Column

In the days when I had a regular 9-to-5 job, I would spend an extraordinary amount of time planning my retirement years. In the books I read, people either took to growing roses, keeping dogs or going on cruises. My hopes were and always have been more modest, so I told myself that once I was the mistress of my time I would eat rice for lunch and have a long siesta thereafter every afternoon.

All through school and the university years, I had packed lunches and since there is nothing as unappetising as cold rice, I would inevitably be lunching on sandwiches or tiffin… Since I began working within a month of leaving college, I continued to sandwich and tiffin and occasionally eat out.

So a home-cooked meal of rice and accompaniments — not just the ubiquitous curry and veggies or fish and meat — but papadum, pickles and a small dessert — was what I dreamt of. And thereafter to be followed by a long nap. Every day or every afternoon to be precise, I hoped, would be like a Sunday. I saw my parents slide into that pattern effortlessly and hankered for the same.

So when I gave up the routine of being a working woman and donned the mantle of a full-time writer, I told myself here it comes — the lunch and siesta of my retirement years.

What I hadn’t bargained for were certain things that sprung to the surface. One was my own sense of guilt. Napping everyday seemed too sybaritic; a wanton pleasure. So much so that when the phone rang or someone put their entire weight on the doorbell, I sprung forward feeling as much rage as a secret relief. Secondly, it was the sap within. Unless one is bone lazy, ailing or ageing, sleep, especially afternoon naps, don’t come so easily. My inner sap simmered and bubbled with pokes to the conscience. And so I would think: Perhaps I should be making candles or baking a cake or turning out the cupboards or be doing at least what I really ought to be doing — write.

It occurs to me then that perhaps my retirement years haven’t happened yet. When it does, I’ll hopefully, like Winston Churchill, be able to change into pajamas and settle for a nap without conscience or sap coming in the way.

—Anita Nair is the author of the novels A Better Man, Ladies Coupe and Mistress