Seventy . . .

by Shobhaa De

  When Socialite Evenings was included by Juggernaut publisher Chiki Sarkar in her representative and very personal list of seventy books (‘A Reading List to Beat All Others’) for a special on India@70 (Hindustan Times, 12 August 2017), there was the expected sniping and bitching. But hey—I was thrilled! I got a huge kick out of the honour, just as I had when Penguin Random House picked the same book as a part of their tightly curated list of thirty classics when Penguin India turned thirty in 2016. I danced around the dining table with a copy of the book, singing a Bollywood song. ‘I am a classic!’ I told my family, flashing the book proudly. They smiled indulgently and asked, ‘So have you ordered chingri malai for dinner or not?’ Only my husband looked impressed and asked for a copy for his collection—God bless the man.

  Making small talk, and big talk, can be fun

  I enjoy people. I enjoy interviews. The idea is never to trip up or trap anybody with clever-clever trick questions (any idiot can do this). For me the best interviews take place in a comfort zone. It is up to the interviewer to create that zone. Even if the person you are interviewing is a known crook, swindler, murderer, rapist, gangster, drug lord—or a politician, who can be all of these—respect your subject. Good manners dictate that the person who has agreed to meet you is your mehmaan in a way. Follow a few basic rules—or don’t put your foot into it. Establishing a quick rapport with the interviewee is key if you want the person to sing. Eye contact and a relaxed body language sets the mood, and a smile often disarms and takes the person in the hot seat off guard. Especially if the subject is deadly! Only an egotistical journalist will display attitude—we have no dearth of megalomaniacs ranting away in India.

  But take a look at Oprah Winfrey—I consider her the best in the business. Oprah radiates energy and good humour. She smiles, she jokes, she touches. And the subject melts. I have to confess I found it hard to smile, joke or touch Mamata Banerjee when Aveek Sarkar, who was editor of the Telegraph at the time, asked me to spend a day with Didi on her campaign trail. I was surprised Mamata agreed. But there I was in the back seat of her Omni car (she preferred to sit next to the worshipful driver) as we hurtled through paddy fields and stopped several times for Didi to stick her neck out of the car window and greet half-naked, miserably thin villagers, emerging from their huts to see what was going on. It was obvious she would win—going by the rapturous reception she received once we got back to Kolkata, where a huge rally had been scheduled. She insisted on my being on stage with her and we clicked several pictures.

  Throughout those long hours, she had not made eye contact with me. I noticed her taking frequent swigs from a tiny bottle placed within easy reach. She caught me staring and said shortly, ‘Cough mixture. Bad throat.’ Ah. Of course. Aveek gave my story huge front-page play. Not sure what Didi made of it, but soon after she became chief minister of West Bengal, feelers were sent out to ask whether I would be interested in a Rajya Sabha nomination, ‘since you speak good English’. I politely declined. I guess Derek O’Brien passed the ‘good English’ test with flying colours.

  Soon after Narendra Modi took office, I was an invitee to the Agra Lit Fest, and found myself chatting with an attractive, articulate, smart BJP spokeswoman (one of several). We hit it off and after a longish chat, she asked me whether I would be open to interviewing Narendra Modi. She said she was aware of my opinion of him, and that is precisely why she believed this was a good idea. I jumped at the chance and asked, ‘When?’ She said she would let me know. I was amused and curious. This would be a major coup given that the PM had not given any journo an exclusive interview at that point. After a couple of hours she sought me out to say it wasn’t happening. No surprises! She added, ‘It is because you have credibility that I thought it would be a good platform for Modiji. But his team said you wouldn’t agree to screened questions and a controlled interview.’ Chalo. At least they got something right!

