Seventy . . .

by Shobhaa De

  Women remember things differently. Men think we are making up stories because their recollection of the very same incident is something else altogether. So whose memory is to be trusted? I would say the woman’s, most of the time. Men are far more selective in how to maximize storage space inside the brain. They discard what they term ‘garbage’, and retain what they believe is essential. We hoard it all, every gruesome detail. All kinds of rubbish are carefully stored, consciously or otherwise. I ask myself, ‘How the hell do you remember that silly remark?’

  I forget a great deal of really important stuff, and retain rubbish. My daughters and girlfriends confirm the same affliction. When we meet, we recall in excruciating detail the most mundane occurrence that had taken place years ago. We recreate with obvious and annoying relish several small things—what someone wore, who said this, who said that, the precise sequence, the colour of a saree, the joke nobody understood, the cruel nicknames given, the gifts everybody received and hated, the slights and taunts, the reluctant compliments and praise, the hurts and barbs. Women hang on to hurts the most. They easily or conveniently overlook what men describe as the ‘good stuff’, and dredge up memories of emotional wounds inflicted through a careless observation or, worse, a deliberate insult. Men lightly dismiss this response and dub it an ‘overreaction’.

  Men invest in emotional dumping grounds where unpleasant memories get trashed permanently. We store ours like we store our precious jewellery—in vaults. An intelligent academic friend of mine narrated how her husband always tried to put her down in public by trivializing her work and personality. Being an accomplished and articulate person, she began to get annoyed by his dismissive conversations about her multiple achievements. She recalled how he had told an artist friend of theirs that his wife preferred destinations that boasted of glamorous nightclubs, not world-class museums! She was taken aback since she wasn’t the ‘nightclub type’, as she put it. It was a painful memory she couldn’t free herself from, because she felt it was such a gross misrepresentation of all that she stood for. He would also say, ‘She goes to Florence to shop. Her temples of learning and culture are designer boutiques. I prefer taking the Michelangelo trail . . .’ I told her to forget it. It was just her husband’s insecurity talking. But the hurt was too deep. He promptly forgot or at least pretended to. ‘It was just a light-hearted remark,’ he explained lamely. Was it, or was it a well-aimed barb? There were countless ‘light-hearted’ remarks she had endured over the years. She’d let them go. ‘Why start a fight?’ she’d argue. But had she protested the first time, perhaps these barbs would have stopped.

  Men invest in emotional dumping grounds where unpleasant memories get trashed permanently. We store ours like we store our precious jewellery—in vaults.

  Women often hesitate to confront their partners, adopting the same reasoning: ‘Why pick a fight over a trivial issue?’ They are unable to see it for what it is—an attempt to devalue the partner in public. When women friends ask me if such ‘jokes’ are worth the fights that follow, I answer with an emphatic ‘yes’. Most men cannot handle a mild, critical remark passed in the presence of outsiders. But women are expected to laugh indulgently when they are insulted. Those that refuse to laugh are made to feel petty and small. If the rare woman chooses to speak up or argue her point, she is called shrewish, ill-mannered, bad-tempered, aggressive, arrogant and lacking a sense of humour. I have watched, aghast, as husbands bellow, ‘Shut up!’ at a party, and their wives freeze mid sentence. Or men who discount what a partner has said, with a small laugh and an apologetic comment, ‘Don’t mind her. She thinks she understands politics! If you get her started, she’ll tell Narendra Modi how to run the country, and instruct you how to run your company too!’ I am not making this up. Too many wives keep mum. Not just in India, but across the world. They are conditioned to believe it’s ‘unwomanly’ to contradict men in public, and they are too scared to do so in private. The original sin gets compounded many times over, a pattern develops, and that is how it remains forever.

  In such a scenario, women often develop their own secret codes. Sometimes, just eye contact is enough. We teach ourselves to provide the much-needed ‘calmsutra’ to other women when things look rough. Women train themselves to become reluctant warriors, even if they are born meek and submissive. They become sly chameleons. Quickly change colours. Adapt. Merge. Survive.

