Old is indeed gold

So, have you heard about that old man who forgot his way to wherever he was going, and decided to come, instead. He then mused, “Right now, I’m having amnesia and deja vu at the same time. I think I’ve forgotten this before.”

Sounds very Indian, doesn’t it? In an old, confused country, each one’s micro world sounds fine, even philosophical, because it is a hand-me-down through the ages! So what if it doesn’t make sense?

As I was ruing to Reena, my teenaged neighbour, we have a special relationship with the old as well as new, as we can be either one of them, or both, or neither, when it suits us.
We are, after all, only 65 when charged with non-performance. But we become the only ancient country that boasts the distinction of remaining ancient when we want to flaunt some flesh at the World Bank or donor camps. “Ah, our culture, our tradition,” we exclaim.

“We are the cradle of civilisation, with the spiritual power that came with the rishi-munis who sacrificed their lives so that they could pull funny faces and do yogic handstands.”

The conversation set me thinking. The filthy streets, the debris of collective guilt over caste, gender or ethnic atrocities... these just will not fall and bury us because they have been writ in stone over the centuries, and into our collective consciousness as old text.

Old in India is the real new, then. Old and new, like schizophrenic buddies, are not just two faces of the coin, but are the same face. However, it is the old that we worship and venerate. It is the aspiration of the young, the longing of the rookie, the light that beckons.

And why not? The real India, after all, lives in its ancient culture and history. With modernisation was spawned the reluctant citizen who prefers to let ancient education systems deaden him, ancient styles of politics push up the average age of politicians and quaint economics nourish forgotten theorists.

Thus, contrary to a youth-worshipping world, in India, old is durable, it is demonstrable, and has stood the test of time on its wobbly knees. That is why doddering historians, for instance, hang on till they become fossils and relics of history. Politicians amass a wealth of experience and ill-gotten wealth. Business magnates just multiply and multiply till their families split. People here never go away or retire — they just recoup, regain and recycle.

We are cautious of anything that leaves the fold or strays afar to graze in newer pastures. “Root, roots, let us not forget our roots,” is the anguished cry, whenever someone tries to cut their clothes according to their age. No one should dress young, or the moral brigade will come a-calling.

This is the country where everyone is born old, with the thoughtful, puckered brow of the wise. Little girls with babies on their hips, 12-year-olds that get married before teenage, toddlers that begin their education with huge schoolbags. All of them are old-in-waiting.
Childhood is just a temporary phase of acquiring age. That is why you are asked all the time what you are, or what you want to become when you grow up. (Never mind that no one here grows up, only grows.)

Old is indeed gold, and costs 31 grand per 10 gm. Still we amass gold, an obsolete practice, as I was demonstrating to Reena. “The older you are, the more golden you get,” I told her. “Your value is linked to the special locker that you have poured all your heart and life’s savings into, so that only you and your bank clerk can see it occasionally.”

“Oh,” she countered, and put her head in her hands. “But why are your old friends so touchy? Why do they refuse to get off, unlike you, aunty?”

I blinked at her indignantly. “Me? Old? Who said I’m getting off? I don’t belong to that generation, Reena!”