We know a lot of people who squeal, ‘how cute!’ when they see a baby, and we know many who rush to help the aged because they are, you know, so sweetly helpless. Elder abuse as well as child abuse are inhuman crimes, of course, but can one really say that no babies are crabby and that all oldies are goldies?
Someone or the other is overheard declaring that they just love, love, love babies. You can love a resort or an ice cream, but how can you be in love with all the little ones all over the world all the time?
One also hears, this time more self-consciously, virtuous folks praise themselves for the work they do for the older generation because, you know, they have such big hearts etc. etc. Again, what can be more insulting for individuals over sixty than to be lumped together with a faceless, nameless blob segregated only by the number of birthdays they had?
The thing is no one is permanently cute or sweet. We all have days when we can’t stand ourselves. One day we are a baby our mother thinks should rule the world, another day we are drooling incontinent dribblers trying to remember our own name. We can throw a tantrum for a toy we just have to have and we can be crotchety like that man called Ove before the author decided to sweetie-pie him for the readers.
Age cannot be the defining feature of anyone’s identity; we are who we are whatever our age. I have seen evil toddlers and I have seen angelic octogenarians. Being really young or at death’s door doesn’t render anyone precious or saintly. This sweeping generalisation doesn’t take into account personal quirks and maturity levels. Haven’t we all met unblinking two-year-olds who look at us in such a way that we just have to tell the truth? Haven’t we also met senior citizens who pout childishly?
The point to be noted here is that we usually love, love, love other people’s kids and grand-dads. Our own brats and aunts we barely manage to be civil to. Which is why when we exaggeratedly baby-talk the neighbour’s brat, our offspring throws us betrayed looks. And when we bend to pick up something an old lady in the supermarket dropped, our mom checks our temperature.
There is a high level of desi mockery reserved for the west where senior citizens are dumped in old-age homes. In India we won’t hear of it. We prefer to keep them at home and neglect them at leisure.
If anything, I want to be kinder to cups, which I break routinely. Either while pretending to wash them or by placing them firmly mid-air. I sincerely hope there is a crockery heaven where all the dead teacups waltz with matching saucers. As for human beings, it is best to judge them by their deeds, by the twinkle in their eye – not because they are in a pram or a wheelchair. That’s just ageism of another kind.
Shinie Antony is a writer and editor based in Bangalore. Her books include The Girl Who Couldn't Love, Barefoot and Pregnant, Planet Polygamous, and the anthologies Why We Don’t Talk, An Unsuitable Woman, Boo. Winner of the Commonwealth Short Story Asia Prize for her story A Dog’s Death in 2003, she is the co-founder of the Bangalore Literature Festival and director of the Bengaluru Poetry Festival.
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