Serenity at Dusk
“It’s a pity that life’s best part came at the beginning and the worst at the end,” Mark Twain’s poignant words echoed in my heart as I entered my fifties. While warm greetings from family and friends made my fiftieth birthday memorable, the shadow of old age dimmed my spirit. As a surgeon, I mend bodies daily. Yet at just fifty, I feared aging’s toll—debility, deprivation, dependency, disease, and death—while yearning for peace.
“Why would God craft a miserable climax for His otherwise marvelous creation? Why not a joyful conclusion?” I whispered, finding no solace even in the grand narrative of evolution. “Why must life, shaped by countless beneficial changes, end in sorrow?” Despite a life rich with accomplishments, I felt a gnawing frustration, unable to reconcile myself with my fading youth and the impending old age.
“Age is only for the body, not the mind,” a senior colleague proclaimed at his seventieth birthday, dancing to modern tunes in a vibrant T-shirt. “You can feel youthful even in old age!” His optimism was admirable, but unconvincing. I could dye my hair or don bright clothes to appear younger, but my body betrays me. I can’t savor food like the young, can’t revel in intimacy as they do, and can’t play with their ease. These faculties only decline with time. How can I feel youthful at seventy without deluding myself?
Medical advances may bolster vitality and delay aging, but delaying a problem isn’t resolving it. Could we ever welcome old age instead of fearing and postponing it? Can we meet death with serenity? My fear of aging intensified my quest for deeper wisdom. I explored my tradition’s teachings and met spiritual gurus. Still, my questions and grief lingered. With hope fading, I resigned myself to Kala, Time’s relentless march, bracing for suffering in its wake.
In my despondency, I found myself back in my childhood village for a family get-together. Remembering it was Guru Purnima—a sacred day to honor mentors—I decided to visit my beloved school teacher, Ramayya master garu, seeking his blessings. More than a teacher, his sprawling, greenery-filled home was our childhood heaven after school hours. As we children learned and played under his guidance, Mathaji, his wife, served us delectable prasadams. It was like a gurukul, alive with learning and joy.
Years had passed since I last saw master garu. Stepping into his home, nostalgia surged, vivid childhood memories sparkling in my mind. Freshly watered plants, glowing in the evening twilight, welcomed me. I found him seated in his familiar chair, eyes closed, softly chanting a sacred mantra.
“How are you, master garu?” I greeted. (Garu is an honorific suffix in Telugu, akin to ‘ji’ in Hindi.)
He peered at me, his vision dimmed. “Who…?”
“It’s your Srinu, master garu—now Dr Srinivas,” I called, drawing closer.
“Ah, Srinu! It’s been so long!” His voice, strong despite his fragile frame, warmed my heart.
After greetings, I offered master garu a check-up with my ophthalmologist friend, hoping to restore his sight. He chuckled, “Srinu, I know you doctors can fix my eyes and revive my vision. But how long should I see this same old world?” His humor, undimmed at eighty, amazed me. Eager to help my beloved teacher, I pressed for treatment, but he gently declined, appreciating my sincerity.
“My dear Srinu, I’ve had my share of this world’s wonders,” he said. “I await my relieving orders—no more checkups or treatments.” No trace of fear or despair marred his radiant serenity, captivating me. How could he be so joyful at his age? How was he unafraid of death? In that moment, I realized I’d found the Guru I sought.
I shared my fears of aging with master garu, asking him if one could truly feel young in old age, recalling my colleague’s optimism.
“Strange questions from a learned doctor,” he laughed.
“Master garu, we doctors save lives, yet fear death. We cling to youth, fearful of old age,” I admitted. “We don’t know how to embrace life’s certainties ourselves.”
“Rare introspection, Srinu,” he said. I recalled how he praised my scientific doubts in school.
After a thoughtful pause, he began, “Srinu, every phase of life, including old age, offers gifts to cherish. Mimicking youth in old age is neither necessary nor wise.”
“What is there to cherish in old age?” I wondered, listening intently.
“Imitating youth in old age reveals unfulfilled desires and discontent,” he explained. “If we rightly satisfy our desires in youth, they won’t haunt us later. Instead, we revel in old age’s serenity.”
“But, master garu, can desires be fulfilled so fully they fade away?” I asked.
“Yes, if they’re true desires,” he replied.
“True and false desires exist?” I exclaimed.
“Indeed, true desires—hunger, love, affection—are biological needs essential for survival. Nature provides ample means to fulfill them. Satisfying these, we feel sated and no longer crave them in old age. Overcoming these urges liberates us from the material world, ushering in Bliss—the boundless happiness of a boundless state.”
