Seventy . . . Read online

  My siblings remember everything in minute detail. Mandakini’s memory is spectacular. So was Ashok’s. Mandakini remains the proud custodian of family memories. She even remembers the colours, prices and textures of sarees purchased and worn forty-odd years ago! They think I am pretending when I can’t recall an incident. But I am really not! My mind is blank when references are made to family occasions where someone said or did something terrible. If they remember it so vividly, how come I don’t? I have asked myself the same question. Am I in denial? I don’t think so. Does my childhood bore me to that extent? Possibly. Or could it be that I vastly prefer to stay firmly anchored in the present? Even as I write these words, I am trying to recall last night’s lively dinner at home. I know the conversation had been particularly sparkling, and the company exceptional. But it’s already over! And the slate has been wiped clean. I expressed this anxiety to a friend—a much younger woman—who told me to relax and not feel bad about forgetting. ‘We are trying to process far too much information. Our brains are overloaded. We are doing too many things. Our bodies are exhausted. At some point, the system breaks down and everything blurs. It’s fine.’ I felt instantly better, and started making a conscious effort to let go. There was a time when reading five or six newspapers thoroughly was a big part of my daily regime. These days, I scan and pick up what I want to read. I have stopped watching television. My magazine-reading habits have changed. I no longer care if there are stories I have skipped. Books, too—terrible admission! But if the author fails to engage me in the first thirty pages, I discard the book instantly. No guilt. I feel lighter and more relaxed after getting rid of a few sticky habits. I used to go into withdrawal if I had bypassed a cover story or not reacted to breaking news. I no longer obsess over being on top of every major and minor news report. Since that liberation took place, I find I have more time to enjoy small treats—could be food or just playing with a grandchild. My children tell me they prefer this ‘softer’ person. And I laugh internally! What does that even mean? ‘Softer’ person? Ha! We are all composites of many persons. I like all my ‘persons’. I offer a generous à la carte emotional menu—family and friends are free to make their choices. And I am equally free to pick from their menus.

  Most times, people opt for straitjackets designed by society. I create my own jacket and change it frequently. That is the ultimate luxury—to be whatever and whoever you choose to be at that moment. I encourage my children to express themselves without fear and conditioning. The more you listen to that one compelling voice within, the easier you make things for yourself. Today, I choose to simplify. To uncomplicate. In so doing, I am being selfish. And being selfish has helped me to become far more accepting of other people’s selfishness. I have understood that selfishness can be constructive and life-affirming, so long as it doesn’t hurt the other. By placing myself first in a few situations, I am in fact being able to give of myself more intelligently, more efficiently. People talk endlessly about time management and meditation. Both are useful techniques if you know how to harness and employ them. My one short strategy when I meet people is to take a couple of minutes to read the dynamics of the shared space. It’s not difficult to pick up signals and figure out equations, provided you tune in! Tune in to others. We spend far too much time tuning into our own selves and in the bargain, we fail to identify the true nature of the situation. Decoding the unspoken . . . figuring out body language . . . these are tools we possess but don’t exploit. Close friends tell me I am exceptionally intuitive. That I have X-ray vision. That I can read people’s thoughts. That their lives are magically known to me. One thing I can definitely boast about is my almost uncanny instinct when it comes to romantic liaisons. I can tell if the suitor is suitable/unsuitable in a second! I have foolishly warned young women in love to stay away from their boyfriends and been told I was wrong. Years later, the same women have come back to mourn, ‘How I wish I had listened to you!’

  Most times, people opt for straitjackets designed by society. I create my own jacket and change it frequently. That is the ultimate luxury—to be whatever and whoever you choose to be at that moment.

  Am I intuitive? Or is it just practised awareness that helps me better understand emotional equations? We can achieve this level of awareness quite easily by being honest with ourselves. If I dislike a person (and I dislike many!), I ask myself why that is so. If I can sense hostility towards me (I get a lot of it), I ask the same question. There is no logic involved. Just gut feelings. Step out of the war zone sometimes. Then again, is peace all that attractive?

