Seventy . . .

by Shobhaa De

  Kids don’t respect what family elders advise, and they don’t have faith in their own parents! This is a new development in our social history . . . I overhear children openly mocking parents for being ‘so weird’, ‘so dumb’. I feel terrible! What if my own children say that about me? Then I reassure myself I am not all that dumb or all that weird. Just a little so. That too, not all the time. I try not to be. I want to be able to keep up in a sensible way with a rapidly changing world. Being ‘cool’ is not the objective. I am embarrassed by ‘cool’. It’s enough to be curious and interested. I am definitely that—at the risk of being called nosy and intrusive.

  Why do we fear the young?

  The young! Oh, the young! They really are not at all scary! I wish more of us would accept that. What do we fear about the young? Their ideas? Their energy? Their opportunities? I think the young are frequently feared, not trusted, avoided and occasionally shunned because we see our own inadequacies reflected in their success. We nod our heads sagely and comment on how uncaring, selfish and reckless the young are! Really? Is it that easy to forget our past? It’s the birthright of every young person to be flagrantly disobedient and reckless. How else do you discover yourself? Do the unthinkable and see what happens . . . if you don’t, you will turn seventy and not have lived at all!

  The great escape(s)

  I did some wild and wonderful things at twenty . . . thirty . . . forty. Fifty too. By sixty, I had become slightly more self-conscious, mainly because my children made me so. Despite their restraining presence (‘Mama, it’s for your own good . . .’), I sneakily managed a few mad adventures, which I cherish. Those words, ‘It’s for your own good’, had exactly the opposite effect to what was intended. They were the spurs! Who wanted ‘good’? Not me. I wanted life! In all its rawness and glory. It’s a wonder I didn’t run away by myself to some exotic destination, without a backward glance. I felt tempted many times. I still do! I hear a tango being played, and I want to jump into the nearest aircraft and head to Buenos Aires. This has been a consistent fantasy. I am sure that irresistible word ‘escape’ obsesses millions of women. I have yet to meet a woman who has not thought at least once, if not a hundred times, of abandoning her family, children, parents, pets, lovers and escaping into another reality.

  This obsession with escaping goes beyond class and circumstances. From the poorest to the richest, women dream of escaping. Not necessarily because their lives are wretched or deprived. It is something beyond that. It is a reaching-out to possibilities and fantasies of the kind nobody sanctions. It is a yearning for more. More of everything. It has nothing to do with having or not having money. Insecurity is the leitmotif of every woman’s secret life. Insecurity fuels and feeds on itself. Half the time, we don’t know what we are feeling insecure about! Even a confident woman, if prodded a bit, will admit to a near constant state of suspended insecurity. Very often, it is driven by her dissatisfaction with her body. If a woman does not like what she sees reflected in the mirror, she feels less about herself on other levels. This feeling is not connected to perfect proportions. Top models worldwide talk about their low-self-esteem issues.

  Of course, the pressure on them to conform to an absurd ideal is far different from the self-image ‘problems’ the rest of us face. Beyond physical beauty, what we recall are childhood slights. Even the prettiest little girl is not spared a highly personal and absurdly pointed remark by an insensitive relative during those early years. ‘Your head is too big!’ ‘Pity you didn’t inherit your mother’s complexion!’ ‘Oh dear! Your sisters are so much taller! What happened to you?’ ‘I hope your parents are getting those teeth fixed!’ ‘Your eyes are not like your father’s—don’t worry, the rest of you is nice!’ Do adults not realize how terrible they sound? And how permanent these early scars are? Taunting a kid with crass comments about his/her appearance seems to be a particularly nasty Indian trait.

  So much for early scars. Our fear of the young reminds us a bit too acutely about our lapses and omissions. We cannot forgive ourselves. We lament and rewind our memory spools. ‘Had I got better grades in class ten, I would have . . .’ ‘If only my father had respected my decision to pursue art and not forced me to opt for science . . .’ ‘My mother was such an emotional drain on me during college—she was going through a lot of stuff.’ Excuses. At sixty, there is no time left to redeem those old promises made to oneself. It’s a done deal. Accept the foolish decisions and move on bravely. So long as you have had a good time falling flat on your face at twenty!