  Friendships, close ones, with other women have always been my bedrock and comfort zones. I think of them as my duvets. When low, I snuggle into my favourite ‘duvet’ and feel instantly comforted. When there is even the slightest dent in one of those trusted relationships, my world gets shaken. Slanging matches in the presence of people are ugly and embarrassing. If the conversation is heading in that direction, and the mood is torrid, one of you must have the good sense to leave the room. Make any excuse. Go to the loo, breathe. Close your eyes. Steady yourself. Regain composure. Then rejoin the party. I have witnessed too many ugly scenes, most of them alcohol-fuelled, and always wondered why the couple had ventured out together if they were mid-battle to start with. Hosts who are accustomed to outbursts handle the situation expertly. But most people are taken aback and don’t really know what to do—step in and risk being told to butt out, or leave the two to slug it out. Then comes the ugly aftermath—the taking of sides. Everybody present feels obliged to comment, dissect, judge and advise. In my judgement, it is best to pour a fresh round of drinks and change the subject. Post-mortems can wait.

  The younger generation of women sees this differently. Confrontations don’t scare them. When they fight with their partners, they refuse to stew in silence. They see strife as a part of the relationship and don’t want to run away from it. Dealing with issues in an upfront way is best, they claim. And they are right. Women of my generation were told to ‘ignore’ matters that didn’t directly threaten the marriage. We were urged to ‘adjust’ (that awful word!) and wait for things to blow over. But what if ‘things’ didn’t blow over? Well then, that was your funeral. Discussing this with a couple of friends late one evening, I said out of the blue, ‘Men mate. Women marry.’ The two men present exchanged looks and one of them gave an expert response on why this is so. Then he turned to the other man and asked, ‘Do you ever discuss intimate aspects of your married life with other men? Do you talk about your wife with your best friend when you’ve had a fight?’ The younger chap shook his head and said emphatically, ‘No, never!’ Both men turned to me triumphantly and gloated, ‘See! We don’t discuss personal matters with others. It is you women who do that.’ I agreed enthusiastically and wholeheartedly. That took the guys off guard. They had expected vehement denials and protestations. Instead, a new channel was opened up and my gal pal said, ‘If we didn’t talk about how miserable we were, we’d go mad! It helps women to share and to know they aren’t alone. We crib, we bitch, we betray confidences and break pacts when we are distressed and panicky. We can only turn to each other. It’s cathartic. It’s therapeutic. Without this valve, we would have to deal with all your nonsense without expressing our hurt and rage. That’s bad for our emotional systems. Why suppress our anger? Why get ulcers? It’s so much better to call up a friend and tear you apart!’ There was stunned silence, followed by uneasy laughter. Some sort of a taboo had been broken. A dam had been breached. It felt good!

  Twenty years ago, I wouldn’t have dared articulate any of this. Here I was, talking boldly about what I really feel from time to time, and taking the chance that my frank words might lead to a fresh confrontation. Maybe I had taken a cue from my daughters. They refuse to sweep their conflict under the carpet. When they argue and fight, the gloves are off and problems are tabled, no matter how tough they appear. It’s done, they exclaim. And they are right.

  Ask a man about this new development, and he will say, ‘Oh . . . these kids are irresponsible and moophat (loudmouths)—they say the first thing that comes into their heads. It is not correct. Let them stay married for twenty–thirty ye
ars like we are, then talk!’ Not realizing what a ghastly prospect it would be to stay married for ‘twenty–thirty’ years to men like them!

  Do you not ‘see’ old people?

