“I grow old … I grow old … I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled,” said T S Eliot in The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock. The significance of this declaration or lamentation was completely lost on us BA/MA English students circa 1982, some of us trying sincerely to walk in these long-ago poets’ shoes, and some of us just waiting to exit the lecture hall for our daily wada-pav at the tree canteen.
Now, firmly in our sixties, this rolled-bottom reference to what you wear as you age sounds more relatable. One can see that Seniors are clearly divided, visually, into two different categories: those who dress well even for the early morning yoga class, or breakfast at home, or a visit to the bank, or out for a meal. And those who simply will not bother.
The seniors who believe in dressing well at all times are easily identifiable. They can be seen in ironed clothes, matching and well-selected upper and lower garments, a touch of make up perhaps, good footwear, a bit of jewellery with the women, a small bag with their essentials. The men of this group are bathed and clean-shaven, or have trimmed face hair in whatever configuration they choose to wear it – mousch, or mousch + beard, or goatee, eyebrows not allowed to turn into millipedes. They have clean lenses in their glasses, with frames that are not from baba-aadam-ka-zamaana; their toenails are trimmed and their footwear is in some unobtrusive but neat stage of its life. Let’s call these people Group S (S for Spiffy).
At the other end of the spectrum are one bunch of seniors who, after having dressed formally and appropriately and correctly and obediently for decades, to suit their jobs, to suit their social status, to suit their family commitments, have now decided to dress just simply as they wish. Which may not be unkempt and unhygienic at all, but certainly does not involve spending more than five minutes in thinking of what to wear.
The hand opens the cupboard, pulls out something from a pile that has slightly toppled and thereby lost some of its ironed look. Or they select from a pile that has come out of the washing machine and been, at the most, smoothed down and folded. Their yoga and walking clothes are completely unmatched – not shabby maybe, but definitely not the stuff worn by elegant elderly in the advertisements for various Senior activities and facilities. The down-dressers, both men and women, can be loyal and ardent members of the Grunge Club. Let’s call them Group G.
For those of Group G who take their retirement really seriously, this dressing down has become such a comfort zone, that invitations to weddings and other occasions are met with an inward groan and an outward clever excuse to not go. After all, who amongst them wants to dress up, and that too in some colour dictated by an event planner who wants you to be part of the larger artistic vision of the occasion? “I refuse to be an overpainted Extra in anyone’s kid’s shaadi videos, please,” is the thought that drives them. Perversely, at times, they may possess many silks and suits and ties from their enforced dressing-well days. But those are either being given away systematically, or are entombed and moth-balled in a less-used cupboard or in trunks.
Luckily, for a sense of balance in the universe, there are Group S Seniors who provide the cut-colour-clarity-carat that brings sparkle and elegance to the vision of growing old gracefully. And Group G is left alone, to lounge about in baggy clothes, and proudly compare with their fellow-slouchers, how many years they have owned and worn their happily unremarkable wardrobe.
Yin and Yang, both shall prevail.
As for myself, I am usually firmly in Group G, but make occasional stabs at clambering into Group S.
