Seventy . . . Page 12
Who pays attention to mood boards?
To start with, you have your own mood swings to take care of. And believe me, those are the hardest. As I get older, I am astonished and, frankly, rather disappointed by the way my emotional pendulum goes from one end to the other smoothly, effortlessly, but leaving a totally wrecked me in its path. Earlier, I could anticipate, sense a potential typhoon heading purposefully towards me. Today, even if I do recognize the signs, I feel powerless. ‘Your fuse is getting shorter, Ma,’ commented a concerned daughter, when I exploded with rage over what she considered a minor transgression, but which appeared monumental to me. I saw the panic in her eyes and immediately stopped. I retreated to a quiet part of the house and asked myself, ‘Are you going mad? You have never behaved like this. Never!’ I didn’t find a convincing answer.
My daughter was not exaggerating. She loves me. My outburst was not aimed at her, but at a young house help who had done the exact opposite of what I had requested five hours earlier. She’s a girl I am fond of—eager, soft-spoken and polite. It had been a genuine mistake—we all make them. But seeing a large, red suitcase balanced precariously on top of an antique cupboard infuriated me. Why was it there? The girl replied, ‘You had asked me to place it there.’ No, I hadn’t. So she had not understood my instructions. All I needed to do was request her to take it down. That’s it. Instead, I threw a hissy fit and alarmed my daughter.
That night, I spent many restless hours trying to figure out why I had been so harsh. ‘It’s age. Age does that to people, you can’t help yourself,’ said a well-meaning friend. She is wrong. Age makes one grouchy, that much I do concede. But age is no excuse for being unreasonable and rude—which I had undoubtedly been towards the young girl. I woke up determined to make it up to her. I looked for signs of resentment when she brought me tea. I thought she would sulk. Worse, I thought she’d quit. Nothing of the sort happened. She was her usual smiling, cheerful self and that made me feel terrible.
I have been monitoring my mood swings closely. I know the triggers. I have been monitoring other people’s mood swings too. But I don’t know their triggers. Hunger definitely affects my mood. I have seen it affect the moods of my family members. At my age, people tell me it is related to low blood sugar and manifests itself around teatime, when energy levels dip and a certain light-headedness takes over. That is the time to have a quick snack before someone’s head gets bitten off. I have found this pretty effective and generally carry some dark chocolate in my handbag when I am travelling. I shun all drugs. I do not pop pills. No uppers, downers, sedatives or sleeping pills by my bedside. Counting sheep, or cows, is a far less damaging way to induce sleep. If all else fails, watch an old film—the one that bored you the most. I guarantee it will put you to sleep within ten minutes. Of course, moodiness and age are connected. But when moods affect very young people in a way that cripples them from carrying on ‘normal’ activities, then it’s time to seek professional help.
Mental health problems have still to receive widespread attention in our society. There is far too much stigma attached to being thought ‘mad’. It’s ‘mad’ or nothing! Given our ignorance about the myriad mental issues we deal so clumsily with, it’s important to educate ourselves, starting with those we share our lives with. Try telling a spouse or a child that counselling may just solve a recurrent emotional problem, and chances are the suggestion will be met with hostility and outrage. ‘Are you trying to tell me I am nuts? That I require electric shocks? Neurosurgery? Do you want to drug me? Kill me? Why should I be on medication? There’s nothing wrong with me. I refuse to take those tablets. The side effects are worse than what I am going through. All I need is love and sympathy. Not drugs.’ Partly right. But mostly wrong.
Women are not ‘allowed’ mood swings. I have noticed we create categories for those who are entitled to mood swings and those who aren’t. One poor lady I know figured out instinctively that her mood swings (even when she was menopausal) would be misunderstood and crushed. I know I am a borderline case in my own family—I can’t push it beyond a point. It simply won’t be tolerated. ‘Snap out of it!’ I’ll be told. And in all probability, I’d do just that . . . though inwardly, I’d be seething. Mothers have to be mothers 24/7. Their moods must be controlled at all times. They must not show ‘excessive’ emotion (who defines ‘excessive’?). They must smile a lot and distribute hugs and cuddles on demand. Mothers must not frown. Or cry. If they do, the family feels guilty and upset. And as we know, mothers can’t upset the family. Mothers can’t fall sick either. That also upsets the family and interrupts everybody’s busy schedules.
