Seventy . . .

by Shobhaa De

  Decades later I am still asking myself how I could have salvaged the situation without compromising my principles. Was my conduct offensive? I don’t think so. Did I display ‘attitude’? Nope. Then what? Perhaps it was merely a matter of mismatched personalities. Today, I can sense a potential disaster walking up to me, and quickly take a detour. Back then, I was gauche and bewildered. I felt wronged—which I probably was. It happens. Had I swiftly read the guy’s annoyance right at the start, and just done my job efficiently without getting into childish chatter and petulant remarks, I would not have had to consider quitting. Often, it takes a bad experience early in life to learn a trick or two about managing one’s own shortcomings a little better.

  Social situations are a little more complicated. A lousy job can always be swapped for a less stressful one. But what does one do if the relationship is a more intimate one? How does one walk away? I have done it a few times—you can do it too. One of my daughters said to me a little sadly, ‘The thing is, not everybody is strong, not everybody can take tough calls and move on.’ True. But even the strongest individual hides a few chinks in their armour. It is important to identify those chinks and work on fixing them.

  A recent visitor sat across from me and the first thing I noticed were the chinks she was trying so desperately to conceal. I knew a little about her personal tragedy (she’d lost her husband a few years earlier and never quite recovered). The person in front of me was running away from the trauma a bit too obviously. She was ashamed of her grief. Scared that her deeply morose state would put people off. She was feigning a cheer that wasn’t fooling anybody. Her life had been tough to start with. It had become tougher still after his sudden death. Left with two young sons and little money, she had managed somehow with the insurance payout the family received. But this was not even the real problem. It was her sisters she couldn’t handle. She, being the youngest and financially the weakest of the three, was made to feel like an incompetent idiot by the other two, overachieving career women, who talked down to her and started most conversations with a hurtful, ‘The trouble with you is . . .’

  Knowing this lady’s high IQ, I was surprised she took it all without once telling her siblings off. She sighed and said, ‘It goes back to our childhood. We are carrying forward an old, established pattern. I don’t have the courage to break it.’ I asked why not. Then came a familiar story of deep-seated feelings of inadequacy stemming from being the less successful, less good-looking, less loved one. My question to her was pretty direct: Now that she had identified the root cause of the ongoing strife, how did she propose to tackle it?

  Her answer pleasantly surprised me, ‘I have decided to respect myself more . . . respect my personal space . . . and not allow intrusions. This baggage has to be dropped . . . all of us have been carrying it around for way too long. I will not seek their approval, neither will I express my disapproval of their lives. With time, we will arrive at a fresh equation. But even if we don’t, I will not fret and drive myself into a tizzy.’ Attagirl!

  When she left, I experienced a sense of relief. In her own way, she had helped me resolve an ongoing conflict about my own relationships. I felt freed of several self-imposed guilty feelings which had been bogging me down for no good reason. For years I had tried my best to please a few family members who were disinclined towards accepting and acknowledging key aspects of my life. Suddenly, it became obvious why it had been so. Regardless of their reasons, I was not answerable to them. Nor did I require their so-called ‘support’ during a crisis. I was perfectly capable of handling my own affairs. Looking back, I realized they had never been by my side, neither during the good times nor during the bad. When they had turned up for any function, they’d behaved like guests, not close family members. Forget offering help or assistance, they had demanded extra-special treatment and attention. When they didn’t receive it, they withdrew, criticized me openly and sulked.

  These incidents used to bother me a great deal. I would confess my disappointment to my children who were equally puzzled by this behaviour. They advised me to switch off and ignore the barbs. But how could I? It was when I started behaving uncharacteristically that I figured it was time to give myself a break. I merely withdrew. No more daily phone calls. No more solicitous conversations. No more pretending there was any intimacy or warmth left in the relationship. I like to think it was a relief both ways. Today, I no longer torment myself over the lack of communication. I don’t wish anybody ill, nor do I mope about how it could have been, should have been, but wasn’t to be. I’m done.