  Detachment is a desired state for most. But I also enjoy over-involvement! These are the contradictions that add zing to our lives. Uncertainty breeds tension. Tension triggers creativity. Tension is good! It’s a question of how much tension you can take. These are relative and personal matters that can seriously impact one’s mental and physical health. So what? So be it! I often joke with family that there is no such thing as ‘control’. We delude ourselves when we believe we are in control. The only control one needs is over one’s bladder and bowels. If age erodes that, I would rather not live. Definitely no adult diapers for this woman.

  We delude ourselves when we believe we are in control. The only control one needs is over one’s bladder and bowels. If age erodes that, I would rather not live. Definitely no adult diapers for this woman.

  Sigh. Where are the damned spectacles? Oops. There they are! On my nose where I’d left them.

  Double . . . and quadruple standards

  I don’t know of a family that does not live with double standards on some level or another. For all my professed liberalism, when it comes to my daughters—and now, granddaughters—all the stated positions on virtually every lifestyle issue get thrown out of the window, starting with ‘inappropriate clothes’. As I keep stressing, my concern revolves around their safety. It is not about ‘protecting a woman’s modesty’, but about avoiding trouble. They mock at my agitated ‘advice’ when they are all set to go out clad in trendy outfits that I find too short, too tight, too revealing. They ask me what happened to the views I frequently air on television channels, in which I emphatically endorse a woman’s right to dress as she pleases. Frankly, I have no convincing answer. I look sheepish and say a trifle lamely, ‘But you know what’s going on these days? You are looking fabulous—I don’t want you to attract the wrong kind of attention.’ They laugh some more, sling their evening bags over their shoulders, greet me jauntily and leave.

  This is but one small example of my personal double standards.

  I catch myself applying different yardsticks for the same problem pretty often. One thing in theory, another in practice. I argue this is done in a practical spirit, to avoid conflict. That is partially true. Not being a confrontational person, I do bend a few cherished rules in order to avoid an argument. Most times, it’s over pretty small stuff, but my own ‘weakness’ annoys me. Why can’t I be like so-and-so, I ask myself? Why should I accommodate someone else’s wishes and compromise on my own? Then I get philosophical and shrug, ‘Life is about those irritating compromises.’ Not everybody can be an Anna Hazare or a Mahatma Gandhi. I’m pretty sure even Mother Teresa had her tough tests (as she has admitted), when she made choices that were at a variance with what her heart was saying.

  The one thing I do keep underlining when we discuss the vexing issue of double standards at the dining table is the intention behind every such instance. If the decision taken is in the larger interests of the family/community/country . . . there is no harm in being a little flexible. The trouble starts when one is not sensitive to another’s point of view and those very double standards come back to bite. How flexible should one be in a crisis? Depends on the crisis! I would say, judge the situation quickly. If it’s potentially dangerous, forget your rigid standards and get out of the danger zone fast.

  How we react in an emergency is a great test of character. Here’s a simple example of making a hasty, if dodgy, call during a cris
is. Assume the train you are travelling in gets derailed and you are left stranded in an unknown town, unable to reach your family due to a lack of mobile signal. A stranger walks up and offers help—for a price, of course. A bribe is being demanded. You are vehemently opposed to the idea of giving bribes. But you desperately need to reach your family at any cost. The stranger knows how to get you to a spot from where you can call. What do you do? Stick to your guns or reach for your wallet? I’ll confess what I would do—reach for my wallet. At that crucial moment, my good sense would override my principles about bribe-giving. I would succumb emotionally and pay up. I would justify it to myself, arguing it’s better to grease a palm during an emergency than to drive loved ones crazy with anxiety wondering whether or not one is alive. Does that make me a dishonest person? I am not sure!

  Second chances: We all deserve a shot at something we have flunked—even an exam. But I have preferred to invest that same time and energy in new challenges, without revisiting old wounds. Scars and scabs are not for me. I am intensely sensitive to someone else’s gashes. But my own?