At the moment, I am definitely having ‘excessive emotion’ issues. So are a lot of other women I know—some younger, some older. They are feeling the same way I do—isn’t it about time we let our emotions show? I want to be shameless about mine! If I feel like crying for some odd reason—I am going to cry, period! Who can question my tears? Why should I ‘justify’ them? To whom? I realized with a bit of a start that I hadn’t wept in years, perhaps decades. Properly wept, that is. Howled. With tears streaming down my cheeks, nose running, loud sobs escaping my unconstricted throat. Just the way one is supposed to cry. Not the decorous sniffles . . . tiny, little gasps that indicate ‘I am upset’, but the full-throated cry that sounds animal. I want that desperately! Just to find out if I am still capable of feeling the same intensity. If my tears are still there in a deep, dark well within. Or have I let them evaporate . . . just like that? Like the thousand laughs I have lost in a similar fashion? Laughing or crying, urban women feel self-conscious about openly indulging in both. Even in grief, an unreasonable, unwritten code says, ‘Please control yourself. People are watching. Stay dignified.’ What rubbish! So when do women ‘like me’ actually cry, if not during a tragedy? Why are we made to feel weak if we break down? I remember everybody praising Sonia Gandhi at her husband’s funeral. She was a picture of stoicism—dry-eyed, upright, taciturn. We all found it remarkable and discussed it later. ‘It’s because she is Italian. Foreigners are trained from a young age not to show their emotions. Look at the Queen of England. Can you ever guess what she’s feeling?’ We reluctantly admitted our own lack of sophistication and control when it came to such calamitous occasions. Or even less dramatic tragedies—the death of a favourite chacha, for example. We asked each other, ‘Did you cry at your own wedding?’ I confessed I was pretty dry-eyed. I did try to squeeze out a few tears. I dabbed my eyes, pretending I was overcome, but I actually wasn’t. I was quite relieved, as a matter of fact.
At the moment, I am definitely having ‘excessive emotion’ issues. So are a lot of other women I know—some younger, some older. They are feeling the same way I do—isn’t it about time we let our emotions show?
The other women said they had indeed cried—but weren’t sure why. Were they crying because they were getting married? Did they not like the man they were marrying? Most women sheepishly admitted that was indeed the case. Some were abandoning old loves, some were panic-stricken at the prospect of ‘adjusting’ to a brand-new family, some were terrified of walking away from the security of their maternal homes. Most hated the idea of obligatory sex with a person they may or may not feel attracted to. It was a new phase they actively suspected but dared not challenge.
Young brides of today don’t have the same misgivings. Their anxieties are differently couched. Their emotional landscapes differ, and they appear much tougher, as they toss back their ghunghats inside the wedding mandap itself and ask for a drink halfway through the ceremony. Everybody ‘understands’. There’s no choice!
I am waiting for my full-blown bawling session. If I tell my daughters I want to howl, they always ask for my reasons. I don’t really have any. Or perhaps I have too many to list. Why should I have to provide ‘reasons’? Is it still okay to turn on those taps? Where should I cry? The location is important. I don’t want to lock myself in a room and wet my nice pillow covers. I don’t possess pretty lace han
dkerchiefs to cry into. I could cry by the window as the sun goes down . . . but then again, I like to enjoy my sunsets. Should I cry in a darkened movie hall? Maybe. If the movie is tragic. But what if it isn’t and I still feel like crying? Would I make a fool of myself sniffling through a comedy? No, no, no. I want to make a production out of it. I need a great setting, a gorgeous locale . . . somewhere abroad. I know—I want to cry in Paris! Sitting by myself on the banks of the Seine. It has to be autumn, great October skies stretching over the world’s most beautiful city. An accordion needs to play in the distance. And around me, young lovers about to kiss or make love right there and then. Paris is good for tears. And regrets. And longing.
And where do I go to laugh?
