Isn’t there an utter, numbing, boring sameness about our days?” asked the missus, without any preamble.
We had just returned from our morning walk—the usual route. Out the condo gate, once around the municipal garden, dodge the foul-tempered dog at bungalow 54 by crossing the street, and back. Then the compulsory glass of palak-karela juice from the gate vendor, the newspaper tossed in the corridor (which the missus picks up because my back refuses to bend), and finally me sinking into my easy chair on the balcony, like a retired king. From there I could indulgently watch the old fogies of the laughter club and the aunties in various states of dishabille, attempting yoga with Farida Apa.
I had always found this ritual comfortingly familiar, like a well-worn pair of slippers. But if the missus declared that it was boring, boring it had to be.
“The sight of those old fogies is so depressing,” she announced. “We’re getting sucked into this geriatric ward of a condo. We need pep! We need zing!”
Now pep and zing are the last things that I need. In fact, most of the pep in my life has been spent on avoiding the zing.
Suddenly, my wife’s eyes lit up with dangerous enthusiasm. “I know! Let’s change houses! Move to a community with younger people—cheerful, spontaneous, positive, with no cares in the world!”
I silently vowed that if we ever moved, she would handle every painful step: broker, registration, taxes, loading, shifting bag, baggage and clutter, and finding a gem of a maid like Phulwanti. That would cure her of her stupid wanderlust.
Aloud, I didn’t even dare groan.
That evening she excitedly told our granddaughter Ekya, “Nana-nani are changing houses! We are getting old here with the stale smell of Iodex and Vicks VapoRub. We need younger vibes! We need joy!”
Ekya, showing surprising wisdom, replied, “That’s a silly reason, nani. There are plenty of young people right here. You two have just been mixing with the wrong crowd. Come for a stroll after dinner—I’ll introduce you to my friends.”
Though reluctant to step out so late, we went. We established ourselves on a bench in the so-called park, grandiosely given this label to justify higher prices for ‘park-facing units’. Soon a swarm of Ekya’s friends arrived, staring at us like specimens from another planet.
I had always imagined today’s youngsters as freeloaders, resembling pesky cockroaches—blaring music, driving SUVs like maniacs. But these kids looked... normal. Capable of holding jobs and finishing half-marathons. Amazing!
“Ekya says you’re fed up with the oldies here. Believe me, uncle, so are we,” said a girl whose jeans looked like they had been through a paper shredder. “The fat uncle on our floor keeps peeping through the keyhole to watch me pass.”
“That’s nothing,” added a boy with a ten-day bristle. “He intercepts our orders and eats them himself!”
“But you all must be enjoying life, no?” the missus asked hopefully.
“Enjoying what?” groaned the boy. “Four hours of sleep, endless work, killer commutes, late-night calls. It is brutal, aunty!”
A young lady (or possibly a boy with long hair and a squeaky voice) joined in. “It’s the old fogies who create all the tension! They won’t let us party; they complain when we come home late from office, and refuse to rent to bachelors—especially not on a shared basis. We’re not rowdy college kids crammed ten to a room, guzzling beer till 3am. We’re sober professionals—the salt of the earth, just like you once used to be.”
I winced.
The bristle boy piled on: “Job insecurity, quarterly year-endings, appraisals, credit card bills, overdue EMIs on the car and flat…. Your generation only knows how to add to our stress!”
Ekya promptly switched sides. “Yes, nana. You’ll never understand the fear of suddenly becoming parasites if one loses one’s job. After all, your pension comfortably funds your lavish lifestyle—dal, lauki and rotis without ghee!”
Another young man complained, “My wife and I couldn’t rent anywhere because she uses her maiden surname. We had to buy a flat just to claim rent allowance!”
“That’s completely illogical!” I protested.
“Don’t tell me,” Ekya shot back. “It’s the doing of your generation.”
“Uncle, your generation thinks in cliches. Just because I share a flat with an office colleague doesn’t mean that we are living together. Or probably the way you judge—‘Living in sin!’”
Ekya’s friends treated us like an outreach project of the oldies for understanding today’s youth. Grievances were listed: difficult life choices, judgmental neighbours, nosy uncles offering useless advice, and aunties prying into everything.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I protested weakly.
“But it’s your generation!” they declared in one voice.
As we sat there on the bench, it became impossible to judge who had a genuine complaint and who might have obtained a fake-degree. The safest move was a hasty retreat.
As we stood up, one young lady said brightly, “Aunty, we have an exercise group. We do Zumba at 10pm. and Pilates at 11. My husband does kickboxing. Want to join?”
“No, thank you,” my wife replied firmly. “We prefer our leisurely morning walk, followed by a glass of karela juice. Zumba and protein shakes are not for us. No way!”
K.C. Verma is former chief of R&AW. kcverma345@gmail.com
