The Precious Presence of Elders

International Day of Older Persons was observed on October 1st, as a reminder of the invaluable role senior citizens play in our families and society.

Why do all of us as kids – of any generation – love grandparents stories? For that matter most elders of any community, neighbourhood apartment blocks, have mostly got goodness to share. But nobody seems to have time for them anymore 😔

Parents and grandparents have a critical role to play. The other day when we visited a famous chef at her home, she had prepared a phenomenal spread despite having an eight month old toddler. The parents regularly and willingly looked after her child while she was at work. The goodness list is endless. The saddest story that one has heard is a prospective bride’s father asking the future son-in-law – do you have any old furniture at home with you!
– CLN Newsdesk

My name is Dhruv. I’m 71. Last winter, after my wife, Tara passed, I moved into this little apartment building in a quiet part of Noida. Just a room with a view of the parking lot. Felt like the loneliest place on earth. The walls were thin, but the people? Thick as stone. Nobody talked. Just shuffled in, shut their doors. Me included. I’d sit by the window, watching cars come and go, wondering if anyone else felt this hollow.

One Tuesday, rain hammering the roof, I saw Mrs.Kapoor, she’s 90, lives across the hall, struggling with her grocery bag. Plastic handle cut right into her palm. She dropped an apple. Rolled toward my feet. I picked it up, handed it back. Her hands shook like leaves. “Thank you, dear,” she whispered, eyes watery. “These old fingers…. they don’t listen no more.” I walked her to her door. Inside, it was dim. Just a lamp, a worn chair, and a phone. A real phone. Corded. Like from my childhood. “My son calls every Sunday,” she said, patting the receiver. “But the week is long.” That’s all she said. But I felt it in my bones. The silence in that room was heavy. Like mine.

Next day, I knocked again. Brought her the newspaper. She invited me in. We sat. Talked about nothing much; her cat Winky; my grandkids in Mumbai. Her voice was small but warm. When I left, she gripped my hand. “Come back tomorrow, Dhruv. Please.” I did. And the day after. Just to sit. To listen. She’d tell stories about growing up on a village farm, milking cows before school. I’d laugh until my sides hurt. She’d ask about Tara. I’d finally talk. Really talk. For the first time since she died.

Then, last month, I got a call from my daughter. My grandson, Karan, was having a rough time. Bullied at school. Wouldn’t talk to anyone. Sat in his room, head down. My daughter sounded broken. “He just needs… hope, Papa. Something to lift him.” I hung up, heart sinking. How do you fix a kid’s heart from 1,000 kms away?

That afternoon, I visited Mrs. Kapoor. Told her about Karan. Her face softened. “Bring him to me,” she said, tapping the old phone. “Not the boy. His voice. Put him on speaker.” I called my daughter right there. Karan was hesitant. But Mrs. Kapoor started singing. A silly song about a chicken who lost her eggs. Karan giggled. Then she told a story, how she stood up to a mean kid who stole her lunch in 1943. “I didn’t fight him,” she said, voice firm. “I gave him half my food. Turns out, he was hungry.” Karan was quiet. Then, “Can you tell me another one?” That night, Karan slept through the night. First time in weeks.

I thought it was just for Karan. But word got out. Mrs. Singh downstairs, she’s raising twins alone, asked if Mrs. Kapoor would read to them before bed. Mrs. Kapoor did. Used the speakerphone. Next week, Mr. Bose from 3B asked if she’d listen to his poetry. He’s shy, barely speaks English. She did. Nodded along, said, “Beautiful, son. Real beautiful.” Soon, it wasn’t just kids. Mrs. Kapoor started “Story Time Sundays.” Anyone could call her number between 2 and 4 PM. She’d share wisdom, jokes, or just sit quiet if someone needed to cry. I helped set it up, wrote the number on sticky notes, put ’em in mailboxes. At first, folks were wary. “Scam?” someone muttered. But then, Sarita from 2C called. Her mom’s sick in the hospital. She just needed to hear a kind voice. Mrs. Kapoor talked ’bout her own sister, sick long ago. “You’re stronger than you feel, darlin’,” she said. Sarita cried. Then thanked her. Said she could breathe again.

Now? Every Sunday, that old phone rings nonstop. Kids ask for bedtime stories. Seniors call ’cause they’re scared or lonely. A vet called last week, said her dog died, and he was her only family. Mrs. Kapoor talked for an hour about her dog, Robin. “He’s waiting for you at the rainbow bridge,” she told her. “With extra belly rubs.” The vet sent flowers the next day. “You saved me,” the card said.

Mrs. Kapoor’s not famous. No news crews. Just a corded phone and a heart too big for one room. But something changed here. People smile in the hall now. Hold doors. Last week, I saw Mr. Bose teaching Sarita’s twins to say “thank you” in Bengali. They giggled. Mrs. Popli brought me soup when I had the flu. “Pay it forward, Dhruv,” she winked.

I still miss Tara something awful. But this? This ain’t loneliness. This is home. Mrs. Kapoor showed me, connection ain’t about big gestures. It’s about answering the phone. Or knocking on a door. Or sharing your apple. We got so caught up in fancy apps and busy lives, we forgot the simplest thing, being there. Even if it’s just a voice down a wire.

So here’s my promise to you. Call someone today. Not a text. A real call. Ask how they really are. Listen. You don’t need pity or sympathy. Just a listening ear. And the courage to say, “I’m here.” Because that’s how we heal each other. One shaky voice at a time. One lonely heart finding another.

This building? It’s not bricks and mortar anymore. It’s alive. And it started with an apple on the floor.”

Let this story reach more hearts 💖

Author: Anonymous