  Then came the infamous Raghuram Rajan piece I wrote for the Economic Times. Goodness! It created havoc! But why? Does nobody get a joke? I was in Goa when the deputy editor called and asked if I could dash off a piece on the brand-new mighty governor of the Reserve Bank of India. Rajan was all over the press and photographers couldn’t get enough of the tall, lanky, well-spoken gentleman, more movie star than a federal bank chap. I didn’t know him, had never met him. Just read all the media hype. I was most amused by the hoopla around the appointment and said so. A friend forwarded photographs of formal governors of the Reserve Bank. ‘Take a look at the man’s predecessors—now do you get it?’ Um. Yes. He was dishy. I decided to have some fun with the piece—deconstruct the stuffy job, make a few irreverent comments on the guy’s photogenic looks. Why not? Women in the banking sector have to deal with personal scrutiny constantly—their hair, sarees, make-up, appearance and jewellery interests one and all. Why the discrimination? Equal and level playing field, right? I decided to ‘objectify’ Raghuram Rajan in the same vein, while suggesting cheekily that he’d ‘put sex back into the Sensex’! The reaction was immediate and insane. I was pilloried and slammed for ‘trivializing’ such an erudite economist. It became the most quoted piece about the new guy on the block. It is to Mr Rajan’s credit that he took it sportingly in his long stride.

  Mercifully for him, and more so for me, we didn’t run into each other during his short but dramatic tenure. Till a few weeks before he packed his bags and went back to America, leaving his fans bereft. It was at a high-profile ‘royal’ reception for Prince William and Kate Middleton at the Taj Mahal Palace Hotel. I noticed him standing at a short distance and boldly walked up to him, encouraged by the twinkle in his eyes. He smiled, we clinked champagne flutes and my daughter Avantikka clicked a pic on my phone for posterity. It required a man of his maturity, stature, experience and exposure to ‘get’ the satire in the piece and not be outraged. Thank God for his sophistication and savoir faire, a lesser chap may have run in the opposite direction! No offence was meant—and happily, none was taken. But even today, when I run into corporate types, they look at me in ‘that’ (leering) way, and ask about just this one column. I stick to my stand. And these days I don’t bother to hide my man crush. Who can forget the governor’s unforgettable line, ‘My name is Raghuram Rajan and I do what I do.’ Ditto, darling! Different name. Different gender. Same attitude.

  As for those idiots still referring to that Economic Times piece, listen up, you guys: Small minds and small dicks go together. Why are men so antagonistic towards women with attitude?

  Talking of clinking glasses . . .

  I used to be a bubbly fan. Over a relaxed evening, I could aaram se put away a bottle of Dom. Not any more. But who knows, one day I may return to my love for champagne with added fervour and raise a glass or two or three to moments that make life memorable. When I was honoured by champagne major Veuve Clicquot in 2012, little did I imagine how huge it was and what it meant, till I visited the vineyard at Reims (about 130 km east-north-east of Paris) to participate in this solemn and elegant ceremony. I had been chosen to be a part of the Veuve Clicquot tribute to women around the world, who reflect the spirit of Mme Clicquot, a woman ahead of her time, who boldly took charge of the family business after being widowed at twenty-seven. We are talking eighteenth century here! The tribute ceremony, which began in 1972, is held at an event loaded with glamour, prestige and significance. While I thoroughly enjoyed the stirring speeches made by women from different fields, who had flown in to share views and concerns, what took me totally by surprise was the ‘baptism’ at the scenic vineyard. The first thing I noticed was the Indian flag fluttering in the gentle breeze. I was so thrilled, I let out a small scream—like an overwhelmed schoolgirl. When I looked closely, I found a gleaming brass plaque, with my name and the year on it, delicately attached to the first vine of a long row, growing on a gentle slope, alongside other vines, also bearing plaques of famous women. Soon a distinguished gentleman appeared with a chilled bottle of the finest vintage, offered a glass, and requested
me to step forward and ‘baptize’ the neat row of vines. ‘Whenever grapes from this row of vines are harvested and bottled, a part of your literary and social legacy will be shared across the world.’

  It was like a dream I didn’t want to wake up from. Gaurav Bhatia, who was the marketing director for Veuve Clicquot India at the time, told the press I had been selected for this rare honour for being ‘the perfect combination of boldness and elegance’ and that the tribute was an ‘ode to Shobhaa Dé’s enterprising spirit, strong leadership, unapologetic audacity, serious creativity and zeste de folie. We celebrate the quintessential Mrs Dé—her candid, vociferous, brutally honest style of writing and opinions that have influenced many a point of view and the social fabric of India.’ My! My! In all those generous words and gushy-mushy compliments, I loved ‘zeste de folie’ the most! Did I deserve to be thus honoured? Had I earned it? I wasn’t sure! But it sure felt fantastic! At that magical moment, I reminded myself of all the hugs I spontaneously receive from strangers, mainly women, who come up to say, ‘Aap ko padh ke . . . aap ko dekh ke . . . humey bahut courage milta hai!’ Just for that, and in memory of the pioneering lady who revived the fine reputation of her dead husband’s vineyard to make it one of the most recognized champagne brands globally, I shall stay loyal and stick to Clicquot whenever a bubbly mood takes hold of me.

