A cynical old man acknowledges his birthday very grudgingly

All photographs here by Roshani Shah

I try hard not to be cynical. But I think that’s my terrible gift to myself. Life had a hand to play (of course!), bringing me people and platitudes in equal measure, to leave me nicely acidic for a lifetime. Not that I don’t fight against my worst instincts, read tomes to learn how to return to a crystal-clear state of trust, a kind of knowing innocence, measured but complete in itself. But it’s easier said than done. The entirety of my being screams “Alert!” whenever I see a good deed being done. ‘What’s in it for him?’ is the instinctive response. It’s almost as if I’m done with believing there is anything which is simply selfless, guileless, truly giving.

And then I stop myself and think - how can I be chained to a thinking where nothing is lost and nothing is gained, but oh I pay such a cost! Go to hell with Sophocles who said “Trust dies but mistrust blossoms “. 

I want, again and again, to be the fool who gets fooled daily, hurt hourly, and the injured soul who has to be picked up drunk from the narrow alley every night. But be the one who doesn’t lose hope in humanity even as friends lie, colleagues use, relatives conspire, and outsiders ingratiate.

It’s better to die innocent with one’s heart full of the sky, then bitterly, much before the universe closes in.

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Roshani Singh

The Poem

Thus goes my birthday gift. A kind

of recognition, an acknowledgment of

existence, beyond the realm of grudge,

the daily drudge, when someone finally

takes me in her arms. And that,

if you really consider, is getting somewhere,

even if it’s merely an annual ritual. I can feel

sorry for myself - or elated (glass half-full

or half-empty, and all that), as I then busy myself

to go for my morning jog. I scroll my emails

and find my insurance company wishing me

good health and a long life. Of course!

Honestly, I’m too tired for birthdays, and

thoughts of beginnings. Everything is so fleeting,

so am I. I don’t even care what I leave behind.

So. I’m good if the gift is only someone

calling me kind, funny, intelligent. That fills me up.

And maybe, if I’m lucky, I will get a slice of

chocolate cake this evening, unappended to

unsonorously-sung wishes. Or maybe I’m emptying

my small cache of wishes all too soon, just too soon. 

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Roshani Singh

A Thought

Poetry may be convoluted in construct, but it’s rarely insidious in nature. You may not agree with its sentiment, but it will rarely tell a lie. That’s why, instinctively, you may not carry the poem home, but you will never leave it defenceless on the kerb.

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If you liked this poem, consider listening to these other poems on the travails of growing old:

• Memory Keeper

• Ruins Have Permanent Flames

• The Ageing of Love

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