On turning fifty…

I remember as a young boy thinking how would I feel when I reached fifty years of age. It seemed such a long way off then. But here I am, turning fifty, and wondering once again, what it would be like to reach seventy-five. But there is a difference between these two extrapolations. In the first case, I was instinctively certain I would one day reach fifty; but in the second case, I am only filled with hope that I may live to see seventy-five. When your body is fifty years old – battered, bruised, and abused – the level of optimism cannot be that high.

However, I am not sure if turning fifty means anything at all. But on the other hand, It does feel like a milestone. Not in the physical sense of aging, but rather a feeling of having lived through quite a lot. It is a feeling of maturity that comes from having harnessed and channelized the lessons of one’s autobiographical experiences to lead a deeper, richer, and more accommodating life. Maturity is often mistaken for heaviness, a sense of gravitas, austerity. It is quite the contrary. Real maturity, in the great Czech author Milan Kundera’s words, is a lightness of being. It is about throwing away the yoke of experience, and just retaining its essence. At fifty, I feel that lightness.

I do feel a bit nostalgic leaving behind my forties, not because of the fear of getting older, but because it was a very fruitful decade for me. The last ten years have been good in many ways. I don’t know what the future holds, but no matter what happens, I will always remember my forties as the time when I touched something deeper within myself. All the years that preceded this decade, seem to me, at this distance, only a preparation for this one. Personally, professionally, intellectually, many things came together during this period, and more importantly, a steadfastness of purpose and meaning started operating in the way I lived.

Books opened up new worlds for me in the last ten years. I was always a voracious and eclectic reader, but in the last decade, it is not just the diverse reading but the intellectual effervescence such reading triggered that made the difference. Perhaps, I was ripe for it. It was as if a house of treasures was suddenly opened, and I was given unconditional permission to dip and luxuriate in the richness of ideas and insights all around me. Books became my window to worlds that I could never have otherwise known. I became an engaged reader, which meant that what I read became a part of my thinking, being, infused and embroidered with my own reflections on the subject. I recall Alberto Manguel’s meditation on reading in his wonderful book “A history of reading”: “Books may not change our suffering, books may not protect us from evil, books may not tell us what is good or what is beautiful, and they will certainly not shield us from the common fate of the grave. But books grant us myriad possibilities: the possibility of change, the possibility of illumination.” That was exactly what books were for me – the unfolding of myriad possibilities, not as abstract symbols on paper, but pointers to something beyond it.

A birthday is a good time to blow a kiss and send tons of love and gratitude to my family – Amma, Appa( in spirit), Sekar, Kala, and kavya – and friends and colleagues. It is a great blessing to have such support. Thanks to all those who found time to wish me on Facebook, whatsup, email and phone calls. I feel overwhelmed.

God bless…

yours in mortality,

Bala