In New York. Definitely New York. Because New York accepts mad laughter. New York gets madness. Likes it, even. So does Paris, but differently. New York encourages laughter. Paris prefers tears. But I live in Mumbai. I am not sure Mumbai understands and accepts either. Or at least not in the way that suits me. I can’t picture myself sitting alone on Marine Drive and weeping my heart out. Or laughing in the rain at Chowpatty Beach without risking arrest, for that matter (‘Yeh pagal aurat hass kyon rahi hai?’). I rarely laugh these days. I rarely see women my age laughing any more. They smile a lot—but it looks like a reflex action. ‘We are polite and we know when to smile’, that sort of thing. If they laugh at all, it’s by mistake. And they don’t show their teeth. They cover their mouths and lower their heads, as if they are ashamed to be caught laughing. That worries me. Especially because I used to laugh a lot, even at silly stuff, mainly because I enjoyed laughing. We have to unlearn our habit of frowning, and relearn laughter.
New York encourages laughter. Paris prefers tears. But I live in Mumbai. I am not sure Mumbai understands and accepts either.
Lights, camera, Diwali
I have mixed feelings about celebrating Diwali. Somehow, I always feel a little let down. When I was a child growing up in Delhi, I enjoyed the festival of lights much more than I do now. I suppose the expectations were modest, and I used to take delight in small signs that indicated bigger thrills to come as the days became shorter and nightfall arrived around 5 p.m. Colony life in Delhi ensured a sense of community, as I watched neighbours feverishly scrubbing their homes in time to welcome Lakshmi, Goddess of Wealth, when she slipped regally into their homes, took a good look around for cobwebs and uncleared dust, before deciding she wanted to linger a little longer to bless the family with increased prosperity in the new year. I would be told by my mother to make sure my little corner in the bedroom I shared with my sisters was kept spick and span, in case Lakshmi looked hard under the desk and found crumpled paper. I believed my parents when they said Lakshmi would arrive in the still of the night and inspect each nook and cranny of our government home. My tired eyes would strain to stay open as long as possible to catch the glory of the goddess, clad in light and magnificent jewels, as I imagined her bending over my head to bless me. Next morning, I would ask anxiously, ‘Did she come last night?’ And my mother would assure me she did. ‘But why didn’t I meet her . . . ?’ I would wail. ‘Because she came just after you fell fast asleep.’ That would mark disappointment number one.
I still wait for Lakshmi to come a-calling. I have visualized the moment countless times. I know what I will say to her. Accurately and vividly. I can see her clearly, dressed in a sky-blue Chanderi saree. She has diamond kudis glittering on her earlobes. And her chest is covered in gold. Her crown is studded with rubies and emeralds. Maybe I am waiting for my mother? I don’t know. But it is a lovely wait.
I have tried hard to keep all the old traditions alive in my own family. I was delighted to read a mini interview of my daughter Arundhati in a special Diwali issue of a popular glossy, in which she has recounted my efforts at sharing the Diwali magic with my loved ones. I was most touched that she had acknowledged the rituals and understood their significance. For all these years I used to think I was wasting my time plodding on, while the family stayed pretty distant and disconnected from the process. Almost like none of it really mattered, and even if I were to abruptly stop, nobody would notice or care. Apparently they would! This was such a tremendously reassuring feeling! I felt motivated and energized all over again! And told myself I must carry on while I still can.
Why do rituals matter so much in our lives? Is it the sense of continuity they provide to us in these frenetic times? I ask myself why I bother. I do it selfishly for myself . . . to feel I am fulfilling some family duties that need to be marked, passed down and hopefully perpetuated by the next generation. What does it matter? No answer. It matters. I care. That’s it.
