Clash of Cultures
1

It was a farewell dinner for me. I was leaving for England on a two-year scholarship to learn how to explore for oil. The fact that England had no oil production and nowhere to explore and the University I was going to join had no experienced staff or equipment was beside the point. What mattered was that it was a First World country and we from Third World can always learn something from them. My mother was so upset at the thought of my departure that she had taken to bed. It had occurred to her that I had lived a thousand miles from her for last six years. But it was not across the seven seas she argued. And it did not take three weeks on boat and cost several years salary to travel. I had no answer but the dye was cast. Boat was to depart from Bombay the next day and I had to catch the train for Bombay late that evening. Bhabiji, my sister-in-law, had cooked a super supper with all my favourite dishes and ordered all my favourite sweets from the best bakery in town. The table was croaking under the load of dishes heaped with food.

What with all the final touches to the packing, continuous stream of visitors saying goodbye, nervousness about the first boat trip with not an acquaintance in sight, I was in no mood to have a big dinner. Still, it was Bhabiji’s responsibility to make sure that I was fed enough to last at least the first half of my three week journey because it would take that long to get used to foreign food served on the boat. In good times or bad, Bhabiji was always an insistent host; she insisted you had more helpings till you couldn’t count. She couldn’t bear the thought of not being to able to feed her kid brother-in-law for two years and as if to make up for it she was infused with a new determination. Apart from that, there was another consideration. There was no refrigerator in the house. It was still summer. The left over food would not last even for a day. She had worked much too hard to give it to the beggars; they won’t appreciate it any way. It had to be eaten and I had to eat it. No sooner did I make a dent on the mound on my plate, it was replenished with a new not-so mouthwatering-now dish. This went on for two hours till the horse cart arrived to take me and my luggage to the station. She filled a cotton bag with sweets for me to eat on the long journey on the train. I had no choice. With as many bags in my two hands as I could carry, a heavy tin suitcase and a sleeping bag there was barely enough room for me on the cart. I had to pity the poor horse; I doubted it had ever pulled along so much weight before. On arrival at the station I gave extra tip to the driver with instructions to buy special feed for the horse. He accepted the tip graciously but I got the feeling that the instructions of a budding sahib were not taken seriously.

In due course, the boat arrived in Liverpool. My first order of priority was to find a place to stay. My landlady was a kindly middle-aged woman with a dour husband and four rambunctious children. She told me when showing me the room that she served her students, three in all, breakfast at eight and dinner at six. She expected that we were dressed decently for dinner to set a good example to her children. What she meant by decently is not clear to me to this day. The University was a walking distance. After locating my department, I hastily returned to my new home without seeing anybody there fearing the consequences of being not dressed decently, or worse, being late.

The meal was superb, an improvement on that served on the boat. It could be that by now I was developing a taste for meat, having been a strict vegetarian all my life. Due to my inborn respect for my religious edicts, I am still a strict vegetarian but only when I am in India. The edicts were not intended for foreign consumption, I console myself. The chicken broth was followed by shepherds’ pie with carrots. It was followed by the piece d’resistance of the landlady – chocolate cake baked the same afternoon.

She carefully cut a good size wedge for each person around the table and every one enjoyed it with appropriate expressions of enjoyment. I was greedily eyeing about a quarter of the cake still left on the serving dish when the generous host asked if any one will like the second helping. The dinners with Bhabhiji flashed before my eyes and I graciously declined fully expecting her to insist that I had some more and she serving some on my plate over my vehement protests. Alas! This was not to be. She whisked the dish away. Unlike my dear Bhabhiji, she had a refrigerator to keep it fresh for ever.

I learnt my lesson. Now I ask for second helping whether I need it or not.

