Staying positive

“Reverse 95 and you get 59!” he said with a chuckle. I didn’t quite get it. The number 95 connected easily because he had mentioned a few minutes earlier that he was 95 years old. But why reverse it to get 59? Was he saying he wanted to reverse things and go back to being younger? But that didn’t seem like him at all. My face must have betrayed the puzzlement. For he went on to explain the riddle himself. “I am 95 and you are 59!” he said. His two fingers held out as a V, making quarter turns in the opposite directions. Ninety-five; Fifty-nine.” “Oh!” I said lighting up and together we laughed heartily over the clever observation.

That was one of the many times that I had laughed that day. Uncle would recall and recount an incident related to a family member and add a witty comment to it. Though I had heard most of the stories, many times earlier, they were far more interesting when he narrated it. For he painted all with a good-at-heart brush and so even the meanest and the most eccentric relative, came through as an adorable person. “How old was your father when he died?” he asked. “Ninety-five,” I said.

“I turned 95 this year!” he said laughing at the coincidence. I felt a little awkward. Would the fact that his revered elder brother had died at exactly this age psychologically affect uncle? But I soon realised that my fears were totally unfounded. Shastry uncle’s interest in age was only as a number. The charm of talking to this dear relative was that he remained for ever in the realm of the objective and never turned the focus on himself.
But it was hard for me to keep my thoughts from reverting to myself. Since there was a good chance of my living for as long as most of my blood relatives, perhaps I should pick up some health secrets from this nonagenarian. I made a mental check list. Uncle’s hearing and eyesight were fairly good. He walked erect and took no pills. His memory was fine too.

Or was it? For, in all his narrations, I noticed, the grand old man had missed out many significant facts. He missed mentioning the many nasty things (I had first hand knowledge of some) that were said or done by certain people. How could one have a clear memory of the sumptuous lunch served at a cousin’s wedding and not recall the huge fuss created by the boy’s mother?

Uncle had, over the years, braved more than his share of sorrows and disappointments in life. Yet none of them seemed to have left even a trace of bitterness in him. Not only had he chosen to forget these painful happenings, even the phrases of self pity like I-am-so-weary-of-life had got deleted from his vocabulary list. Could this selective dementia be his secret?