Looking old enough

Today's discussion after our morning walk revolved around a subject that affects a large section of Bengaluru's travelling population, the seats reserved for senior citizens in Namma Metro.

I have become quite a regular Metro user these days. It saves time, eliminates parking worries and, most importantly, spares me the ordeal of navigating Bengaluru traffic, which now seems to operate in permanent peak-hour mode.

One of my friends, who also frequently uses the Metro, was lamenting the behaviour of youngsters occupying seats reserved for senior citizens. According to him, many seem remarkably skilled at avoiding eye contact whenever a senior citizen boards. Some suddenly discover an overwhelming interest in their mobile phones, while others appear to fall asleep at precisely the right moment. More often than not, he said, he has to explicitly ask them to vacate the seat.

While I have witnessed similar scenes, I have never been comfortable demanding a seat. Being reasonably fit for my age, I often continue standing. In fact, on the occasions when someone offers me a seat, usually on account of my grey hair and white beard, I generally decline.

To lighten the mood, I suggested to my friend that perhaps the solution was simple.

"Stop dyeing your hair and remain unshaven."

The group looked puzzled.

I explained that appearance often seems to carry more weight than chronology.

To support my theory, I narrated an experience involving my ninety-one-year-old uncle. He has never dyed his hair in his life. As a result, his hair has aged gracefully and naturally and, strangely enough, does not appear as dramatically white as mine.

Whenever I travel with him, I notice something rather amusing.  People often get up and offer me a seat.  Not him.

Apparently, years of dyeing my hair and then finally giving up on the practice have transformed me into a far more convincing senior citizen than my ninety-one-year-old uncle.

That observation was enough to trigger a round of hearty laughter among the group.

Just when the laughter was subsiding, another walkmate, who is well into his seventies, shared a story of his own.

Unlike me, however, he continues to dye his hair faithfully and carries very little visible evidence of his senior citizenship.

He was recently seated in one of the reserved seats when a young passenger approached him and requested that he vacate it for another elderly commuter.  My friend calmly replied that he himself was a senior citizen.

The youngster was unconvinced.

"What is your age?" he asked.

When my friend stated it, the youngster demanded proof.  Age proof.

At that point all of us listening were eager to know what happened next.

My friend informed him that he was under no obligation to prove his age to a fellow passenger. If someone wished to make an issue of it, he would gladly show his identification to the concerned authorities if they ever asked for it.

The matter apparently ended there.

As the discussion wound down, I realised that both stories pointed to the same conclusion.

My ninety-one-year-old uncle, who doesn't look his age, gets overlooked.

I, thanks to the all-white hair and beard that resulted from years of dyeing my hair and then eventually giving it up, often find myself being offered a seat.

And my seventy-plus friend, who diligently dyes his hair, is asked to produce age proof before being recognised as a senior citizen.

Clearly, in the Metro, chronology is merely a number.  Hair colour is the real identity card.

Another morning discussion had come to an end.  The subject was reservation of seats for senior citizens.

The verdict, unsurprisingly, was delivered by a jury consisting predominantly of senior citizens.

And by a comfortable majority, they concluded that before claiming a reserved seat, one must first qualify in the far more demanding category:

Looking old enough.

I have now started wondering whether there exists an entire class of non-senior citizens who, by the simple expedient of not dyeing their hair and growing a beard, have managed to acquire all the visual credentials of senior citizenship and are being offered seats in the Metro long before chronology has made them eligible.

Stories, not instructions. Experiences, not advice—medical or otherwise. Data, only what the internet quietly gathers anyway. Proceed with equal parts curiosity and common sense.