2


In my second year I moved to an international students’ residence with sixty students from all over the world, including a few from the nearby towns. A pretty English girl barely out of her teens had recently moved into the residence and we had exchanged polite greetings a couple of times. This intimacy flattered me no end. To impress her with my importance, I invited my research supervisor Dr. Block, an internationally renowned geologist and his wife for dinner at the residence and asked her to join us. The dinner was a simple affair you would expect where you paid four pounds a week for room and three full meals a day. However, the guests seemed to enjoy it. The revered Dr. Block was in a voluble mood, telling us tales of his upbringing in Persia as the only son of an executive of the Anglo Iranian Oil Company and of his struggles to adjust to the British customs when he returned to his parents’ roots. I was quite pleased with myself, not having learnt how good the upper classes in Britain were at pretending. In any event, the focus of my existence in those days was impressed. What more could I wish?

A month later, I received an engraved card in the mail inviting me and my ‘friend’ to a dinner at the Block residence. She was impressed by the address and agreed to be my friend for the evening. We dressed carefully, she in a tight mini dress as was the style of the day and I in my only suit which was quite snug around the waist. We planned to be fashionably late by fifteen minutes but thanks to the vagaries of the bus service, it was almost an hour after due time when we crossed the well-tended grounds and rang the door bell of the Georgian home. We were ushered into a large room where ten of my fellow graduate students and their partners, for the evening at least, were sitting cross-legged on a large oriental carpet around huge trays of Persian delicacies. Indian and Persian culinary arts have developed in tandem and the dishes were familiar to me. There were mouth watering samosas, pakoras of three different kinds, meat balls, chutneys galore and a jug of mango sherbet; A feast for the eyes as well as for the palate. Guests huddled closer to make room for us. We wondered whether our waist bands would stand sitting on the floor but not much could be done. After all, the others had managed it. She hitched her dress up as much as it would go and slid down. I silently prayed the buttons would hold for the evening. However, dress and pants were soon forgotten as the delicacies were loaded on the plates and then transferred past our delighted taste buds to the constricted spaces. We met strange looks when we expressed our admiration for the dinner as the dishes were taken away. We soon found out why.

After a few minutes of literate discussion about the poetry of Omar Khayyam and the Sufi philosophy, the host disappeared into the kitchen and his wife regaled us with the excuses invented by Persian nobles to visit them for a taste of his curries. I was about to ask when will we be honoured with these wonderful dishes when Dr. Block entered the room followed by the maid pushing a trolley. A couple of students tried to get up but he imperially waved them to stay where they were. He placed a huge brass dish of chicken biryani in the middle and four big copper bowls of steaming curries around it. There was enough food for fifty starving teenage boys, leave alone twenty weight conscious adults already stuffed with what was clearly intended as the appetizers. My mouth fell wide open in amazement even though my waist band was digging deep in my belly. It wasn’t long before the mound of food on my plate was touching the ceiling.

It was a short hour before every one belched in true Persian style and the food was cleared away. The discussion now moved to the eating habits of different classes; how upper classes tasted delicately and lower classes shoveled hurriedly as if there was no tomorrow. Every one looked at me when the later point was made. I was much too happy to mind this slight. My friend was looking more and more inviting in her revealing dress that crept higher every time I looked at her.

No sooner had the conversation flagged a little, baklava and espresso magically appeared. Dainty china cups and the elegantly crafted silver coffee jug sat in the middle while a tray of six varieties of baklava loaded with honey and pistachio powder was passed around. It became clear, to me at least, that I was the only one there who had a full appreciation for the heavenly blend of these super sweet cakes and the bitter coffee when I observed that no one else took more than one piece while I took a couple of each kind. Again, the guests looked at me curiously but doing justice to the offering was more important than the good manners of upper classes.

The conversation over coffee turned to opera and the classical music. It was a world I had never visited. Being in the state of soporific stupor induced by my indulgence, I found it hard to go there now and notwithstanding several cups of the strongest coffee I had ever tasted, with or without the dessert of the gods, I dropped in the dream world instead. This had an unfortunate consequence.

