In the last year of the first decade of my life, I was a student in grade 5. The nerve shattering impact of realising what an orphanage meant had happened by virtue of reading Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens. "Please Sir, may I have a spoonful more?" Oliver’s desperate plea to the villainous-looking warden, after his hunger remains unsatisfied by the meager portion of soup, has stayed with me. The warden's disdainful refusal and harsh rebuke only deepen the moment’s cruelty. Whilst reading the novel in our literature class being taught by Reverend Brother Robert, I had realised that there is no alternative to the unqualified love of parents and siblings. Little did I know, that some children can have it in them the devilish trait to hurt these relationships.
At the end of one teaching session, Brother Robert announced that we will be taking a field trip on Friday, announcement that kicked up excitement for the entire class and we cheered it with exuberance, hoping that it would be a visit either to the beach or to the new circus that had arrived in the city. We were disappointed, unbeknownst, of what it meant, when he clarified that we would be visiting an old-age home. The prospect didn’t sound exciting, yet suddenly I felt a germination of feelings that I now know were empathy, induced by the passionate explanation of old-age home by the equally sensitive and passionate Brother Robert. My mind conclusively conjured the image of an orphanage as visualised by Dickens. An old-age home will not be much different, we all thought. On hindsight, we were right and I experienced an avalanche of mixed feelings.
Normally, for any external visits and field trips from school, I wouldn't require permission from the family. We were, as a principle, not allowed to go for school picnics, seaside or for that matter, any type of educational trip. Before the dawn of dusk, we were required to be inside our home. No excuses, exceptions or exemptions could be sought or were ever given. But for this trip to the old-age home, instant approval came from the family. Since my siblings also went to the same Convent as I did, therefore it was decided that I was to possibly acquire some worthy lifetime value from this visit. I certainly did.
A day before the scheduled visit, Brother Elphonso and Brother Robert briefed us of how and why old-age homes came to be. They instructed us to put our best foot forward to please the inmates. We asked what we were supposed to do or say? “Just listen with patience and attention and then you can follow this up by narrating school pranks, jokes and also singing some nice, lively songs,” we were told. “Remember, they are lonely people." We wondered what loneliness really meant considering there were about 50 of them living together under the same roof.
Finally, on a cold November evening we arrived at the old-age home in a coaster, which if my memory doesn't betray me was run by Momfert Bros. The old-age home was an imposing bungalow with a typical portico and a sprawling lawn. As we stepped off the bus, we were greeted with cheerful clapping by tired and wrinkled hands. They were all seated encircling a crackling bonfire lit in the middle. They were all smiles and we went around greeting and shaking hands with each of them. Their cheeks had swelled up with the maximum stretch of their wrinkled skins, and it seemed as though any more glee would have ruptured the facial veins, I thought. They were such a pleasant lot.
Each one of us were assigned to two or three inmates. We sat on the cushions placed next to their armchairs. I was filled with the worst type of curiosity; however the reverend brothers had forewarned that we were not to press hard on questions relating to why they were in a home, which doesn’t belong to them.
But curiosity and enthusiasm, I ended up asking one of them, "Aunty, for how long have you been in this home?”
“I have lost count of the years, what is the date today? What year is it?” she asked. Startled, I back tracked. Auntie asked us, if we were good at studies or were more of a mischievous lot? She recalled with precision and in detail how she and her classmates played truant much to the dismay of Mother Superior and the Sisters at the convent. She relished telling us her story and repeated it three times over. We had no clue of what dementia is, and neither did she, the innocent soul.
An elegantly dressed Uncle Ronald spoke about the sports he indulged in as a student. Whether it was badminton, squash, tennis, cricket, baseball, table tennis or hockey, he had a story or anecdote for each sport. He cracked jokes and asked funny riddles. In fact, he imitated Jerry Lewis with perfection, the comedian of the Dean Martin duo fame. He was such fun to be with.