  A war veteran’s manual

  At my age, I qualify as a war veteran in every sense of the word. Or should I call myself a war survivor? You win some, you lose some. We all pick our battles—sometimes wisely, most times not. The important question is this: What sort of a battle is worth staking a friendship or relationship for? How do you extricate yourself once it’s over? Who apologizes? How? What are the stakes? How well defined are the issues? Who plays referee? Should there be a cooling-off period? Can a broken relationship ever be mended? Do you hold grudges? Do you find it hard to eat crow, saying, ‘I was wrong’? Does ego play a huge role in your fights? Are you a poor loser? Too many uncomfortable questions.

  At my age, I qualify as a war veteran in every sense of the word. Or should I call myself a war survivor? You win some, you lose some. We all pick our battles—sometimes wisely, most times not.

  I subject myself to ‘rational’ reviews after each major fight—normally with one of my children or my husband. I also pride myself on my clinical post-mortems. I tend to analyse everything to death—fights included. Sometimes it’s better to let things go. Even though, this is what I realize and know deep down, I tend to make the same mistakes over and over again. I guess we all have what are called ‘anger patterns’ or ‘anger fields’. We can see an argument brewing. We can sense it will lead to an ugly exchange of words, but we still go headlong into a nasty ‘you said this, which is why I did that’ exchange.

  No matter what your age and maturity level, there is generally a set format to how one conducts verbal confrontations. My first impulse is to walk away. But I don’t! How much ugliness I would have spared myself (and the other person) had I done just that—walked away from an impending fight. I also plug my ears during a particularly loud and aggressive slanging match. Is that a smart thing to do? I think not. It frustrates the person who is yelling, generally making things worse and escalating the conflict. Voice levels rise and facial expressions begin to indicate an imminent meltdown. If at all possible, this is the right time to exit—in a quietly dignified manner. If that option isn’t available, the next best thing to do is to mentally disconnect. Trust me, that’s the hardest—you have to channel your inner Buddha, and not all of us are fortunate enough to possess this gift. People say it’s a matter of training. Anger management is a technique that can be developed. It is also said that as you get older, it gets easier to control emotions, anger included. It is not true, at least not in my case. Forget mellowing and becoming more accepting of oneself and those around me, I am most annoyed at myself! An open display of anger is one of the biggest turn-offs for me. I can put up with almost any other failing, but I find a bad temper hard to condone. I also find it very unattractive. In the midst of a fight, I am generally studying the other person’s altered state—the face contorted with unbridled rage, the body language, dramatically different from the one in peaceful times, eyes bulging, veins throbbing. Please take a look at yourself, I say silently, and let’s stop.

  I walk towards the nearest mirror (if there is one) and stare at my own reflection. It is so terrible, I turn my eyes away. I don’t want to acknowledge this alien creature. I hate what I am looking at. The eyes are cold, the mouth twisted and the vein on my forehead is throbbing. My hands are shaking, my entire body is stiffened by the strong waves of negativity I am experiencing. I look seriously ugly, and that depresses me. Anger is by far the most harmful emotion. It affect
s every single part of the body. When my heart starts pounding, I am aware that my blood pressure is shooting up rapidly and dangerously. I have read up enough on the subject to realize I could be struck down by a stroke or suffer cardiac arrest. And yet, I am helpless. I do nothing. I can’t.

  Chanting in a group has helped many of my friends of the same vintage as I. We all agree we could do with being quieter, calmer, more at peace. We seem to be dealing with similar problems of heightened irritability and poor management of emotions. Friends who admit they have a quick temper also confess their inability to deal with outbursts. I have thought about it. I have considered therapy as well. But I have not taken that first important step towards either option so far. Age works both ways—as you hit your sixties and seventies, society expects you to miraculously undergo a transformation and become a different person. You are told it is time to look inward, modify your conduct, behave in a manner that is ‘appropriate’. People demand a kinder, softer, more tameable version of you. This is difficult to achieve for someone like me. I am the original ‘peacenik’—I believe making love is far, far more important than making war. But ‘tameable’? No chance! I am the person I am, and I am okay with most aspects of me. I do find fights abhorrent, but I like to think I fight fair.