When charming Mrs. Block shook me awake late in the evening, every other guest was gone, including my friend. I rubbed my eyes, thanked the hostess, probably in my mother tongue, and staggered to the bus stop. My friend never forgave me the transgression of the etiquette of her culture and I have lived my life regretting that evening.

3

A Canadian company offered me a big salary and the bigger title and we moved to Canada. We settled down to a peaceful conventional life till Supreme Court of Canada ruled the other day that the school boards must permit the students of Sikh faith to carry a kirpan (dagger) in accordance with their beliefs. The Judges being the supreme arbiters of law, who am I to disagree with them. Actually I am quite pleased. I can now practice a command of my religion which I have never practiced, not even in India, my native country. However, the third world countries do not indulge the minorities and religious freedom takes second place to social taboos of the vast majority. Therefore, it was not practical to give up all adornments like clothing, as instructed by Bhagwan Mahavir, the founder of Jainism and an incarnation of God. It is better to let soul return to life one more time than to live in a prison with untouchables and eat food prepared by cooks of the wrong caste on utensils washed by non-Hindus.

Now I can, with Supreme Court’s blessing, practice the dictates of my sect, Digambar (skyclad) Jain, and go naked into the crowds with impunity. If I continued to wear clothes I will have no excuse when I meet the Highest Judge on my way into the next life. All items of clothing must be sent to the Salvation Army for those not lucky enough to be born in my sect. The gift will have to be anonymous because any pretence of generosity is forbidden in the pronouncements made twenty five hundred years ago. The clients of the Army can show off my Armany suits, Gucci shoes and diamond studded rings without acknowledging the source. Indeed, it will give me great pleasure when I think of them proudly walking to the job interviews they secured largely due to largesse unforeseen by the supreme judges. The joy of reducing the number of life cycles by following strictly the laws of my birth religion should far exceeds the discomfort of shivering even on the warmest day of the summer.

Rather than fearing, I look forward to the reaction of my colleagues when I walk buff naked out of the car on to the parking lot and into the office on Monday. Of course there will be complaints from men and screams from women who have lived all their lives being afraid of the human body. I must take a copy of the court decision to prevent violent reactions. Strange looks, sarcastic comments, resistance to raising thermostat I can understand and live with but avoidance of my company and refusal to meet and work with me will bring forth the fury of a Jain scorned which may result in another appeal to the fair-minded judges and several years of salary and bonuses without having to work.

If worse becomes worst and the police is called, I plan to stand firm. I am prepared to be incarcerated in Canada for my beliefs. The jails for white collar non-violent crimes, from what I see on television, are comfortable rooms with their own thermostats. If they force me to wear uniforms so much the better. My lawyers will include the government in my complaint to Human Rights Commission and the compensation will be considerable larger. The money is of no use to an all-sacrificing sky-clad Jain except that larger the amount I hand over to charities, more brownie points I receive when my deeds in this life are being weighed by the bookkeeping gods above. For maximum impact, I will make sure that the charities are based in the country with the weakest currency. How they use the money is not my worry, in this life or the next.

My biggest problem, I fear, is my family. Not considering the prospects of the enactment of laws supporting the tenets of my religion, I married an English woman and we had agnostic/atheistic children of no faith. How will they take to their short, fat, bald, ugly, spouse or father in his late fifties going around in full glory is a concern. Even if they understand the constraints imposed by my religion in light of new legal freedom, will they be able to stand up to the ridicule heaped upon them by their friends? They can disregard the reaction of strangers but not friends. My family members are extroverts and the life loses all meaning if an extrovert is eschewed by her friends. Then there are two adorable grandchildren of the most sensitive age. I do not expect their school buddies to understand their dilemma and imagine fights in school - unsympathetic teachers supporting the bullies. I can see poor babies coming home with tearful eyes and bruised bodies to their mother, the mother who already sides with strangers against this senile Born Again Skyclad who was normal till the judges wrote a judgment without considering the consequences – to her. She will not be able to explain the normal human urge to follow the dictates of the religion; they are too young to understand it anyway. She may have to find some facile explanation which will not be flattering to their grandpa. Worse still, the thought of moving to a far-off place might spring into her mind.

