I wish I could age at my own, pace, leisurely, unhurried, like a Sunday afternoon nap.
It’s a reasonable request: after all, it’s my ageing. But the world shows no inclination of granting it to me.
In India, when my wife and I were just 24 years old we were jolted by being addressed as “aunty” and “uncle”. I didn’t mind it much when two-year old girls sweetly did it, but it was galling to be called “uncle” by strapping men with beards and moustaches, close to my age.
It was a relief to come to Singapore and discover that the local population, while respectful of age, tends to use the terms “uncle” and “aunty” to address older service staff.
But in my early 50s, strolling through the serene lawn of middle age, I stepped on a pitchfork and its handle smacked me in the face.
“Senior citizen discount for you, sir?” said the cheerful salesgirl at the checkout counter of the supermarket. “That’s for people over sixty years old, right?” I asked coldly. I frowned too, thinking that perhaps my cold tone had been too subtle.
It had. But so was the frown. “Yes, sir!” she said joyfully. “You have senior citizen card already?”
I explained that I didn’t for the excellent reason that my 60th birthday was years away. She gave me a look in which I could discern shock and disbelief, not contrite repentance, which did nothing to assuage my ego.
On another occasion, I was at the self-service kiosk at a fast-food outlet. I was debating between a couple of delicious desserts, an important decision that I did not want to rush, especially since no one was behind me in line.
Each dish has its pros and cons, and just as I’d lined them up side-by-side mentally to begin the comparison, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was an employee of the restaurant, a young man in his twenties, a large, friendly smile on his face.
“Need some help?” “No,” I said. Ignoring my answer, he continued: “Here let me do it for you. Many old people find it difficult to use this.”
Neatly inserting himself between me and the screen, he took over proceedings. Speaking in a slow, patient, and embarrassingly loud voice, conveying to nearby customers that I was both deaf and dim, he completed my order while educating me at the same time.
“See uncle, this button here is for take-away, this for dine-in. You want a dessert? Now what I’m doing is…” I could have told him that I’d worked in the fast-food industry for many years and was familiar with the ordering kiosk, but I don’t think it would have helped.
Shortly after that, I was in the lift with a tennis bag on my back. A man joined me on his floor. “Tennis?” he asked. I nodded. “Wah lau eh! Very good, you’re still playing at your age!”
“How old are you?” I asked coldly. It’s a question I don’t usually ask a fully grown adult, but I felt it was excusable in the situation.
“Fifty-three,” he said. “I hope I can be as fit as you when I reach your age.” “You mean 600 days from now?” I said. In his look of surprise, I discerned some embarrassment… I think.
So, a few years later, I found that actually hitting 60 was a pleasure in many ways.
Firstly, I could avail of senior citizen discounts that I had to endure the ignominy of being offered prematurely.
Secondly, while Singapore cabbies are usually helpful, they now spring out of the car to do the lifting almost before the vehicle has stopped.
Thirdly, it feels good knowing I need not avoid a certain seat on the MRT, and it is sometimes vacated for me when I approach.
In my 60s, being called “uncle” no longer hurts. In fact, now I experience a warm glow of satisfaction, joy even, watching my children wince and later whinge when they’re addressed as “uncle” and “aunty”.
Because these are the very same children who in their teens would pooh-pooh my complaints. (“Don’t whine, Appa. They’re only showing respect; accept it gracefully.”)
But just when you think the meadow of life has been lawned to smooth, soft perfection, you realise that other pitchforks are waiting to be stepped on.
A year ago, I became a grandfather, twice. I quite look forward to being addressed as “thatha” (grandfather) by the little ones when they learnt to speak.
I didn’t have to wait. Seeing me with a granddaughter at the temple, a balding man in his 50s smiled at me.
“Have a good evening, thatha,” he said.
(Paddy Rangappa, an ex-CEO, now teaches humour for leaders; happiness at work; and marketing through consumer insights.)