  Envying the young adds lines to your face! I keep saying that to my close friends—men and women. Who, after all, easily lets go of vanity? At any age, we want to look our best . . . as good as is possible. Some of us use a superior quality of hair dye and happily believe we are fooling the world if we cover the grey. Are we? I am tempted to stop ‘touching up the roots’, as it is politely referred to by hairdressers. It is my husband and children who dissuade me. ‘Going grey is not for you,’ they insist. Often, I am not aware that more grey is now showing at the temples in a shorter span of time than earlier. If I went for a ‘touch-up’ once a month in the past, I need to make the trip twice a month these days. I find the process time-consuming, tedious and expensive. But I go through with it dutifully, so as to not let the family down.

  Every aspect of my physical self is scrutinized on a daily basis by family members. If I gain a kilo or two, I am advised: ‘Cut back on the vino—it’s sugar, you know.’ If my saree blouse doesn’t fit well, someone says, ‘Change the bra . . .’ If my walk slows down, I am reminded, ‘It’s those heels! Why not switch to some other footwear?’ I wear spectacles to read and write, and I am fine with being seen on public platforms wearing specs. But a child will helpfully suggest, ‘Get lenses, na?’ In a way, this level of personal and highly critical examination is really touching and sweet and displays an intense level of involvement. But . . .

  I do feel like screaming sometimes. ‘Leave me be! I am nearly seventy years old! It’s okay to wear specs, have grey hair, weigh extra kilos, deal with a slower gait, be seen in a baggier blouse. So what?’ Then, I hastily retract my rebellious thoughts! I tell myself they are right. They love me. They want me to look good. And I suppress a loud laugh! They. They. They. It’s all about the ‘they’. My entire life has been about the ‘theys’. When will my time come? Will it ever?

  My time is mine only when I write. And that time is sacred. Precious. Priceless. I am jealous of this time and space. I guard it. Protect it. Am proprietorial about it. It is this time that keeps me going. Keeps me sane. It is this time I value the most. Above all else. Which is also why I have no fear of the young.

  My time is mine only when I write. And that time is sacred. Precious. Priceless. I am jealous of this time and space. I guard it. Protect it. Am proprietorial about it. It is this time that keeps me going.

  Superwoman one day, Minnie Mouse the next

  This was the thought bothering me as I drove down to Mumbai from Pune. It was a familiar route—I knew practically every overbridge and tunnel. I was feeling uncharacteristically ‘out of control’—feeling small and diminished. I was searching for a parent to tell me what was wrong. Even as I neared seventy then, the child within was yearning for advice and guidance from someone wiser, if not older. I wanted to be soothed and comforted, not taunted and mocked. The incident in Pune may have been the trigger, but in itself, it was pretty insignificant.

  Many women of my age group have told me they feel fatigued ‘acting their age’. They often want to just be. I don’t call that feeling irrational or childish. To the outside world, we are fossils—way past our sell-by date. But within, we are still girls! We remain vain and petulant, flirtatious and capricious, demanding and silly. Why not? Most of us suppress this sudden and crazy urge to let go because we are overly concerned about the consequences. ‘What will the children/grandchildren, husband, in-laws, neighbours, relatives say?’ Think about it—what will they say? Log kuch au
r hi kahenge. Logon ka kaam hain kehna. That you are immature, irresponsible, selfish? What if you are? Do you care? Let them say whatever the hell they want to. You are what and who you are. It’s okay. Selfish toh selfish. Bas?

  Age and wisdom are not interlinked. Wisdom is fluid. Flashes of it come and go. Nobody is consistently wise. Women are entitled to their foolishness. An overload of wisdom can seriously impact our health! The pressure to be wise, caring, giving, nurturing to all the people in our lives is such a huge and oppressive burden! There are times you just want to take that damn weight off your shoulders and flee. Is that so wrong? Who hasn’t felt this urge? The ones who act on it are the blessed ones. They pay a price, but at least they don’t have to pay that to themselves. They are gloriously free.