I can face the world out there to follow the basic principles of my religion irrespective of hardships to my person. But I can not bear the thought of my grandchildren being distressed and moving away for good. It is a problem far beyond the capacity of a mere human. This evening, after my simple dinner of chapattis, rice and alloo gobhi, I will ask Bhagwan Mahavir for guidance. I know He will listen to my entreaties and issue a verdict that will lead to the reconciliation of life with nirvana.


A Stray Thought

What will you have, major disasters like the one in Offshore Louisana or continuous pollution by extraction from oil sands? At least the later is predictable and in the long term manageable. In any event nothing beats doing without what will consume
you sooner or later.

Recent Published Letters

Olympic value
Spending $550 million on the Olympics seems like a lot -- more than $500 per Vancouverite.
However, the city has a lot to show for it: great train connection to the airport, fast road to Whistler, Olympic village housing, not to mention new sports facilities.
Any excuse to build the facilities a great city must have is fine with me and if it's as much fun as the Olympics what more can one ask?
(Vancouver Province, 18/04/10)
***

Power trumps promises
Re: “Tory transparency gets failing grade,” (April 15). Dave Breakenridge needs to be reminded of the old cliche: Politics is for power. Those out of power will promise anything to get it and those in power will do everything to hold on to it. Harper is no different. To expect anything else is naive.
(Calgary Sun, 16/04/10)
***
Bill 16 and the nanny state
I have never understood the government's reluctance to ban cellphone use while driving. But Bill 16 might excuse the delay; it covers more ground and proposes a substantial fine.

As someone who has had to take action to avoid drivers on their cellphone, applying lipstick or eating a burger, I can only hope the police enforce this law with vigour.
(Edmonton Journal, 16/04/10)
***
Chief's logic saluted
Re: "Balance in justice system a tough call," (April 7). I couldn't agree more with police chief Rick Hanson. We need to put gangsters and repeat serious offenders behind bars for a long time but with one proviso: Make the prisons less of a holiday and more of an endurance test with strict patrols to eliminate drug smuggling. No one will dispute that petty criminals, particularly mentally disturbed individuals, should be treated in a medical facility, not put in jails.
(Calgary Sun, 09/04/10)
***
No, no, not this model
Bank of Nova Scotia CEO Rick Waugh (Canadian Bankers Tell G20: Don’t Suffocate Our Growth – Report on Business, April 8) is quoted saying: “Leaving it just to the regulators is dangerous, leaving it just to the politicians is dangerous.”
The recent crisis taught us that leaving the system to the bankers is catastrophic. I will take the suspected danger over proven catastrophe any day, particularly when the protesters caused the catastrophe in the first place.
(Globe and Mail, 09/04/10)
***
Charge more
Re: "Report warns of water shortage," April 2.
At a cent a litre, there is no incentive to turn the tap off when brushing teeth, or avoid waste in so many other ways. It makes no economic sense, for example, to call a plumber to fix a leaky tap or to improve the plumbing fixtures. If the province were to become serious about improving water management, the first step should be to price it at what it is worth, not what it costs to treat and put in the pipeline. In Delhi, water costs are significant and my relatives there use every drop that comes out of the tap. We could be in the same boat in the not-too-distant future if proper steps are not taken soon.
(Calgary Herald, 04/04/10)
***
Parents guilty of negligence
Re: “Parents dodge manslaughter ruling,” (March 12). It is rare that I agree with acquittals, but in this case I do. It was a clear case of negligence and incompetence in child rearing, not deliberate murder. Why would the prosecutors bring such a charge is beyond me. Perhaps you need to be an ex-MP and the spouse of a minister to get due consideration. In any event, the proper penalty in this case would range from extensive training in child-rearing and social responsibility to a ban on having any children at all.
(Calgary Sun, 16/03/10)
***
Wildlife doesn't have a vote
Re: Weakest link in chain appears to be Stelmach himself, the Journal, March 11.
Graham Thomson may sympathize with wildlife biologists as much as he wishes, but the unfortunate truth is that ducks and caribou don't vote and neither do the children or the future generations. So the politicians will continue to disregard the wildlife and our future interests in favour of 'development' for short-term benefit.
You can't expect business to worry about the distant future; their responsibility is to meet current demand. The consequence of this dichotomy is that the goose of wildlife and our future generations is cooked.
(Edmonton Journal, 16/03/10)
***
Society losing balance
Re: "Officer finds husband among murder victims," the Journal, March 13.
My heart goes out to the young brave officer whose life was turned up side down by a deranged individual. While the issue will reignite the debate about gun control, the problem goes deeper. What prompts a person suspended from the job to take lives knowing full well that he is consigning himself to a long term incarceration?
Did the loss of pay cause such desperation and such desire for revenge that several lives needed to be sacrificed? Surely a society claiming to the high moral standards like ours should be able to inculcate in its citizens some sense of proportion. The society failed in this case, and unfortunately such instances are becoming commonplace.
We need to look at where our education, social and cultural systems are failing us and take appropriate action before the situation becomes unmanageable.
(Edmonton Journal, 16/03/10)
***

