Turning 72: Seeking Purpose and Passion in Life: A Reflection at the Edge of Time

A Note Before the Journey
As I turn 72, I find myself drawn not toward festivity, but toward reflection. This piece was written not to elicit birthday greetings, nor a nostalgic look back. It is, instead, an offering—a way to share the quiet musings and persistent emotions that accompany this stage of life. It is a candle lit in contemplation. Some of these reflections may be universal, others perhaps unique to me, but in laying them down, I find both release and joy. To share is to connect—and at this hour in life, that connection feels more vital than ever. For at this stage, it is not achievement that feels vital—but resonance. To be heard. To be understood. To say gently, this too is life.
The Pause That Comes with Age
At 72, I find myself in such a moment—not mourning the passage of time, nor eager to race ahead, but pausing gently to ask: What now? What still remains to be done? And what must now be unlearned, released, or relinquished? Having lived a life of rare intensity and privilege—serving the society and country in my own humble way in roles that demanded not just professional acumen but emotional resilience—I now find myself in a quieter lane. The buzz of public life has faded; files and decisions have given way to reflections and memories. And yet, within me, a strange vitality persists. I still seek purpose. I still wish to give. I still wish to be surprised by joy.
The Geography of the Soul
This is perhaps the first lesson of growing older: that age is not simply a number but a season, a mood, a shifting geography of the soul. The body falters, yes. Aches and ailments are now unwelcome yet familiar companions. But the spirit? The spirit, if nurtured, can remain supple—curious, creative, compassionate.
Finding Meaning in the Everyday 
What, then, should be the purpose of these years?
To begin with, perhaps, it is not about finding a singular purpose but allowing life to offer multiple meanings, many of them small but deeply enriching. Time with grandchildren, for instance, is not a retirement hobby—it is an invitation to return to wonder, to see the world through eyes unspoiled by cynicism. Their laughter is not just joy—it is a bridge between generations, a reassurance that something of us continues, laughing and leaping, long after we are gone. 
The Quiet Invitation to Create
Then there is the quiet invitation to create. For me, writing seems to offer such a purpose. I do not write for recognition or reward, applause or accolades, nor for any monetary gain. Writing has become a manifestation of that void which envelopes you when you retreat into comparative inaction. It is, in a way, a communion with the One who inspires, guides, and breathes into us the sacred urge to create. To write, even without audience, is to shape the inchoate into clarity. In a world that increasingly measures worth in productivity, old age allows us to value presence over performance. To be is enough. 
Changing Roles, Changing Relationships
But it is relationships that demand the most delicate reconfiguration. One is no longer at the centre of the family orbit. Authority slowly and silently shifts, as it must. Sons become decision-makers. Daughters become caregivers. One’s counsel is still sought, but more for acknowledgment than acquiescence. In this lies both a quiet resentment and an unexpected freedom. We are released from the burden of always knowing, always guiding. We can now simply be—flawed, fallible, but faithful to our role as witnesses to the family’s growth. 
Marriage in the Twilight Years
Marriage, too, changes hue. From passion to partnership, from argument to acceptance. The woman who once accompanied me in the dance of dreams is now the one with whom I share silence—comfortable, wordless, companionable. Her enduring presence, like the steady and luminous flame of a lamp, lights up my twilight hours with serenity. 
The Shadow of Impermanence
And yet, amidst these blessings, comes the shadow of impermanence. The passing of friends, the weakening of faculties, the sudden awareness of the body’s frailty—all serve as reminders that time is finite. But perhaps that is what lends these years their urgency and beauty. For only what is fleeting can be truly cherished. Tennyson’s Ulysses, in his immortal cry, speaks to this:
“Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts…” 
Stillness as Deeper Engagement
I return often these days to the wisdom of the Gita, where Krishna says: "One who sees inaction in action, and action in inaction, is wise among men." Perhaps my inaction now—my stillness, my silences, my meandering walks—is not inactivity, but a deeper engagement with the self, with the eternal. In letting go of roles, one discovers being.
A Prayer at Dusk
There is a prayer I often whisper now—not aloud, but inwardly, in the quiet corridors of the heart. It is a prayer not for length, but for light. Not for legacy,
but for liberation:
पूर्वकृ तकर्मबंधनात्मांविमोचय ।
जीवनस्य शेषमार्गंकरुणया आलोकय ।
मांपुनर्जन्मचक्रात्मोचय, मोक्षंप्रदत्तुम्अर्हसि ॥
(Pūrvakṛtakarmabandhanāt māṁ vimocaya
Jīvanasya śeṣamārgaṁ karuṇayā ālokaya.
Māṁ punarjanmacakraāt mocaya, mokṣaṁ pradattum arhasi.)
Release me, O Lord, from the bondage of my past karmas.
Let me walk the remaining path lightly, with grace and giving.
Let me, through Your mercy, be freed from this cycle of births and rebirths. 
Living the Remaining Chapters
And until that grace arrives, I shall keep walking, giving, smiling. I shall remember, with gratitude, that I have lived well. And I shall hope, with quiet faith, that I may still live meaningfully. In the days ahead, I do not seek grandeur or accolades. I seek only presence.The ability to savour a well-brewed cup of tea. The joy of receiving a grandchild’s call. The contentment of a poem finding its last line. And, most of all, the inner clarity to accept what comes with grace, and what goes with gratitude.
I remain, as ever, deeply thankful. To life. To my loved ones. To the unseen hand of the Divine that has both tested and sustained me. I do not know how many more chapters remain. But I do know this: they will be written with love, in quiet ink.
And perhaps that is purpose enough.

(Uday Kumar Varma is an IAS officer. Retired as Secretary, Ministry of Information & Broadcasting