It takes a certain kind of decadence to ignore the slow collapse of the family, that ancient bulwark against the void. Yet here we are, watching India's elderly shuffle into the shadows of neglect while the state scrambles for solutions. The latest scheme in Kerala, which cribs heavily from the UK's social care framework, has been hailed as a 'progressive' step. But let us not kid ourselves: this is a confessional for a society that has lost its moral compass.
Across the subcontinent, the joint family system—once a granite pillar of civilisation—is crumbling under the weight of urbanisation and selfish ambition. Children flee to Bangalore, Dubai, or London, leaving behind parents whose only crime was to live too long. The state steps in not out of generosity, but because the alternative is a demographic scandal that would shame Nero. The UK's model, with its community outreach and integrated care, is indeed a marvel of bureaucratic compassion. But it is a bandage on a wound that demands surgery.
Consider the numbers: India's elderly population is set to double by 2050. Yet we privatise elder care as if it were a luxury good, while our film industry peddles sentimental rubbish about filial piety. The UK, for all its faults, at least recognises that loneliness is a public health crisis. Their 'social prescribing'—connecting isolated seniors with volunteer befrienders—is precisely the sort of micro-intervention that a technocratic state excels at. But do not mistake efficiency for virtue. This is a society that has institutionalised love, because it no longer trusts its own citizens to offer it.
The Kerala experiment is a start, but it reeks of intellectual cowardice. Instead of asking why families abandon their elders, we applaud the government for picking up the pieces. We praise the 'dignity' of a stranger helping an old man cross the street, while his son buys a new Tesla. This is not progress; it is surrender. The Fall of Rome was not sudden. It was a slow rot: first the gods died, then the family, then the state filling the void with bread and circuses. We are building our own colosseum for the elderly, replete with day care and subsidised meals. And we call it enlightened.
But I digress. The UK model works because it accepts the inevitable: the West has already lost the battle for organic community. India, however, is still fighting. To import their solutions wholesale is to admit defeat. We must instead ask harder questions: Can we tax the remittances of NRIs to fund elder care? Should inheritance law be rewritten to reward those who care for parents? Or have we already crossed the Rubicon, leaving only the cold comfort of state benevolence?
The truth is that loneliness is a symptom of a deeper sickness: the worship of the individual over the collective. The UK knew this decades ago and chose the path of managerial stoicism. India now faces the same fork in the road. One path leads to a sterile but efficient care system. The other leads to a cultural reawakening, where we remember that the bonds of blood are not a burden but a privilege. I suspect we will choose the former, because it is easier. And because, in the end, we have all become Romans without realising it.