Second Helping

Swami Dharyanand was a disciple of Mahatma Gandhi in the sense that he allowed that all religions had their good points although he and his disciples believed that there was no proof of the existence of God or soul and there was neither reason nor need to believe in Him; and even if God existed, was too busy saving His creation from the ravages of human overpopulation to pay any attention to the individuals of the humble station like him and his disciples.

Swami had a small temple next to his sanctuary for atheists. In accordance with the Gandhian philosophy, the temple had the features of all major religions including atheism. It had a dome for the roof with four minarets like a mosque, a pulpit and pews inside like a church and the marble images like a Hindu temple but of atheist saints like Darwin, Huxley, Hitchens and Dawkins. His followers observed Sabbath, listened to a rousing sermon on Sunday, discussed various aspects of life without religious dogma on Tuesdays. On Fridays Swami and any of the disciples who had any energy left prayed to the saints to give them some of their neurons. Every twelfth Sunday there was the unholy communion in which Swami gave a digestive biscuit and a half-full glass, some ungrateful recipients thought it was half-empty, of port of old vintage to strengthen their belief in lack of belief in traditional religions.

One architectural feature of the temple was its many pillars. The pillars were made of pure Italian marble inlaid with precious stones and gold in the style of Taj Mahal. The pillars were gifted by the former Maharaja of Manypoor before he converted to a conventional religion, no one knows which one. Maharani, however, was still a disciple and appeared every Sunday for the sermon. This Sunday was the communion day; a row of sparkling wine glasses adorned a side table, a glowing red bulbous decanter with a glass stopper sat on a raised stand in the centre. A large basket of digestives covered with cellophane to keep out the dust and the spit of the excited speaker on the pulpit could be seen from the front pews..

The congregation was starting to get restive. It was fifteen minutes after the time the service was due to start, yet there was no indication that the Swami was about to begin. There was a sigh of relief when the hall filled with the sound of organ that had been recently donated by the Maharani out of the funds she received from her divorce settlement. Every one present turned around to admire the Maharani as she walked down the aisle. As usual, she was dressed just right for a middle-aged woman; a Kirmani black pant suit, her face lightly touched by make up and long grey hair twined like a thick rope hanging behind her head. A young boy who couldn’t be more than six years old, walked alongside her on the left holding her bejeweled hand.

