12 October 2026 · Ramcharitmanas
I'm too old to be useful now — everyone has moved on, and I feel like I'm just in the way.
On the southern shore a whole search party has given up. The one who finds Mother Sītā for them is an old bird whose wings burnt long ago — and he says he is too old to help in the very breath in which he gives the help nobody else could. The Ramcharitmanas lets us hear how wrong he is.
The retirement card had forty signatures on it. For a fortnight afterwards the phone still rang. Then it stopped. Nobody was unkind. They had simply stopped needing to ask.
At home, your grandchild fixes your settings without looking up. The holiday is planned in a group chat and you are told the dates. At the one meeting you still attend, the decision gets made around you, politely, the way people walk around furniture.
So a suspicion settles in: everything I know belongs to a world that has stopped asking, and I am in the way. The Ramcharitmanas has a figure for exactly this. He is old. He cannot fly. When we first meet him he is not even pleasant. And without him the story cannot go on.
मोहि लै जाहु सिंधुतट देउँ तिलांजलि ताहि। बचन सहाइ करबि मैं पैहहु खोजहु जाहि॥ … मैं देखउँ तुम्ह नाहीं गीधहि दृष्टि अपार। बूढ़ भयउँ न त करतेउँ कछुक सहाय तुम्हार॥ जो नाघइ सत जोजन सागर। करइ सो राम काज मति आगर॥ मोहि बिलोकि धरहु मन धीरा। राम कृपाँ कस भयउ सरीरा॥
mohi lai jāhu siṁdhutaṭa deuṁ tilāṁjali tāhi, bacana sahāi karabi maiṁ paihahu khojahu jāhi॥ … maiṁ dekhauṁ tumha nāhīṁ gīdhahi dṛṣṭi apāra, būṛha bhayauṁ na ta karateuṁ kachuka sahāya tumhāra॥ jo nāghai sata jojana sāgara, karai so rāma kāja mati āgara॥ mohi biloki dharahu mana dhīrā, rāma kṛpāṁ kasa bhayau sarīrā॥
“[Sampāti said:] 'Take me to the seashore, so that I may make the offering of water and sesame for him. I will help you with my word: the one you are searching for, you will find.' … 'I can see her; you cannot — a vulture's sight has no limit. I have grown old; otherwise I would have given you some help. Whoever can leap across a hundred yojanas of sea, and is a storehouse of good sense, will do Lord Rāma's work. Look at me, and take heart: see what this body has become by Lord Rāma's grace.'”
Source: Ramcharitmanas
The old bird in the cave
The party sent south to find Mother Sītā has run out of time and out of land. They stand at the sea with nothing to report. Prince Aṅgada says, his eyes full, that it is death either way. They spread grass on the shore and sit down. Nobody has a plan.
In a cave above them lives Sampāti, an old vulture, elder brother of Jaṭāyu. His first thought on seeing the vānaras is that God has delivered a meal to his door. That is where the long years have left him: starving, and looking at visitors as dinner.
Then he overhears Aṅgada praise Jaṭāyu, who gave up his body in Lord Rāma's service. It is his brother's name. He comes close, tells them not to be afraid, and asks for the whole story.
What he says next is the first dohā above, and it has two halves. First he asks for help: mohi lai jāhu — take me to the seashore. He has no wings to take himself. Then he offers it: bacana sahāi karabi maiṁ — I will help you with my word. Not with wings. Not with claws. With what he has.
'I have grown old' — said while saving them
On the shore he tells his story. Young, he and Jaṭāyu flew at the sun. Jaṭāyu turned back. Maiṁ abhimānī, says Sampāti — I was proud — and he flew on, and his wings burned, and he fell. A sage took pity on him and freed him from dehajanita abhimāna (देहजनित अभिमान), pride born of the body. He also left him one task: one day the Lord's messengers will come looking for Mother Sītā. Show them where she is.
So that is what his years have been: a bird who cannot fly, holding one job with no date on it. Today, he says, the sage's word has come true. And he does the job: Laṅkā, on Trikūṭa hill; the Aśoka grove; Mother Sītā sitting there in sorrow. The whole party has searched forest and mountain and found nothing. He does it from where he stands: maiṁ dekhauṁ — I can see her; you cannot.
Then, in the same dohā: būṛha bhayauṁ — I have grown old, otherwise I would have given you some help.
He has just given the only help that mattered, and in the same breath he apologises for not helping. He is measuring himself by the old ruler — wings, strength, speed. By that ruler he is right. It is the wrong ruler for the day. The shore had strength in plenty. What it lacked was sight.
Notice what he does with the part that is not his. Whoever can cross a hundred yojanas of sea, he says, will do Lord Rāma's work. He names the task and hands it on. That is not being in the way. That is what an elder is for.
Now the honest part. The poem does not pretend the years cost nothing. His wings did burn. He went hungry in that cave. And nobody came seeking his wisdom — the vānaras stumbled onto him. No one may come to your cave either. But he walked out of his.
The sage had also told him his wings would grow again. And among his parting words to that frightened party is mohi biloki dharahu mana dhīrā — look at me, and take heart. He came out of the cave looking for a meal. He leaves as their reason for courage.
This week
First, change the ruler. Write two short lists: what you can no longer do, and what you can see that the people around you cannot yet. You have watched a business nearly fail and a marriage survive a bad year. Long sight is what the years were buying.
Second, give one bacana sahāi — one piece of help by word. One true thing, to one person standing at their own sea: 'I have seen this before; here is where it leads.' Then stop. He told them where she was. He did not tell them how to jump.
Third, ask for the lift. Mohi lai jāhu came before any help he gave. Letting your grandchild fix the phone is not the opposite of being useful.
Fourth, come out of the cave. Ring the person who has just started the job you did for thirty years.
The phone may stay quiet a while yet. He waited a very long time for one afternoon's work — and the rest of the story hung on it.
The shore was full of strength that day; what it was waiting for was an old one's sight.
Frequently asked questions
- How do I cope with feeling useless after retirement?
- Measure yourself by what you can still see, not by what you can no longer do. In the Ramcharitmanas, old Sampāti cannot fly or fight, yet he alone can see Mother Sītā across the sea and tell the search party where she is (Kiṣkindhā-kāṇḍa, dohā 28). Offer one specific piece of hard-won sight to one person.
- What does the Ramayana say about growing old and feeling like a burden?
- The Ramcharitmanas is honest that the years take things. Sampāti says, 'I have grown old; otherwise I would have given you some help' (Kiṣkindhā-kāṇḍa, dohā 28). But he says it while giving the one help nobody else could: telling the search party where Mother Sītā is. Usefulness changes its form; it does not end.
- Younger people have taken over at work and at home — do I still have anything to offer?
- Very likely the thing they lack: long sight. In the Ramcharitmanas a whole search party fails; an old bird tells them where to go, then says plainly that the leap belongs to someone else (Kiṣkindhā-kāṇḍa, dohās 27–28). Help with your word, hand on the task, and let others carry you where you cannot go.