Seventy . . . Page 13

  All of us have another me. Or many other ‘me’s. We generally hide them or hide from them. We start suspecting that other me. Like it’s dangerous and disloyal to allow such thoughts. How idiotic! Why should all our ‘me’s be incompatible? We could coexist. And not be hostile. I don’t feel threatened by the other me. I like her. I enjoy running into her, as I did in that bazaar in Pushkar. She was me in my early thirties—the best period of my life when I had grown new wings. I was flying. I was happy—truly happy. Happy about my choices. Happy about life’s possibilities and promises. That’s the me I don’t want to let go of. I stood still in Pushkar inside the Brahma temple. The marble under my bare feet was cold. I looked at the image of the creator, the one who saw everything. I searched for answers in his eyes. Someone rang the temple bell behind me. A child was crying in his mother’s arms. I started to pray. The prayers were a thanksgiving. Brahma already had too much on his plate. Walking down the steps, I wondered—what next? Should I take a drastic decision? At the bottom of the steps, I saw a local vendor chucking guavas at a group of monkeys sitting on the roof of a low haveli. We started chatting. He said he fed them five kilos of the fruit every day, three times a day. At that moment, I wanted to switch places with him and spend the next few months—maybe years—feeding guavas to monkeys in Pushkar.

  Why should all our ‘me’s be incompatible? We could coexist. And not be hostile. I don’t feel threatened by the other me. I like her.

  My old me smiled. The scene was so intimate and familiar. She knew. I knew. All was not lost. I had offered a chaddar earlier that day at Ajmer Sharif. The heady fragrance of the world-famous Pushkar roses was still making me dizzy. I had asked for dua. I was sure the Sufi saint had heard my prayers and blessed me.

  Sometimes, we need to stop for these ‘guava moments’ in our mad lives. These guava moments make far more sense than all the other stuff we do. They are untarnished by external expectations. In this story, both the parties are in sync and happy. The monkeys and the man who feeds them. As for me, the spell wore off as the evening transformed into a more recognizable reality. I was seated in the back seat of a luxury car, driving to Jaipur to meet a group of wealthy, young entrepreneurs at a palace hotel. The talk would be about money and where to spend New Year’s Eve. I would ‘perform’ my role with finesse and expertise—the same role I have been playing for decades. I did. Everybody appeared pleased (‘She’s exactly as we thought she’d be’). I smiled sardonically to myself—who is ‘she’? Do I know her?

  Later the same evening, the night lamp in my gigantic suite kept flickering. Was it trying to tell me something? Or had I just had too much wine?

  I am sure there are many, many women who have mixed feelings about Diwali and other celebrations . . . Xmas, New Year’s, Holi, Id. Let’s call it performance anxiety. Since it is the woman of the house who is expected to get it all together and look terrific and impress the in-laws . . . it’s a bit of a double-edged sword. Especially given the shrinking space and time for organizing traditional festivities. Most young working wives leave everything to professionals—party people with great ideas and expensive suggestions. My daughters tell me cheerfully Diwali preps are a click away . . . there’s nothing that can’t be sourced, purchased, installed if you know which website to hit. I feel terribly under-equipped when I hear all this. I still think it’s important to do it the old-fashioned way . . . go to the vendor, place the order after physically examining every diya, haggle with the family flower seller (a flower seller who buys marigolds in the wholesale market as opposed to a florist who wants to sell imported peonies).

  I feel pretty smug about my own Diwali enthusiasm. Much as I try, it hasn’t quite rubbed off on the children, who expect me to remotely control their homes, and we send each other hourly reminders like, ‘Have you organized the torans for the front door! Please don’t recycle last year’s faded kandeels. Remember to wash and clean your altar before performing the Lakshmi Puja. Get fresh chandan agarbattis, and extra oil for the diyas, and wicks! Please don’t use those cheap, battery-operated Chinese diyas. I know they are convenient. But let’s stick to inconvenient, at least during Diwali. Last year your terrace lights looked more like disco lights, so avoid UV blue. Your terrace party shouldn’t compete with the nightclub next door. And make sure the children wear pure cotton only, and keep them away from firecrackers, flames, rockets and those disgusting “snake” crackers.’

