Seventy . . . Read online

  I grew up with kids who came from far wealthier backgrounds, whether in school or in the building my family lived in. As a government officer’s daughter, there was a tacit acceptance about what we could and couldn’t afford. Of course, I did feel frustrated at times, but I also understood in practical terms the extent to which my father could stretch the budget to accommodate my needs. As a competitive athlete, I needed spiked running shoes, for instance. These were expensive. I ran barefoot or wearing regular ‘tennis shoes’ (not today’s exorbitantly priced branded sneakers) till my wonderful coach (who didn’t charge fees), the late Ullal Rao, managed to get a pair for me. It was a huge, unforgettable moment. I actually kissed the new shoes! And slept with them under my bed, waiting for dawn, when I’d make my way to Azad Maidan for my daily training with ‘Sir’. I am not sure I ran any faster with the spikes, but they remained my most prized possession for years. I guess I felt I had earned them . . . and that ‘Sir’ saw enough potential in me to gift a pair. I was being taken seriously as an athlete—and I didn’t want to let ‘Sir’ down.

  Today, when I read inspiring stories about a ten-year-old milkman’s son (Shubham Jaglan) winning junior golf trophies in distant Las Vegas, my mind goes back to my own childhood. Shubham’s story is unique and extraordinary when compared to mine. But I like narrating it to my children—how privileged their lives are! What do they not have? They could achieve any target if they set to work with that incredible level of dedication. They have access to the best clubs, the best facilities, the best trainers. And then I check myself. Their dreams and hungers are different. They have skills I don’t possess and I am always marvelling at the ‘smartness’ of their generation. They appear so confident as they travel the world on their own, meeting friends across the globe—for wedding celebrations, significant birthdays, anniversaries, bachelorette parties. It still appears terribly posh and exotic to me, as I shamelessly eavesdrop on conversations laced with amazing details about magical soirées on the edge of the Asian side of Istanbul (only wannabes stick to the more touristy European shore, they sneer). Is it just the new wealth pouring into India that is responsible for this directionless generation aimlessly chasing hedonistic goals? That may be part of the explanation. But beyond the urban, super-rich party scene lies the other Indian reality of educated professionals seeking the good times in cities like Bengaluru, moving at a very young age to an alien environment from the one they have grown up in, discovering an alternative lifestyle of sprawling malls, coffee shops (remember the tag line—‘A lot can happen over coffee’?), pubs, nightclubs, gated communities, romance, break-ups, drugs, booze . . . sometimes murder and suicide too. Never before have I read as many accounts of young people either taking their own lives or killing someone else. There is so much subliminal violence in daily interactions with family, friends and colleagues. There is also no great fear of the law . . . no shame, if caught. When I ask them the reason for this apparent lack of any contrite feeling, they say they take their cues from the older generation! ‘Look at our politicians . . . look at some of our industrialists . . . or even sportsmen. They get away with cheating, bribing, killing . . .’ Without a moral compass, either in the public space or within their own homes, there is a gigantic chasm which is growing at an alarming pace. Too many young lives are being thrown away . . . destroyed. I fear we have let them down.

  Let’s play role reversal

  Most times, I am the person who likes to take charge in family situations. My family indulges me. They let me believe I am indeed in charge, even when I am not. That’s pretty sweet of them. It has become such an old habit that they allow me to set the pace during family gatherings or when we travel. These days, I notice a subtle and touching shift. The children have taken over. And I like it, especially when we go out together and there is a huge crowd. In the past, I would be holding their hands and leading the way. It’s the other way round now. Packages are gently taken from my hands, car doors held open, the roomier seat vacated for me. The children are not submerged in themselves and their priorities, as they once used to be.

  My youngest told me bluntly, ‘Of course, I think of myself first, but these days, I also look out for you. Haven’t you noticed?’ I had noticed and wondered about the newly minted concern. Was she working on me because she wanted something? My cynicism had resurfaced. I asked equally bluntly, ‘So what do you want this time?’ She looked stricken! And I felt instantly guilty. She had actually waited for me, helped with the luggage, shared her snacks, looked for chairs and toned down the music blaring on the car stereo. It was a big change. Did she recall the times I used to carry her across busy roads as a child, afraid her tiny hand would slip out of mine if I merely held on? Do the other children also remember small but intensely loving gestures from their past? Are they ‘paying back’? Is it duty? Or, dare I even say it, love?