I have a friend who is incredibly enthusiastic about celebrating all Hindu festivals in right royal style. She has been at it for decades. I asked her once, ‘Doesn’t it bore you? Aren’t you tired after all these many years?’ Her shining eyes provided the answer I was seeking. She lives alone. So . . . she is not looking at posterity. She does it for her own pleasure. And the rituals give her enormous joy. Her religious routine requires time, resources and passion. She possesses all three. Recently, I watched her performing an impromptu garba raas at a function she had organized in memory of her parents. I had seen her dance at my daughters’ weddings in the past. So many years later, she had not tired of dressing up every single day, carefully picking jewellery to match her sarees, stringing fresh jasmines in her hair . . . all this entirely for herself. How wonderful to saturate your life with so much beauty, fragrance and meaning. As I watched her whirl and twirl during the garba, I felt a tiny twinge of regret. I asked myself whether the responsibility of keeping a large and growing family in tune with my own sentiments was worth the effort and occasional disappointment. Well, on some days it seems entirely satisfying . . . on others, I silently exclaim, ‘Fuck it.’
These days I have been saying ‘fuck it’ to a whole bunch of stuff. Am I ‘evolving’? Or just getting old? Girlfriends say we are all ‘evolving’. And I say, ‘Bullshit!’ We are just tired! And don’t want to go that extra mile for anything or anyone. We think about sleep a lot—we never seem to get enough. Then we remember what our gynaes used to tell us during pregnancy, ‘Make the most of this short period before the baby arrives. Once you become a mother, you will remain sleepless for the rest of your life.’ Too true! Now that most of us are grandmothers and still severely sleep-deprived, we figure the reason for this has to be something else. I mean, if thinking about Diwali can unleash so many long-buried memories . . . !
These days I have been saying ‘fuck it’ to a whole bunch of stuff. Am I ‘evolving’? Or just getting old? Girlfriends say we are all ‘evolving’. And I say, ‘Bullshit!’ We are just tired!
Where is the old, familiar ‘me’?
Women keep asking themselves this pointless question. They miss their organized selves. They either miss the person they imagine themselves to have been, or they long to be another person altogether. Even though that annoying phrase, ‘Who is the real “me”?’ has been reduced to a cliché, even the most accomplished, talented, successful woman spends sleepless nights looking for herself. These disruptive thoughts generally emerge when women meet other women they have shared histories with. They look at the other women and lament, ‘Where did I go wrong? How is it possible that my friend looks happier, younger, sexier? I was like her to start with. In fact, I used to beat her at everything in school/college. I won more medals and prizes. I came first. I married before she did. I had my son before she conceived hers. I earned more. My husband is better educated. We live in a larger house. I travel abroad twice a year. Even my pet dog is a better breed. But she looks happier. And I miss my older self—the happy self. Now I wonder if it is too late. That other self may be lost or dead.’
I suffer from this sinking feeling pretty often, but a little differently. I ache for my other self. I meet her accidentally—when a familiar song plays, and every fibre of my being wakes up. Like it happened when driving back from Pu
shkar to Ajmer with friends. The entire experience overwhelmed my senses. I fell in love with Pushkar and wondered why I had never bothered to visit this jewel of a destination earlier. I didn’t go during the touristy camel fair on Kartik Poornima. This was in December and Pushkar was not crowded. Staring at the architectural beauty of the ghats, while listening to the strains of itinerant sarangi players, I fell into a trance of sorts. Strolling down the narrow strip, lined with shops selling gaudy souvenirs, I met myself in a small antique store. As I started rummaging around, I kept meeting me—was I that angel in the old Tanjore painting? Or the plaster-of-Paris baby Krishna with chipped paint? I must have been the woman made out of seasoned teak—her painted, kohl-lined eyes staring unblinkingly with wonder and amusement. Yes, I was her. She wasn’t expensive as compared to the other objets in the cramped space. But she was special. I loved her. And I found me.
Later, I was idly listening to the car stereo playing a Bollywood song (‘Mera jee karta . . .’), and I started to cry. I didn’t want to startle my hosts—we didn’t know each other beyond a polite exchange of social niceties. So I stared out of the window at the rapidly fading light, and pretended there was something in my right eye that was making the tears flow. One of them must have sensed the mood, for the volume was gently pumped up. We were driving past sand dunes. I wanted to get out of the car and start running. I wanted to get to the other side of the hill and escape into the Aravalli Range, never to come back. I felt like joining a gypsy tribe, smoking ganja, dancing on the sand, singing to the half-moon, taking off my clothes and freeing myself. From whom? From what? Maybe from me—this me.