50 & up

Never touch people over the age of 50.

Because...

It's not just a generation; it's an entire way of survival. Hard as a week-old bread and quick as a grandma's slipper flying with boomerang precision. Up to five of them could understand the mother's mood just by the sound of the pot on the fire. At seven they were already holding a key tied to a string and instructions: "The food is in the fridge, heat it but don't fall asleep." At nine they could cook without a recipe. At ten, they knew how to fix things, close leaks, escape the neighbor's dog and get back home before dark. They lived outside from morning until night.

No phones. No Wi-Fi. Their map was the neighborhood, the tree, the river, the playground. They came home with knees full of marks like little war maps. They cleaned them with saliva, dirt or leaves, and if they hurt they would hear: "It didn't break, so it doesn't hurt." They ate bread with sugar, drank water from the yard hose and had an immunity that would envy any yogurt. They didn't know about allergies and if there were any, it wasn't an issue. They knew how to remove stains from grass, oil, blood, mud and ink because they had to come home "clean".

And that's not just that. They're on time:

radio with transistor,

black and white TVs,

record player,

cassette speaker with coils and cassettes, 

CD…

Today they carry thousands of songs in their pockets, but miss the sound of a tape wrapped in a pencil. They got a license and traveled entire countries with no GPS, no air conditioning, no hotels with just a folded map and a sandwich in the trunk. And they arrived. They have always arrived.

They are the last generation to know a world without Internet, without direct communication, without stress about batteries and notifications. They had notebooks with recipes instead of apps. They remembered birthdays without reminders or just showing up at the door.

They are people who:

they make everything with insulation tape, wire and pliers,

they grew up with a TV channel and never got bored,

they knew that "flipping" meant a phone book, not a screen,

and they thought that if you didn't answer the phone, they would just call you back.

They are different. With endurance forged in difficulties, immunity built in times of simplicity and reflections born in the abyss. The latest original ninjas of everyday life.

Don't underestimate a man over 50. He has seen more, lived deeper and carries experience that does not fit on any screen. He grew up with no child seats, no helmets, no sunscreen. He went to school without a laptop, youth without "scroll". He is not looking for answers, he recognizes them by instinct.

And yet, it carries more memories than any cloud can hold.

Stopping Cars

My name is Helen. I'm 69 years old, and for the past 11 years, I've been a School Crossing Guard at Riverside Elementary. Rain, snow, blazing heat, I'm there at 7:45 AM and 3:15 PM, stopping traffic so kids can cross safely.

People think it's simple work. Hold up a stop sign. Wave kids across. Go home.

But I see everything those few minutes reveal.

The kid who flinches when cars honk. The mom who sits in her car crying after drop-off. The dad who hasn't smiled in months. The grandmother raising three grandkids alone, exhaustion carved into her face.

I observe it all. And I remember every single one.

Four years ago, I noticed something about a little boy named Tommy. Seven years old, thick glasses, always last to cross. He'd wait until every other kid was gone, then sprint across like he was being chased.

One morning, I stopped him. "Tommy, why do you always wait?"

He looked down. "Kids say I'm too slow. They don't want to walk with me."

My heart cracked. "Well, I think you're just the right speed. How about you and me cross together from now on?" His face lit up like Christmas morning.

So that became our thing. Every day, Tommy would wait for me, and we'd cross together. I'd ask about his day. He'd tell me about dinosaurs and astronauts and dreams bigger than the sky.

Then one Friday, Tommy didn't show up. Monday either. Tuesday, I asked his teacher.

"Tommy's in the hospital," she said quietly. "Leukemia. It's bad, Helen."

I drove to that hospital straight after my shift. Found his room. His mother was there, looking like she'd aged ten years in a week.

"You're Miss Helen!" Tommy croaked from his bed, so tiny under those white sheets. "The crossing guard!"

I held his hand. It felt like holding air. "I'm here, buddy. You and me, we're still crossing together. Just different streets now."

His mother broke down. "He talks about you constantly. Says you're his best friend."

I visited Tommy every single day after my shifts. Read him books. Told him stories. Some days he was too weak to talk. I'd just sit there, holding his hand.

Three months later, Tommy went into remission. Actual remission. The doctors called it remarkable.

When he came back to school, the whole crossing erupted in cheers. Kids who'd ignored him before suddenly wanted to walk with him. But you know what Tommy did?

He waited for me. Like always. "We cross together, Miss Helen. That's our rule."

I ugly-cried right there in my reflective vest.