  Second chances: We all deserve a shot at something we have flunked—even an exam. But I have preferred to invest that same time and energy in new challenges, without revisiting old wounds.

  Jhoom barabar, jhoom sharabi

  My children never use the word ‘booze’—it’s always ‘beverages’ (‘bevy’ for short). Just as they say ‘tabac’ and not ciggies. Most families have secret codes and a special language that is understood only by members. In our hybrid family, we have countless abbreviations that no outsider can possibly figure out. When it comes to alcohol, let’s just say, we like our beverages. A lot. And we have our preferences. I don’t drink spirits at all. But I sure like my vino! White vino. If at all I have a drink in the evenings, it is a chilled glass of white wine. There was a time I could effortlessly put away a bottle of champagne over a long evening. These days, champagne gives me a really nasty hangover (Damn! Age!). I started enjoying wine pretty late in life. I grew up in a home where daaru was a terrible word and anybody who drank was promptly labelled a ‘drunkard’.

  The thought of women consuming alcohol was so preposterous, it was never raised. Since I had not seen my father indulge in even a glass of cold beer during Delhi summers, I remained unexposed to the delights of drinking anything more intoxicating than limbu paani! It was when I hit my late thirties that I had my initiation into what is called ‘social drinking’. For the past forty-odd years I have enjoyed innumerable glasses of wine and become pretty boisterous as a consequence. Boisterous. Not drunk. The only time I have had to be helped to walk straight was on the night of our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, which we celebrated with a lovely party at our Alibag farmhouse. My wicked children persuaded me to do shots—I swear I had no idea what those ‘shots’ were (tequila, I was later informed). Since the mood was already a bit nuts, I went along with it and knocked back three or four shots in under ten minutes. I was soon flying! I regressed, and became a naughty schoolgirl, pushing some of our fully dressed guests into the pool. They looked like they were having so much fun, despite drenching their fabulous clothes, I decided to join them myself.

  The music was fantastic and I felt invincible. I wanted to sing and dance and drink some more. Fortunately, my husband realized just in time that if he didn’t fish me out of the water and march me upstairs to our bedroom, I would end up a sorry mess. He got hold of our family friend and soul sister, Judith Bidapa, and the two of them firmly took me out of the pool and into dry clothes before tucking me into bed. But not before I walked out on to the balcony and lustily belted out, ‘Don’t cry for me, Argentina . . .’ My Evita moment remains precious and sweet. Absolutely no regrets, but a few valuable lessons quickly learnt.

  There are two more infamous incidents worth sharing. Both are great examples of my foolishness and ignorance. Many moons ago, when the children were really, really young (pre-teens and teens), I planned what I thought was an exciting holiday with our fun-loving family friends, the Bidapas, whose children are around the same ages as my two youngest and have grown up together, even though we live in different cities—the Bidapas in Bengaluru, and all of us in Mumbai. I had vaguely heard of a global music event called ‘Full Moon Rave’, off the Thai island of Koh Samui. I imagined it was a sort of Woodstock equivalent with a different kind of music. I eagerly booked a package deal for all of us, and off we went. I must have been really dumb that even after getting there in James Bond style in sexy speedboats, I didn’t get it. The music was thumping over the waves as we approached the island, and my heart was thumping too. The children were in a state of heightened excitement, squealing and giggling in anticipation. We were there! At this amazing venue! I found it all terribly heady. I carefully forked out very measly sums of money for all the bachchas to get snacks and cold drinks. Cold drinks! Not alcohol. I settled myself under gigantic speakers and told them I wouldn’t move from that spot till it was time to leave. Hours later, they found me fast asleep on the sand next to the ear-shattering noise emanating from the speakers. I had not touched alcohol, mainly because it was so bad. And I don’t drink lousy wine. Nor do I enjoy beer. But the kids had certainly consumed something much more potent than colas. We managed to get them on to the speedboats heading back to our island . . . and I was furious! ‘What on earth did you drink with the limited money you had?’ I thundered. One of them admitted sheepishly, ‘Breezers!’ Would you believe it—I didn’t know what Breezers were! For all my worldliness and outward sophistication, I had been exposed as a hick by a bunch of kids who had effortlessly outsmarted me.

