Grow Up!

How old is old?
The very fact that these kinds of questions popping up in one’s frame of mind itself is a sure sign of aging. Or, is it?
I wonder.
My friends say I am childish. Do they mean ‘childlike’?
Childish. Childlike. Where is my Concise Oxford?
Many of my friends and peer are so grown up that they can laugh neither at themselves nor at others. Their faces hardly lit up. They either speak of millions in investment and the pulse of stock market—they don’t talk about Tom and Jerry, but bull and bear, obviously not the cuddly Teddy.
One of my friends has four houses—three in three cities in Kerala and one in Bangalore. He jets around, and once in a while takes a breather and meets me in some quaint restaurant here. We have known each other from college days. Well, that’s some donkeys years ago (I hate using this cliché, but thought since it has been about cat, mouse, bull and bear, why spare the monkeys). Whenever he comes, I take him to restaurants where we get the local cuisine—kappa, fish, that sort of stuff.
I help him unwind. He unwinds, laughs out. We remember the good old days when we used to travel by packed train to college—mostly sitting by the door. I make sure that he doesn’t dwell on the market realities as long as he is with me. I laugh at my own logic-defying belly and loss of hair or the silly mistakes I’ve made in my growing up in newsrooms.
But occasionally I notice the flashing worry in his eyes. He is a private banker. So I forgive his momentary detour to reality. But by the time we hug each other to bid farewell, helping our bellies rub their cheeks, he is a jolly fellow.
Part we have to. He, to his worries of wealth amassing. I, to my dreams of becoming a writer.
Another friend of mine—a fellow I met a decade ago in Dubai—has grown into a millionaire in front of my eyes. His primary business is transporting races horses. When he started out, I had gone with him to assist at airports. We carted boxes, filled out documents, hired grooms, checked out all arrangements. Once the horse or horses were gone, we high-fived and drove into the night singing.
Over the years, he branched out other businesses, grew in stature and in swollen bank accounts. The other day he came to see me in his swanky Merc. Sure, he turned many heads where I stay.
The youngster has matured into a businessman. His phone rang constantly. Calls came from China, Hong Kong, Dubai, Libya, etc. I kept looking at him. His laughed, remembering his early days and our adventures in putting horses in flights.
I felt good that he still remembered those days. Before he left, he asked me if I was okay. I didn’t fully understand the meaning of that ‘okay’. Whatever it was, I said I was.
He got into the backseat of the white Merc. A pilot car drove away in front of his pride possession. He was gone, waving.
Anyway, there are times I feel I need to grow up.
Last evening when I got angry at my colleagues for no fault of theirs, and then, late in the evening when I sobbed in the car before I got that one call.
I knew it was childish, or childlike. I wanted to grow up, and make others happy.
But the question pops up, again.
How old is old?