But here's where the story really begins.

Tommy's mom, Jennifer, started volunteering at my crossing. "You saved my son's spirit when I couldn't," she said. "Let me help you see other kids who need it."

She was right. Together, we started noticing things. The girl who wore the same torn shoes all winter. The boy who never had lunch money. The kid who showed up with bruises.

We couldn't fix everything. But we could do something.

Jennifer and I started a program called "The Crossing Connection." 

Every Friday after school, we'd set up a table with donated supplies, shoes, coats, school supplies, food boxes. No paperwork. No questions. Just, "Need anything?"

Word spread fast. Parents started donating. Teachers helped identify kids who needed help. A local dentist offered free checkups. A barber gave free haircuts on Saturdays.

But the magic wasn't the stuff. It was the seeing.

One afternoon, a mom I'd never spoken to approached me, sobbing. "I've been coming to your crossing for three years. You always wave at my daughter. Always say 'Have a beautiful day, sweetheart.' You have no idea... my husband left us. I have no family. Some days, your smile was the only kindness we got. It kept me going."

I had no idea. I just thought I was being friendly.

Last year, something incredible happened. The city tried to replace crossing guards with electronic signals. Budget cuts. I'd be out of a job.

Within 48 hours, 3,000 parents signed a petition. Hundreds of kids wrote letters. Tommy, now 11, spoke at a city council meeting.

"Miss Helen doesn't just stop cars," he said, voice shaking. "She stops kids from feeling invisible. She stopped me from giving up when I had cancer. She's not just a crossing guard. She's the person who taught me I matter."

There wasn't a dry eye in that room.

They kept the crossing guards. All of them.

Today, "The Crossing Connection" operates at 23 schools across our district. We've helped over 800 families. But more than that—we've created a culture where people see each other. Really see each other.

Yesterday, a teenager I used to help cross came back to visit. She's 17 now, heading to college on a full scholarship.

"Miss Helen," she said, hugging me tight. "Remember when you noticed my shoes had holes? You got me new ones, but you acted like I was doing you a favor by accepting them. You let me keep my dignity. That changed everything for me."

I'm retiring next month. My knees can't take it anymore. But on my last day, the school is naming the crossing after me. "Helen's Corner," they're calling it.

Tommy's mom is taking over my position. And Tommy? He wants to be a pediatric oncologist. "So I can help other kids cross their scary streets," he says.

Here's what I learned standing on that corner for 11 years, The smallest moments of seeing someone, really seeing them, can change everything. A smile. A name remembered. A hand held. That's not small. That's everything.

*We all stand at crossings every single day*. 

Moments where we can stop and notice someone who feels invisible. Where we can help someone cross a hard street safely.

Don't just wave people through. See them. Remember them. Hold their hand if they need it. Because you never know, that five seconds of kindness might be the thing that saves someone's life. Or gives a sick little boy a reason to fight. Or reminds a struggling mother that she's not alone.

We're all crossing guards in someone's story. Make sure you Stop Traffic for the people who need it most."

Brain Balance

What’s your Brain Balance?

Every time you make a deposit or withdrawal your bank sends you a message and you check your balance. 

Your portfolio accumulates junk. Penny stocks, vanishing companies etc. Then a clean up is done. Loss making stocks are sold. In case something else appears more attractive, a relative choice is made. 

In our bank account, if we see a transfer of money of Rs.100 that we did not do, we will bring the bank down!

Yet, this wealth we guard with our life is not as important at the wealth lying in our brain. Our knowledge, perspectives, interpretation, thoughts, desires, wants, motivations, moods, decisions have been left unguarded. 

Every day your home gets cleaned, garbage removed, dishes washed, pest control done, air purifier keeping the AQI just right. If a visitor is expected, the house goes for a deep cleaning.

They tell you Net Worth, IQ, EQ, but what no one tells you is about Brain Quotient!

Our real wealth, one that cannot be stolen, inherited or willed away and one through which we become who we do, is actually between our ears. Yet we pay the least attention to what garbage lies within! If I give you an old newspaper, you won’t keep it in your locker. Our brain however is an involuntary and indiscriminate storage of all the rubbish that has come our way. Words people have said, incidents one saw. In Mahabharata, every character except Krishna is carrying memories of past insults and injustices that they now seek to revenge!

Reading, new languages, new skill or discussions with those who are masters in their subject improves our brain balance. This is one thing that cannot be bought by a fat bank balance. 