  What if?

  There are days that spell ‘wretchedness’, for no explicable reason. Everything seems terribly wrong, even when everything is the same. That worries me. A lot. I ask myself: Have you just got used to this? Is that why you no longer notice how blah it is? Are you that passive? Placid? What happened to the woman of steel, the one with the balls? Why are you settling for less? Fight! Go on. This isn’t the life you wanted. You are a born gypsy. Run away. Be rude. Listen to the songs your heart is singing. Before you know it, you will be eighty, or dead. And you won’t have been to Argentina. On such days, I eat a lot. To forget, to overcompensate for the other hunger. I hear something on someone else’s playlist, and suddenly, I reconnect with my younger self—listening to the same music. But reacting passionately, deeply.

  I walk into an art gallery, and stare at a painting. I feel I have seen it before. In another life. Accompanied by some other companion. I start crying. For the painting. Me. The other companion. Around me, I watch people making social conversation. Most of it is meaningless. I make a lot of it myself. Why? It is that intensity of feeling that creeps up when I least expect it, and I hit a downer. I panic. I start questioning all my choices. Every decision I have ever made. What if? It’s that bloody ‘what if’ that stealthily takes hold of my imagination when I try to still my mind, get some sleep. My dreams change from the standard escapist ones to much darker subjects. I wake up feeling alone, feeling scared. Some of the dreams are recurrent and common. They involve wicked, harsh people looking for me at my old home (my present home does not exist in my dreamscape). And I dream of that old home being targeted by low-flying aeroplanes buzzing just above treetops. I have never been able to fathom my war dreams, considering I have not lived through one. Just like I can’t fathom ‘wretchedness’ when there is nothing tangible to be wretched about.

  Just at this critical juncture, with dreams and thoughts bothering me, I watched a movie that was so morbid that I wondered why I sat through it. Around me were old folks like myself. Not a single youngster in sight. At the end of the film (about a man who decides he is ready to die but only in Varanasi!), I sense despondency all around me. Most of us are senior citizens. It is obvious from the shuffling, slow gait as we make our way carefully to the exit. We hang on to someone, temporarily lose balance, grab the nearest seat, straighten up and laboriously amble out. ‘Did you like the movie?’ we ask one another anxiously. Nobody knows what to answer. It is not a movie one ‘likes’. Which is why we are so uncomfortable. We see us! We see our own death. We feel scared. Nervous laughter follows. We walk out into the darkness overwhelmed by a feeling of aloneness.

  Age is a stealthy creature. It creeps up on you when you aren’t looking. Haven’t you noticed how people you’ve known all your life as youthful, vibrant, talkative types start appearing and acting like they are a hundred years old without a fair warning? One day they are their familiar selves, and the next, they are ancient. What happened? A tragedy? An accident? Or is it just that slippery villain called age claiming one more victim? I guess we all have a secret, dark side. Some of us are brave enough to expose it openly. Most hide. I play hide-and-seek. Even with myself. Besides, my family chases away dark clouds before they gather. My children are most uncomfortable with my dark, low periods. There is a preconceived idea shared even by close friends, of a person (me!), who is a positive energy field 24/7. If I slip even briefly and withdraw, there is a swift reaction: ‘Snap out of it. Don’t be dramatic. Stop it!’ This applies to my appearance. Once, when Anandita took pictures of me at my worst—shabby, old, faded kaftan, tired, make-up-less face, slouchy body language—and shared it with the others, there was an immediate response, ‘Delete immediately. We like our glam mom.’ I agreed! ‘Delete!’ I almost screamed. But why? These are vanity traps we set up for ourselves. And anything that contradicts the fixed images constructed over time has to be shunned.

  Age is a stealthy creature. It creeps up on you when you aren’t looking.

