my dad's 80th birthday party was celebrated four months belateldly - on his insistence - only with his close friends who incidentally could have filled up a smallish village or at least a hamlet. they each had written a page or two on him and my mum made it into a book and gave it to him. there was much love, much laughter. it truly was a celebration.

later that day he told me i'd probably not be able to think of getting to that age, a lifetime and two thirds of another one away. i couldn't.

then R told me of the old man who begs on the station -- his family has turned him out. he begs on that station and doesn't go away since he gets to steal glimpses of his grandson. his life passes on uncelebrated. in a weird voyeuristic way, i could start thinking of that distant far away age and life. we fought our demons talking about our commune -- adult diapers by the bulk, shotguns and whiskey, dentures and hidden electric fences for people looking to water the walls. (maybe we should invite more of such by inscribing commit no nuisance and watch the sparks fly.)

but when i go away, i will not peek into what's left of my life. i'll walk till i can walk no more. but i won't look back. maybe this is why they left for vanaprastha. they sought a new way.