  As I get older, I notice a callous attitude towards the elderly more and more. We think nothing of pushing past senior citizens, making them apologetic and self-conscious about their own slowed-down speed of walking. This happens wherever queues are involved—airports, in particular. Younger, more impatient co-passengers glare instead of helping a senior citizen struggling with a strolley or a heavy package. They snigger and laugh if the old person across the aisle doesn’t know how to order from the snack card available on budget airlines. Yes, the queue does slow down, and yes, everybody is tired, but surely a little consideration for the old is not such an unreasonable demand?

  Agreed, older people tend to talk too much. Or talk too loudly. It’s probably most annoying to pretend to take an interest when someone close to your grandfather’s age starts on an ancient, unending tale beginning with the line that renders the young instantly deaf, ‘When I was your age . . .’ As soon as I hear those lethal words, I gently kick my husband under the table and hiss, ‘Stop! Can’t you see how bored those kids already are? And you haven’t even begun!’ I get it—nobody is in the least bit interested in how things were thirty, forty, fifty years ago. Just look around you—the attention span has shrunk so alarmingly, and conversation as my generation understood the word has all but disappeared. Even though I have managed to figure out most of the abbreviations commonly used to convey just about everything from life-and-death issues to existential concerns, there are still times when I find myself out of the loop. That’s when eyes start to roll, and one of my children pats my hand kindly and says in a soothing voice, ‘Oh . . . you won’t really get it.’ I want to yell, ‘Try me! Why shouldn’t I be able to get it? What is there to “get”?’ But I force myself to smile, shrug and say indulgently, ‘Okay! I guess it’s not for me to get . . .’ Nobody contradicts me! Of course, I feel hurt. In my mind, I am still thirty and totally with it. I believe it’s my natural state! I don’t feel close to seventy inside my head. It’s difficult to accept—but clearly my children see me differently. Others may compliment my attitude, and say how refreshing it is to be with someone who gets such a kick out of life. But my children find it hard. I understand. One of them actually wants me to feel tired! I remember coming back from a short trip to Delhi, getting home and participating in a demanding television debate the same night. My daughter sounded positively annoyed! She asked me, ‘But why aren’t you exhausted? In your place I would have been pretty finished by now. Why do you have to do this show? Take it easy. Put up your feet . . . get a massage . . . relax!’ It was my turn to get annoyed. ‘I am far from tired,’ I snapped. Which was 100 per cent true. I wondered why she would want me to be tired. Later, while I was still searching for an answer, I figured: a) it was out of concern, b) people my age are supposed to feel tired after a hectic trip or c) she feels tired after a trip. There is another reason too. The other mothers in my children’s friend circle lead different lives. Most are much younger. The few that are close to my age are happily retired and enjoying their leisure. Perhaps my manic travel and work schedules are hard to compartmentalize. Slower is more ‘normal’.

  A few days later, I came across an interview with one of my heroes—the indomitable Germaine Greer. I was distraught to see her ravaged face and read her harsh words. For some reason she had picked on Jane Fonda, who is about the same age as Ms Greer. Jane Fonda’s obsession with staying young was mocked by Germaine Greer, who sneered it was a pity that Fonda couldn’t replace her brain the way she had replaced her hip, knees and other body parts. I was very disturbed by Greer’s remarks. And I asked myself, ‘Will a time come in the not-so-distant future when I too will become as embittered, as judgemental, as cruel? What was Jane Fonda’s big crime, anyway? She had said, perhaps truthfully, that men liked younger women. And she wanted to look young—for men. That was a pretty naked confession. I respected Fonda for saying it upfront. Greer said what she had to. But the big difference here is that Fonda was not hurting anyone—besides herself—through that politically incorrect admission, whereas Greer had launched a pretty formidable assault on a contemporary. Where does tact end and spite begin?

  There’s absolutely nothing wrong with being self-delusional from time to time. In fact, I think it’s essential and positively wonderful, especially when your morale is low, and there are enough people bitchily reminding you about all that’s terrible in your life. Like during one of my recent birthdays. There I was feeling pretty loved and cherished by my family and friends, when a lady I really like and consider close called late at night to wish me. She made the standard excuses about the late call, saying she assumed I’d be madly busy dealing with hundreds of calls and messages. She asked me what I had done the whole day, and I started to narrate everything in detail, with the enthusiasm of a child. Abruptly, she cut the call short and said, ‘Okay, Shobhaa. I have to go. There’s someone at the door. Let’s catch up soon.’