Maharani took her seat on the front pew, the boy sat huddled next to her. The service could now begin. After some preliminaries from the assistant swami, Swami Dharyanand stood up facing the congregation. He wore a long saffron cotton robe, his grey beard and longish hair neatly combed and three lines of sandalwood paste shone on his dark brown forehead. His attire was the only sign of his years as a Hindu priest so long ago before he saw the light. He coughed gently, as was his custom, before speaking, welcomed the devotees and asked the young boy to stand and be introduced. The congregation learnt that he was Jaydeep, the only grandson of Maharani. Preliminaries taken care of, he gave a rousing sermon, walking across the pulpit, occasionally fixing particular members of the congregation with his steady gaze, telling them how atheists had a particular responsibility to live a clean life and to eschew what religions would call sin. He mentioned that if they needed an example of how to live their lives, they were fortunate to have one in Maharani. The applause continued till the Maharani stood up to acknowledge it.

After the sermon blue ceramic bowls were passed around for collection. Devotees did not need to be urged to be generous; they were well aware of the needs of their Swami. When the bowl was making its away, young and old, men and women heartily sang an ode to evolution and the scientific spirit which had freed them from the bonds of conventional religions.

When the bowls were presented to the swami, a smile of satisfaction crossed his face as his experienced eyes estimated the amount of collection. He decided that he could be generous in the dispensation of the unholy communion. To begin the ceremony, he picked up an earthen lamp with a wick floating in virgin olive oil and lighted it. He took the lamp to the four images, mumbled what some may confuse with a prayer but was merely an expression of gratitude for their teaching, deftly circled each image with the lamp without spilling the oil on his spotless clothes and then circled the decanter of port speaking loudly so that the farthest member of congregation could hear, “Saints, share some of your excess neurons with those who partake in this unholy communion made to resemble your favourite after-dinner repast.” He then led two assistants, one carrying a tray of glasses and the other the basket of digestives down the steps to the Maharani. Maharani daintily picked a glass from the tray and a digestive from the basket and the Swami poured the port more liberally than he would have on most days. Little Jaydeep followed his grandmother’s example. After the swami had blessed – nay wished them well, Maharani took a bite and a sip. Jaydeep, however, was too young to observe such niceties. Two quick bites made short work of the digestive; one big swallow emptied the glass. He raised his crumbly hand and pulled on the tunic. The whole congregation heard what to any young person would be a perfectly reasonable query, “Grammie, can I have a second helping?”

Coping with Taxing Times

It is that time of the year when investors who have supplementary taxes to pay are scratching their heads. Taxes are due on all the gains on investments revealed to Revenue Agency via T5 by your broker. While gloating all the year about the money she was making for you, she never pointed out the tax implications. In some respect you have a right to curse the advisor who made money for you without as much as getting up from her easy chair and who leaves the most serious problem to you: Where to find the money?

It is a problem and if you have a substantial portfolio it can be huge. For young investors with smaller portfolios which need to grow, it may not be serious; they were considering addition to the portfolio anyway. For investors near retirement with substantial portfolios and therefore substantial gains in a good year, the tax can approach their employment income. Whether small or large, the problem is symptomatic of confusion among investors at a basic level; viewing gross income as real income. Individuals who plan on spending gross income from their employment receive a shock when they find that the net income after innumerable deductions is only a fraction of gross income. Similarly, investors who look at gross gains, capital or dividends, without considering taxes receive their shock at this time of the year.

The source of the problem is with the investment manager. She usually charges a percentage of the gain in a portfolio. General rate is called two twenty; two percent of the portfolio value and twenty percent of the gains. Manager does not deduct taxes and pay them to Revenue Agency on your behalf. If she did, it will save so much heartburn later. But it will also reduce the gain by the income she now makes for you on the deductions themselves.

There is a simple solution to the problem you are facing right now. Consider Revenue Agency as your not so invisible good time partner who is happy to share in your gains while leaving the burden of losses on you. In a profitable period, I hope you have many, set aside partner’s share as the gains are realized i.e. stocks are sold at a profit or the dividend and interest income is received. If you wish to add to your investment account from your savings, consider this a separate item. Thus there two elements to an investment account: Tax liability and addition to (or withdrawal from) it. They should be treated as different, not be mixed up as they often are.

