<b>Geetanjali Krishna:</b> No country for old men

As someone who has lived several years in a village before returning to a metro, I always find stories of migrants fascinating. Although most of them are motivated to migrate because of the economic, educational and medical advantages that metros offer, they often tend to glorify village life. This sometimes doesn't quite ring true to me, for I know that life in rural India can be harsh. But recently, when I spoke to Seema and her husband Raj Singh, I got a different, and perhaps more honest, perspective on this.

"It's the third time this year that we're rushing to Kumaon," said Seema. "And each time, we've gone in the fear that it may be the last." It turned out that Seema's 85-year-old father-in-law lived alone in the family house in a village from which all the young people had migrated to greener pastures. He had lived all his life in that remote Kumaoni village, and declared that it was where he wanted to die. "It's true, our village is beautiful and clean. Although life is hard there, it is also very peaceful," said Seema. "But it is connected to the highway by a kuccha road, and the primary health centre in the village isn't equipped to handle serious health problems. For those, we have to go Haldwani." The 20-km distance between their village and Haldwani seems short, but for the old man, who has been crippled by arthritis for the last 10 years, it is distant enough.

"Last year, he had a heart attack, and our neighbours carried him on a makeshift stretcher to the main road, then boarded a local bus with him, which finally carried them to the hospital," said Singh. "Even the doctors were surprised that he survived." After this episode, the couple entreated the old man to live with them in Delhi, but he flatly refused. Consequently, every time the old man has fallen ill, the couple has rushed to be by his side. "My husband sometimes talks of leaving his driver's job in Delhi and moving back," Seema said. "I dissuade him, as it would be hard on our two school-going children as well as on us, for we have become used to our new life here. Also, I think to myself but never say aloud to him, the old man will probably pass away soon, and our frequent visits to the village will cease as we have no other family left there."

I asked how the old man managed by himself. "There is a government-run primary health centre, from where my father-in-law gets his medicines," Seema said. "But it is also near the village temple, and a good way from our house. He finds it hard to even walk there, but somehow gets there once a week." Over the years, many of his contemporaries passed away. Their longtime neighbours had migrated to Nainital a few years ago, but periodically returned to the village to check on their fields and also on the old man. "If it weren't for them, my father-in-law would have led a completely solitary life," she said.

The same neighbours had called them the previous night, reporting that they had found the old man in bed suffering high fever and bouts of breathlessness. Seema and her husband were going to take the next bus out of Delhi, they said. Singh was calling his village contacts to arrange for transport to Haldwani. "I don't know what we'll find when we get there," he said, when he hung up after a long call. "All I know is that ours just isn't a country for old men anymore."