‘Country roads/take me home/to the place /I belong...’ (A song by John Denever)
An Old Age Home-the very title evokes mixed feelings of empathy, sympathy, anger (how can children be so insensitive as to allow their parents live in old age home) and above all the fear unknown. Nobody would prima facie like the idea of a shelter home for the old and suggest or consider better at the most a day care centre for the old people and would not hesitate to state how un necessary are old age homes as they provide an option to the children to abandon their parents. ‘No homes no abandonment’ is their simple conclusion.
Who would like to live in an old age home by choice? I don't think anyone would. But what is the choice if there is no place to go to, no roof over head to shelter, no means to make ends meet, no access to medical health care to nor children to take care after the age of utility is over. The circumstances as compelling as stated above may be rare but nevertheless the instances as such can be found in every nook and corner of the world , howsoever prosperous a country may be, developed and proud of its value system et al, the old age homes' necessity cannot be ruled out anywhere. The nature, support systems, approach and mode may vary from area to area but one thing stands apart in all the old age homes across the world- the feelings they evoke.
I happened to visit an Old Age Home the day before. The place was small consisting of a hall wherein lay twenty odd cots. More than the state of the hall, the frail, aged men and women walking around or sitting there drew attention. The ancient eyes, the wrinkled, lean demeanor, the brittle, feeble hands, the shaking gestures made me feel lump in the throat. I gathered myself and started meeting them one by one asking how they were and whether they were comfortable. I turned towards women and one of them suddenly bowed to touch my feet and I felt shocked!! Feebly I mumbled that we who should be touching their feet. She seemed charged and vulnerable and I just hugged her. Leaning on my shoulder she cried and cried and cried. Gradually when she calmed and I sat holding her hands, I asked if she was okay. She said she was all fine here and fumbled: ' suarg mein aa gyi main toh' and pointed to knees and thighs how hurt these were after beatings from her son in law. The 'suarg' she was in was actually so humble a place of living with no luxury of a TV or referigerator or microwave, dirty linen on bed, old towels, no ac nor even effective cooler in the scorching heat of May end. The 'suarg' only meant a roof over head, a peaceful life with no taunts and beatings, a square meal without an asking, a proper bathroom and a toilet which wasn't hers rightfully in the house she lived in. The 'suarg' she was in had nothing which she could call her own as she had come here with not even a 'potlee' of clothes of her own. The catharsis she had when tears and tears rolled down her cheeks was a small hug she got from a person unknown to her but she thought her to be the mentor because she had been to her office with a hope to be listened to..only to be heard-something which a DC would ( or should) do as a matter ofcourse.
I came home depleted in energy and charged with emotions. I kept wondering if I or people around me in general deemed our own fate as being 'in suarg' blessed with all the comforts of the world, with absence of predicament of violence as she had gone through (God knows for how long). Do we ever thank God for all that we are blessed with as profusely as she did for something that was not really really much?
Perhaps all that one needs in waning years is a human touch, a caring gesture, a few minutes to make one feel 'less forlorn', a patient ear, an affectionate, humane bearing to make them feel at ease, comfortable,an expression of love (not sympathy) to make them feel 'wanted' and 'valued'. Is it asking for too much? How many of us can give them this? No wonder their blessings could mean an assured 'suarg' and salvation, too.
'Let's go then you and I.....'