  I miss being the ‘totally in charge’ person sometimes. It’s nice to be ‘looked after’ by one’s children. It’s even better to do the looking after. ‘I feel so useless these days,’ an older girlfriend cribbed, adding, ‘nobody needs me any more!’ I consoled her—or tried to—by saying needs change constantly. True, she doesn’t have to slave for her family now that the children have their own lives and homes, but what about emotional needs? Why not focus on sharing experience and wisdom? ‘I don’t think they have the time to pay attention to what I am saying . . .’ she responded softly. Our generation behaved as insensitively with parents and family elders. Have we forgotten and forgiven ourselves? Who had the time to listen to aunts and grand-aunts talking about the Mahabharata or even a juicy family feud? I can recall my eyes glazing over as I’d stare stonily and rudely at an imaginary spot on the wall and escape at the first opportunity.

  Rule number one these days: Stop being petulant. Rule number two: Don’t demand attention. Rule number three: Forget self-indulgence. These are luxuries one gives up at fifty. Self-sufficiency is the only survival tool available now. Self-sufficiency can be fun. I find it freeing not to wait for someone to accompany me if I feel like going to the movies or even to a new bar in town. I pick up my bag and go. Travel remains my biggest turn-on. Why wait for a friend or family member to fit into your plans? Go ahead and book. Let the others know. If they are interested, they can book too. If not, you don’t miss out.

  Feeling unwanted can be such a depression-inducing feeling, especially for people who have felt wanted most of their lives. I watch retired men and women closely these days. And tell myself fiercely, ‘Never retire! You don’t have to, you don’t need to.’ I have observed the sudden and visible deterioration in the personalities of people who have held positions of power for decades—chairs of large corporates, for example, or politicians, even movie stars and sportsmen. Once their position is gone, their charisma fades overnight. The body language changes, so does the voice. Some start stooping. Others begin to droop. Those who pretend to be ‘relieved’ not to have to deal with responsibility are the worst hit. They are forcing themselves to act tough when they are crumbling within. This little pantomime is kept up for a year or two after retirement. Then, one fine day, realization seems to dawn that nobody gives a damn. That’s the day they straighten their shoulders, stick their chin out and carry on.

  ‘It’s all about the position, occupying that damn kursi, isn’t it?’ a friend asked despairingly. She had just lost her job in a media empire and was smarting from the ‘nasty sacking’. Well, all firings are essentially nasty. She’d enjoyed a great run for thirty years, heading features and bringing out a weekly supplement for the publishing group. Staleness had set in years ago. But then, the management didn’t want to upset this particular apple cart. She knew too many people—advertisers at that. Too many people knew her. The brand was associated with her a bit too closely. That was also the main problem. Only, she didn’t know it. Feted and toasted, she loved playing the opinionated diva, sweeping late into events, followed by cowering minions. Her travels took her from one glamorous global
destination to the other. Luxury brands wooed her with fancy gifts. She herself kept repeating the old cliché, ‘Who needs marriage? My job is my lover.’

  When the marching orders came, she was instantly felled. Loyal staffers recalled how she froze for a couple of minutes, and then collapsed, crying, howling like a child. ‘We had never seen her vulnerable. It was too much! We didn’t know how to handle her tears. We only knew how to handle her tantrums.’ Like several before her—and there will be several after—she foolishly believed her faithful flock would stand by her and quit en masse. Nobody did. She thought her influential ‘contacts’ would display loyalty and pull out of the media group. How wrong and delusional she was!

  In less than a week after news of her exit became public, all the invitations dried up. A much younger editor replaced her. The old staffers stayed put and quickly shifted allegiance to the new boss. She was left gnashing her teeth in utter frustration. Her calls were rarely returned. All those glamorous junkets to the world’s top fashion/lifestyle destinations dried up overnight. Nobody courted her to attend and cover the weddings of billionaire brats. And worst of all, the lady who would airily state, ‘If it’s champagne, it had better be Dom,’ to quaking hosts, discovered that she could barely pay for her beers.

