The article by MS led to serious introspection – Kodava youngsters who want to move out for better prospects (implying sale of inherited land), migrants have overtaken the local community rendering the risk of loss of identity as real and old folks are left to bear witness to this serious underlying problem. Senior citizens amongst Kodavas are left with no option to embarrassingly lease their coffee estates to (unscrupulous) outsiders which eventually falls into wrong hands.
So what is the solution? Few well meaning and concerned Kodavas wish to create facilities for “elders” to live in a rural set-up similar to the old style joint families who lived in AineManes. Comfortably sized cottages, with a community kitchen and common space for interaction. This is a creative alternative to the AineMane. A Trust could be formed to manage individual properties so that it does not fall into wrong hands, generates income and gainful employment and importantly retains the ability for the children as they grow older to return to their home base.
There is perhaps merit in examining such options if we want to keep the district’s identity intact and our elders the choice for a more meaningful existence. Readers views are most welcome. – CLN Newsdesk
In every home, in a relatively quiet corner, lives a “presence” that we often overlook, the “presence” of significance who once held our entire world together. Our Senior Citizens. Respectably getting older and the custodian of wisdom accumulated through experience. Within them lives a richness that is to be nurtured, preserved and treasured for posterity.
We notice their wrinkles, which cannot be erased even it’s tried. Those lines etched across their faces are not marks of decline, they are stories of sacrifices made without expectations, of hardship endured without complaint, of boundless love given without expecting anything in return. Each wrinkle is a chapter of a life that built ours.
There was a time when those precious hands held ours as we took our first uncertain steps; Voices that narrated bedtime stories (Avvayas especially), gently shaping our dreams, our values, our sense of right and wrong – precious value systems. They were our Protectors, our Teachers, our entire intellectual omniscient universe.
The sad truth is that these precious elders are still with us but somehow we seem to have drifted away. In the noise and fast pace of modern life, we have grown distant. – a chasm has formed. Conversations have shortened. Time has become scarce. We replace presence with excuses, affection with obligation. We assume they will understand and perhaps they have no alternative. That is what makes it all the more heartbreaking. Because they never stopped understanding us. They never stopped loving us.
Even now, they wait , not for grand gestures, not for material comforts but for something far more humane. A few moments of genuine attention. A conversation without distraction. A reminder that they still matter.
There is a quiet dignity in ageing. It is not weakness, it is endurance from experience. It is living through seasons of life, carrying memories, lessons, and wisdom that no book can attempt to fully capture. In their domain lie truths we often seek elsewhere, forgetting that they exist right beside us. And yet, what do we offer them in return? Too often silence, distance, neglect.
A society that overlooks its elderly is not moving forward, it is forgetting its own foundation. Because the values we cherish, the lives we lead, the identities we hold are all rooted in the lives they lived before us. One day their voices will no longer call out to us.
The stories we postponed listening will remain untold. The hands we failed to hold will no longer reach out. The presence we took for granted will turn into an absence we cannot fill.
And in that silence, we will finally understand what we lost. But by then , time will have moved on. Sit beside them. Listen to their stories, even if you heard them before. Value their presence not as a duty , but as a privilege. Because in their presence lies not just our past, but the very essence of who we are.
Their wrinkles are History.
Their age is wisdom.
And their presence is truly precious.
At 50, having lost both my parents, I often hear people say that today’s children are growing up without grandparents. But deep inside, I realize that what I truly miss is not just their presence for my children; I miss being someone’s child myself.
I miss the old man who quietly stood beside me during my failures, placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder and telling me to wait for the next train in life. I miss my mother’s scolding, her endless warnings about what not to do, and those familiar calls from the master bedroom that once filled the house. Always been poked “Neek makka achi, budhi yekka bappo…Davake goth”.
That room now stands silent, with voices that can never return. As generations shift, perhaps our children may not look toward us for guidance and consent, the way we looked up to our elders. But the emptiness left behind by our parents is something that will quietly die within us, with no one among our children truly able to acknowledge or understand it.
Their wrinkles are History.
Their age is wisdom.
And their presence is truly precious.
So so true! Great article!