I yawned, rubbed my eyes and forced myself to focus, knowing that if I did not get started, I would never meet the deadline.
Before reading this essay prompt, I had never given age much thought. I did not know where to start. What does age really mean? It is such an abstract concept. Is it just a number? A social construct? A method for us to keep track or make sense of our lives?
As I sat snug in bed, pondering the significance of age, my thoughts wandered to a movie I had just watched with my family: ‘Poorna: Courage Has No Limit’. I could not wrap my head around what she had achieved.
Despite the late hour and my impending deadline, I wanted to know more about Poorna. An article opened up on my screen. ‘The Last Mile, Through My Eyes’. It read…
***
It was dawn. Under all the layers, the bitter cold still managed to creep in. It numbed every part of me.
I had to remind myself to breathe. In and out. In and out. In and out. My desperate gasps for air drowned the deafening sound of the howling wind. My own weight seemed too much for me to carry, as I clung to the rope, my fragile lifeline.
I struggled with the horrifying visual of seeing them. Those six that had died, unclaimed, in the desolate wilderness. I was too young. It scared me. But I had survived for fifty two days, having made a promise to my talli aṇḍ taṇḍri that I would come home. So, I took another deep breath and pushed forward.
Faint golden rays rose from behind the vast array of snow-capped peaks, setting them aglow. I dug my ice axe into the thick blanket of white. As I took another unsteady step, Anand reached his hand out, pulling me up. Just for a moment, time stood still. Vibrant prayer flags fluttered gently against the backdrop of an azure sky. I made it.
I, Poorna Malavath from Telangana, am thirteen years old. And I just summited Mount Everest.
***
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2 Mother and father in Telugu (a language spoken in Southern India).
I was overcome with a sense of admiration. She was younger than me, yet had scaled incomprehensible heights.
When I think of a thirteen year old, the image of a ‘typical’ teenager seeking acceptance comes to mind: someone finding themselves, their purpose, in a desperate hurry to grow up. I have come to understand through Poorna's story that this may not always hold true. Age does not necessarily define where one is in the journey of life. She achieved at thirteen what many, even with years of experience, are never able to achieve. Her story is one that shows us that age is just a number.
***
A few days later, after discussing my essay with my grandfather, he shared a gripping writeup sent to him by an old friend in Chennai.
In bold letters, it read: 'Never Too Late'...
***
I never thought I would be this nervous again. I never thought I would be spending my free time doing something I had once ran away from. I never thought I would give another exam.
Yet here I was, frantically revising, re-revising, before I tentatively set foot into the examination hall. Joyce had barely been able to give me a spoon of dahi cheeni for luck, before I hurriedly grabbed my papers and left. One would think that after all these years of having seen so much of what life had to offer, I would be completely unperturbed by the idea of an exam. I can assure you that was not the case.
The papers were distributed. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. It felt like deja vu. Deep down, a part of me knew I was doing this purely because of the fear of being irrelevant. The fear of not doing anything that mattered anymore, of letting what remained of my life pass me by. I pushed myself to focus. I had worked hard.
Before I knew it, this chapter was over. Not just the exam, but the preparation that preceded it. It was over. I had done it.
I, Paul Siromoni from Chennai, am ninety years old. And I just earned a PhD.
***
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3 Yogurt and sugar (given to wish luck before an important event).
Retirement. Medical Care. Old age homes. Once again, I found myself restrained by the stereotypes that shape society and are shaped by it. Afterall, is that not the essence of a ninety year old’s life?
Paul broke free from those expectations. He proved that we are never too old to learn. His story is one that shows us that age is just a number.
***
While continuing my research, I recalled a related article I had come across for a history project a few months ago.
‘A Lost Childhood’...
***
As children we know no better. As children we listen to our elders. We listen and smile as they brand our delicate foreheads with sindoor. This barbaric tradition of child marriage is still deeply intrenched in the fabric of our society, with my hometown being the epicentre. It took me no time to realise that I did not want my children and grandchildren to be shackled by these chains of ignorance and oppression.
And then, I met Laxmi. A child bride. I fought for her. I fought for her the way no one fought for me. I took the case to court. And we won.
I, Kriti Bharti from Rajasthan, am twenty five years old. And I was responsible for the first ever nullification of child marriage in India.
***
Carefree and innocent are the words I associate with childhood. The very idea of child marriage negates this; these children are forced to grow up and shoulder responsibilities that are not theirs to bear.
Kriti, at a young age herself, had the strength and determination to challenge an age-old tradition. She was able to scream for those who did not have a voice. Her story is one that shows us that age is just a number.
***
Age did not hold them back, it did not stop them from aspiring to achieve what they believed in.
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4Red pigment applied to the forehead of a married woman in the Hindu tradition.
Through their stories, I came to realise that the question of whether age matters is a complex one. In essence, age is the chronological measure of a person's time on Earth. While it plays a significant role in forming experiences, we cannot let it define us, nor can we allow it to limit us. It is a constant reminder of the transience of life and the need to make the most of our time. It brings perspective and wisdom, however what matters more is an individual's willingness to grow and evolve, regardless of their age. I believe that age should not come in the way of us pushing our limits, continuing to learn, or fighting for what is right. And that is exactly what Poorna Malavath, Paul Siromoni and Kriti Bharti did. When faced with challenging life situations, they prevailed, in spite of their age, and not because of it.
And it is their stories and the insight I have derived from them that have inspired this essay.
***
Wars. Riots. Protests.
Such unsettling images usually come to mind when I hear the word conflict. While these explicit words portray overt, external, and very real struggles, there are other dissonances that are internal and more subtle, but just as real nonetheless.
