These sorts of goof-ups happen often—or to be precise, on and off. I accidentally deleted the entire piece I had written. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t recover it. With great difficulty, I’m now attempting to remember what I wrote and trying to reproduce it. But the original is the original, and a second attempt can never quite be the same.

I often wonder why I never learned the art of cooking. Was it because my mother didn’t encourage us? Perhaps she thought, "Let the kids' study and work; I’ll take care of the cooking." So, food was always available, and there was never a need for us to learn. Looking back, I realize I could have opted to learn and asked my mother. But that thought never seems to have crossed my selfish mind.

The need to cook arose only when I had to stay in Mumbai alone for a couple of years. My wife, dutiful as ever, wrote down detailed instructions in a notebook on how to prepare basic dishes like sambar, rasam, curry, and chapati. That notebook still exists, though I believe it’s now with one of my sons.

It’s not as though all men of my generation were like me. I know many colleagues and relatives who could cook with ease and prepare delicious meals. Even at this age, some of them still do. Great guys—they deserve appreciation.

My wife was also a great cook. Why didn’t I learn from her? Or why didn’t she ask me to help or learn from her? Perhaps it was because, at the back of my mind, I always assumed that the women in the house would handle the cooking. What a silly and selfish thought. Now, with my deteriorating eyesight, even the remote chance of learning to cook has vanished. Not just cooking—I can’t even cut vegetables properly anymore.

I truly feel sorry for my wife. No matter the age—50, 60, or 70—she’s had to cook. You can see the strain she feels now. We men retire at 60. Even if we take up some work, it’s by choice. But for women?

Tired or not, where is their retirement?

I have to feel sorry.

Continued in 154. Tired But Not Retired - Part 4