  Why did she call, then? Why did she ask what I did? Was she being hostile? Was there some level of jealousy? I hated to think of her as a jealous friend. It is demeaning to friendship. Jealousy is for the insecure—those who perceive the other as a threat. But this girlfriend was like family. I felt snubbed and hurt. I found it difficult to get over that cryptic birthday chat. I recalled other recent conversations with her. Hadn’t they all been pretty negative? I suddenly remembered her words when a close friend had passed away. She had offered zero solace. Instead, she had reminded me we were the same age, and suggested it was but natural that I would feel disturbed and lapse into a panic attack or get extra depressed because of how ‘vulnerable’ I had allowed myself to become. Almost like she was saying, ‘It could be your turn next!’

  There’s absolutely nothing wrong with being self-delusional from time to time. In fact, I think it’s essential and positively wonderful, especially when your morale is low, and there are enough people bitchily reminding you about all that’s terrible in your life.

  ‘Shobhaa, it is not her you are thinking about—it is yourself. You must be worried about your own health and future,’ she had said. Even though I was puzzled by her attitude, I let it pass. Perhaps I shouldn’t have! She was deliberately pushing the wrong buttons and I was falling for the trick. Why didn’t I tell her to bugger off? Was I giving her the benefit of the doubt because of an old association, or because I didn’t want to lose her friendship? I still think about her conversations during that low period and wonder why she spoke to me the way she did. I think she was transferring her own emptiness on to me, which made me feel worse. Maybe I needed to get out of my little world and access hers. I needed to extend myself, and not the other way round. How well did I know her, or she me? Was it time to disconnect and move on? Is it that easy? Something was wrong. We needed to talk about that ‘something’. I still haven’t found the required emotional boldness to confront her. Till I do, I will keep feeling lousy, or worse, looking for an alibi.

  When we give another person the power to affect our feelings this strongly, we need to ask ourselves why. And why did we choose that person or persons. I seek out friends who make me feel good about myself and whom I feel good about. I make every attempt to let them know how much they mean to me. Sometimes, wires cross, and I feel terrible. I am sure they feel terrible too. What does one do? As I discovered through multiple negative experiences over the years, one shuts up and puts up. Or one walks away a sadder, disillusioned person. Assuming everyone around you is on the same wavelength and tuned in is one of the world’s most foolish assumptions. I am at once trusting and sceptical, optimistic and cynical. Perhaps I read friends wrong, depending on which emotion dominates on that particular day when we connect.

  I want to tell you, we can fail when we try too hard to keep relationships ticking along as per our memories of old ties. ‘We used to be so close�
� is a sentence we repeat and hear being repeated. And yet, if we try to deconstruct that phrase to understand the remembered closeness, more often than not, it is one that is far removed from reality. We cling to a version of idealized ‘love’ or ‘fondness’. But did it ever exist, at least in the form we recall? I look back on interactions that are fifty-plus years old and smile indulgently. As I did when a school friend called on my birthday, as she unfailingly has every single year for five decades. After we exchanged enthusiastic greetings, inquired after grandchildren, there was absolutely nothing to say. Nothing! We promised to ‘catch up’. We both know that’s not going to happen. It’s a part of the annual ritual and it hurts no one. Not even us. But if the calls stopped, now that would hurt! There are a few regular birthday callers. We talk just once a year. The calls last a few precious seconds. But they mean a lot to me. One year, I didn’t receive a call from a talented photographer I had hired during my editor days. He was silent and watchful, dependable and respectful, a perfect teammate. Along with an equally lovable art director, we chatted in Marathi and inquired after one another’s families.