No age is old age

"I have a magic elixir—interest. It has kept me fresh through every moment of this exciting and beautiful life." -Sibelius

What does one do upon becoming an octogenarian? I frequently get this query from friends who have observed that we are still at the computer, at the piano (albeit with the same limited repertoire), and a little more. There was a time when, at 70 years of age, you were considered scrap-heap, but with advanced geriatric care, ageing is no longer a nightmare. Documented evidence testifies that even at 100, there are people who are cerebrally vibrant and physically gung-ho. All in the mind is a truism, and your thought processes, drawn from the rich resources of a mind charged with positive energy, indomitable faith, and fortitude, work incredibly well!

My significant other, a Planter of yore who made a profitable art out of idleness in later years without complaining of ennui or regret, enjoyed books, TV programmes, Test matches, but above all, the hours spent at the verandah, eyes transfixed at the skies, for that brilliant sunset or that symbolic cloud-formation that he could capture on lens. There was also the network of foliage on the giant neem that serves as an abode to the winged. What excitement was his when one morning he sighted a duo of Guinea fowl on the lofty branches descend from its nocturnal perch to head back to where it had come from. I was summoned in stentorian tones to leave whatever I was doing and go wherever to partake of the "surprise."

At wildlife sanctuaries, I have seen peafowl sail away in regal splendour from their favourite roosting places. The sudden appearance of the guineas at our location seemed most unusual. For nearly three months, they appeared faithfully at the crack of dawn and remained until dusk. And then one dismal day they disappeared forever. We wondered ruefully if the birds had made it to someone’s table. But with "hope that springs eternal" in us, we awaited their return.

In the meantime, Victor sat with his camera settled on his belly, which served as a tripod, at his wonted place, which offers a vista of branch and bower eyes and ears tuned to the radiant sunbirds, restive tailorbirds, common babblers sounding like unoiled hinges, a lone kingfisher, bulbuls, drongos, and chestnut-headed bee-eaters, the tree pie and red-vented bulbuls… happy with water-troughs that provide for a drink or dip. A pair of plaintive Koels have made a tall curry-leaf tree in our garden, its permanent place.

At any age, where there are green tangles and changing skies, there is always a lot to rhapsodise about. My great husband did, till his end came three months ago.

And to add to my unfathomable grief, birds and bird songs seem to have become a past phase too.