Four decades of ones life. That sounds so mundane and normal in this world as we live today, but just fifty years ago, it was a celebration and a century ago, it was quite an achievement. Why not? In pre-independent India, the average life span was twenty nine years! A lot of my generation and the ones before that have seen someone in their family pass away before they hit that milestone. So, today, when we hit these milestones, we cannot throw these away as inconsequential, but instead, spend time in thanking the almighty for letting us live for another year and ruminate about the year ahead and how to make it worthwhile and meaningful for us, for the people around us and for the planet we live in.
The year was 1942. It was the year of “Quit India” movement. The British have been looting away my mother India and it was finally the year where the collective spirit of a nation stood against the mighty British empire. While this was going along, somewhere in that vast country, in a household, a person turned 40. He grew up in a poor family and the only thing passed to him from his parents was intelligence, perseverance and dedication. He studied and worked hard to get a job in the postal service. His hardwork and determination led to his quick rising through the ranks and getting promoted to the rank of a director. In personal front, he was married at a young age and had a male offspring before he turned twenty. His work made him crisscross across all of India and to give his kid a steady education, he left him at his mother’s household. Since, there was no telephone and postal mail was the only form of communication, we could surmise that the kid was not very attached to his parents. Still, as was the norm of those days, a male child was supposed to take care of his parents and he would have harbored those hopes as the kid was growing into a fine youth. Tragedy struck and the kid passed away at a young age of sixteen. He was perhaps in his early thirties when this happened and he would have felt a terrible void in his life. But, he was a disciplined and resolute person and he didn’t let this terrible tragedy affect his life. He continued to do his duty and grew to even greater heights in his career. He would have to wait for another decade before he could become a father again. So, by the time he crossed forty, he would have still not been a father. He would have been working in some remote corner across India and would not have put much thought to celebrate this special day.
The year was 1978. The dark clouds of the emergency imposed in India were lifted. There was democracy blossing back in full bloom like the marigold flowers in spring. The family that thought of India as their fiefdom was defeated. In a small town in undivided Andhra Pradesh, a person turned 40. He is a family man, in its truest form. He respected his parents, he cared for his brothers, he loved his wife and he nurtured his kids. He is a joy to be around with and he mingled quite easily with everyone, whether it be kids or adults. His life was not an easy one. He grew up in a large household, that didn’t let anyone go hungry but didn’t let them feast as well. His father was a farmer and a freedom fighter. They had a small farmland, which gave them three crops in a year and provided sustenance to them. The family was big and he was the second son of the household. Responsibilties were not thrust upon him, but he took them over quite gladly. He did well in studies and was enrolled into an accelerated civil engineering program. Upon graduation, he took a job with Indian railways to support his family and moved to several remote parts of the Deccan region in India. In due course, he was the father of five beautiful daughters. In those days, the worries of an Indian parent centered around getting a job for the son and getting a good husband for the daughter. Being the father of a bride was not an easy job and it was expensive emotionally and monetarily. This would have been prying in his mind at times, but this didn’t let him eschew his responsibilities of supporting his siblings. He balanced between being a good brother and a good father. He also maintained professional integrity and never let his responsibilities lead him astray. His fortieth birthday would have been celebrated with his wife, his daughters, his parents, his brothers and their spouses, his sisters and their husbands and with his close friends. That must have suited him well, for he truly is a family man in every sense.
The year was 1990. It was a year of shame for India, as we were struggling with a decade of poor economic decisions and it culminated in a weak coalition government that was inches away from mortgaging our national gold deposits to get a loan from IMF. In a small town in Nizamabad, a person turned 40. He was an english lecturer by profession and moonlighted as a poet and a homeopathic doctor. He was born to his parents at a pretty late age and was their eldest son. He grew in the confines of his domestic household and his circle mostly involved his parents and his siblings. He didn’t have many friends growing up and there was always a boundary between his personal life and his social life. He never dared to mix them together. As he was growing up, he saw his father’s properties being lost to poor financial management and scheming business partners. He never regretted that neither in his poems nor in his speech. He did his masters in english literature and took the job of an english lecturer in a remote village. He got married to his niece and he settled down in the village with a serene lifestyle with his wife, his parents and three children. His daily routine shuffled between preparation for his classes, his poetry, his reading and his prayers. He was disciplined and followed a strict routine. The emphasis on routine also percolated into his poetry and it followed the iambic meter form, that emphasized on beats and structure. He would have his tea and two biscuits at 2:30 pm, neither a few minutes before nor few minutes after. He would pray for twenty minutes, neither more nor less. His poetry was well acclaimed and got published into several reputed maganizes. It sounds exhilarating to imagine the possibilities outside of that lifestyle and choices. What if he pursued his passion of poetry and plunged into it? What if he never settled down in a remote village and went to a big city and mingled with the renowed poets and artists of his time? That is symbolized as success in many stories and fables. But, doesn’t that also glorify an idea of keeping your own self above everyone and everything else? Why is the idea of shirking away from one’s responsibility towards others extolled as courage? He didn’t follow that road and thankfully for many who depended upon him, he continued on the road of structure and routine. At his fortieth birthday, I would imagine that he would have celebrated with his parents, his wife and his children. He would have not invited any outside guests and would have been content with a quiet celebration and perhaps would have written a poem in iambic meter style.
The year was 2020. The whole world was in turmoil. Not many people have seen the whole world plunged into a disaster of this magnitude. No modern country was left untouched and everyone in the world felt the impact of COVID. Face masks became a commonality, travel became less and eating out at restaurants disappeared. Travel maniac’s despaired and one such maniac had a lot of things planned out including a trip to Italy to celebrate his fortieth birthday. He was born in a small town in Nizamabad and was the firstborn for his parents. All of his travel during his childhood comprised of visiting his relatives in Hyderabad. The first time he travelled out of state was during his high school days and international travel only happened to him at an age of twenty one. He enjoyed travelling and ensured that he travelled quite a bit with his family in his twenties and thirties. He saw the temples of shiva in Nepal and kedarnath, the temples of Durga in Vaishno Devi and Kolkata, the palaces of rajas in Jaipur and Agra etc. He also did quite a bit of international travel including Europe and North America. Despite all this, the traveller within him refused to feel contended. There was still so much more to see and so many places to go urged his inner voice. The roman architecture and the colloseum, the machu pichu temples in South America, the Egyptian mummies, the northern lights of Alaska, the Australian continent and the list goes on. The heart of this man always yearned for more. Some days, he would imagine himself grabbing a backpack and driving for days on the road alone with no destination to go. On other days, he would imagine himself hiking along the mountains with his eight year old daughter and wife. All of his aspirations and dreams revolved around him visiting different places, meeting different kinds of people and marvelling at the various wonders that the almighty painted in front of him. So, sitting in a single place and not going anywhere was painful for him. As the covid lockdown extended, he realized one thing. There was no need to go to the remotest places and marvel at the wonders of the almighty. The wonders can happen right in front of your eyes and the only thing needed was a pair of eyes that were willing to be observant. He revelled in observing the various orange hues that nature throws up during a sunset near his house, the curves and bends on the trees that he came across during his morning walk, the crashing of the waves on the rocks near the beach in his town and the various shades of red on the hibiscus flowers in his garden. I would surmise that he would still go on long journeys and visit the various wondrous places when it becomes safe to travel again, but he will not need to travel out of his abode to bring out that excitement and wonder. That shall seep into his daily life and be a part of who he is. He will perhaps be celebrating his fortieth birthday in his own house with his wife and kid.
