How old would you be if you didn't know how old you were?

Age is strictly a case of mind over matter. If you don't mind, it doesn't matter. – Mark Twain

Well, today I am going to reveal a massive secret. Promise me you won't tell anybody before you proceed.

In August, I unlocked level 50 of the game of life, where the graphics are blurry, the sound effects are mostly coming from my joints, and the candles cost more than the cake. I have reached the age where my obituary will no longer need to use the word 'untimely'.

Aging is not unique or a particularly interesting subject. Anyone can get old. All you have to do is live long enough. But then, old age isn't so bad when you consider the alternative.

At my age, my morning routine is simple. I get my daily paper, look at the obituaries page and if I am not there, I carry on as usual. Honestly, I feel like a classic car. I look great from a distance, the paint job is mostly holding up, but the ‘check engine’ light is permanently blinking on the dashboard. They call it the middle age because you're stuck somewhere between “I can do that” and “I shouldn't have done that.”

Now that I am officially a half-century old, I have realized that 50 isn't actually old. In fact, if you can live to be one hundred, I think you have got it made. Because very few people die past that age! But the catch is that you can live to be a hundred, only if you give up all the things that make you want to live to be a hundred in the first place.

My timing has been completely off in the game of life. There was no respect for youth when I was young, and now that I am old, there is no respect for the elderly. Looks like, I missed it coming and going.

The strangest thing about turning 50 is that you don't actually feel 50. You feel pretty much like the same person you were at 30, except your body has quietly changed the terms and conditions without asking you to click “Accept.” Looks like I missed the clause stating that sneezing can now pull a muscle and sleeping in the wrong position requires three business days for recovery.

My body has also become more corporate with age. Every joint now has a performance issue, every muscle has a notice period, and none of them are willing to go beyond their job description. An annual health check-up is basically a performance appraisal for the body. Except this time, you don't get to disagree with the rating.

My sleep pattern has also changed. In my twenties, I could sleep anywhere, anytime. At 50, I need the right pillow, the right temperature, the right position, complete darkness and silence. And even after getting everything right, I still wake up at 3 am to wonder why I woke up at 3 am.

Besides, as you get older, three things eventually happen. The first is that your memory starts to fade, and I can't remember the other two. Though I do remember that when I was a boy the Dead Sea was only sick.

There was a time when I could wake up and immediately jump out of bed. Nowadays, getting out of bed has become a two-stage process. First, I get out of bed. Then I wait for the rest of my body to catch up.

In our twenties, we compared salaries. In our thirties, we compared cars and houses. In our forties, we compared children's grades or careers. After fifty, we compare blood test results with the same enthusiasm we once reserved for salary hikes.

It’s funny how conversations change with age. These days, my friends and I don't ask, "What are your plans for the weekend?" Instead, we ask, "What are you taking for it?".

My phone has become my reading aid on the days I forget my glasses. I open the camera and zoom in on whatever I am trying to read. My eyes have apparently decided that after 50, they will no longer support small fonts. The restaurant menu is now a hostile document. I hold it at arm's length. Then a little further. Then even further. Eventually I just look at the waiter and ask, “What do you recommend?” My fitness tracker recently congratulated me for reaching my daily step goal. I was merely looking for my reading glasses.

Just the other day, my investment advisor urged me to buy a stock that would double its value in three years. I told him, ‘At my age, I don't even buy green bananas’.

The silver lining is that at 50, you stop caring what people think; partially because you've gained a bit of wisdom, but mostly because you literally can't hear what they're whispering anyway.

If you haven't grown up by 50, the good news is that you officially don't have to anymore. As they say, growing old is compulsory, growing up is optional. Though, if you ask me, age is a terribly high price to pay for maturity.

So yes, I have unlocked Level 50. The graphics may be blurrier, the loading time every morning may be longer, and the system occasionally freezes without warning. But I still like the character, I am enjoying the storyline, and I am certainly not ready to hand over the controller just yet. Game on, I say!