  Then came my unfortunate experience with a cocktail the world loves—Long Island iced tea. I was with the family at a popular bar in a posh south Mumbai hotel. I forget what we were celebrating, but one of the kids teased me by saying, ‘Come on, Ma . . . try something new . . . you will love it. Forget boring white wine for once.’ Just to appear sporting and with it, I jauntily ordered the wretched Long Island iced tea—it was a hot, muggy night, and the tall drink looked most inviting. I took a few sips and loved it! Refreshing, chilled, yummy. I glugged it down thinking it was indeed just iced tea with perhaps some white rum poured into it. Twenty minutes later, I was ready to take charge of the dance floor and perform an impromptu cabaret. I was dizzyingly high! Surprised to see me this far gone on a single cocktail, it was decided we’d make a quick and discreet exit. Since those two occasions, I have made a couple of key resolutions—never to listen to my wicked children while ordering a drink. And to bloody well know what the hell I am drinking if I am in an experimental mood!

  One more confession: There was a wedding in the family. One of the daughters had cautioned me that her future in-laws were arch-conservatives. The family did not ‘take’ (Marathi slang for consuming alcohol—‘he “takes”, but she doesn’t’), and it was going to be a really long, formal evening. How would I survive it? On just Darjeeling tea? Limbu paani? I decided to ‘relax’ a little, after the proceedings got under way. I went into the kitchen and poured myself a generous amount of white wine into a patterned water glass. It was assumed my throat was parched and I was sipping thanda paani. Only my vigilant daughter was smart enough to catch on! She marched me into the bedroom and gave me such a scolding, I felt like a really naughty schoolgirl being ticked off by a prefect. I apologized profusely and threw away the wine (good bloody white at that!). But I did vow to myself I would never ever sneak a drink. If I wanted one, I would go ahead and have it boldly. But no hiding wine in a coffee cup or patterned water glass!

  Fortunately, I get extra talkative and garrulous when I am high, but never aggressive or nasty. I repeat myself in an annoying fashion (the kids tell me!), and yes, I do get pretty rowdy. I definitely feel like dancing—especially to Elvis Presley tracks. And I can spend hours listening to music that makes me go gooey—like Abida Parveen, Nusrat Fateh Ali, Andrea Bocelli . . . of so many others. Nothing beats bhangra remixes and Bollywood hits. One of my
most enjoyable public ‘performances’ was at the Wagah Border last year. I jumped from the stands and joined college girls dancing uninhibitedly at the venue. Or the time I danced at home in the presence of Arundhati’s friends during her pre-wedding chandan–haldi ceremony. The track? ‘Malhari’ from Bajirao Mastani. I became Bajirao, aka Ranveer Singh, in drag. I prefer dancing solo, with my eyes shut, lost in another world. Dancing is meditation at its most enjoyable. I do hope everybody will sing and dance at my funeral, after consuming lots of wonderful wine.

  There is something terribly sad about drunks. I know I am not being gender-neutral here, but there is something even sadder about female drunks. I have seen an astonishing number of female acquaintances throw it all away because they were unable to ‘manage’ their alcoholism. Loneliness is often cited as the biggest driver. So many of my much younger girlfriends, who work long hours, travel a lot and live on their own, tell me they can’t wait to get home and pour themselves a drink. I worry when I hear that. They laugh. ‘Imagine walking into an empty apartment and wondering what to do with your time. You are mentally and physically exhausted. You open the fridge—you find a chilled bottle of your favourite wine. You say, “What the hell,” and start sipping. Sometimes you don’t stop till the bottle is empty.’ Dangerous. So to all you lovely ladies out there, who mistakenly think woes will magically disappear in a large glass of vodka–tonic (‘I swear, what you see is loads of ice . . . swear!’), let me tell you that large glass becomes three large glasses . . . perhaps four. By the time you wake up and try getting out of your stupor, it’s way too late.