  There are a few ground rules worth adhering to during fights.

  Rule number one: Pick someone your own size. Never attack a person who cannot hit back, is weaker, more vulnerable, defenceless.

  Rule number two: Don’t hit below the belt. I know what that feels like. And I have done it a few times myself.

  It is real intimacy that is often the biggest enemy of two people going to war—they know far too much about each other. They are well-armed. There are no secrets between them and that’s the real problem. They can throw things at one another that nobody else is aware of, and that hurts. But we all do it. The worst aspect of a no-holds-barred fight is what comes tumbling out when you least expect it. Accusations fly, buried hurts surface, well-aimed arrows find the right target, vulnerabilities are exposed. Then what? Who takes care of the aftermath? Who clears the debris?

  There are theories galore about cold wars being less harmful than hot wars. I am not so sure. An explosion hurts as much as an implosion. Explosions lead to heart attacks, implosions to ulcers. Either way, there is indescribable pain. A hurt that scars and rarely heals. What does one do to prevent war—hot or cold? I wish I had answers. But experience has taught me a few lessons—expensive ones at that.

  When I was much younger, I would withdraw completely and remain withdrawn for weeks, perhaps months, till the cold rage dissipated, or I came to terms with the nagging issue somehow. I could not get myself to exchange a word with the person I was angry with. I could barely make eye contact. My wound would fester, often heedlessly, my appetite would disappear almost entirely (come on, how can anybody eat or enjoy a meal with bile rising in the mouth?), I would lose weight noticeably, my face would appear drawn and pinched, my voice would alter, and my entire body would convey my rejection of the person emphatically. This was my slightly foolish way of insulating myself. But as we all know, there is really no protection against wrath—your own or someone else’s. You can meditate. Do yoga. Escape to another room, city or country. But the anger will follow you regardless. It is corrosive. It is destructive. It is worse than a vicious dog bite. It is the single most toxic emotion. Murders happen because of anger. A few nasty words are enough to break old relationships permanently. Does anybody possess the magic potion that instantly dissolves anger?

  How does one make up after a blowout? It’s a subject worthy of an entire book. My own way is to wait it out. Be patient, even with yourself. With time, the issues begin to look less critical and more manageable. If you lead a busy life, domestic problems, big and small, intervene, distract and distance. The stand-off becomes inconvenient, then unimportant. Finally, it is rendered irrelevant.

  I strongly recommend a cooling-off period. This can be any length of time between a single day and a year. It’s important not to cheat. You can’t fool yourself, so why fool someone else? It is only after the volcano within has stopped erupting, and you are sure you won’t spew venom, that the process of remorse and reconciliation can begin. I am not a sucker for flowers or flowery words of apology. I can tell if the other person is genuinely sorry, just like I know in my heart of hearts that I am ready to forget and move on.

  If these two moments are in sync, it is a huge relief. Ten kilos fall off instantly. Frowns vanish and the eyes shine again. The only real way to make up after a fight is to confront the fight. Table the issues and deal with them once and for all. The more you run away from the truth, the harder it gets to accept its consequences. Couples who say they always make up before going to bed are probably lying. Or not facing the hurt generated. Some couples find it so hard to maintain eye contact when they are making up, it becomes a counterproductive and artificial construct which collapses very quickly. Sitting across a table and sorting out differences in a ‘civilized’ fashion is an equally fake move. We lose our civilized selves when angered. Conditioned responses of polite behaviour are thrown out of the window when the gloves are off. Writing long emails is one way of putting your conflicts into some order. But do remember, emails are forever. And can be easily retrieved by an aggrieved party. Text messages are equally incriminatory. Phone calls are trickier still—you can say the most unfortunate things but you can’t see the recipient’s reaction. What’s the fun in fighting long distance? Besides, have you forgotten the recorder?