In the end, it's not the years in your life that count. It's the life in your years.

Silver Jubilee of Loss of Freedom: A Survival Story

 

 

"Men marry women with the hope they will never change. Women marry men with the hope they will change. Invariably, they are both disappointed." – Albert Einstein 

Today marks our 25th wedding anniversary. A Silver Jubilee. They say speech is silver, but silence is golden. In my house, speech is hers, and silence is my coping mechanism for survival.

An anniversary is just the day a year ago you were way less annoyed by each other. They say marriages are made in heaven. But, then again, so are thunder, lightning, tornadoes and hail. We have somehow survived a quarter of a century under the same roof without killing each other. That alone deserves a medal, a presidential pardon, or at the very least, a dinner where the prices on the menu have no more than three digits.

Exactly 25 years ago, I married Ambika, my best friend. The great thing about marriage is finding that one special person you want to annoy for the rest of your life. By the way, do you know what I did before I got married? Anything I wanted to.

We met during our CA studies and within a few months she convinced me that almost everything I was doing was wrong. I should have taken the hint. Instead, I proposed. Over the years, I have been wrong in four continents, 12 countries and still counting.

Looking back, it is incredibly obvious that her judgment was severely impaired in her younger years. Love may be blind, but marriage is a real eye-opener. To this day, I have no scientific explanation for how she has tolerated my existence for 9,131 days (yes, every day of survival matters). That is 219,144 hours of her questioning her life choices and me watching a lot of Test cricket.

Marriage is when a man and woman become as one, but the trouble starts when they try to decide which one. I want to publicly thank my wife for letting me believe that I am the one in charge, while she efficiently runs the entire show from behind the scenes like a seasoned puppet master. I don’t go the way life takes me, I go the way my wife takes me, normally to shopping malls or tourist destinations.

Ambika has been my greatest strength for the last 25 years. Through every high, every low, and every major crisis, she has been by my side offering unwavering support. I keep a picture of her in my wallet. Whenever I am faced with troubles, stress, or trauma, I stop, take out my wallet, and look at her photo. Instantly, all my other problems completely disappear. I look at her face and remind myself: “What could possibly be worse than this?” It brings a strange, peaceful perspective to any crisis.

Of course, every successful marriage requires compromise. I compromise by doing the chores she asks me to do, and she compromises by re-doing them properly right after me. She makes the marriage work. I make the jokes. However, she still sneers at my (poor) jokes even after 25 years. It is about time she accepted her fate, lowered her standards, and started laughing at my (dad) jokes. Just last month, I told my wife that a husband is like a fine wine; he gets better with age. The next day, she locked me in the cellar.

I am especially grateful to Ambika for the supreme act of mercy when she pardoned my life after I completely forgot her birthday two consecutive years in a row. I was lucky to avoid the death penalty and get downgraded to life without parole in the guest bedroom. But I am glad that the statute of limitations on that has expired and I can afford to forget it again.

The truth is that I have reached a stage in life where I can’t even sleep without being nagged at constantly during the day. When she is away and there is nobody to criticize my actions, I actually get separation anxiety. Her nagging has become my white noise. Without it, the silence is terrifying. I actually had to download an app that just plays the sound of a woman nagging just so I could fall asleep.

Though Ambika always complains that I forget everything, I can’t remember forgetting anything. On anniversaries the wise husband may forget the past, but he had better never forget the present. I told her that my presence is her ultimate present, but judging by the look on her face, I figured I may need to buy something. So, I bought her a premium vacuum cleaner. I figured after 25 years of cleaning up my act I should finally give her some professional assistance. Ha ha ha.. just kidding. I am not a fool to spend so much money on a gift. I just bought her the mug in the photo.

Do you want to know how I survived 25 years of married life? First, I listen to my heart. Then, I listen to my brain. Then, I do what my wife tells me to do. When people ask me the secret to my marriage, I tell them that marriage is all about give and take. You had better give it to her, or she will take it anyway. After all these years, I have figured out that there are only two things necessary to keep a wife happy. One is to let her think she is having her own way, and the other is to actually let her have it.