  Just as I keyed this bit in, I received a call from one of the daughters with fresh instructions. She needed mini kandeels of a particular colour and specification. Check. A son was looking for kadak boondi laddoos. Check. Another daughter required chaklis and cornflake chivda. Check.

  Aaaah . . . Diwali!

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

  My children love December. They find it a ‘party month’. They start planning for December in November itself. I guess, many moons ago, I used to love December too. These days, I am a little ambivalent. If November has been reasonably well spent, December appears like relief! A relief!! I mean . . . this is age! I have survived one more year without breaking a hip or getting a cataract! Help! It boils down to basics eventually, doesn’t it? And I think of my friends—most, much younger, some, much older, just a few who are of the same age. We have very, very different attitudes to December. I long for those old excitements—the anticipation of meeting new people at a party. Dancing! Flirting (that too!). Planning a glamorous getaway. Acquiring a new something—anything. But I keep mum. Older people are not supposed to nurture such childish dreams. Sometimes, my children reprimand me for acting juvenile. As if that’s a huge crime. Sometimes, I reprimand myself! But don’t we all have that frisky child in us? Why do we not indulge this precious aspect of ourselves a little more? I feel best when I regress. And with a small start, I immediately pull myself out of the zone.

  Recently, at a pretty dull dinner party, I ran into someone I had known many years ago. He reminded me of a Xmas party we had attended (separately). And then he said, ‘That was the last time I saw you smile with your heart, and eyes.’ I was taken aback for a minute. It made me wonder: Was that also the last time I was happy? Happy, in an unalloyed way? Happy just being who I was—who I am? What happened to that person? He smiled and assured me gently that it was fine. We all have that one phase in our lives when we are in perfect sync with ourselves—and not faking anything. Looking back on that Xmas, so many decades later, I still don’t know what I was so happy about. Was it my appearance (I was in my prime)? My ‘success’? Or was I in love?

  I look at my children as they prepare for the end-of-the-year celebrations, how meticulously they plan everything. Some of my friends also enjoy the jolly season tremendously. Their feelings aren’t synthetic or manufactured. I long to be the woman with a huge orchid tied on a satin ribbon around her neck. Wearing an off-the-shoulder dress. Sitting in a mint-green convertible. A slight chill in the air. Long hair streaming in the night breeze. A cha-cha-cha playing inside her head. Silver lamé and French chiffon. Sparkling conversation and promises! Women love promises. That doesn’t make us fools. It makes us romantic. We can dream and yearn. And imagine all those promises coming true. Take away promises, and what do we have?

  Despite it all, I enjoy creating a ‘jolly’ ambience throughout the month of December. Just as I love creating it for Diwali. Lights! How quickly and economically a room can get transformed with the right lighting. All it takes is a candle or two to make my spirits soar. And fairy lights, of course. This Xmas, I feel as if I am not myself (whatever and whoever ‘myself’ is). And I dare not ask myself why. On the surface, everything appears to be ‘normal’. Nothing much has changed. Or has it? Am I just sick of ‘normal’? Questioning ‘normal’? Are women ‘allowed’ to question normal? Most men would scoff, ‘What rubbish! Is this some new thing you’ve started? What’s the matter with you? Don’t give such vague answers. If something is wrong, if something has happened, just come to the point and say
what it is.’ But what if nothing specific has happened? What if the change is deeper than a superficial cut? What if old wounds start festering without a warning? Should one just act normal and say nothing? Why are women terrified to admit everything isn’t okay sometimes? Why do we feel we are being cussed if we voice it? Why should there be justifications and explanations?

  It’s really okay not to feel or behave as if everything is okay. I have decided to do just that in the coming year. And have said as much to the family. If they find my attitude unacceptable, they are keeping quiet about it. And I feel like a naughty schoolgirl about to play hooky and jump into a passing train headed for an unidentified destination. Just the thought of it is liberating. What did I tell you about crazy dreams?

