Seven things a perfect old people's home must have

I was in class three or four when I firmly decided I was never going to have children. It was my dull as ditchwater Hindi teacher who pushed me to it, by making the class write an essay called "Cow is my mother".  That floored me: my mum was a human being, not an animal. And like hell I was going to have a child who’d call me an old cow! Let me add, I would not object as strongly if I was called a dog. Dogs are cuter, cuddlier, friendlier and I can live with being called Beyotch - well, it sounds way cooler than cow, at any rate.

Fortunately, I met and married a man who didn’t want children either – we’d established that in the early days of our relationship. Both of us preferred to squander our salaries on holidays, sleep in late on hungover weekends and never ever do dreaded homework again.

Time and again we’d hear this taunt from oldies in the family, though: Who will look after you when you’re old?

The answer is very simple: an Old Folk’s home, darlings! Not just any old Old Folk’s home, of course. We’re still looking for the perfect one and we’re hoping that a non-prissy, non-right wing builder will create one when our time comes. Here are our stipulations:

• It must have a hospital on the premises and a pub that plays old fashioned rock too – the louder the better, since we’ll probably be deaf anyway. We’re determined to die singing bitterly along to Morrison:  "The old get older and the young get stronger."
• It must offer at least one meds-free day a week. That way we can knock back Bloody Marys instead of Virgin Marys without being frightened of slipping into comas and being intravenously fed boring glucose. Hell, why can’t they feed us spicy mutton stock or fermented potato juice aka vodka instead?
• There must be a large lawn so the next time Mick Jagger (no, he will never die), Roger Waters or Axl Rose go on an Indian tour, our place will be one of the venues! They will so feel at home because we can lend them wheel chairs or offer them blood thinners if required. Hey, I’m even willing to offer mouth-to-mouth resuscitation to Axl Rose if necessary. I will have to fight my best friend for the honour, of course.
• Fascist vegetarians will not be allowed. Hello, they’ve discriminated against us for so long when they were lowly secretaries in crappy Mumbai housing societies, it’s our turn to get back. Let them drink lauki juice and sing bhajans in some dreary little place for all I care. All the excitement they can take anyway is some hairy shirtless-Salman yoga guy winking at them
• We will not be forced to watch the prime minister’s speech and write a pious essay on it even if the wily RSS creates an annual geriatics’ day to counter Nehru’s children’s day.
• No politician will be allowed to be on the board of directors. Wait a minute – the Pawars will be allowed (without Tavleen Lavasa Singh) only if they supply wine at subsidised prices.
• The doctors on duty must be well over sixty. I absolutely insist on it! That way, they will understand our need for independence and privacy better. Any younger and they’ll treat us in the shabby way they treat their parents – tyrannical helicopter children, who purse their lips frequently. I say this with conviction because I’m currently a helicopter child (pursed lips and all) and my parents hate me much, much more than they hate pureed karela.