  The only ‘wise’ decisions worth making concern the health of loved ones. You can’t fool around with someone else’s life. Your own? Well, women can be foolishly negligent. Men and wisdom is an entirely different story. Most men never really grow up—they just get more practical as they go along. A rare few have the gift of wisdom. These are the ones who don’t talk—they provide the required support during crises, silently and efficiently. They don’t remind people around them about their contribution. They guide without lecturing. They find solutions during an impasse. You can count on them and trust their advice. Generally, the advice is offered without any strings attached. Sometimes, no words are exchanged. The reassurance comes from being in the presence of these wise men.

  I miss such a powerful presence in my life sometimes. More so because I am supposed to be that presence in other people’s lives. I get tired of other people’s confidence in my ‘efficiency’, my ‘capability’, my ‘strength’. I want to be weak, dependent, foolhardy sometimes. I don’t want non-stop responsibility. I want the option to be badly behaved if I want to. I want to indulge my fantasies. Be reckless and self-centred. At such times, I need my own personal rock. No judgements. No criticism. Only unconditional understanding and acceptance. Of course, my husband is that rock for the most part. But my reckless self worries him. Perhaps my expectations are unrealistic—I want a granite mountain.

  So many supposedly ‘strong’ women are forced to live up to some unrealistic and fake image of what the world thinks they are or ought to be. Of late, I find myself getting irritated when strangers walk up to me and say, ‘You are such a fearless woman. We admire your guts!’ I want to yell, ‘Gupp bass!’ That’s Marathi for ‘Shut up!’ When said rapidly, it sounds like ‘GUBBBBASSS’. I feel like using that word a lot these days. If they only knew. I am no more fearless than they. Confronting my own fears and saying, ‘Yes, I feel scared. Yes, I am intimidated,’ has not been easy. In our family, we have coined a quaint word for it—shepti. This refers to a dog’s tail-between-the-legs posture when he is unsure, insecure, afraid. We have devised secret ways to warn one another when we sense fear/diffidence creeping up in innocuous social situations. We mouth the word ‘shepti’ discreetly . . . and smile. Most times, the ‘warned’ person gets it and snaps out of that zone instantly. Projecting ‘strong’ versus being strong—huge difference. Strength comes and goes—just like wisdom. But women who are expected to stay strong 24/7 often break down and crumble when no one’s looking. Who is there during those fraught and vulnerable moments to hold us and say, ‘It’s fine . . . it will pass . . . I am right here . . .’ Then again, I wonder whether we ourselves push people away with our fictional ‘strength’. I feel like screaming, ‘Hold me! Take care of me! I’m afraid.’ But I keep my mouth shut. That cry never escapes my throat even by mistake. People often tell me they feel intimidated to start a conversation with me or take the initiative. But why? I don’t bite. I don’t breathe fire. I haven’t grown talons. I want to plead, ‘Please . . . I’m really very nice and sweet and kind and gentle. Really! Don’t go by what I write in my columns and express on television.’ Very few would believe me. It’s their ‘shepti’. But when someone does make the effort, I feel thrilled. It is so energizing to talk to a confident stranger rather than a familiar coward.

  Like me, there are others who feel like Superwoman one day and Minnie Mouse the next. It’s a schizophrenic existence and exhausting to boot. I do not possess answers. I am just as ‘weak’ as the next person. I want to shout this out but at this point in my life, nobody wants to hear it. A mould has been cast, a box created, and it seems I have to obediently sit in it.

  Or else what? That’s the tough question.

  Received wisdom instructs women to steady the boat when it rocks. ‘It is your job to keep the family together, it is your duty to make sure peace is maintained. You cannot place yourself first, no matter what. Ghar banana aurat ka kaam hai.’ Discussing this with my younger friends, I found I was not the only one who was sick of these platitudes—the rules and regulations define our ‘domestic responsibilities’ that insist we, as women, are born to ensure stability and peace in the home. That we are the ones who are called ‘shaadi fail’ if our home life is chaotic. That we must possess the skill to roll out perfectly round chapattis if we want a perfectly sound marriage. Above all, we must obey. Obey the ‘rules’ if not an individual or a set of individuals. But what if we are never consulted? What if we are left out of decisions that lead to anarchy and chaos—whether domestically or in global politics? What if we have no real say in how we lead our lives? That’s pretty much what it is at present. Has always been.