“A new perspective,” I felt.
“Conversely, those chasing false desires suffer persistent discontent. False desires—cravings for money, power, fame—aren’t essential for survival. Unlike true desires, these insatiable urges never fade. The more we gain, the more we hunger, entangling us deeper in the material web.”
“But master garu, we need money to meet our biological needs,” I argued.
“Yes, Srinu, we need money for biological needs, but chasing excess makes it a false desire, a trap. Despite our obsession, pursuing wealth hinders true desires, fosters rivalry, and harms nature.” His words struck me deeply.
“Srinu, it is sacrifice, not competition, that fulfills our needs and brings joy and harmony. Krishna says in Gita that nature is pleased with sacrificial deeds, yagnas, there by providing all we need for living. Sadly, driven by greed, people today compete fiercely for wealth and supremacy, seeking to outdo others. In this chase, we not only harm ourselves but also nature.”
His revelations stirred my true self, long suppressed by my ambitious and competitive self molded by modern society.
“Srinu, in ancient times, Ashrama Dharma guided people through life’s stages—student, householder, retiree, renunciant—guarding them against the material traps,” he explained. “Despite modern doubts, Ashrama Dharma aligns with nature’s rhythms, making youth joyful and old age blissful. People married young, fulfilled desires before they twisted into cravings, raised children without lavish aids, and nurtured strong families free from greed. With duties fulfilled early, they embraced old age with peace.”
“Lucky days!” I added. “Unimaginable in the modern world!”
“True, with Ashrama Dharma forgotten, people now compete fiercely for power, degrees, and possessions, missing life’s true joys—children lack fun and affection, the young forfeit real delight and turn to addictions, adults miss family bonds while chasing money and fame. In a way, we compete for what we should sacrifice and sacrifice what we should cherish,” he said, succinctly encapsulating modern life’s folly.
“Pity us!” I sighed, asking, “Can we practice Ashrama Dharma in modern society?”
“Srinu, society has strayed far from truth beneath civilization’s veneer, so Ashrama Dharma may now seem archaic. Yet, the value of marriage and family— Grihast Ashram—remains vital. Timely marriage could curb modern chaos and realign life’s course,” he explained.
“Young people naturally burn with desire, especially for intimacy. Without timely marriage to channel this, they seek improper outlets, falling into addiction, depression, and lifelong strife. A true Grihast Ashram fulfills their desires rightly, fosters social order, and purifies the mind for later renunciation and bliss.” I admired his candor in tying physiology to Dharma.
“I agree, but today’s youth view marriage as a barrier to freedom and fun. A solo life allows outings, eateries, movies, and pubs at will, while marriage restricts such spontaneity,” I said, voicing their perspective.
“So, they’d nibble appetizers forever, skipping the main course?” he laughed. “Youth must realize that snacks don’t satisfy hunger—they fuel it, harming the body. Similarly, an indulgent solo life offers little despite its allure. A disciplined married life fulfills desires, bringing contentment.”
“Outings might decrease, true. But who craves snacks after a hearty meal?” he chuckled. “A good marriage offers deeper joys—family, children, festive rituals—surpassing student-life thrills.”
“Master garu, even grihasthas—married couples—aren’t happy these days!” I said, reflecting my discontent.
“That’s because people don’t practice Grihastha Ashram well. Chasing degrees and salaries, they marry late, live apart, neglect children and elders. Truly, modern couples are neither proper grihasthas, nor are their homes true grihams. How can they find happiness?”
“My foolishness, master garu,” I said, asking, “When should people marry, you think?”
“A tricky topic today!” he said. “Srinu, Rama was 16, Sita 8, at their wedding—strange to modern minds, but their era valued early maturity. It is a pity that today’s generation lingers in childishness into their twenties and thirties.” His ancient yet bold perspective struck me.
“Master garu, maybe people are aging slower nowadays, hence are childish in their twenties and youthful in their fifties,” I said, chuckling.
He smiled in return. “No, their bodies are growing as usual; it’s just their minds are lagging,” he said, asking, “Srinu, if a flower delays blooming, is that good?” I nodded guessing his logic.
He continued. “So, our minds must mature with age. Great minds ripen early; lagging minds—childish at 20, youthful at 50—signal delay.” I felt modern perceptions crumbling under ancient wisdom.
“From that immaturity and fear of aging, people pose as youthful in their fifties, not that they’re truly vibrant as in their teens. Studies confirm declining vitality, like lower semen counts, over the past century—people are less youthful now. You’d know, as a doctor.” His scientific clarity left me awestruck.
