Seventy . . .

  SHOBHAA DÉ

  Seventy . . . and to hell with it

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Contents

  Preface

  A space of my own

  Risk: A four-letter word

  The umbilical cord

  My space vs yours

  ‘Relative’ reality

  Friends for life?

  Officially yours

  Dangerous social media games

  Curating our lives?

  Toddlers and energy fields

  Dulhanji, adjust karo

  Toxic is as toxic does

  A war veteran’s manual

  Marathon, anyone?

  I see you stare, see if I care!

  The great escape(s)

  Superwoman one day, Minnie Mouse the next

  Throw away that hair shirt!

  Still looking for Aie

  Who pays attention to mood boards?

  Lights, camera, Diwali

  Where is the old, familiar ‘me’?

  Bye-bye, this year . . . hello, new year!

  Women need caves too . . .

  Remember what you want to, discard the rest!

  Do you not ‘see’ old people?

  Sugar-free at seventy

  Okay, I can be an ostrich sometimes . . .

  Let’s play role reversal

  FOMO

  Do buddhas and buddhis really have sex?

  The ‘age thing’

  My ‘beef’ with khana–peena

  Thank you, media friends . . .

  ‘So what can I do for you, madam?’

  Living dangerously is not such a bad thing

  Why do I tweet? Am I nuts?

  The new breed spawned by Bollywood

  The great media bazaar

  Making small talk, and big talk, can be fun

  What if?

  A new foe—memory

  Double . . . and quadruple standards

  Jhoom barabar, jhoom sharabi

  Common sense: My magic mantra

  The other F-word

  Write with your heart . . . not just your head

  Nanga–bhooka India

  Mere apne

  Once a ‘kaarti’, always a ‘kaarti’

  Mainu ki?

  Illustrations

  Acknowledgements

  Follow Penguin

  Copyright

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  SEVENTY . . . AND TO HELL WITH IT

  Shobhaa Dé’s books include the bestsellers Socialite Evenings, Starry Nights and Superstar India. A widely read columnist in leading publications, she is known for her outspoken views, making her one of India’s most respected opinion shapers. She lives in Mumbai with her family.

  To all female gladiators—go for the kill!

  Aaj phir jeeney ki tamanna hai . . .

  Aaj phir marney ka iraada hai . . .

  —Guide (1965)

  Haravaley teh gavasley ka . . .

  Gavasley teh, haravaley ka . . .

  Have you lost something precious, and found it again?

  Or have you found something precious, and lost it again?

  —Sung by Lata Mangeshkar, lyrics by P. Savalaram

  Between what is said and not meant, and what is meant and not said, most of love is lost.

  —Khalil Gibran

  Preface

  Zara sa jhoom loon main

  Arrey na re na re na . . .

  Main chali banke hawa

  I have been writing this book for seventy years. It’s up to you to decide what you make of these seventy years! If you ask me, I’d say I’ve had lots of fun. Real, unalloyed fun. For me, that has been enough. You are allowed to ask, ‘Then why write a book? Keep having fun!’ Let me attempt an answer. More than fifty out of those seventy years have been filled with writing. Not just filled . . . flooded! Torrents of unstoppable writing have been at the centre of all the fun. Of my world. Of my life. Therefore, this book.

  All writers are narcissists. All. Even when you are writing about someone else’s life, you’re really writing about yourself. Ultimately it is about you. Think about it. Since I am no exception, here’s me, jaisey bhi, waisey bhi. All writers are selfish too. Some disguise it better, that’s all. I am selfish. When I am writing, nothing else matters. Nobody else matters. This book is a birthday present from me to me. ‘Do you write for posterity?’ I am asked. What nonsense! Who does that? I write for the moment. This very moment. I write because it hurts not to. I write because I am hooked—I am an addict. I feel so lucky that writing chose me. And to all aspiring writers reading this, I want to say: Stay hungry, stay insecure, stay curious, write, write, write, write . . . write in your sleep, write when you are talking to people, write with your ears and nose and tongue and skin. Write till you bleed. Become that beast.

