Seventy . . .

by Shobhaa De

  Which is also why I refuse to ‘pick’ partners for my children. I may select someone with the best of intentions. It’s possible my choice is totally off from the sort of person the son/daughter is looking for. If things don’t work out eventually, I will be blamed for choosing the wrong partner. For imposing my will in a personal matter. No thanks. We live in a modern world. The children have all the access required to locate, meet and court their own mates. I am happy to bless the couple once they decide to tie the knot. That’s it. Better still, I frequently half-joke, elope and tell me all about it!

  Arranging the weddings of children has been my least favourite part of raising them. For most parents, it’s an absolute nightmare, even if they don’t admit it. Since I have not taken the assistance of wedding planners so far, and foolishly attempted to do it on my own (albeit with some help) I can tell you one thing: There are still three weddings left. I won’t survive them if I have to handle all the arrangements. I am hoping the three unmarried children will spare me and my husband the chhota sa trauma, by discreetly and considerately opting for a swayamvar in a distant forest.

  Throw away that hair shirt!

  On one particular drive from Pune, I was in review mode. I was figuring out the major and minor mistakes I had made in seven decades. I knew I was cheating a bit and using filters. Giving myself more credit than I deserved. Or was it the opposite? Was I being ‘shepti’ and underplaying my own contribution? Had I done enough? Too little? Too much? Women and guilt. Guilt and women. We put on hair shirts when we needn’t. So much emotional energy spent on self-inflicted wounds.

  During the longish drive, I also managed an intense conversation with Anandita, my youngest daughter. It was about a very successful television commercial for a top global brand of sneakers aimed at today’s sporty woman. To her, it spoke about the true empowerment of women in India—urban and rural. It was a positive and she connected instinctively with what appeared paradoxical to me. Was I being cynical? Or was she being naive? Was it just an age thing? Would I have seen this commercial differently twenty, thirty years ago? I genuinely don’t think so. When I told her the slick ad had nothing to do with female empowerment and was just about selling more sneakers, she was upset. When I wondered aloud what the price of a pair of those sneakers was and how many families of the same rural women featured in it those pricy shoes would feed, she said that’s not the point. I withdrew. My withdrawal at this stage was a ‘wise’ decision. Or let’s just say it was practical. Did I really want to spend the next three hours squabbling over ridiculously overpriced sneakers?

  It is when ‘practical’ wins over ‘emotional’ that problems start. Very often, we step away from confrontational situations because we don’t want to handle the consequences. It’s easier to drop the issue and look away rather than see it to its logical conclusion. Men frequently accuse women of being quarrelsome and ‘naggy’. I find it an annoying stereotype. What they actually mean is that women don’t like to leave things alone. If there is an unresolved conflict, we don’t run in the opposite direction, even when good sense tells us to do just that. Does playing ostrich resolve issues?

  In my own life, this game has never worked. I guess I am not an ostrich. I vastly prefer a no-holds-barred one-to-one to clear the air and sort out areas of hostility, getting to the bottom of that particular conflict for starters. Where does it stem from? Why is it there? How can it be diffused? Not too many people agree. Most think if you leave conflict alone, it disappears. If it does, it is temporary. It festers—a dormant monster that can awaken any time and strike when you are least prepared for the attack. There are times when a flimsy Band-Aid is expected to do the job of a surgical procedure to stop a wound from haemorrhaging. Is that possible? But we foolishly attempt just that—a quick fix, when what is required is amputation.

  The counterargument is, why not leave a superficial scratch alone? Why dig deeper and infect it? Forced to make a morbid choice, I’d prefer amputation to gangrene. One limb less is better than a weakened heart that threatens to give up every few days. Sometimes, when I spot a gorgeous three-legged dog in the neighbourhood chasing a garbage truck, jauntily and happily guarding its turf, playing with companions, looking after puppies, my heart soars. The dog seems to be doing just fine. So can we!

  Still looking for Aie

  Is it okay to miss my mother, even though I am a grandmother myself?

