Yesterday, my ninety-third year ended and year ninety-four began and I decided to start another autobiography. When I turned sixty-five, I wrote my first autobiography. I wrote the next one after I turned eighty. This one at the end of ninety-three. That means you can’t call me old with only a few years left to hit a century.
Why an autobiography? Not because the extraordinary has happened to me but because nothing happens. Or in other words, because I have nothing better to do and because there’s nothing much else I can do. When people retire, they write autobiographies. Thirty-five years have dragged by since I retired.
I worked for thirty years so that’s thirty-five years of pension dining. In those thirty-five years, I wrote two autobiographies. That’s not much; writer types knock off a book in a year or six months. I’m not a writer; by profession I’m an engineer. And that too an immortal engineer.
Why an autobiography? There might even be reasons – my hands are still working, my memory is clear as glass. The rest of my body however has packed up. Some of my faculties are missing in action. My ears have become walls. When I put in the...