  The story doesn’t end well. She tried to launch several independent ventures. She relied on old associations. She should have worked on her goodwill instead—the goodwill she ought to have accumulated over thirty years but clearly hadn’t. This is how the cookie crumbles. It is always about the position, rarely about the person. Younger is better. Younger is smarter. Younger is hungrier. Accept it.

  The media world is full of similar stories. There are television anchors who assumed networks would collapse with their exits. But even high-wattage star power is as good as the vehicle that allows it to shine on the right platform. Take away that platform, and what you are left with is a vague memory of a person who did a decent job of yelling at everybody, night after night.

  Ditto for corporate fat cats who delude themselves into believing the company runs solely because they run it. Not so. Ask the shareholders. Even the most successful top dog comes with a sell-by date. Nobody remembers, nobody cares. While attending the prayer meeting of a legendary (and genuinely loved) head honcho of one of India’s pioneering engineering giants, I looked around at the motley crowd with some amount of distress. Where were the fawning executives who used to trail this man, hanging on to his every word, treating him like a demigod? Most of them expressed surprise that he’d been alive all these years. Once he retired, he was metaphorically dead. They were unaware of his many years confined to a wheelchair after suffering a massive stroke. I have seen this indifference over and over again. Power comes with the designation, not the individual. Is that so hard to fathom? Look at what happened to some of our most-watched television anchors once they left the mother ship and floated their own. Where are those amazing men and women today? Where is Oprah Winfrey, for that matter?

  Spending a few days in Kolkata, I was enjoying a cuppa on the lawns of a popular club, when a familiar figure shuffled past me. His head was bowed, and he had aged dramatically in less than a year. Was he suffering from some ailment? I asked a common friend anxiously. She laughed and said, ‘Yes. The ailment has a name—joblessness.’ He had once been the burra saab of all burra saabs, the head of a tea company, occupying a sprawling bungalow and not deigning to talk to the ‘natives’. He would state loftily, ‘I only talk to God.’ Here was the same man, shabbily dressed and completely withdrawn. ‘He took his retirement very badly,’ my friend explained. And I wondered, ‘How does one take retirement well?’ People will lie and say, ‘Oh! It is such a boon! The best period of my life has just begun. I have the money to do what I want with my time. I can do nothing if I so choose. These days I spend time with my grandkids, play golf, meet friends for an early drink at the club, read books I have been collecting over years, travel to places like Peru. Never felt better! Don’t I look it?’ You smile and lie glibly, ‘Retirement suits you, you’re looking great!’

  No, darlings, nobody wants to retire. Not at sixty. Not at eighty. There is something inexorably tragic about that word. It’s the closest sentiment to death and perhaps prepares you for it. Retirement demoralizes most people, which is why I get bugged when smug, fit, clever and hugely successful youngsters claim nonchalantly at parties that they plan to retire at forty. These are the very people who remain players till they drop dead. By saying they’ll retire at forty, what they actually want to convey is how affluent and chilled out they are. They want you to know they can afford to retire and still maintain the same lavish lifestyle. A tall claim, but also one that could be true, depending on how much they have stashed away. When asked their post-retirement plans, they trot out well-rehearsed lines about working for the ‘less fortunate’, ‘giving back to society’, starting an NGO, mentoring younger colleagues, taking up a teaching assignment in Brazil, lazing around in a Phuket villa they’ve invested in, and other such meticulously constructed fantasies.

  No, darlings, nobody wants to retire. Not at sixty. Not at eighty. There is something inexorably tragic about that word. It’s the closest sentiment to death and perhaps prepares you for it.

  Then why the stoop and shuffling gait when they actually do retire? Why the hollow eyes and strained smile? What poor actors we all are. Most of us run away from acknowledging that when it’s over, it’s over. Everybody of a certain vintage has a replacement. And the replacement is younger than your own children. Hard to digest? Sure. Does that stop the ageing egoists from clinging on, chewing on memories and talking about the glory days even when nobody is listening?