  It is only after systems break down irreversibly that we, the damage-control experts, are summoned to restore order, bring about peace and maintain the status quo. Most of us oblige. It’s the ones who refuse to play ball who get ‘punished’ and end up feeling guilty and terrible about situations they may have had nothing to do with in the first place. Women are frequently forced to take sides: A belligerent husband may demand, ‘Are you with me or against me?’ glowering menacingly, while a petrified child looks on. It can happen in the presence of domestic staff, employees and, worst of all, mutual friends. One half falls out, the other half has to follow. Even if the fight has nothing to do with you, and you quite like the friend who will soon become an ex-friend. Unless the issue is major, nobody should have to choose sides.

  To avoid embarrassing social situations, one can negotiate skilfully and still maintain a civil relationship. It’s much harder if the choice involves a close relative. Mothers who pick a child over an aggressive husband find out soon enough that unless the child is as strong as the spouse, life can become pretty uncomfortable. As adults, the freedom to choose is in our hands. Difficult choices demand hard decisions. A nifty plan B helps. More and more women are discovering the power of a plan B. Financial independence is the first, most crucial step. Getting a home of your own is integral to maintaining your self-respect. Most women of a certain age get stuck in awful marriages because they have nowhere to go. They have assumed their marriage is permanent. They have assumed they are secure on all fronts. They have assumed their husbands are not ruthless. They have assumed their children will look after them if something goes wrong. Please, ladies, make no such assumptions. I have friends who could have bought their own flats with their own resources or with a bank loan (as I did), but they didn’t want to. They preferred living a lie. They chose a life of compromise when they could have opted for dignity. When such women find themselves in a dreadful domestic situation, facing daily abuse and insults, they discover they have zero options. Where does a fifty-year-old woman go if she is thrown out by her husband of twenty-five years?

  No man or woman should stay in a nasty relationship only because there is no roof over their head. Preparing young daughters for this is the toughest challenge for mothers. If you place too much stress on independence, the subliminal message that gets out is this: ‘Your dream life may not work out as planned. Your dream partner may let you down. Make sure you are not in a trap. Keep the exit door open.’ I still believe this piece of advice is worth passing on. A young woman who has been raised on highly romanticized notions of
marriage and its ‘happily ever after’ ending may find herself entirely unprepared if faced with an unexpected twist in her marital paradise and the possibility of a separation/divorce comes up. She is generally so ill-equipped to deal with the emotional shock, the last thing on her mind is the practical fallout of the development. She panics. She suffers a complete breakdown. All sorts of ‘advisers’ step into the picture. Her family distances itself. She takes a disastrous route (alcohol, drugs, adultery) out of sheer desperation.

  A young woman who has been raised on highly romanticized notions of marriage and its ‘happily ever after’ ending may find herself entirely unprepared if faced with an unexpected twist in her marital paradise and the possibility of a separation/divorce comes up.

  I have seen this happen over and over again. And yet, how does one tell a daughter madly in love with an unsuitable boy that she needs to take off her blinkers and take a good look at the guy before taking the plunge? She might hate you for stating the obvious. Ditto for a son who has lost his heart to the wrong woman—does one ‘warn’ him? Or keep mum? Having been in so many such situations, I can tell you, there is no right way to deal with it. Whatever you say, suggest or do will be held against you. If you are blunt, you will be called a cynic with no empathy. If you keep quiet and things don’t work out, you will be accused of not being a responsible parent. Either way, you are the loser. So my method is to just be myself. Be upfront and straightforward. Take it or leave it. I say what I need to and hit the ball back over the net. After all, I was not involved in the decision. Nobody sought my permission before falling in love. And deciding to get married phata-phat. As a parent, my job is to guide, period. Not threaten. Not impose. Taking or rejecting my advice is up to the person. Yes, it’s tough. It leads to months of bickering and arguments. But your children must know you have a spine. And that you are willing to stand up and speak up when required. No question of ‘shepti’ here.