(LIFE) 9 March 2012
Three old men that I was related to or closely acquainted with passed away recently. They were all in their eighties; grand old men who had been there, seen that and then receded silently into the space from which they came.
Their deaths weren’t untimely considering the years they had walked this earth, nor was it unexpected considering that they had been ailing and personally waited for deliverance. For all the stoicism and equanimity one might hold, death is a bitter, hard truth to those close to the departed; a reality to come to terms with in time. That the men I spoke of earlier were old and infirm might make acceptance of the truth a bit easier, but to those who lived around them the vacuum is hard to fill. People who leave — whether in a hurry or at leisure — leave behind gaping holes. And in the case of grand old dads and moms, the holes are not just physical.
Remember those times when our parents taught us those little things — from walking to brushing teeth to tying shoe laces and ribbons to clipping nails to holding a pencil to how to pray to…all those endless things that earned us an exclusive place in this world?
I put my hand on my heart and confess: No, I don’t remember. I don’t remember the day they taught me to hold the brush or pencil, I don’t remember how I was readied – smart and tidy – for my first day at school, or how they helped me memorise the multiplication tables, how to say thank you, please and good morning, how to smile and be kind…
But I know they did. They taught me life’s gambit, without me knowing that they were preparing me to take on this world, leaving only sketchy memories in my mind of those days, memories that faded and vanished as years went by. And when they let me go find my way and I took flight, I saw them brush a tear. They knew that their fledgling had newer lessons to learn, bigger places to go and live.
The world away from the nest was different from what I knew. I gained skills, and grew. Signed papers and cheques without remembering my first day with the pencil and alphabets. Tabulated accounts without remembering the days my (now) old parents spent helping me memorise numbers and tables. Made presentations, gave lectures, socialised, and fixed meals, all without remembering the first lessons at home.
Yet somewhere in that tiny space between the soul and the world, I knew all the time that I might build a car, but the tools in my box were theirs. I might conduct an orchestra, but the notes are entirely theirs. I might win the race, but the training ground was them. And I realise, even as the arrogance of material triumph raises its head every so often, and the egoism of adulthood impales, that they exist as ready reference guides to my life.
I may not ask for counsel, thanks to my sense of being an all knowing adult of the new times, but I know that I have lessons yet to learn. There are nuggets of wisdom to nibble from the tales of their lives, caveats to pick from their experiences in the world, notes to make from their conduct with people and conditions.
Even as we disqualify our old folks as senile and many times portray them as intruders, and even talk of them as an obligatory presence in our present settings, I realise that sooner or later they will cease to exist. Somber and depressing the thought might be, yet it’s a truth I reckon with. And when they move on, they will leave behind not just a gaping physical void, but a legacy of life lessons that no book or experience can ever impart.