  My children’s response forced me to think about the oppressive nature of stereotyping those we admire and love the most. Even strangers we don’t know, may never meet, but who fascinate us. I was forwarded a really grim picture of a famous movie star on his deathbed. It was a horrific shot. The man, who was once the most handsome actor in Bollywood, was cruelly photographed, with a smiling wife and son on either side of him. His sunken eyes were shut, he was unshaven and gaunt. And most humiliating of all, he wasn’t wearing a lower garment—the short hospital gown just about covered his modesty. When I saw the picture, I was sickened by the insensitivity of it all. Was his permission sought before clicking him? The once strapping, good-looking, dashing, broad-shouldered hero of countless hits? Why wasn’t he allowed privacy, dignity, grace during his last hours?

  Then I thought of another celebrity death that had occurred a few months before this one. She’d lived her entire life as a supreme diva, worshipped by admirers and lauded for her incredible style. When she was hospitalized and informed the end was near, she summoned her family and oversaw the minutest detail of her last journey, which she wanted to be conducted in utmost secrecy, away from prying, intrusive eyes. Mumbai woke up to the sad news that she had gone the previous night, and the cremation had been conducted within two hours of her death. Not a single picture was released, apart from the super-glamorous ones in circulation. No details of her last moments were shared. She went, the way she lived—privacy intact. Mythology intact. Image intact. She will always be remembered the way she wanted to be perceived—a beautiful, stylish, strong woman, impeccably groomed and dressed fabulously at all times, on all occasions.

  ‘A life well lived—a death well died.’

  I have been thinking about death a great deal after losing Ashok Rajadhyaksha, my beloved brother, this year. Those heartbreaking exchanges with him as he lay on his hospital cot, staring expressionlessly ahead, his mind ticking but his voice taken away, will always stay with me. Those exchanges—short, funny, occasionally emotional—will remain priceless for many reasons. He continued to call me ‘baby sister’ till the very end, as I stroked his damp forehead and tried to make ‘light conversation’ with a dying man who knew he had but a few short days ahead of him. I would force myself to crack silly jokes, remind him of his penchant for buxom ladies, discuss the ‘good old days’ at IIT Kharagpur, offer him a single malt or a martini, talk about his only child, Joya, remind him about his favourite songs, his incredible memory for lyrics, movie dialogues, his love for and knowledge of aeroplanes, his expertise with the harmonica—I wanted his last days to be somehow less morbid. I tried.

  After he was gone, I sa
nk into my own delayed morbidity. There never is a real acceptance of loss, is there? Ashok had uncharacteristically said, ‘Kiss me before you leave,’ one evening, and I had covered his forehead with little kisses as he tightly held on to my hand. I now wonder, ‘Who will kiss me when I am dying?’

  A new foe—memory

  Memory starts playing wicked tricks after ‘a certain age’. What is that awful age? I know for sure I am approaching it rapidly. But in a peculiar way. Experts say as one gets older, the first thing to get affected is short-term memory. One forgets conversations, people, events and objects. I am okay with forgetting names. I am okay not recognizing acquaintances. I am okay forgetting details of destinations I have enjoyed thoroughly. What drives me nuts is losing my spectacles. I have half a dozen pairs placed strategically all over our home. I have a couple in my car. An extra ‘backup’ pair in my travel kit. Despite all these efforts, I often end up frazzled and upset because I am spectacles-deprived at key moments. I talk to girlfriends who assure me I am not alone. But they have foolproof systems in place and are never caught squinting miserably at fine print, frustrated at not being able to send a WhatsApp message, or feeling stranded at an airport unable to call a driver whose number can’t be located in the mobile phone book. I have missed flights because I have failed to read the correct departure time! It’s that bad. Nothing works—not even stringing spectacles around my neck like an ugly garland. My rage against chasmas manifests itself in many ways. And the rejected chasmas strike back viciously by disappearing or breaking! I run through four to six pairs a month. Does that happen to all senior citizens? I see so many of my contemporaries staring blankly at people, but refusing to wear glasses. A gal pal asked me recently, ‘No cataract?’ I assured her my eyesight was okay for now. She shook her head, ‘Lucky. My cataract is making it difficult for me to write these days.’