I faced one such conflict recently that transformed a seemingly mundane day into an intensely disturbing one. The look on my childhood friend’s face as he swore me to secrecy, while handing over something as innocuous as an envelope, made my heart sink. Tearing open the envelope, nothing could have prepared me for the trepidation I felt.
The contents revealed that my friend was in an abyss, a dark place, mentally and emotionally. Confused, dejected, almost hopeless, he appeared to have lost his once joyful spirit. Unable to cope, he struggled with his sense of identity, acceptance, and self-worth. His confession of resorting to self-harm and threats to escalate the same alarmed me.
Overwhelmed. Powerless. Conflicted. I scrambled to process this hard-hitting information about someone I had known for fourteen years. How could I have missed this? How could I keep the burden of his secret, yet help him? I knew that this was a cry for help, for attention. Was he presenting the whole truth? Was there any exaggeration or even a chance that he was underplaying his trauma? Was this as serious as it seemed? In that instant, I was torn.
I tried to be the friend I thought he needed – the patient listener, the shoulder to cry on, the one to shake him out of his self-imposed isolation. But no matter how hard I tried, nothing changed the status quo.
Faced with this dilemma, I weighed my options – I could betray his trust by seeking adult help, and take the chance that he might never confide in me again, or I could continue to do what I was doing and hope for the best. Second-guessing my handling of the situation, I realised I was out of my depth. If something were to happen to him, I would not be able to forgive myself. Such was the pressure of responsibility that I felt.
My logical mind, gut instinct, and conscience were all pulling me in different directions, until logic prevailed. It became clear that I had to ask for help: I had to be his voice.
With this, I tentatively approached our class teacher. The conversation we had was one I will never forget. Then came the instant relief, the feeling of no longer being solely responsible for his well-being, and the reassurance that I had made the right decision. Speaking up led to my friend receiving the support he needed from school and the guidance of a professional therapist.
This experience opened my eyes to the power each of us has to make a profound difference in someone’s life. Such a responsibility requires us to step up and take action in a mindful and sensitive manner. At a personal level, I understood the importance of making difficult decisions when faced with conflict.
For the first time in my life, I was confronted with the universal tragedy of young children having to fight a hidden enemy in a battle so ruthless that it invades our most sacred space – our mind. The reality of mental health problems hit me like a ton of bricks, especially because often, these internal conflicts go undetected, causing unprecedented damage in their wake. How then are these conflicts any less real than the ones we visibly see? While war, hostility, and violence continue to plague the world and threaten stability, the quiet conflicts of inner discord, in their many subtle yet complex forms, cannot be overlooked and must be addressed to build fortitude, resilience, and peace.
Thursday, 1:20 pm, 15th July 1957. That was the day when she moved in next door. Come to think of it, probably the only day I actually saw her set foot in her front yard. The sun was high in the sky, its warm, blinding rays directed towards us. As she got out of the car, I couldn’t help but notice her vacant blue eyes blazing in the sun’s heat. She turned towards me, revealing a face covered with wrinkles. I saw her eyes go up and down as if scanning me before she turned and swiftly walked into the house without a word. I remember thinking her to be rather peculiar, butover time that was all anyone could talk about; ‘You haven’t by chance seen that crazy old woman who moved into the neighbourhood?’ ‘I’ve heard that she never comes out...I wonder what she’s doing locked up inside.’ ‘She’s probably plotting something evil.’ ‘Well, it’s better to have that mad woman inside her house rather than outside where she can harm us.’ For days on end, this was what would go on, rumours, speculation, hearsay; all without any evidence, but seemingly real nonetheless. And they cast an aura of mistrust and suspicion around the mysterious old woman. My mother even forbid me to walk past her house alone, insisting that she seemed unpredictable. So I learned to fear her. I learned to think that she was a mad woman who was up to no good.
Then one day, that all changed. I was playing with my little brother in our garden and he accidentally threw the ball over the fence and into her back yard. I recall screaming at him for being so careless, but I ended up going to pick it up myself. As I slowly and cautiously walked towards her house, I couldn’t help but think about what she would do if she saw me there. But I quickly pushed that thought out of my mind. I spotted the brightly coloured ball as soon as I set foot in her back yard and ran to pick it up. But before I left, I hesitantly turned to take one last glance at her house. And ended up looking straight into a pair of deep blue eyes! I gasped, my mind racing with thoughts; Should I leave? Should I run? Should I explain why I was here? But before I could do anything she said, ‘Hold it.’ I felt my heart race as I slowly turned, bracing for something to happen. But nothing did. She narrowed her eyes, looked me up and down, then out of nowhere, she said, ‘Would you like to come in for a lemonade?’ I couldn’t believe my ears. Feeling bewildered, almost terrified, I wondered what I should do? My instincts told me to run, but I couldn’t move. So I followed her. As she led me down a long dark passage, my hands trembled with every step further into her house. We came to a room, that overlooked a lush green garden filled with colorful blooms. And I walked right in, suddenly feeling more at ease. Empty cups of tea and, diaries filled with pages and pages of writing and books that appeared to have been read over and over again, were everywhere. And then I noticed an old type-writer on a desk at the far corner of the room. And then it hit me. She was a writer, who probably spent much of her time tucked away in this cosy corner, in her own world, away from ours!
We had got it all wrong; She wasn’t mad...she was just different...not like us. Her madness was our perception, not her reality. How easily we jump to conclusions when we don’t understand someone. As we sat opposite each other, in comfortable silence, me sipping my refreshing lemonade, she with the hint of a smile on her face, I found myself looking into her kind blue eye. And it was at that moment that I finally understood the truth. Her truth. And the truth about madness.