“Life is brief, youth briefer. Don’t waste it chasing titles and wealth. A joyful life needs little; such pursuits steal youth’s joy and sow lonely, regretful old age,” he said, offering timeless wisdom to modern youth.
After a serene pause, master garu continued, “To live fully, people must do the right things at the right time following the laws of nature. Those who do will free themselves from social ties, experience old age’s bliss by 60 or even earlier, and leave the world bravely when the ‘call’ comes. Otherwise, people delude themselves as youthful in their 70s and 80s, craving pleasures and possessions while struggling to rise, attached to a world that rejects them,” he chuckled. “These discontented souls, burdened by unfulfilled desires, fear death, seeking hospitals and bitter pills, only to suffer more. Yet nature kindly releases them from their self-inflicted pain.”
“Profound, master garu,” I said, joining his laughter. “Is living long bad?” I asked.
“No, Srinu, with rightful living, you may live long, but won’t crave it. Living long in fear of death is hell,” he said, pausing briefly. “For enlightened souls, life’s length matters little. Shankaracharya, a revered philosopher-sage, chose to depart at 32 years, fulfilling his mission. By contrast, many rishis, ancient seers, lived thousands of years. Rising above worldly desires, great minds live in bliss, choosing their time here.”
“But master garu, Shankaracharya never married. So marriage, children, and fulfilling desires not necessary to detach and find bliss?” I asked.
“Well, enlightened souls, grasping life’s fleeting pleasures, avoid that drama, seeking bliss directly. But for most people, that’s not possible, hence the need for marriage and Grihastha Ashram. Yet, Grihastha Ashram isn’t just for the ordinary—enlightened sages married, raised families, sustained lineages, and upheld Dharma, modeling the right path.”
He continued, “To realize bliss, we must shed bodily desires. The easiest path is through the Grihast Ashram, fully experiencing these joys, tiring of them.”
“Insightful, master garu,” I reflected.
“Is there hope for those who squandered youth on degrees, wealth, and status who reach old age unfulfilled? Can they find bliss, or must they suffer past mistakes?” I asked, seeking relief for my discontented soul.
“Well, even if you didn’t do well in early school, you can excel at university, right?”
“Of course,” I said, nodding.
“Likewise, you can find bliss in old age even if you faltered early,” he said. “Realize that material gains offer fleeting happiness, while renouncing them brings lasting joy. Acquiring things demands effort and rivalry, but renunciation, though mentally demanding, is effortless in old age. Choose: pursue worldly pleasures and struggle daily, or renounce them and embrace boundless joy.”
He added, “Guidance from a guru, joining satsangs—company of the wise—attending spiritual talks and meditation helps make the right choice, if one has a basic understanding of nature.”
“Profound wisdom,” I said, envisioning a path to peace. “Guruji, one last question—what of old age’s ailments: arthritis, dementia, hearing loss, cataracts?”
“In meditation, blindness, memory loss, deafness become advantages, not problems,” he said, unveiling a profound secret. “For those renouncing worldly desires, old age’s disabilities are blessings. Intact senses distract from inner peace,” he chuckled. “Your costly fixes—joints, hearing aids, lenses— only help immature minds chasing fleeting pleasures, not yogis seeking bliss.”
I joined his laughter, warmed by his wisdom. His revelations, blending ancient and scientific insight, kindled hope, soothing my sorrow. I touched his feet, grateful for his eternal guidance. Bestowing blessings, he said, “Thank you, too, Dr. Srinivas,” puzzling me. I honored Mathaji, took her blessings and prasadam, and returned home in ecstasy. Master garu’s words echoed in my heart through the night.
The next day, as master garu’s serenity graced my morning prayer, a call from my village stunned me: “Ramayya master garu is no more.” I couldn’t believe it: “He was talking to me last night!” As tears fell, I realized his thanks: he chose Shivaikyam, union with the divine, fulfilling his mission to spread wisdom, reviving joy in this weary world. I felt blessed as his chosen disciple.
I continued my prayer, chanting the sloka from Brihadaranyaka Upanishad:
Om Asato mā sadgamaya,
Tamaso mā jyotirgamaya,
Mrityormā amritam gamaya,
Om shanti shanti shantih
“Lead me from untruth to truth, from darkness to light, from death to immortality, Om peace, peace, peace.”
I heard the Almighty answer my prayer through my beloved master garu. Enlightened, I embrace aging with bliss, rephrasing Mark Twain: “The beginning is good, but the best awaits at the end.” I salute the Almighty’s wondrous creation.
