A Pensioner.

By M P Anand 

A Pensioner.

Peering through his thick bifocal glasses,
the furrows on his forehead
distinctly conspicuous by the effort,
the octogenarian finds his name
and his pension payment order number 1590
in the government pension register
at the Calicut corporation office.
With a veined, wrinkled, and shivering hand
whispering the stifled whines of a progressive caducity,
he affixes a one-rupee revenue stamp against his name
and then puts his signature across the stamp
in the pension register and collects his monthly pension
from the pension clerk, verifies the amount,
puts it in his purse
and thrusts it deep into the side pocket of his pants.
Slightly detached with an air of apathy
imbued by many years of senescence,
he notices that his serial number in the pension register
has steadily decreased, the deep decline indicating that
many of his senior colleagues have passed away.
He knows that his time will come
and the finishing line is not very far away.
Pension payment order number…PPO no. …
Their status has been reduced to a number now in office,
No designation, title, or any honorific appellation necessary now.
He gently pushes himself away from the counter
and joins the small crowd of his former colleagues,
now retirees and fellow pensioners,
in the adjoining room.
No firm handshakes
or any effort to impress them,
neither through attire nor attitude.
A nod, a smile, or a light touch is enough.
There is a world of understanding among them,
a considerate and sympathetic empathy and rapport.
Most of them have worked together from their twenties
till retirement.
The most appealing and satisfying aspect
of coming in person to the corporation office
to get the monthly pension was this meeting.
An inner contact with the gathering.
A catharsis or a purging of emotions.
He joins them in a chat
The chat is mostly about their diseases,
sugar level, blood pressure, cholesterol, dental decay,
arthritis, lack of or excess of sleep, indigestion,
or departed colleagues.
All have become experts in treating each other
with solutions ranging from kitchen remedies to
advising the consultancy of the best doctors.
Many are of the opinion that
the electric crematorium in Mavoor road is the best,
Cheap, clean, hygienic, and less time-consuming for their children.
No more fire in them to discuss fiery politics,
No verbal war over polemic issues,
No boasting about their children’s success,
No bickering about their ingratitude,
No bitter competition,
No ego clashes,
No big aims, goals, or targets to chase.
An attrition caused by the infirmity of old age
has eroded all the rough edges.
They have withdrawn into themselves,
weary, worn, and spent,
Decrepit by old age, diseases, and their impending end.
He had given up dyeing his hair black long ago,
No comprehensible rationale in pretending to look young,
When every part of his body was creaking and screaming out his real age.
Even a haircut and trimming of moustache and beard,
was done once in two months.
Tempus edax rerum.
Time that devours everything.
Time, that eternal Muse, gnawing at existence,
with a ravenous hunger.
It was already a couple of years into the new millennium.
The new corporation office building at the beach road,
facing the sea, was an impressive building replete
with all modern facilities.
A far cry from the old colonial edifice that he had worked in.
He looked out of the aluminum-framed sliding glass window,
with eyes, once bright with dreams,
now mirroring the fading sunset,
across the beach and into the sea.
A few fishing boats were at work.
The sea intoxicated him.
Sunset time at Calicut beach, the Sun lambent sea,
Seagulls flying home in a V shape,
The wind rustling the leaves in the trees,
The gentle caress of the salty sea breeze,
And the lapping waves.
A natural divine euphoria and exaltation indeed.
An integral of happiness over time,
An unbridled joy, an intoxication of the soul,
A solace in the ephemeral magic of being alive.
But he didn’t have the courage or fortitude to wait that long.
He had refrained from drinking or eating anything
so that his urinary and bowel incontinence,
wouldn’t cause a faux pas or social blunder.
He bids adieu to his fellow pensioners, takes leave of them,
comes out of the office building
and carefully descends the steps.
He blinks in the bright afternoon Sun
and using his umbrella as a walking stick,
heads home slowly, cautious about a crippling fall,
happy with the monthly subsistence money in his pocket,
but uncertain……
Uncertain whether they would meet each other again the next month or ever.