  Through writing, I meet extraordinary people. People are my narcotic. I am an avid collector of moments and memories. There isn’t a single person on earth who does not interest me. They may not interest themselves, but they definitely interest me.

  But this book is not about those wonderful people. It is about me. And I am admitting it gleefully. Finally, I have started liking myself. Let’s call it the Dinosaur Syndrome. When you have been around long enough, you become used to ‘you’—however you are. It’s you. And you have lived with this person, known this person, more intimately than any other creature, living or dead. Better to like than dislike, na? Then there is the question of timing. This book felt right for this time. It asked to be written. Books have their own birth charts and horoscopes. I believe that. Books also possess a taqdeer which may or may not be linked to the author’s. A book has an independent existence and destiny. Some books take off, and you wonder—Why? How? Others remain stuck and you again wonder the same thing—Why? How? Then comes a book that is written ‘just’ like that. Simbly! Like this one. It makes the book very special because there is zero aagey-peechey to it.

  I felt like treating myself, revisiting bits and pieces of my own life. And writing coquettishly about—me! Not in the boastful ‘I did this . . . I did that . . . I met this VVIP . . . I interacted with that amazing person . . . I won this award . . . I ate here . . . I drank there . . . I travelled to the North Pole . . . I suffered . . . I sacrificed . . . I survived . . . aren’t I amazing?’ manner. No, no, no. But hey, at seventy you do feel you have earned those bragging rights. Uff, the temptation to boast is just overwhelming. ‘What have I to lose? If not now, then when?’ you say, and start showing off. I admit I had to restrain myself several times from becoming entirely insufferable, self-absorbed and nauseating. But that’s what good editors are for—they know how to deal tactfully with dinosaurs.

  If you are expecting words of wisdom, well, look hard. You may find them. Profound truths? I have lived them! But please, this is not a chronological account of my seventy years or even a comprehensive one, with nary a detail skipped. If you want a standardized, sanitized bio, check the hopelessly inaccurate info available on the web. I never google myself, but some fools do. They ask me to verify really bizarre stuff about my life, saying plaintively, ‘But it’s on Wikipedia!’ Okay then, stick to Wikipedia if that version appeals to you—I have not bothered to correct/edit any of it—and skip this book, I tell them.

  The only worthwhile reason for writing Seventy . . . and to Hell with It was my desire to connect, and laugh and love. Mine has been a life defined by irresistible, if way too many, ‘why nots’. I wanted to share my ‘why not’ moments with you. Don’t worry, there is no heavy-duty gyan here but plenty of josh. I wrote the book in an uninterrupted burst of pure energy. I sat back languidly and let it flow. Halfway through, I was pretty exhilarated! Where was all this going? Perhaps nowhere. But for me, it was a deep recognition of my much younge
r, truer self—the girl with wild passions and reckless dreams. I touched those insane passions all over again. I thought they had died years earlier! It was such a delirious discovery. I never want to let go of that original person.

  I refuse to give up and become a harmless old lady. I still want to dance naked under the stars. I want to go to Buenos Aires and learn how to tango with a tall, graceful, ponytailed stranger. I want to eat figs in Tuscany. And wade into moonlit waters in Goa, Andrea Bocelli singing just for me. I want to wear jasmine in my hair and watch apsaras dance at Konarak. There are so many things still left to do, taste, experience.

  To live a lot, you have to die many times. The khushboo of life is the world’s most expensive perfume. I wish I could bottle it. I have trained my senses to enjoy its fragrance any time, anywhere. I have identified it, given it a name. For years, I felt embarrassed to acknowledge its existence because I thought it made me look like a sentimental loser. But now that I have freed myself from myself, I can say it without cringing: My special khushboo is love. This was the single biggest discovery while remembering, forgetting, remembering, rewinding. I kept asking myself as I sifted through seven decades of memories—What is it that stays? What is important? What nourishes you? What completes you? The answer surprised me. And when that four-letter word—love—refused to go away, I meekly surrendered to its presence and power.