Education is a start but the pursuit of knowledge is an endless journey. Education atrophies with time. Unless we constantly feed our Brain with new knowledge, it’s balance begins to slowly deplete. Most people live a life of repetitive experiences by living their life on default mode. With age we stop learning new things. We defend our crystallised opinions and untested convictions!

Anxiety often comes from unfinished and often conflicting thoughts and desires. A clean, clear, decluttered mind will produce beautiful thoughts. 

The ability to purchase an experience does not guarantee the ability to enjoy it. It’s good to have a healthy bank balance but critical to have a healthier Brain Balance for the quality of our life depends solely on the quality of our thoughts. Not by raising our standard of living but raising our standard of thinking is the path to finding Joy.

They have sold us the pursuit of a beautiful body. Exercise, diet, make up, anti-ageing. There is no money to made in selling you a beautiful mind. Yet the life we experience is through the mind and a beautiful mind is even more desirable than having a beautiful body! 

Charlier Munger says the goal should be daily going to bed a little wiser than you were when you got up. 

Be a learning machine. Focus on growing your brain balance.

Funeral

It was 3 pm at Swargadwar cremation ground in Puri.

Sabyasachi, 35 years old, who was a Vice President in a big software company in America, came straight from the airport to the cremation ground. His father, Pradipta Mishra, 75 years old, had passed away the previous night.

Sabyasachi was holding an expensive laptop bag and wearing Ray Ban glasses. He looked very busy and kept checking his watch again and again.

Tarun from Moksha Event Management, a funeral service company, was standing there. He had arranged everything. The wood was ready, the priest had been called, and Pradipta Mishra’s body was bathed and prepared.

Sabyasachi arrived. He looked at his father’s face. Two drops of tears fell from his eyes.

He asked Tarun, “Mr Tarun, is everything ready? I have to catch a return flight at 6 pm. I have an important meeting tomorrow. Please finish this quickly.”

Tarun was shocked but quietly nodded.

The rituals were completed. Sabyasachi lit the funeral fire. Smoke rose into the sky.

Then he took Tarun aside and took out his checkbook. He said, “Tarun, thank you. You arranged everything well. What is your bill? Fifty thousand or one lakh? Tell me the amount, I will write the cheque now. I cannot come again. Please also take care of the ashes.”

Tarun smiled strangely and said, “Sir, there is no need to pay. Your bill has already been paid.”

Sabyasachi was confused. “Already paid? Who paid? Did my uncle pay?”

Tarun replied, “No sir. Five years ago, your father came to our office. He was very sick and could hardly walk. He asked us, what is your package? Will you manage everything so that my son does not face any problem?”

“We explained everything to him. That same day he deposited fifty thousand rupees in advance. He also gave me this letter. He told me, when my son comes, give him this letter. And if he does not come, you perform my last rites.”

Tarun gave the letter to Sabyasachi.

With shaking hands, Sabyasachi opened it. In his father’s weak handwriting, it was written:

“Dear Sabyasachi,

My son, I know you are very busy. In America you may not even get time to breathe. I know when you hear about my death, you will be worried. Will I get leave? Will I get a ticket? What about my meeting? These questions will trouble you.

Son, your time and career are very important. I raised you so that you can win the world. Do not suffer loss for the body of an old man.

That is why I have arranged everything for my death in advance. I have already paid this organization. They will manage everything. If you come, good. If you do not come, I will not be angry.

I have only one request.

When you were small and I dropped you at school, I never left your hand.

Today when you light my funeral fire, may your hand not shake. Return soon. Your wife will be waiting.

Yours,

Baba”

After reading the letter, the checkbook fell from Sabyasachi’s hand into the mud.

In that cremation ground, where the sound of burning wood was heard, Sabyasachi’s pride and career also turned into ashes.

He fell on his knees.

“Baba, forgive me, Baba.”

He held Tarun’s feet and cried, “Tarun, I do not want to go back to America. I want to stay with my father. I earned crores of rupees, but in the end I became a beggar. My father was thinking about my meeting even at the time of his death, and I was paying for his last rites?”

That day Sabyasachi did not catch his flight. He sat the whole night in front of the burning pyre.

Because in the end he understood:

Prepaid can be for a SIM card. But a father’s love is never prepaid. A father’s love is endless, and no money in the world can repay it.

Lesson: No matter how big you become in the world, no matter how much money you earn, when the parents who once changed your clothes need you at the end of their life, do not turn your face away.

Any company can perform the funeral. But tears cannot be bought from outside.

Those tears should come only from blood relations.