Every now and then someone tells me with eyes wide and voice reverent, “You know, that national leader is old and still works twelve hours a day!”

I nod solemnly, as if they’ve just informed me that said leader is personally holding the Earth’s orbit in place.

And then I remember a man. Let’s call him Abraham.

Not the biblical one, though sometimes I suspected the one I knew had wandered through the wilderness a bit too long. He was the editor of a tiny magazine I once wrote for, and by “editor” I mean dictator of the monthly rag.

He ran the place with an iron hand and editorials that stretched into pages. Surviving mostly on the fear of his staff.

Whenever someone asked for a raise—usually to cover such luxuries as rice or rent—he would rise (slowly, painfully) from his creaky wooden chair, shake his age-stained finger and thunder, “Do you know how old I am? Do you know the sacrifice I make coming to work at this age?”

The staff would nod, fear in their eyes, and return to their desks to continue surviving on promises and air. All this went on till one day, a trustee from Nagpur, in what must have been a moment of rare courage or foolish honesty, suggested gently, “Sir, you’re seventy-five. Maybe it’s time to retire and let a younger person take over.”

Sadly, the ‘younger person’ that was mentioned was me, and very frankly that was the last post I ever wanted, and told the trustee when I found out, but it was too late.

The old man lashed out and the fireworks began. Not the Diwali kind. The Hiroshima kind.

He kicked. He screamed. He threatened legal action, divine retribution, and once, even hinted that his leaving would cause “a national crisis in publishing.” The magazine folded up later. Because, of course, it wasn’t about service or sacrifice. It was about the chair.

It always is, isn’t it?

Let’s be honest. Most of the people holding high posts late into their twilight years  are clinging on because the chair feels good. It’s cushioned, it spins, and most importantly—it comes with power, perks, and the ability to make people stand when you enter a room.

So the next time you hear someone say, “But he’s so old and still works so hard,” pat them gently and whisper, “Yes, but have you tried giving him a rocking chair instead?”

Because in our country, we’ve got youth with ideas, energy, and vision… waiting outside the room, while Grandpa won’t leave the chair, even if it’s bolted to the floor and the building’s on fire.

No, dear reader, age is not the issue. Love for the position is. And until we stop confusing stubbornness with service, we’ll keep applauding those who sit tight, long after they should’ve stood down.

Because the real sacrifice would be… letting go….!

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