Seniority is a double edged sword

Over a life spent chasing career growth, the word “senior” has always had very positive connotations. Becoming a Senior Account Executive 30 years back was a day of celebration. While my work was no different from that of the Junior Account Executive’s, my daily allowance during travel had now increased by Rs 25. Also that was the day that Sultan, the office assistant, finally made eye contact and acknowledged my existence, no doubt impressed at the “senior” in my designation. 

 

As life went on and I huffed and puffed up the corporate ladder, I was completely brainwashed to accept that achieving seniority was the path to bigger cars, larger pay checks and so on. When introduced as a senior colleague, one could notice the general feeling of respect that pervaded the room. Attaining “senior management” status was the holy quest for many of us. The word had acquired synonymity with capability, experience and corporate stature.

 

I now find myself at the portal of seniority again – strangely, one that I have not consciously worked towards. From being a plain vanilla citizen, today I become a senior citizen! 

 

I ought to be thrilled at this new level of seniority that I’ve achieved, right? Extrapolating from past experience, I would think a senior citizen will be deemed to be a superior being versus a normal citizen, one whom sundry citizens would flock to for wisdom on how to be a better citizen, how to resolve various knotty problems that an average citizen faces, etc., much as the junior management used to gather around and listen to me pontificate once I crossed over into senior management-dom. However, I’m realizing I’m off the mark by a mile…

 

This new seniority comes with very dubious attachments. Rather than better perks, larger cabins and increased respect, things are rapidly disintegrating. Most activities that were a normal part of life are subject to intense scrutiny by the family. I love driving but now my ability to drive to Pondy without falling asleep at the wheel is a matter of much debate. Changing the 25 kg water can, a job that I used to do with the air of a nonchalant Bahubali till sometime back is now pusillanimously outsourced by my wife to the building security. My son was even putting his foot down on a roller coaster ride recently until I threatened to go on a flash hunger strike. Anything that sounds remotely like fun in my life is a matter for deliberation by an expert committee chaired by my wife with my very hawkish son and my daughter, who, truth be told, while being more inclined towards leniency, is under constant pressure from the brute majority to vote for the veto.

 

The government is complicit too! My driving license expires on a day that is supposed to be a celebratory milestone. I have to go and demonstrate to some random RTO officer that I’ve still got it! And further, I have to prove my driving prowess every five years from hereon. This Machiavellian rule is patronizingly offset by the fact that on my fixed deposits the interest rate I will now get is increased from peanuts to peanuts plus 0.5%!

 

Protests against this sudden and ruthless erosion of one’s rights are not dealt with kindly. My son, post the hunger strike episode, pulled me aside and gave vent to his frustrations. In his view, I was in the worst quadrant of the BCG matrix (X-axis : physical age, Y-axis : mental age). Meaning, I was in reality a senior citizen who was exhibiting petulant, childlike behaviour. 

 

Which has me stumped. The internet, self help books and Milind Soman clearly tell you that you should rebel against accepting limitations. It’s all in the mind, I am being informed. On the other hand, if I violate my boundaries and indulge in anything that is on the exclusion list I have to face the committee and explain my actions. And if I so much as scratch my little finger in the process, consequences are immediate – a growing exclusion list, stricter monitoring protocols and other similar discomfiting steps. 

 

My friends of equivalent vintage appear equally confused. Some of them put on a brave a face and  proclaim that age is just a number. By evening that same fellow is sitting in the bar with his foot in a cast maintaining that you have to listen to your body. I’m sure he would have listened to an earful at home about the sequence of events that led to the cast. 

 

So forgive me if I respond a little lukewarmly to birthday wishes. I am in petulant mood. How does one keep up the quality of life when the world has decided that you need to be under constant CCTV monitoring? Now that our children are grownups, I’m getting the uncomfortable feeling that my wife is rather beginning to warm up to the role of a helicopter spouse. Many of her calls with my son seem to start with the phrase “Do you know what your dad did today????”. And I’m right there in the room…

 

So how am I coping, you ask? Post a phase of life through which I have been a fine and upstanding citizen, the transition from normal to senior citizenship has paradoxically rebooted dormant tactics from my teenage days. Namely, being economical with the truth. The number of pegs I’ve consumed, the number of times I ate out last week, the time I got back last night – there is a correct answer and there is the truth. And if the cost of hanging on to the freedom to indulge in some harmless activities is uttering a few inconsequential lies, so be it. For those who feel squeamish about subterfuge in the land of the Mahatma, let me point out that protecting freedom through nonviolent means is the best tribute we can pay to his legacy…

 

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