them made little sense.

Why not consult my wife, I thought, as I had always valued her pragmatic approach to things.

Why not start with washing the dishes since the domestic help is on a two week visit to her village’. Pragmatic from her perspective but unpleasant and tiresome from mine. I told her so, and pointed out to her that I had been cut out for more important tasks.

‘You may like to join our knitting and crocheting club’ she advised impishly.

‘Don’t be silly’, I protested. ‘I want to spend my time on some creative, innovative activity, something to be remembered by’.

‘Then, try to become a sculptor or an artist’, she advised.

‘Please stop kidding me, I am consulting you as I value your practical approach to things’.

‘Then join me in the kitchen and learn the preparation of a few dishes; that is creative’. ‘

‘Yes, all right’, I said to keep her upbeat particularly as she had started suffering episodes of dizziness not diagnosed till then.

Why not consult some books on the subject in the library, I thought. Glancing through several books relevant to my search, I discovered that much of the writers’ and intellectuals’ energy had gone into simply denying the prospect of aging. There were many books on topics such as Stop Aging Now, The End of Aging, or on How to Remain Youthful.

I found that even the most advanced people, the Americans, lacked a compelling vision for later life.

An entrepreneur exploited the void by building a new habitat called Sun City in the desert of Arizona. It catered to the creature comforts of the elderly and was imaginatively called Sun City. Literature about this place talked eloquently about the activities provided for the residents. They could rush from one activity to another to block out the void and emptiness of their lives.

No doubt, activity has its virtues, but a life built around activity for activity’s sake can be insipid, tasteless and ultimately boring, particularly for people who had gone from success to success in the earlier period.

Age-segregated cities and condominiums treat the oldsters as human contraband, I had discovered on arrival in the US years back.

I had reached the US for the treatment of my wife. Little did I know that she was suffering from an incurable brain-stem degeneration. I had to attend to her day and night for five years. Matter of fact, the entire family was involved in this. She passed away a few years back, but she is present, more often than not, in my thoughts. I hear her whisper: ‘What is this nonsense about the second chance, the second spring. Why don’t you reconcile to your lot and thank God for all the blessings he has showered upon you.’ Yes, I would indeed, I promised.

Retirement appears now as the plateau of life with an inescapable horizon all around and so close by.

arifsyedhussaini@Gmail.com