It was the last week of December. The missus and I sat before the television, huddled around our rusty electric heater which fools the truly desperate into believing they are enjoying the warmth of an open fire. The music from our condominium clubhouse sounded discordant. Quite wisely, the missus and I had decided to give the New Year’s Eve party a miss. We find the forced laughter and faux gaiety quite frustrating. The awkward chit-chat with barely familiar neighbours is always tiresome.
The missus nursed her cup of jasmine tea, while I gave my generous Remy Martin a thoughtful swirl in its balloon glass. Gazing into the middle distance, I observed in a pensive manner that another year was coming to an end.
“Darling,” I said ruminatively, “another year is slipping away. Much too quickly. And what have I got to show for it? Zilch. Nothing. A big fat zero. Not a single feather in my cap. I have done nothing. I have achieved nothing!”
For emphasis, I added rhetorically, “What do I have to show for an entire twelvemonth that’s gone all too soon?”
I fell silent. Suddenly, I was afraid of looking back beyond last January. There was the lurking fear that the nothing of yesterday and the nothing of last week and all the nothings of the past year might just extend further back. Much further back.
My ever-loving wife consoled me. “What does it matter? You’ve done your bit, and more. There’s a season for everything, including glorious idleness. Beyond a point, every person must rest. The world won’t come to an end because you didn’t climb Mt Everest this year. Doing nothing isn’t a crime. It’s the ultimate retirement blessing!”
“That’s easy for you to say,” I grumbled. “You have your daily triumphs—battling with the menials; making Bassa Ram, the driver, come in time and ensuring that the cook doesn’t spoil the broth.”
“Well,” said the missus with a wicked glint, “you could take over these burdens and have the profound satisfaction of ensuring that Phulwanti sweeps every corner of the room.”
I realised that my grumbling and complaining had put me on the edge of a precipice. Suddenly, the New Year Eve despondency had taken a dangerous turn, and I saw before me a fate worse than death. To keep Bassa Ram and Phulwanti in line is a full-time job and my wife was recommending I do just that to satisfy my ego!
Before the missus came out with some ghastlier prescription, I said, “My dear, you know my nature. I demand fanfares, parades, trumpets! Medals! And here you are—suggesting disciplining the domestics as the epic feat of the year? No! My achievements must be monumental. I must slay a few dragons! I must fly a spaceship! I must win the Booker! I must conquer the world!”
“You are indeed an old fool,” said the missus. “Count your blessings instead of chasing fantasies! Sometimes the greatest triumph is the thing you prudently avoid doing. True wisdom is knowing when to leave some mountain unclimbed. Inaction can be a greater victory than frantic activity. After a certain vintage, success isn’t about what you did, but gloriously about what you didn’t! So, shun the depression! Rejoice in the things that you never did!”
“How absurd!” I declared.
“But think about it—you’re already a master of masterly inaction. You did not even once advise me where to invest money. You didn’t bat an eyelid when our daughter dyed her hair that alarming shade of blue. You refrained from telling Bassa Ram the ‘proper’ way to park. You are blessed. You’ve run your marathon. You’ve broken a few things. You have fixed a few others. You’ve brought up two children who still answer your phone calls. Those are great achievements—more than many others can boast of.”
We lapsed into a companionable silence, mulling over undone deeds and unhit targets and other non-achievements. The missus sighed. I yawned. Down at the clubhouse, the music had cranked up to eardrum-shattering levels. The New Year party was obviously gathering momentum.
“Perhaps we should pop down to the party after all,” the missus mused aloud.
Before I could summon my most horrified look, she giggled and answered herself: “Thank goodness we’re spared that nonsense.”
The clock struck ten. Outside, some overeager soul let off a premature cracker—bang!—prompting the neighbour’s dog to bark furiously at the invisible intruder. And just like that, the old year prepared to limp out without ceremony.
“This time, shall we stay awake till midnight to greet the New Year properly?” asked the missus.
“What’s the fuss? It’ll just be another Thursday, disguised as January,” I grumbled.
So, we stayed put, the television muttering away like a disgruntled uncle. As I nursed the last of my Remy, a gentle melancholy settled in—nostalgia for the half-forgotten blaze of youth, a tender regret for the roads not taken, and the quiet acceptance that not every mountain is to be climbed. A warm glow of understanding slowly seeped into my heart—I realised that no year ever ends in a bang. It just whispers goodbye and departs, leaving you wondering where the time went.
K.C. Verma is former chief of R&AW. kcverma345@gmail.com