Dr Rekha Jad
rekhajad1969@gmail.com
The English novel “A Man Called Ove ” by Fredrik Backman portrays a cantankerous, capricious, and seemingly irascible old man-yet beneath that gruff ,grumpy exterior lies a deeply human story. The book has been one of my favourite reads, Recently, an incident at my workplace brought that character uncannily to life.
Old age, for some, becomes a phase where wines turn to whines and roses to neuroses. Mrs. Mala (name changed) was, in many ways, a reflection of this transformation. At 77, she had lived many seasons of life, yet retained the unmistakable imprint of a pampered childhood and a life cushioned by privilege-a doting father, a wealthy husband and years of comfort that seemed to have fossilized into her temperament.
Impeccably groomed, she carried herself with a certain urbane flair-oversized shirts draping her petite frame, burnished hair, manicured nails, and an affected, erudite English. Her flinty hazel eyes and lined face bore an unmistakable air of stubborn arrogance. But beneath this polished exterior lay a personality that unsettled everyone she encountered, a despicable and detestable demeanour she displayed.
She arrived at the Government guest house attached to my work place through recommendations, initially for a week, which soon extended. What followed was a series of unsettling interactions. Her behaviour toward the staff was abrasive and, at times, openly disparaging-laced with unnecessary quarrels, condescension, and even offensive remarks. Calling a waiter as kaala or mota , a staff as budiya ..No attempt at pacification seemed to work; every conversation risked spiralling into confrontation.
Her grievances were endless-food, services, facilities and reluctance to evict .nothing met her approval. She spoke often of her affluent background and accomplished children, yet paradoxically found herself seeking prolonged shelter in a place where she had clearly overstayed her welcome. Any suggestion to vacate was met with hostility and invective, leaving the staff reluctant to confront her.
In an attempt to handle the situation with sensitivity, I suggested allowing her to celebrate her birthday on March 9 before gently asking her to leave. We marked the occasion with a small cake, and I even gifted her a nail paint-a gesture of goodwill. But as the saying goes, give an inch and they take a mile.
When offered suggestions of modest accommodations nearby, she felt insulted-such options, she claimed, were beneath her dignity. She went further, asking for temporary shelter in my home and that of other staff members-requests that were politely declined. I tried to counsel her, to understand the loneliness and emptiness that perhaps drove her actions, but her rigidity remained unyielding.
Eventually, her refusal to vacate and continued misconduct forced the authorities to seek police assistance. She was escorted out-an end that was as unfortunate as it was inevitable.
Days later, the episode continues to weigh on my mind. Her behaviour was undeniably difficult, even offensive-but it also raised unsettling questions. If she came from such affluence, why was she in search of shelter? Had relationships with her children fractured? :Were they shoving her into an old age home?Was this the result of emotional neglect, cognitive decline, or the quiet erosion of identity that sometimes accompanies aging?
Was she seeking freedom from confinement, or simply unable to reconcile with changing realities? Had a lifetime of privilege left her ill-equipped to adapt? Or was this the manifestation of a deeper loneliness-a slow accumulation of loss, isolation, and unprocessed grief?
There was no visible remorse in her, no embarrassment-only an immutable sense of self, even as circumstances suggested otherwise.
And yet, despite everything, I find myself grappling with a sense of unease-perhaps even guilt. Could I have done more? Should empathy stretch further, even when tested? Or had I already extended as much compassion as the situation allowed?
Her story, though difficult, is instructive. It underscores the importance of preparing for old age-not just financially, but emotionally. To cultivate adaptability, to nurture relationships that can serve as anchors in later years, and to recognize the ephemeral nature of status, beauty, and power.
Life, after all, is like water in a wicker basket-impossible to hold forever. Where she is now, I do not know. Whether reconciliation, stability, or peace has found her remains uncertain. But I hope, much like Ove in the novel, she too discovers a sense of purpose-somewhere beyond anger, beyond pride.
For old age can often become a torrent of accumulated pain and loneliness. And in navigating its turbulent waters, what one perhaps needs most is not just shelter-but understanding, connection, and a quiet return to grace.
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