The best way to handle the situation is to request the investment advisor to inform you of capital gains and other income at regular intervals, monthly or quarterly, and for you to set the invisible partner’s share aside – either in the investment account as ready cash or in the savings account to be withdrawn when taxes are due. To carry on your affairs without due consideration for this aspect of your investments can be expensive if you have to sell some of your investments in a hurry or borrow money on margin, even worse on your credit card directly or indirectly.

Life After 70
My wife and I are professionals who have worked hard and, we like to think, won respect of our colleagues. We have been married for forty five years and have three daughters. They are successful career women and we are justifiably proud of their achievements. Although spread out over three cities and two countries, ours is a close knit family. I have lived and worked in five countries on four continents and we have been fortunate in being able to travel to interesting destinations on business as well as for pleasure. We had our ups and downs, emotionally and physically, but overall gods of fortune were kind to us.

It so happens that we were on a cruise to Alaska when I crossed into my eighth decade. I did not feel any different on the day I turned seventy than on the day I was sixty nine - or sixty one if you asked me then. We had spent last few years in helping our adult kids get over their physical and emotional crises. Even in normal circumstances it was our practice on visits to our daughters that the wife took over the cooking, I did the dishes and both helped with other household chores and gardening. When kids visited us we took time off from work and looked after the grandchildren in addition to preparing meals, cleaning, washing, even making their beds while they renewed their old friendships. But what difference does a year make! Something vital changed when I stepped into seventies and approached the average life expectancy of a Canadian male. First, the short term memory departed, perhaps for good. Then, appearances to the contrary, my energy level dropped. I do not seem to have much get up and go even when I can remember what to get up for. Taking over the households on visits to younger generation is no longer an option just as the extra workload when they visit us is hard to handle. To state the truth bluntly, we are in a transition from caretakers of our progeny to the caretaken by them.

The better half, three quarter some would say, is working hard to implement the transition. There are two important considerations in this process. First is the eventual move on some unforeseen but not too distant date to a smaller accommodation and second, the uncomplicated state of our affairs when we have taken our final leave. To get the ball rolling, she is reducing the 'possessions' cluttering our home which now shelters just two instead of the five it once did. Acquaintances are carting away for a pittance what they can use, charities are offered whatever they can take and the recyclables are transported to appropriate depots. The rest, a fully functional refrigerator, solid cupboards, a set of office furniture and miscellaneous household items are being sent to the Refuse Resource Station, commonly called The Dump, at the cost of several hundred dollars. Old appliances are gradually being replaced by new fool proof wonders of latest technology which will see us through our years of growing feebleness of body and mind without the expense and the hassle of waiting for repairmen to do what I would have happily done when my muscles were taut and limbs strong. Trusty ten year old Subaru Outback is being replaced by a new one that will serve us trouble free for our remaining period of independence - years before our driving license is taken away by a worried daughter if not by the province. We are considering the resumption of the delivery of the local paper so that we can check the obituary columns and make sure we do not miss any memorial service we should attend. After all if we do not go to our friends' final adieu who will come to our’s.

On the positive note, we are reviewing our priorities for the remaining good years, not taking any specific number for granted. Having only recently settled, albeit provisionally, the unpleasant matters like wills and the funeral arrangements, we are focusing on what we wish to accomplish. This includes the wife working on complete recovery from her recent illness, finding a publisher for the novel I have just completed, volunteer activities to help the needy, travels to distant lands we have always wanted to visit but somehow never did and the timing and the best ways to fold our businesses. However, the most important aspect of this situation is not what we do or plan to do but how we feel within ourselves and towards each other. To this end, we renew in our hearts our forty five year old oath - to love and cherish the other; for better or worse - meaning that the better off will ungrudgingly look after the worse off whoever it happens to be at a particular time. Last but not the least, every night before closing our eyes we thank each other for the kindnesses during the day and exchange “I love you” just in case we do not open them again.