Meanwhile, have you noticed that men constantly twist the wedding ring on their finger? Basically, he is trying to figure out the combination to the cuffs. After 25 years, I finally figured out my combination: “Yes, Dear.” But jokes aside, if I had the chance to do it all over again, I would still choose her, preferably before she has a chance to change her mind.

Marriage is like a phone call in the night: first the ring, and then you wake up. - Evelyn Hendrickson

I have been awake for 25 years. What about you?

P.S. Ambika is the luckiest person in the world. She is the only wife who has had two blogs written on her wedding anniversary. In 2008, I had written the blog I don't forget anniversaries. 

Meme is mightier than the sword

"First they ignore you, then they laugh at you, then they fight you, then you win" - Mahatma Gandhi

It was so heartening to witness the Insta-nt generation’s victory of demo-crazy. Having been fascinated by how Mahatma Gandhi fought the British through non-violence, I am delighted to have witnessed an abbreviated, Instagrammable version of it in my lifetime. By a bunch of youngsters who apparently had nothing better to do (because their exam papers were leaked) armed with smartphones, memes, reels, sarcastic placards, satire, dark humour, and pop-culture references.

Gandhi didn’t defeat power by matching its power. Gen Z simply upgraded the philosophy.
Gandhi had the spinning wheel. Gen Z has Canva.
Gandhi had slogans. Gen Z has Instagram.
Gandhi gave speeches. Gen Z made memes.
Gandhi fasted. Gen Z fasted and took selfies about it.
And while Gandhi walked to Dandi, Gen Z gathered at Jantar Mantar. Less distance, less blisters. Very efficient. A social media user summed it up: “Instagram open karte hi Jantar Mantar pahunch jaata hun.”

Thank you, Abhijeet Dipke, Saurav Das and Ashutosh Ranka. And thank you, CJI Surya Kant, who in my opinion, is the co-founder of the Cockroach Janta Party. Nobody launches a movement faster than a judge with a bad metaphor and a live mic. On May 15, the CJI's remark equating unemployed youngsters to cockroaches went viral. While he later clarified that he was misquoted, that was like sending “that's not what I meant” in a WhatsApp group after everyone has already screenshotted your message. (It is a different matter altogether how CJI can call anybody 'cockroaches' during a formal court hearing, but that is for another day.)

Within days, the insult had been reclaimed. The cockroach became a symbol of resilience: impossible to ignore, difficult to kill, and somehow capable of surviving almost anything, including Delhi summer and  Delhi air.

On May 16, Dipke posted on X: “What if all cockroaches came together?” Well, they did. And the CJP was born. When CJP was launched, its eligibility criteria sounded like the perfect Indian startup pitch: unemployed, lazy, chronically online, professionally frustrated, skilled at venting, and, most importantly, possessing a smartphone with sufficient battery. No fundable product required (ahem, ahem - my pet peeve with founders). The seed capital was pure spite.

The traditional political party needs an ideology to rally around. CJP needed Wi-Fi. The traditional political party has a youth wing. CJP has all the youth. And the memes. And CJP turned Jantar Mantar into something between a political rally, a stand-up comedy and a content-creation festival, with occasional lathi charges and tear gas attacks.

There were serious demands. There were serious grievances. And then there were the placards that were better than the speeches:
“Make in India, not leak in India”
“Chowkidar ko bolo, malik aaya hai”
“Even my pads doesn’t leak this much”
“Bade bade deshon me chote chote bachon ko nahi marte”

Spiderman, Superman, Batman, Marvel, Melodi, Subway Surfers, movie references, viral Instagram trends, and practically anything that had survived the internet for more than 24 hours, found its way onto protest posters.

And perhaps that is what makes humour such a lethal weapon. Because once power becomes a meme, it becomes difficult to maintain the aura of invincibility. Governments know how to handle anger, slogans, and fiery speeches. But humour? That's awkward. Everyone loves a good joke. Even the people the joke is about.