  Last night, I dreamt of Aie. Again. It was a scene straight out of an Almodóvar movie. I dream of her frequently. I continue to miss her. She died at seventy-eight. Soon, I shall reach that age myself, if I live that long. I have five grandchildren. There will be more in the future, I am sure. God said, ‘Go forth and multiply.’ I took his word for it. I happily went forth and multiplied. I hope my children do the same. Despite all the wonderful people in my life, I still miss my mother. And there are times when I experience feelings of such despair, I want to rush to her, just to place my head in her lap and have her stroke my hair. Her lap. I have never found a good enough substitute for her lap. I miss the tactile joy of her saree against my cheek. Those naram naram sarees which absorbed my tears, allowed them to soak in and create small wet patches on her thigh. What comfort!

  She didn’t have to say much or even ask why I was upset. She just had to be there, seated on her bed or on the living room sofa, ready to comfort me in her own way. I still long for the touch of her fingers as she pushed a strand of stray hair away from my face and tucked it behind my ear. It is the quietness of the moment that I miss most. A moment filled with tender reassurance. A moment stripped of drama. A moment so complete in itself it didn’t demand a thing. I would rest there for a short while and leave. Sometimes, we would sit silently in the kitchen while she prepared tea. I would stare at her tiny frame, looking for clues. But I still don’t know what those clues were for. What was I seeking? What did I really want to know about her? Why didn’t I just ask?

  So many years later, I keep wondering: Did I ever know her as intimately as she knew me? I held nothing back. I trusted her with a ferocious totality. Was that ever a burden for her? She knew more about me than anybody else. My confidences remained safe with her. I felt safer with my mother than I do with anybody else. I ‘sensed’ her. But beyond that? Why did we never speak of love? Or disappointment? Why did I not probe gently to discover the woman behind the mother? Isn’t that what we all need to do? We create convenient boxes and stick our nearest and dearest into them. I certainly did that with my mother. While I told her everything about my life, I never asked about hers. She knew my secrets, she kept them. I didn’t know hers. I thought she had the perfect marriage with my father. Did she think so too? Towards the end of her life, she seemed just too exhausted to even attempt a proper conversation when we met. I would watch the faraway look in her eyes, as she restlessly tapped her fingers, and I would wonder what was going on inside her head. Her aloofness stumped and frustrated me. After a point, I would get restless and bored, make an excuse and leave. Her pain—physical and emotional—stayed with her. She chose not to share it. I chose not to probe. Was it out of consideration or something else?

  Do we ever invest enough time in figuring out our parents? Or is it easier to think of them in generic terms?—‘Oh . . . these are my parents. They brought me into the world. They will look after me. They are good people. Once I find my feet and move out, I will reconnect with them later.’ Later rarely happens. This is one of my life’s greatest regrets. Late one night, she was gone. Just like that. I wasn’t there. I will never know. There are far too many unanswered questions. But at least the memory of placing my head in her lap remains vivid and strong. It comforts me when I am lost and feel like I am drowning. I miss Aie, my mother.

  Childhood is what you choose to remember . . . and forget . . .

  My mother’s comfortable lap. That sums up ‘childhood’ for me. We didn’t have to converse. In fact, I preferred the peace and silence of those all too brief minutes, as I surrendered to he
r love and the love I felt for her. My siblings insist they have no such precious memory to cherish. To one of them, our mother was a taciturn, undemonstrative person. My late brother, Ashok, remembered her with intense emotion and a sentimentality that was otherwise absent in him. I am surprised at these dramatically varying versions of our mother. Could she have been all that different with her other three children? Could she also have been all these contradictory people simultaneously? Was our bond extra special? If so, was it because I was the youngest child? And she, in a far happier place in her own life at that point? Why question? She’s gone. I am here. My memories of her soothe and nurture me. That’s all that matters.