A storytelling session began with Auntie Dorothy narrating Cinderella, followed by Rapunzel. We had been introduced to these fairy tales much earlier, but at the preemptive bidding of our teachers, we listened with rapt attention and passion, as if we never heard these stories before. Exuberance lit up Auntie Dorothy's face as she softly said, "Rapunzel, let down your hair," and it seemed as though some Prince lurking in the old-age home would discover Rapunzel in the tower.
The last story was narrated with equal passion by Mr Frank Anthony, who had retired as the headmaster of a school and sported a deep red bow tie. He told us the story of King Thrushbeard. Morals were derived from these stories in detailed discussions, where we pitched in with our innocent observations.
A lively song and dance session followed. Cliff Richard's Summer Holiday and Dancing Shoes, Frank Sinatra 's Ol’ Blue Eyes were played. Both Dorothy and Catherine (Aunties), suggested that we all sing Que sera, sera, whatever will be, will be. Even at that tender age, we felt the irony of the lyrics of this song as they stung and stabbed our little hearts. It was a moving, yet memorable end to an evening of intense learning about value of life, good health and relationships.
We learnt by observation first, then through meaningful discussions with the reverend brothers, the challenges of living in an old-age home. What emerged significantly and hence left a lasting impact upon our young minds was that apart from financial constraints, these people deal with social isolation, the possibilities of neglect or even abuse, the loss of independence and the growing need to accept dependability for the smallest things.
Nobody grows old by living a number of years, but by deserting our ideals. As Samuel Ullman says, “Years may wrinkle the skin, but to give up enthusiasm wrinkles the soul." Yesterday cannot be called back. Old-Age Homes do give the opportunity for the old and the infirm to develop some degree of camaraderie, including safety and healthcare but the feelings of loneliness were writ large upon their faces. To us it brought home the eternal truth that there is no replacement for family and its togetherness. Old bees yield no honey and hence they are abandoned.
Emotionally wrecked we queued up to alight the coaster. On the way back, my mind was beset with moving memories. I kept gazing through the window into the stillness of the night wondering where the children of these wonderful people were? Why did they leave them here? Why were they not kept at home to be looked after by their families and similar questions kept nagging me then, and to this day, they trouble me endlessly with many such thoughts racing through the mind. I knew I would never forget them, they were so beautiful to look at and so delightful to talk to. I remained silent all through the commute back to school, from where our respective families were eagerly waiting to pick us up.
Being old from the inside is very different from being old from the outside. The sight of the first grey hair can be daunting, and the first sign of crow feet can provoke smashing of the mirror. But most of us do not comprehend that people in Old-Age Homes face so much social isolation. Family members deposit their old folks there, some may visit frequently or infrequently, while others, just forget them. The fear of mistreatment, neglect and abuse is real.
The lines and lessons we wrote in turn on the blackboard read as follows: no belonging is greater than good health; gratitude is a better option than rebuke; forgiveness is a healthy trait to possess; bitterness is self-consuming; simple moments bring joys and smiles; finally, past pain must not shine upon the wrinkles.
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Now fast forward the clock. In almost the middle of the sixth decade of my life, I was recently invited to an Old Age Home/ Orphanage in the upscale DHA. If the first experience in my childhood was painful, this one was excruciatingly painful, distressing and depressing. This home is run by a young lady, who had the courage to take a young girl from the orphanage to be her daughter-in-law. Some young and many not so young narrated harrowing stories of how they were thrown on to the streets by their families/ employers, etc. and how they were picked up and welcomed into this home by this angelic lady, Shagufta. I met her briefly and found her to be the epitome of selflessness, a local version of Mother Teresa, I thought.
Between the first decade and the sixth decade of my life, I realised things had changed only for the worse.
To the words of W.B. Yeats, "when you are old and grey and full of sleep/ And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read , and dream of the soft look your eyes had once; and of their shadows deep," I would merely add, " Which of the bounties of your Lord, will ye deny... .” Treasure your old folks, they are bounty, a blessing. Their place is in your home, their home, not an old-age home.
Sirajuddin Aziz is a senior banker and freelance columnist
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