The rulers can arrest a protester. They can remove a banner. They can block a road. They can switch off the internet. But how do you counter a 17-year-old whose meme gets five million views and your own family has also liked it? Good luck issuing a press release against that.

The sheer volume of memes generated by CJP could probably fill a large public library. Maybe somebody should open ‘The Cockroach Meme Library’. The librarian would be an Instagram algorithm. The membership criteria would be:

• Have Instagram
• Have a sense of humour
• Know to make memes and shorts
• And most importantly, have a spine (and that disqualifies most all other generations)

This doesn’t mean Gen Z is unserious. They simply refuse to behave seriously while talking about serious stuff. Laughing at the fire doesn't mean you didn't notice the building.

CJP began as a meme. Then Sonam Wangchuk arrived. The man who has spent years working on education, sustainability, and Ladakh’s development, gave the movement moral authority and a human face. From freezing water into ice stupas in Ladakh to freezing government responses through a hunger strike.

The triple-engine government machinery deployed its usual toolkit: dismiss, discredit, question motives, threaten, bully and, when necessary, used force. Unfortunately, there was one problem. Cockroaches are notoriously difficult to eliminate. If you try to squash one, there are another fifty watching from behind the fridge, and in this case with mobile phones in hand making reels.

There is something deliciously ironic about CJI calling youth cockroaches, since cockroaches can survive extreme conditions, including living for days without a head, going a month without food, holding their breath for forty minutes, or surviving radiation. Basically, nature designed them for Indian politics.

The movement eventually became large enough to force a major political response, culminating in Education Minister Dharmendra Pradhan's resignation on July 25. Turns out cockroaches don't just survive the apocalypse. Sometimes they cause a minor cabinet reshuffle too. You couldn't write this stuff. Actually, you could. But then nobody would believe you.

There is, however, one slightly depressing part of this entire episode. Only a tiny lot of celebrities and influencers threw their weight behind the movement. Democracy is not a spectator sport. You cannot sit in the living room, watch young people get beaten up, forward three WhatsApp messages about democracy and then congratulate yourself for having participated. It is like liking a gym selfie and calling it exercise. At some point, you have to show up.

A long while ago, I wrote a blog on why people should vote. My argument then was simple: democracy doesn't work if citizens treat elections as an occasional inconvenience. They need to participate. The same principle applies to protest.

Voting says “I want a say in who governs me.” Protesting says “I don't agree with what you are doing.” Neither requires you to hate the country. Neither requires you to belong to a political party. And neither requires you to agree with everything others say. Democracy is not the art of agreeing with everybody. It is the freedom to disagree without being crushed for doing so.

Perhaps this is what democracy looks like today. It looks like thousands of young people standing in Jantar Mantar holding cardboard signs. It looks like a rubber duck facing a water cannon. It looks like a British protester making a Rick Astley joke about Brexit. That doesn't make democracy weaker. It actually makes it stronger.

I am not sure what CJP will become next. Perhaps it will disappear now that its immediate objective has been achieved. Perhaps it will evolve into something larger. Perhaps the cockroaches will go back to Instagram, reels, and their doomscrolling. Perhaps some will enter politics, though that would be the worst possible outcome. Because then we may have to deal with politicians who understand memes. God help us then. Maybe his Instagram notification will alert him.

But after all this, if you still think the youth are irrelevant, unemployed, lazy, chronically online and easily inconvenienced, I have one small suggestion. Don't call them cockroaches. Because they might just come together. And then you have a Cockroach Janta Party to deal with. And apparently, they know how to win issues without being political or contesting an election.

I wonder what will happen when Gen Alpha enters the political scene with AI! Till then, vastaguna huiyee..

Long live demo-crazy. Long live the Insta-nt generation. Long live the cockroaches.

PS : That’s my daughter filming from the background when 'Spider-Man: No Way Home' entered the CJP protest at Freedom Park, Bangalore.