  I am sure I had a few rows even with my non-confrontational mother. I had several with my father. But honestly speaking, I cannot recall a single row with Aie—not one! Have I blotted out the memory? Am I in denial? Perhaps. I prefer it this way. Why hang on to negative images you can do nothing about? This is what I say to my siblings when they start recounting their own less-than-pleasant memories of the same woman—our mother. ‘Don’t tell me . . . I really don’t want to know,’ I entreat. I want to stay with my own nostalgia. It’s mine! I’m entitled to it. Nothing needs to be proved. We are not in a court of law. My ‘proof’ is in my attitude towards my own children. I think I owe Aie a big one. Recently, my sister Mandakini gave me Aie’s stainless steel masala dabba. I just have to look at it to smell her aamti.

  My mother’s comfortable lap. That sums up ‘childhood’ for me. We didn’t have to converse. In fact, I preferred the peace and silence of those all too brief minutes.

  I miss my father too. Perhaps I could have managed that relationship better than I did. But on many levels we were a bit too alike. That was the strength as well as the weakness of our relationship. He was blunt and outspoken. Sharp and cutting. He was also madly charming when he wanted. Upright and uncompromising. Our conversations were candid and cerebral. Philosophical and also surprisingly wicked! We could swap dirty jokes and laugh at life’s peccadilloes. But we remained wary of each other. I am presuming he didn’t want to deal with a repeat of my many acts of defiance and rebelliousness when I was a young adult. We became ‘equals’ much later in life. I needed to earn that privilege. He liked the ‘famous’ me. The daughter everybody recognized. I am not sure he liked me! Where do we err when it comes to these two fundamental relationships in our lives? People say these remain our biggest challenges, no matter what the nature of the bond. Even the most nurturing, loving relationship comes with fault lines.

  After my father passed away, I suddenly realized I had been ‘orphaned’. I was a married woman with children of my own. But I felt strangely alone and insecure all of a sudden. With all our differences and arguments, he was one person I respected and admired—and that had nothing to do with his being my father. By that time we had become friends—sort of. It was an uneasy friendship, but it was on a reasonably balanced, fair footing. I enjoyed the liveliness of his mind. His sense of humour. His ceaseless curiosity. He was, I suppose, ‘impressed’ by my life and fascinated by the dramatically different professional direction I had taken as compared to the career choices of my more conventional siblings.

  Our conversations were anything but pedestrian. From world politics to Madonna’s latest song, my father was interested in it all. His vast knowledge of and love for literary classics combined with a staggeringly high IQ provided the fodder I needed at a time when Google Devta didn’t exist! He was my reference file—one quick phone call and he’d fill in the gaps instantly. Our emotional equation is a different story. Even though I shared important aspects of my life with him pretty openly, it was almost like a man-to-man chat—brisk, practical, to the point. His advice was matter-of-fact and spot on. I admired his detachment . . . and it still makes me wonder how he managed to maintain that level of distance, even formality, with all his four children. Did he realize how deeply this attitude affected each one of us, individually and collectively? Since I have never asked my siblings. I can only guess.

  How do we connect with our parents without going nuts?

  These thoughts make me ask myself the same question about the sort of mother I am to my children: How different am I with them? Do I show my preference for one over another? If so, which one? Do I make it obvious? Do the others know? Do they discuss it? How do I appear to them? Fair-minded or prejudiced? Sometimes, when my anxiety levels are high, I look into the eyes of whichever child is around and search for signs . . . answers. Have I spoken too harshly? Should I have waited to reprimand? Do I show my love sufficiently? Articulate it clearly? Does the person recognize the intensity of my feelings? Are comparisons drawn constantly? On the whole, do I get pass or fail marks as a mother? This is the single most important aspect of my existence. It supersedes everything else. Everything! I torment myself endlessly thinking about where I have fallen short. My friends tell me I am crazy! One of them advised me, ‘This is your time, baby! Be selfish. Think of yourself and yourself alone. Your children are all adults. They should be worrying about you!’ I looked at her face and was confused. She seemed so happy! She confirmed it! ‘I am very happy! The day I decided I was the most important person in my life, I freed myself. I love myself the most in the world! Now, I first make sure I am happy, before I think of anybody else—including my children and grandchildren.’ I mentioned the conversation to my husband. He laughed! He doesn’t really care for this friend all that much. Considers her a ‘bad’ influence (as if I can be ‘influenced’ at this age!). He told me bluntly, ‘Look at her life dispassionately. Is that what you want for yourself? Could you live like her?’ The answer was obvious. Even so, I couldn’t stop thinking about how easily she had made crucial choices . . . and lived with the consequences. Despite her rash and selfish ways, she was admired and adored by her friends and kids and grandkids. Even her husband worshipped her. What was so terrible about that?