  I am busy making a bucket list of all the places I want to go to in the next few months. I am just being practical. Right now, I am able to walk, run, jump, dance, shout, sing, read and drink as I choose to. Who knows about next year? Or even next month? Should I do it? Just take off on my own? A strong inner voice is urging me to do just that. ‘Go!’ it keeps saying. ‘You won’t regret it! Go!’ And my heart lurches—Argentina and tangos! Sakura season in Japan. The big migration in Africa.

  I have to get there. Have to!

  End-of-the-year blues were unknown to me till 2016. By any standards, the year had been ‘good’. I became a grandmother for the third time in December, and even though it was a familiar feeling, the excitement I felt waiting outside the delivery room was something else. In fact, as I held my grandson for the first time, just about an hour after he was born, I felt an old urge tugging at me—so complete was my identification with my daughter, Arundhati, who looked exhausted but radiant, like only a new mom can. Her husband, Sahil, known as ‘secure’ to all his friends, for being the most dependable man in the group, was smiling sweetly . . . with all his heart! I wanted to carry my own baby, just to experience that unbeatable exuberance of giving birth. I confessed that to a friend. I said, ‘I feel like having a baby too!’ He replied, ‘You just did!’ Empathy this intense can be scary sometimes.

  It’s really okay not to feel or behave as if everything is okay. I have decided to do just that in the coming year.

  Despite the high of that moment, I came home feeling low. I forced myself to fake excitement as the Xmas tree was getting spruced up and decorated. Earlier, I would go out in hideous traffic to shop for new baubles, and end up buying far more than was needed for the small tree. This year, I merely took the carefully stowed carton down from a high loft, and got on with the job. When evening fell, and the lights came on, I felt zero joy. For the first time in years I didn’t bother to keep the fairy bulbs blinking all night. I boredly, indifferently, switched them off at 11 p.m. and went to bed feeling let down, I still don’t know by whom.

  A few nights earlier, I had attended a charming seventy-fifth birthday party of a dignified lady who had been very kind to me at a point in my life when I had felt totally abandoned. To dress for the party, my friend had hired professional make-up and hair artists, and was looking lovely. A person who obviously knew her taste in music very well was playing her favourite love songs on a keyboard. There were affectionate speeches and tributes from old and true family friends. I looked at the faces of the assembled guests and nearly wept! When it was my turn to speak about her, I broke down and found it difficult to finish my sentence. Was I weeping for her? Or myself?

  At Dilip’s seventy-fifth, the entire family had gone flat out to make it extraordinary for him at every level, starting with a simple puja at our favourite temple in Colaba and ending with a party at home, with surprise guests—his close friends. He seemed overcome and overwhelmed as he thanked one and all. And he looked smashing that night in his perfectly fitted Jodhpurs combined with a velvet bandhgala, a silver-topped cane in his hand for that extra swag.

  Something was going on inside my head and heart. It was disquieting and I have still to come to terms with this unfamiliar emotion.

  The birth of Adhiraj Pramod Raju was as tranquil, calm and gentle as the mother who had carried him—Avantikka. This is her third child, and she, along with her husband Pramod, had meticulously prepared the two older girls for the new arrival, involving them at every stage of the pregnancy. When they saw the newborn, just fifteen minutes after his birth, the little girls were awestruck, and also a little confused. Pramod, a former doctor, had been inside the delivery room, and appeared entirely in control (That’s very characteristic of him! I definitely want to see him plastered some day!), as he beamed, his eyes visible and smiling from behind the surgical mask. It was a quiet, golden moment, as we all gazed at the infant and came up with the usual comments: Whom did he look like? The common consensus was: Indumati Kilachand (Ba), his maternal great-grandmother.

  With Adhiraj, there are five grandchildren in the family at this point. In the past year, we have welcomed the birth of Arundhati and Sahil’s adorable Aryaman. His birth too was marked by such an overwhelming sense of peacefulness, more so because there were four generations from Sahil’s side to welcome the little fellow. Radhika and Bobby had their son in Chandigarh. Radhika was certain she was carrying a boy. When I asked her how she knew, she answered simply, ‘Because Guruji told us.’ Such is the power of faith. Both she and Bobby are on a deeply spiritual path, and little Sudhir is an intrinsic part of that journey. That leaves two sons, Ranadip and Aditya, and one daughter, Anandita, who have still to make the big decision. I get the feeling 2018 is going to be a really, really crowded year. It may see a hat-trick taking place!

