As I find it a little more difficult to get out of bed each succeeding autumn morning, my mind (what’s left of it, that is) inevitably wanders to thoughts of ageing. The process is very gradual and kind of sneaks up on you: the cells stop multiplying but continue dividing, not unlike the BJP; the telomeres stop communicating with each other a la Mr Gyanesh Kumar and his two colleagues; the joints protest loudly like Mr Kejriwal at any sudden move; the memory starts playing tricks like it does frequently with Donald Trump; and one begins to speak like Shashi Tharoor i.e. in words that no one understands, certainly not my sons, nephews and nieces fed on the two-syllable patois of Twitter and Instagram. So slow is this process, however, that one is not even aware of it.And then one day, wham, it suddenly hits you full on the geezer. It can happen in different ways — you get up in the morning with a sinking feeling, and have to check the obituary columns to find out if you’re still alive or dead, that ECG report when you take out that new health insurance policy, the moment when your son is blessed — is that the right word these days? — with his second child or third divorce. It can even happen as it did to Groucho Marx. You are standing grieving at the graveside of your batchmate, all alone because everyone else has left, when a chap sidles up to you and whispers: “Not much point in going back home, is there?”My own epiphanic moment, however, came in an entirely different and discomfiting way.I usually travel by Metro since I need to reduce my family’s carbon footprint which rivals that of Bigfoot or Godzilla, thanks to my wife Neerja. I seem to have spent my entire life following in her trail like an excited puppy: earlier it used to be so that I could spoon up the random smile, the casual word of endearment, the fleeting expression of affection — all too precious to be left discarded by the roadside.Now, however, I do it so that I can switch off the fan, lights, AC, geyser or heater in her wake. She never puts them off because God himself once said, “Let there be light”, and she’s a deeply religious person. She has to say hello to her mom, sister and bevy of friends six days a week and — you guessed it — it can’t be done over the phone because Airtel may tell everyone about it, and in any case they all have to see who is wearing which type of Banarsi saree that day. So she burns the hydrocarbons like Mr Mohammed bin Salman is giving it away for free in order to atone for blowing away Mr Khashoggi; not a recommended use of wind power.So here I was on the Delhi Metro one day; it was crowded and I was standing in the aisle hanging on to a strap like yesterday’s washing. Suddenly, a pretty young girl got up from her seat and offered it to me with the words (I shall remember them till my dying breath): “Uncle, please take the seat.” Uncle! When a beautiful member of the fair sex calls you Uncle, you just know that there’s no point in going on living; it’s the kiss of death and you now belong with the dinosaurs.It was at that exact moment that I realised that I was now a prime candidate for the geriatric ward. I had boarded the train as a sprightly 75-year-old, but deboarded at Mandi House a broken relic. My metamorphosis was complete: I now belonged to the ages.One year later, however, after 12 months of this fossilised existence, I must concede that things are not all that bad. Being a dodo has its upside. I no longer mind the aching joints when I wake up every morning because they indicate that at least I’m still alive. The best thing about getting old is that all those things you couldn’t have when you were young, you no longer want, and therefore don’t miss them anymore.I no longer fret and worry where my wife goes off in the evening, just so that I don’t have to go along with her. The government respectfully refers to me as a “senior citizen” before asking me to line up for four hours in various queues. And most important of all, I’m gradually moving out of that lethal ‘MeToo’ zone which has felled many a perpendicular stalwart, if you get my drift. Though, if accused of unwelcome attention, I might well be tempted to follow the example of that zippy 81-year-old.Standing in the dock, he could barely believe that he was being accused of unwanted advances, but could not hide that quiet smile that he was not that old after all. When asked by the judge, he even pleaded guilty! The judge, of course, was having none of this and fined him a thousand rupees for lying under oath! Or that other old dodger who was approached by this hooker outside a bar who propositioned him thus: “Hi, dad, I’m a great believer in barter: what do you say to some sex for some beer?” The ancient geezer thought for a long moment and replied: “What kinda beer you got?” Ah, the arrogance of old age!As Oscar Wilde almost said: the young know everything, the middle-aged suspect everything, and the old don’t give a damn about anything! And that, dear reader, is the problem with the kiss of death: you’re dead but don’t know it. The walking dead.— The writer is a retired IAS officer