  Our deepest feelings towards our mothers define and colour nearly every aspect of our lives till the very end. I feel fortunate to have nothing but warm and wonderful memories of a childhood that was ‘normal’. My children mock, ‘What is “normal”?’ I can’t answer that! ‘Normal’, as in undramatic, untraumatic. In today’s times, that is already saying a lot. Especially for a girl who was not at all ‘obedient’. My mother understood my ‘disobedience’. And never punished me. She absorbed. She accepted. She understood. That takes a lot.

  I tell young mothers today to let things go. I say that to young couples too. What does it matter if your child is not ‘performing’ as per your demands, the school’s demands, the peer group’s demands? Are you going to treat that as a personal failure and make your child feel responsible? Before you blink, your childhood is over, your child’s childhood is also over. You watch your grandkids with some level of detachment . . . soon, their childhood will vanish too! What will all of you remember of this precious time years and years later? A report card with poor grades . . . or hugs that comforted you when you were feeling awful about letting everybody down?

  I was not the teacher’s pet, either in school, or later, when I dutifully attended my children’s PTA meetings and looked visibly bored. At these dreadful PTA mornings, I would spot just a handful of fathers. The rest were overwrought mothers fighting for five more marks with the Hindi/maths teacher. My children wanted me to be that mother—competitive and on edge ‘for the sake of the child’s future’. Ha! Not worth fighting for. I would submit meekly and pretend I was most upset that my daughter had received poor grades in maps in geography.

  Sometimes I think today’s parents have it much tougher. Everything seems to be spinning at a dizzying speed. Connecting both ways—children to parents, parents to children—is a daily balancing act that involves enormous reserves of patience and tact. Keeping families sane and together is the single biggest challenge of our times. I keep learning my lessons from unexpected sources and I marvel at how wise and evolved our rural communities were—and still are. They ar
e pretty unaffected by change and stick to tried-and-tested ways to keep the family show on the road. These ways have worked for centuries.

  Sometimes I think today’s parents have it much tougher. Everything seems to be spinning at a dizzying speed.

  One such friend of mine is a master craftsman from Barmer, Rajasthan. Khemraj is proud of what he does and has a strong sense of legacy. Once when he was visiting Mumbai to participate in an arts-and-crafts fair, he stopped by for tea. One by one, he unrolled his Pichwais, all of them unique and painstakingly embroidered. He pointed to one particular beauty and told me it had been embroidered by his daughters-in-law. ‘My wife makes sure the young girls are kept busy and they acquire our skills. To generate healthy competition, she rewards the bahu who finishes her portion of the embroidery on time and excels. That girl gets a silver or gold ring. The gift is recognition of her hard work. But it also keeps her motivated. The other bahus try harder so that they too can earn a ring or a bracelet. This is a simple way to keep the family together. It has worked for our forefathers. It is working for us as well.’

  Khemraj is a relaxed, happy man. Being one of nine children himself, he has known deprivation and starvation. It is craft that kept them all alive when they had nothing else. His respect for each and every Pichwai in his collection is something he has passed down to his young son. Each wall hanging has its own story. And Khemraj knows that story. He wants his large family to know it too. We modern-day parents have stopped sharing stories. That is the problem. Who has the time? I try engaging my own children in stories that have a special meaning for me—it could be a simple story about a favourite saree. I would love to talk about where I bought it, when I had worn it for the first time, how long I have had it. Small things. But of importance to me. I can see their eyes glazing over. They wait for a tiny pause in my narration and immediately change the subject. My past has little relevance or interest to them. It makes me sad. But I keep quiet. Parents of today have taught themselves to keep quiet. It’s better this way, they sigh. At least there is more peace in the home. Is there, really? Should one call it peace . . . or a strategic ceasefire?