  So, my dear readers, here it is, my simple philosophy of life—and don’t laugh—inspired by a cheesy Bollywood cabaret song featuring Rekha in the hit movie Janbaaz (1985): ‘Pyaar do. Pyaar lo.’ Give love. Get love. Nothing more is needed!

  A space of my own

  At seventy, you have nothing to lose. Finally, you are befikre!

  Nails. Would you believe it? Everything comes down to nails. Toenails. I am writing this soon after celebrating my sixty-seventh birthday with the family. As always, they had made it extraordinarily special for me. I felt a little guilty. Poor children and considerate husband—how much longer will they have to keep coming up with birthday surprises for me? Thoughtful, hand-picked gifts, sweet notes, an unexplored venue, candles and flowers. Year after year, my family has taken enormous trouble to make my birthday amazing—to make me feel amazing. This year, perhaps for the first time, I asked myself—do I deserve their love? The question depressed me. I came home in an uncharacteristically pensive mood. The mellow white wine we had consumed contributed to the introspection. Don’t get soppy and sentimental, I told myself. Don’t feel martyred. Feel happy, not guilty. Rejoice. Sixty-seven today, sixty-eight next year, sixty-nine the year after, seventy after that, life goes on.

  The next morning, for the first time in my life, as I bent over to clip my toenails, I recoiled in shock. Those couldn’t possibly belong to me. These were the toenails of a really old person! I reached for my reading glasses and looked closely. My toenails had aged. Which meant the rest of me had aged too. But this drastically? Toenails never lie. Look at your own. Check what they are saying. Toenails tell you the sort of bald truths your face doesn’t. Perhaps it has something to do with being taken for granted. I had never thought about my toenails till that defining moment, the morning after my birthday. It was as if I was looking at them for the very first time in my life. And at that precise moment, I felt like I was staring at my mother’s feet. Those were her toenails when she was in her seventies.

  It’s not about pedicures or caring enough for your feet. Nails cannot be fooled or pampered. Those damn toenails remind you to take a clear-eyed look at yourself—other body parts that are giving up, slowly but surely. Like the ropelike veins on the back of your hands, the loose skin under your chin and so many other telltale signs of physical deterioration. Since that day, I have started to examine my toenails every morning after my bath. I have scrupulously applied foot cream for years, but mechanically, without paying the slightest attention to the nails. Now that the toenails have become my main focus, I examine them somewhat obsessively. My toenails have started talking to me!

  Old people’s nails thicken and are exceedingly hard to clip. They also get discoloured and ridged on the surface. By this point, chances of the toes getting misshapen are pretty high. Feet tend to flatten and broaden with advancing years. When that happens, toenails become brittle and crack vertically, which is very painful. The surrounding skin gets sore, leading to ingrown nails. Jagged edges appear, and get caught in bedclothes. You wake up in the middle of the night wincing in pain. It’s dark. You can’t find your spectacles. You grope on the bedside table, knock over a water jug. Switch on the light. Forget where you’ve stored the nail clipper. Wake up the husband and ask for help. The toenail-fixing operation gets under way. With eyes full of sleep, you nick yourself. There’s blood on the bed sheets. You need ice. You stagger to the kitchen. Wake up the dog. Wake up others. Slip on something squishy. Keel over. Fall. But not badly. Your old training as a sportsperson helps you break the fall. But there will be a bruise tomorrow morning. Ice cubes in hand, you make it back to the bedroom in one piece. Dawn is breaking. And your toenail still hasn’t been fixed. You finally feel old. Yes, old!

  It took my toenails to remind me of my biological age. In my head and heart, I am stuck at thirty-four—possibly the best year of my life. That was a long time ago. But so what? What a year it was, tumultuous and life-altering. I decide there and then that no matter what my toenails are telling me, I will treat them as toenails, not as time bombs ticking away, warning me to be cautious, slow down, retire, find my inner calm, change. Sixty-seven is not all that terrible an age to be. If I continue to feel thirty-four, it doesn’t really matter.