  Considering human beings have been fighting since time immemorial, it’s strange that nobody has come up with ways to: a) anticipate a fight and b) resolve it quickly. There are some weirdos who thrive on fights, their own included. In fact, such people instigate fights. They don’t admit it, but they exist. It isn’t out of a sense of sadism alone (though sadism does figure), often it is out of sheer boredom. An empty mind is a dangerous thing. I‘ve heard men and a few women boasting about their alpha personalities and wearing anger as a badge. They claim they can’t help themselves since they fall into the Type A aggressive, assertive personality slot. This is rubbish. I am pretty Type A myself. But I abhor fights and have rarely instigated one. Yes, there is a quick temper (road rage, especially), but I do try to control the urge to let fly—words or hands!

  Does age have a lot to do with anger management? Or are some people just more angry than others? Ask me and I will say that age has everything to do with emotional issues—anger management being just one of them. Age affects everything!

  Does age have a lot to do with anger management? Or are some people just more angry than others? Ask me and I will say that age has everything to do with emotional issues—anger management being just one of them. Age affects everything! And that’s pretty hard to deal with, since you keep remembering your younger, milder self and wondering what happened to that far more likeable person. The answer is obvious—why not leave it there?

  Marathon, anyone?

  I do it. I am sure you’ve done it too. I have not met a single person who, at some point or other, has not run miles away from something or someone. As a child, I didn’t like my maternal grandmother. She didn’t like me either. I was told she had slapped her forehead really hard when my birth was announced, lamenting, ‘Did we really need another girl in the family? Weren’t two enough?’ Once this was revealed to me, I admit I found it hard to love her. The feeling was mutual. As a teenager, I would avoid coming straight home from school on the days she was visiting. I would loiter on the basketball court and take a bus which took a longer route to get home.

  I generally found her in the kitchen, making some traditional Maharashtrian preparation with my mother as her apprentice. She never smiled or greeted me. In her presence, my mother regressed and behaved differently too. I felt ignored and unwanted. I even wished my grandma dead. This thought would induce far too much guilt within me, and I would promptly distract myself by announcin
g I was hungry, tired and thirsty—which indeed I was at the end of a really long and demanding school day. Both women would exchange looks of utter exasperation and treat me like an intruder—a nuisance. This was my cue to flee.

  There are other ways to flee unpleasant situations too. Mental and emotional fleeing is the hardest to detect. And often the hardest to deal with. What looks like withdrawal and aloofness is often a fear of rejection. Children run away the fastest and the furthest when they sense danger—physical or psychological. Today’s youngsters are coping the best they can with a multitude of challenges that didn’t exist in the past. They do exist in a parallel universe, and if you can’t access it, you will find yourself very alone. As will the child. The most worrying aspect of a young person’s virtual existence is the secrecy that surrounds it. Privacy is a relatively new issue, especially with respect to toddlers. I overhear conversations in schools and parks, elevators and movie halls. Mothers seem overwrought and unsure when they swap notes about their kids’ privacy. This makes me laugh.

  What sort of privacy does a four-year-old require, I asked a young mum recently. She provided an elaborate explanation involving ‘time off’ and ‘not invading personal space’ of her cute daughter. My protest that she was still a baby was met with ill-disguised scorn. Said the mother with a smirk, ‘You obviously don’t know today’s kids! They have such packed schedules, it is important for all of us to respect their priorities.’ And what were those? She said her daughter was dealing with peer pressure and feeling inadequate. The little girl was not pleased with her ‘shape’. I almost yelled, ‘What do you mean by that?’ But deep down I knew. Body shaming starts in the cradle these days. Mothers express anxieties over their babies looking less than perfect—especially when they themselves post pictures of their babies on multiple social media platforms. These have become ‘weighty’ issues in more ways than one. Today’s dinner-table conversation is more about calorie counts and less about enjoying what’s on the thali, forget discussing sociopolitical issues. Intense debates revolve around the intrinsic benefits of quinoa and desi ghee, rather than a cousin’s wedding or a sibling’s divorce. Perhaps even demonetization and GST.