Pensioners slip on the paradise peel

Only fools want to stop the march of time, and nobody wants to be a fool. Those who prefer to vegetate on the bed of nostalgia may not be fools but they're a little closer to it. So stop fooling around by always looking back, now, then, later, tomorrow, day after tomorrow, day after tomorrow's tomorrow. Take a risk by looking ahead. Who knows, it may be good for your head.
Touch wood, the roads are better now, and touch sandalwood, there are far better buses than 25 years ago.Today, most welfare state transactions are e-filed, which has sealed the fate of the government's most potent and successful weapon feared by all - the form. More on the brighter side, the weather has kept its promise over the years by not troubling the polite denizens with unexpected mood change.
Yet, the whisper among the crowd is that the Pensioners' Paradise has ceased to be what it was. And what it was? A paradise where the proverbial pensioner can laze about all day, watching puppies and children play from a safe distance, where water ran clear, where the innocent Victorian era baker sold on credit without fear of going bankrupt, where the tortoise commanded respect and the rabbit invited scorn. Amen.
To the Pensioner then - whoever that character was -- slow was a prized virtue. Thankfully, businesses burst out in the open like clear water escaping from a weak dam, just in time, and nobody got a chance to mutate into a sloth. You don't need to run to Charles Darwin to find out the origin of the first IT professional who set the left foot
(considered unlucky by seamen) into the promised land, and what this organism did shortly afterwards. The new creature made a lot of noise, good noise, and beat the lights out of every sleepwalker, correction, the elusive Pensioner.
The first casualty when change sweeps across an area is a good night's sleep. One slow Sunday morning, the Pensioner woke up and saw in the mirror that the eyes have swollen due to lack of sleep. Curse this wind of change.
Curious heads streamed into the paradise by means of rail, air and foot to look for IT jobs, to study animals, physics and money-counting, to open stores, to buy houses, to ferry passengers, to do a somersault, anything. When they got tired of doing what they came to do, they strolled on the windy streets to relax their muscles, and ended up talking, eating and laughing loudly. Coffee shops, eateries and stores sprang up overnight like mushrooms.
Nowhere in this new scheme of things did the Pensioner fit. The place had changed, and how the change had happened was hard to figure out. But it's a lie to say that once the paradise turns into a city, the place will become uncomfortable or even inhabitable.
Nostalgia makes a pauper out of humans; it clouds their judgment. There's nothing wrong in converting this Pensioners' Paradise into something else, which is happening now. The ideal weather is probably the only remaining consolation for the Pensioner. Maybe not. If you ask the weathercock, it will tell you which direction the wind is blowing. It won't tell you anything about the weather. And the wind is blowing towards Youths' Paradise.
A young crop of officers, teachers, techies, lawyers, engineers, journalists, to-be novelists, filmmakers and everybody else in the prime of their lives, should be given a chance.
Eventually, the selfish Pensioner who wants to make you believe that time starts and ends with the whims of those who have lived in the paradise, will discover that nobody's a fool. We like to move forward.