  What poor actors we all are. Most of us run away from acknowledging that when it’s over, it’s over. Everybody of a certain vintage has a replacement. And the replacement is younger than your own children.

  FOMO

  The first time I came across the term ‘FOMO’ was on a family chat. Arundhati was pregnant at the time and unable to travel with us or attend the many fun events, weddings, birthday parties. I saw a ‘sad face’ emoji with the word FOMO, and asked what it stood for. Fear of missing out, she explained. I had learnt a new young expression! Speaking the language of today and tomorrow is key. If you want to keep up with the times, and not feel left out in conversations, make sure you listen keenly and pick up new phrases.

  I remember liking the sound of ‘ewwwww’ when it was introduced. I liked ‘yuckkk!’ But I never liked ‘whatever’. ‘It’s a bummer’ is great and covers a lot of ground. ‘Let’s bounce . . . !’ is jaunty and I do use it, much to the embarrassment of my kids. I haven’t taken to ‘yaaaasss!’ so far. And even less to ‘daayyuum’. That’s the thing about slang and new idioms. Every generation has its own lingo. And every generation is possessive about its usage. If parents try to appropriate ‘their’ words, they often resent the intrusion. But I can’t help myself. My love for language and new words supersedes sensitivity in this regard. I happily speak to them in their idiom, and recall the same thing happening with my own mother—but for entirely different reasons. My mother taught herself conversational English by speaking to us. That’s how she learnt Hindi as well—by listening and not feeling shy to boldly go ahead and chat with anyone, throwing in Marathi words when stuck. She sounded charming and naive. Perhaps I merely sound like a wannabe. Like a mom trying hard to sound cool, hip, with it. But that isn’t so. I just adore the way languages shift, get twisted, and become richer into the bargain. As the anointed godmother of ‘Hinglish’, I can’t get enough of the new additions to this unbeatable form of easy communication. Jhakaas does not translate to ‘awesome’. Jhakaas is jhakaas.

  As far as FOMO goes, yes, it’s true parents feel left out when they watch their children having a grand time. Oldies start lamenting, moaning and groaning, talking irritatingly about their own rollicking years that nobody wants to know about. Does there come a tipping point when parents turn into insuff
erable bores? I am terrified of reaching that point. When I repeat myself, my stories, I can see my children exchanging looks (‘There she goes again . . .’). And I am baffled. Whatever happened to the old scintillating conversationalist? She grew old! That moment comes for all of us. Subjects we find fascinating are old hat, irrelevant to the young. We assume they will benefit from our wisdom. We fool ourselves that they want to learn life’s lessons from us. They want to learn from their own life or their peers’ lives.

  I think of my father, desperately trying to take control of family conversations and contribute to the overall noise. His voice was loud and his personality commanding. His life had been pretty eventful and inspiring. Yet. It’s the ‘yet’ that separates generations. Nobody wanted his views on Pandit Nehru or pre-Independence India. If he quoted Keats or Kalidasa, there were blank looks from clueless grandchildren more interested in Beyoncé and Brad Pitt. ‘Zamana badal gaya hai,’ I would remind him. Now, I have to remind myself!

  This awful truth was driven home at a destination wedding when I joined my children and their friends, as they sat at a poolside bar, chatting and gossiping about those not present. Initially, they welcomed me with whoops of joy (‘Shobes is here . . . yay!’). Soon, they wanted to light up. In our family, we all pretend the children don’t smoke. They use a so-called code word (tabac) when they feel like smoking a ciggy. I go instantly deaf and pretend I haven’t noticed the swift movement to an open space. Well, in this case, we were in an open space. And I was in the way, an inhibitor. Plus, I was narrating what I thought was an amusing titbit that they were clearly not interested in. After two minutes of fake politeness, one of them pleaded, ‘Mama, now enough! Just go!’ So I went. Did I feel hurt? Initially, yes. But I immediately reminded myself of my own reaction to my father’s presence when I wanted to enjoy my after-dinner smoke (for years I smoked precisely one cigarette a day and thoroughly enjoyed it, before giving it up totally).