  Women need caves too . . .

  What do women of my age do when they reach these crossroads? Men retire quietly into their caves and solve crossword puzzles. The more adventurous ones start looking around, cranking up the rusty old mating machine. If they have money, style and a good car, there is any number of women willing to provide company. So many women are in the exact same situation these days—they have money, style and a fancy car, even two. I meet so many women in similar situations these days. They have money, time, fancy cars, style, looks and the inclination to play with the right partner. Some are single. Some aren’t. Even so, they generally hesitate before moving forward. But I also have girlfriends—with or without money—who have never hesitated or looked back with regret. They have gone right ahead and grabbed the moment. One particular friend, who has fascinated me for decades, laughs at my attitude. ‘Look at me,’ she chuckles. ‘I do whatever the hell I want to and my family still loves me, because all the members know this is the only way I can live, contribute and grow. Place me in a cage and try to control me—oh God! Everybody loses, most of all the family.’

  This works for her. Always has. Her energy levels are extraordinary. I adore and admire her tenaciousness and boundless creativity. There is nothing she won’t attempt at least once. Today, a ravishing woman in her sixties, she divides her time between three cities, maintaining lovely, welcoming homes in all of them. She can go from being a beach bum in Goa and dancing every single night at her favourite club to transforming into a hands-on country girl in the Himalayas. That is, when she isn’t stopping off in Mumbai to attend an important corporate event or two with her far more subdued husband. She isn’t harming a soul by being her own woman. And yet, this is not how society judges her. Does she care a hoot? No, which is why she can afford to be who she is.

  I was reminded of her when a much younger friend phoned out of the blue and found me in a pensive mood. ‘Free yourself!’ he urged. Free myself from what? He laughed, ‘Your own hang-ups!’ But how? He wasn’t being helpful when he signed off with a jaunty, ‘Find a way—if you dare.’ I spoke about this conversation with one of my daughters. She agreed with my friend and added, ‘About time, Mom!’ Ten minutes later, I was on the phone trying to book myself a trip to Iceland to see the Northern Lights. This has been my dream since I was a little girl. If not now, then when?

  Women who feel the same way hesitate to take even baby steps to ‘free’
themselves. What are we afraid of? Our own potential and power? Freedom scares us. That is the worst kind of conditioning. The inbuilt censor is forever inhibiting our every secret dream and saying, ‘No, you can’t!’ What a waste that gigantic heap of ‘can’ts’ becomes over time. A futile and expensive waste of a woman’s best years—her best energies, talents, her most passionate feelings of love. If only women could discard all the ‘can’ts’ and embrace the ‘cans’.

  What a waste that gigantic heap of ‘can’ts’ becomes over time. A futile and expensive waste of a woman’s best years—her best energies, talents, her most passionate feelings of love. If only women could discard all the ‘can’ts’ and embrace the ‘cans’.

  I plan to do just that. And this time I am not looking for endorsements from the family. I am doing this for me. I am pretty confident I will find it within myself to give this ‘project’ a wholehearted go, if nothing else. I am a realist. I will start small. Travel continues to be my biggest passion. And I intend to make up for lost time by identifying destinations on my long-buried bucket list. Where should I start? How about Marrakesh?

  Remember what you want to, discard the rest!

  How we deal with painful memories is revelatory. No two people remember any incident in exactly the same way. The details vary. But, crucially, so does the meaning, even the context. I have unconsciously trained myself to leave the negatives of the past behind. I am genuinely not tormented by thoughts about what someone did to me or said to me years earlier. Under hypnosis, most of these suppressed memories will undoubtedly surface. They come up in dreams, of course . . . but I don’t allow them to blur my todays. What’s the point? Easier said, right? When I talk to my daughters about this aspect of life, I am not sure they are convinced. They tell me I am in denial and they aren’t. They may be right. But if denial helps me, why not? Suddenly, I become defensive and start wondering if they are trying to tell me something about my behaviour towards them.