Random Reminiscences of a forgetful old man; 2022-2025 Joy, Pain, and Reunion – 4

The former employees of the National Dairy Development Board (NDDB) organised their first reunion in 2015, the second in 2020, and the third in 2023. I attended all three.

They are meeting again—the fourth reunion is scheduled for 7–8 February 2025. When I mentioned it to an old friend the other day, neither of us was sure whether we would go. He encouraged me; I encouraged him. Very soon, we were laughing at ourselves—two eighty-something men, separated by thousands of kilometres, pleading with each other to make the long journey for a reunion!

The conversation quickly turned to health and age. My friend has breathing difficulties, along with other age-related complications, and has only just recovered from cataract surgery. I shared my own list of adventures since crossing the “bridge of eighty” on the river of life—à la Shriman Kumar!

Ever since my mother left us in May 2022, I have felt time moving differently. In these three short years my body has reminded me, again and again, that it is no longer young.

Here is my recent medical CV:

• High-risk prostate cancer – treated with radiation and hormone injections
• Atrial fibrillation – daily medicines, every single day
• A bad pneumonia that kept me in bed for a whole month
• A broken mid-foot – surgery, wires inside, three months in bed, special shoes, and even now, after almost two years, I need a walking stick for long distances
• Sudden hearing loss in one ear – three steroid injections straight into the eardrum (not recommended for the faint-hearted!)

And a few more things I won’t bore you with.

Still, every single morning that I open my eyes to another bonus day, I whisper a small thank you. These years were never guaranteed. I take them as they come, the light ones and the dark ones, and try to stay gentle with myself.

The funny part? According to the latest statistics, the average Indian male is expected to live 70.4 years. I have already crossed that mark by more than a decade.

So every extra day, every extra year, is a bonus.

Some Bonus Days

Some bonus days feel like pure gifts, little joys that still make the heart feel light.

A long, easy conversation with my wife, just the two of us talking about anything and everything. Visiting the local library. Reading a good book.
A slow walk on a day when my legs don’t complain and the weather is gentle. A surprise phone call from an old colleague that brings back forty -year-old memories and fresh laughter. Every Saturday zoom calls with friends and former colleagues that have gone on for over four years.….

Posting something on Vrikshamandir and finding a kind comment waiting there. Hearing my daughter say, “This is the best dal you’ve ever made!” after I cook a simple meal…….

That first sip of coffee in the morning when the aroma fills the whole room and the day suddenly feels possible.

These small things don’t cost anything, yet on the good days they are enough to make me smile and feel truly alive.

And then there are the other “bonus” days, the harder ones, when the body and the mind remind me that nothing comes free.

Some mornings begin with old guilt creeping in—regrets over choices I made long ago that didn’t turn out as I had hoped. My legs still carry that dull, constant ache that never quite goes away. My stomach often bloats and feels heavy for no apparent reason. Sleep plays hide-and-seek; I lie awake for hours, staring at the ceiling.

I start exercising with good intentions, only to quietly give up after a few days. I worry about the plants in Vrikshamandir when the rain doesn’t come, or when it pours too hard, or when floods from the rivers Rapti and Ami inundate the lower plots of Vrikshamandir for months, destroying the plants. And I think about promises I made to people who are no longer here—promises I couldn’t keep.

And sometimes, out of nowhere, the mood simply drops, darkness settles in without warning, and everything feels heavy again.

Also, one common occurrence on both bonus and the “bonus” days is forgetfulness. It increases day by day. My mother had dementia and father Alzheimer’s so I do worry about getting into that state and be a burden on those who will look after me.

Joy and pain keep taking turns, sometimes in the same hour.

Still, every single morning that I open my eyes to another bonus day, I whisper a small thank you. These years were never guaranteed. I take them as they come, the light ones and the dark ones, and try to stay gentle with myself.

And Every choice has a consequence

These years beyond 70.4 were never promised to most Indians, as that is the current average life expectancy. So I receive them, exactly as they come – with open hands and a quieter heart. Some times I ask a question to myself ; Shiriman do you have a choice ?

I have slowly realised that whether these bonus years feel like a gift or a burden depends mostly on how I choose to look at them.

For now, I continue to ride the gentle (and sometimes not-so-gentle) waves of joy and pain. Deep down, like most of us who have lived long enough, I quietly long for that final state where there is neither joy nor pain – just peace.

And the reunion on 7–8 February?

I still haven’t decided. Tickets are booked but journey is uncertain. But talking about reunion with my friend reminded me that even the uncertainty, even the aches, are part of this strange, beautiful bonus we have been given.

If you are still reading this and you too once worked at NDDB, do come to the reunion if you can. I might attend the fourth reunion too and we end up meeting.

We may walk slowly, breathe heavily, and compare our lists of medicines, but we will still laugh like we did thirty years ago.

After all, these are bonus years. Let’s enjoy them while they last.

Search

Search

---