When I Look in the Mirror

When I Look in the Mirror. I see the white hair. Even though a dear bondhu said, “why do you worry about age.” And I look off the mirror I see a teenager. People ask me about the people I hang with. Why am I with young people more than with old people. And the younger look and see the white hair. Sometimes only. But the energy of the combination is electric. Instead of dwelling on cliched questions such as, “what is age?” I am increasingly finding it important to ask the question – “what memories do I need to make?” That gives me a timeline. A new timeline offered by COVID. Each of us were handled the new timetable and those who were creative were able to use the opportunities. I was at a presentation today, they asked me to speak on something and I spoke on entirely something else. The white hair saved the humiliation, but the teenager had a lot of fun. That is the irony of age. When I was actually a teenager I dreamt of driving around the city in a luxury car or being able to go to Caprice at CA Market and order the costliest ice cream. Today, sitting in the luxury car, waiting for my bondhu, I realized that the teenager is still alive. That is not a good thing though. From relational perspectives, no one, however they may care for you, would acknowledge that the white-haired dude has a teenager living inside. The one who wants to drive to the river at night and sit at the edge and look upon the two bridges, or just get in the car for a pubbing night with moonshine with a bondhu. Some people are like that and they get rebuked by their significant others, “boyesh to holo (you are now old)” or “is this a mid-life crisis?” But it may be neither, the white hair is seeking to actualize the memories that are slowly dying off and the teenager is trying to build new memories. A drive in the car – a new memory. It is all about memories. The white hairs tell me – you are done with memories, now relive them. The teenager tells me you just got started, build them. It is always a balancing act. The memories of the white-haired defined who I am, the teenager says I can rebuild as who I can still be. The gathering of old school friends was simultaneously depressing and reassuring. As I said to a bondhu, “this is a gathering of old people” and then I realized the teenager wanted to get out. So I stepped out into the hot and humid night. The marketing time was over, people had gone home. My phone showed 4%. Not enough juice to order Uber. The white hair worried, the teenager saw an opportunity. Walk back? Yeah right! Catch number 45? Too easy. How about a cab, but they all seemed busy with people and there were only a few. The auto rickshaw driver said he can only take me up to Science City. He was trying to discourage me because he only saw the white hair. He seemed almost concerned about my safety. And I was thinking, if I can get to Science City then I am sure I will be able to find a way back to Salt Lake. It was only like 10:30 at night. Night in the City. I jumped in – the driver was unsure what to do with me. He gingerly took off towards Ballygunge Phadi. He was hesitant, is it right to drop off this hapless old man in front of Science City. He had no options – he was not permitted to go any further. The teenager was completely content. Back to the stone ages – the phone was completely dead. The auto slowed down next to a parked white Dezire. A sure sign that it was an Uber or Ola. Patiently he explained to the drover of the Dezire his predicament lamenting that “kaku (uncle)” had to get back to Salt Lake. The driver said that I should order Uber with my cell phone. I laughed and was taking in the night air while the auto rickshaw driver, in a desperate attempt to get rid of me, was convincing the Uber driver to take me on. It was getting to be about 11 pm, we were right next to Birla Mandir and if my phone was working I would probably have drifted off to take some pictures. In any case, the white hair won out and the Uber driver took me on and dropped me home. It was a perfect evening. And a reminder of Tull’s, “Now he's too old to rock and roll But he's too young to die.” Still making memories that I will cherish with bondhus who will outlive me for sure – but those memories will live on, I hope. On this night a memory was made as will be made over and over again until there is no one interested in these memories. At that moment of irrelevance I will die, but may be, jut may be, there will always be a bondhu who will not allow that death by irrelevance and will reassure that there is still purpose. As long as there is purpose, there is the opportunity to make memories. And to live. I guess.