But I could never have foreseen what truly altered my perception of retirement. I saw it with my father; his story can help you decide.

My father, P L Garabadu, was a man of action, a testament to unwavering routines and discipline.

He would rise with the sun daily, embark on a brisk morning walk, and then meticulously follow his bath, prayer, and breakfast routine. By half-past seven, he would leave home for his factory, where he supervised design and fabrication with the precision of a hawk. A sole proprietor of his business, he maintained high physical and mental activity levels until he returned home around seven.

He would drive in the narrowest bylanes in Cuttack, known for its chaotic traffic – an activity that demanded immense mental focus and physical stamina – to pick and choose his fruits, vegetables, fish, or sweets. Even the mere thought of treading that path would seem taxing for many. But not Daddy. He seemed tireless and would venture where others hesitated to tread.

Interestingly, most of his closest friends were government servants, with only one venturing into the private sector.

When they reached retirement age as stipulated in their workplace, my father decided to sell his factory, which stemmed from my disinclination to pursue his line of work and his reluctance to grease the palms of government officials to secure raw materials – a common practice during the days when the State controlled its supply.