We seniors meet at the community centre every morning; older folks who rise before our families, finding productive ways to use the early hours. Could anything be more relaxing? Laughter, yoga, and socialising are right here. 

I, someone in his early 60s, have recently introduced everyone to laughter yoga. Today’s meeting too ends with a good laugh. Mrs Sheila approaches me with a nervous demeanour.  

“Your son,” she begins, nervously shifting her feet, “I think he wants to send you to a senior care facility. He asked my son Seshu about nearby retirement homes…”

She trails off, eyes downcast.

My heart skips a beat, but I snap out of the shock and chuckle. “Is that true? At least he’s looking for the best one!”

My dry humour doesn’t have its intended effect. Mrs Sheila turns and leaves. 

***

D-Day arrives a month later. I’m dumped at (or rather cordially escorted to) Shreyas Old Age Home. My son, Tapas, an engineer taller than me, pats my back. “Pa, I will return. It’s work. That’s why I have to… for two months…”

“Huh. You will?” I fix him with a pointed stare and a wry smile. “Only two months? You plan to keep extending that, no?”

He assumes silence. In that millisecond, my life flashes before me. Since my wife Mrudula passed away, I’ve sacrificed everything for our child, only to be abandoned by him. Life is strange; the crux is your reaction to it.

I have no regrets. Heh, but for every action, there’s an equal and opposite reaction. I was also an engineer, a child prodigy in the physical sciences.

“Hey, son. I will stay here. It’s a nice place. Look at all the lush greenery.” I swallow the bitterness in my throat and look at the vast courtyard we are at, and the sizeable two-storied building ahead. “Visit me sometimes. That’ll be enough.”

Silence.

“Oh, Tapas. I changed my will. You won’t receive a penny.”

“What? But you’d already written and given me your will. Um, please don’t misunderstand. Shall we go home to discuss?”

“You want to convince me to change my will? You can’t.”

“But Pa…”

I chuckle. “See, your true colours appear. I’ve raised a chameleon, not a son.”

Tapas pulls out the will I gave him, still in its sealed envelope from his trouser pocket. “Pa… you can’t. Your assets can only be mine. I can prove it in court.”

“You haven’t even opened it? I wanted to add another matured FD in that will and left it blank.”

“You lied?”

“I wanted to make you happy. I would have drafted a proper will for your next birthday. Alas! My assets now belong to this orphanage.”

“Pa.”

“Mrs Sheila told me. Your manipulation won’t work.”

Soft anger reddens Tapas’s eyes. I sigh after he departs. At 62, my life turns a blank canvas again. I’ve been living a life of falsehood. Now it feels like a new world has opened up. What more awaits?