  That unexpected encounter with the toenails brought me face-to-face with the sixty-seven-year-old me. And forced me to shift my gaze upwards and look more closely into the mirror. All of a sudden, I took note of the deepening lines around the mouth, the additional crow’s feet at the corners of my eyes. The extra strands of grey framing my face, the slackening of the skin on the neck, the slight discoloration of the lips. My reflection was a revelation. How had I not noticed these changes earlier? Had I not looked hard enough? That’s not possible. I am as vain as the next person. I had looked but I hadn’t seen. Such a big difference between looking and seeing. Just as I was fretting over a deep furrow between the brows, I happened to catch a glimpse of my ears. Here’s a confession: I like my ears. And to my great satisfaction and utter relief, the ears looked just the same. The ears could have belonged to a thirty-four-year-old. And that was my big thrill. Why focus on the negatives (discoloured toenails) when there are positives (pretty ears) to cheer you up?

  It’s important to be realistic and self-critical in life. But it’s equally important to remain upbeat and positive about the inevitable. Age is one of them. From now on, it’s going to be ears over toenails.

  I am not going to put on a fake jaunty attitude and declare: Seventy is the new fifty! Because seventy is seventy. And no matter how ‘young’ you feel, you can neither look it nor hack it as anyone but a (hopefully) well-preserved septuagenarian. Life definitely does not begin at seventy—but neither does it have to end. I don’t believe in milestones. Hitting seventy is not an achievement. And it is certainly not a milestone. It is merely a biological fact of life. I have survived my seventh decade. That’s about all it says to me.

  Why focus on the negatives (discoloured toenails) when there are positives (pretty ears) to cheer you up?

  This book started off as a philosophical look at the space I have travelled over seven decades. Our life is made up of the spaces we constantly negotiate. Some we revisit. Some we love. Some we never want to be reminded of. The space in our hearts is supposed to be limitless. It is believed that, as one grows older, this space expands and accommodates more and more of everything—people, experiences, heartaches, sorrow, loss, death, disappointment, despair. But the one thing the heart never loses is hope, no matter how terrible life is.

  As I write these words, I am watching a delicate tulsi plant on the ledge of my
balcony. It is struggling to survive the lashings of the Mumbai rains. It has been a particularly harsh monsoon this year. And the tulsi plant is tenaciously hanging in there, much like the people of this great metropolis. Nobody gives up hope in Mumbai. I am so proud to possessively claim it as ‘my city’. Even at my lowest, something about Mumbai’s much-touted ‘spirit’ always pulls me back from the edge and stops me from giving up. Mumbai keeps me going. Mumbai keeps me afloat. I owe Mumbai the ‘space’ within, the space I alone own.

  I hated the idea of space when I was a child. Space meant separation. At that point, space meant separation from just one person—my mother. I didn’t trust space—physical or emotional. I still don’t.

  The first space in life is created the moment you are born, the umbilical cord is cut and you are separated from your mother. How you negotiate that particular ‘away from the security of a warm womb’ space for the rest of your life colours just about everything else.

  The most important space in the world is the one you subsequently snatch, appropriate and occupy. This is the space you create for yourself. After years of living in this space, perhaps you can find the courage to ask yourself the single most important question: How happy am I in my own space?

  This is really the starting point for living the life that suits you. The awareness leads you to many other places and spaces. Awareness is a privilege. A child may possess it at age ten. And you—at thirty, forty, fifty, sixty, seventy, eighty—may not! If and when you sadly discover ‘your space’ is not providing the quality and level of happiness you seek, you have to ask yourself why that is so. Are you letting yourself down? Do you feel you are not loved? Not respected? Not appreciated? Do you focus on the many negatives and take the few positives for granted? The painful realization that you are not loved, have never been loved, is perhaps the most crushing truth of all. An unloved life! What a tragedy.