wasscandalized.Hebecameatennisenthusiast,president
ofthelocalRotaryClub,andtellerofbawdyjokes.One
of his proudest days was July 4, 1976, the country’s
bicentennial,whenhewasmadeanAmericancitizenin
frontofhundredsofcheeringpeopleinthegrandstandat
theAthensCountyFairbetweenthehogauctionandthe
demolitionderby.Butonethinghecouldnevergetused
towashowwetreatouroldandfrail—leavingthemtoa
life alone or isolating them in a series of anonymous
facilities,theirlastconsciousmomentsspentwithnurses
anddoctorswhobarelyknewtheirnames.Nothingcould
havebeenmoredifferentfromtheworldhehadgrownup
in.
MYFATHER’SFATHERhadthekindoftraditionaloldage
that,fromaWesternperspective,seemsidyllic.Sitaram
GawandewasafarmerinavillagecalledUti,somethree
hundredmilesinlandfromMumbai,whereourancestors
hadcultivatedlandforcenturies.Iremembervisitinghim
withmy parentsandsister aroundthesametimeImet
Alice,whenhewasmorethanahundredyearsold.He
was,byfar,theoldestpersonI’deverknown.Hewalked
withacane,stoopedlikeabentstalkofwheat.Hewasso
hardofhearingthatpeoplehadtoshoutinhisearthrough
arubbertube.Hewasweakandsometimesneededhelp
gettingupfromsitting.Buthewasadignifiedman,with
atightlywrappedwhiteturban,apressed,brownargyle
cardigan, and a pair of old-fashioned, thick-lensed,
Malcolm X-style spectacles. He was surrounded and
supportedbyfamilyatalltimes,andhewasrevered—not
inspiteofhisagebutbecauseofit.Hewasconsultedon
allimportantmatters—marriages,landdisputes,business
decisions—and occupied a place of high honor in the