Seventy . . . Read online

  Follow some basic rules: Never sip a glass of wine on your own, saying, ‘Oh . . . I’ve had such a stressful day . . . I need to unwind . . . I have earned my wine.’ Utter rubbish. Reach for the phone, not the bottle. Step out and go watch a movie—any movie. Go to the gym. Go for a walk. Distract yourself. Review the clothes in your wardrobe. Order the latest season of your favourite TV series.

  Rule number one: Do not drink solo.

  Rule number two: While at a boring party, avoid the temptation to perk up your spirits. If the crowd doesn’t interest you—leave. An extra drink or two won’t make those folks instantly interesting.

  Rule number three: Enjoy that last drink only with people you know well and feel comfortable with. It’s okay to talk stupid, be stupid, act stupid sometimes. But when it becomes a regular feature—stop!

  Rule number four: Drink water between wines and snack before you start.

  Rule number five: Don’t mix drinks. If you are enjoying a heady cocktail, stick to it for the rest of the evening.

  Rule number six: Make sure you head home with a trusted person. Do not be reckless and drive yourself.

  Rule number seven: Remember the context. If you are dressed for a beach party and are tippling away merrily on the beach, do not wade into the sea ‘because the waves look so inviting’. That could be the last swim of your life.

  Rule number eight: Light-hearted flirting with strangers is a subtle art, best practised sober! There’s nothing more pathetic than the sight of a tipsy lady coming on to random guys.

  Rule number nine: Stop when your head starts swimming. It means you have reached the danger mark.

  Rule number ten: This is the worst—don’t pick up other people’s discarded drinks and guzzle those thirstily. If that has happened to you on a regular basis, check into rehab. And yes, drinking yourself silly with total strangers is a huge no-no. That sweet person offering to hold your handbag while you pee could be a common thief at best, or a slasher at worst. Did you just say you vomited at your own farewell/birthday party? It’s okay to pass out elegantly on a stuffed sofa. But vomit or pee in your pants? God forbid. To use Arundhati’s favourite expression, ‘I’d rather kill myself—slash my wrists!’

  Parents who have to deal with serious drinking/drug issues, either their own or their children’s, have the single biggest challenge to confront. These troublesome issues didn’t exist on such a rampant basis earlier. But today, I see so many wrecked families around me, I wonder what compulsions have led to this tragedy. Too much money? Lack of a real education? Exposure to all the garbage the Internet throws up? Peer pressure? I watched a strong film titled Udta Punjab, and realized just how far the ‘other’ India has gone. It was a terrifying revelation and my thoughts went instantly to the many ‘druggies’ I have known . . . and the helplessness I felt watching them waste away. Parenting today requires nerves of steel—you never know what that late-night phone call from a stranger is all about. I see schoolkids who steal from their homes to pay for their ‘fix’. I meet parents who have lived entirely different lives from those of their children—they tell me they don’t know what signs to look for—‘Can you tell from your child’s eyes whether or not there is an addiction issue?’ What does one say? Parents don’t want to be snoops and spies, but they don’t want to see their kids die either! I have no real answers. I can only keep repeating (because I do believe it) that there is no substitute for love. A parent simply cannot—and must not—give up on a difficult child. It is hard. In the process, parents often suffer total meltdowns—I have witnessed a few. At such times, I have wanted to smack those irresponsible kids for piling on such pain . . . but stopped myself just in time. In that state they would probably have cracked a beer bottle on my head.

  Parents need not torment themselves needlessly. If they find they are unable to cope or help the child, it’s best to seek professional help. There is really no shame in this. You may actually save your child’s life, along with your own. And remember—not everything is your fault. But at all times stick to a golden rule, hard as it is sometimes: Don’t abandon your child emotionally and withdraw love. It’s the worst abandonment on earth. Be there. Let the kid know you won’t walk away from even the worst crisis faced by him/her. Sometimes, just that silent or stated assurance is enough. I have one simple method: During a tough situation, keep the angry questions for later. First things first: HELP!

  Common sense: My magic mantra

  I can sum up my magic mantra in two words: common sense! When in doubt, get real and consult your common sense—just that. Even in the most trying situation, it’s best not to look for esoteric solutions, based on personal hare-brained theories or other people’s experiences. Tap into your own life—remind yourself quickly how you did something, or avoided someone. Crisis management is nothing but common sense. Most of us lose touch with that basic something that saves our butts—it’s called instinct. Often, we argue with ourselves—but how can it be this easy, this simple? There has to be a different route to solve this issue. Perhaps there is. There are always multiple routes to solve problems big and small. But which is the quickest and easiest? Sometimes, I feel I have taken unintelligent shortcuts in the name of practicality, when what was required at the time was a long-term strategy.

  My attention span wavers dangerously, and if I am bored, I am prepared to do ridiculous things to escape boredom. Things that come at a steep price sometimes. This involves financial decisions too. I am a total dud when it comes to understanding money matters. I don’t even try. To begin with, mercifully, I don’t have too much of the stuff—just enough to cover my small indulgences. When I look back at a lifetime of writing (fifty years, for Chrissake!) and I ask my accountant how much I have in my bank account, it is he who laughs! But that’s okay. What do I crave for which I can’t buy for myself? Actually, nothing! My children tell me my tastes are very ‘pedestrian’ and modest. Modest, I agree. But pedestrian? I used to feel hurt in the old days. Today, I feel vindicated and smug, when I see my daughters raiding my closet and picking up those very same ‘pedestrian’ trinkets they once dismissed. I like it when they ‘borrow’ my clothes, with a grudging comment, ‘So retro, Mom!’ These are the sweet moments worth cherishing. As for the rest of the volumes of words we have exchanged over decades, well, hang on to the precious, positive ones and discard the rest.

  I remember startling my husband with the loaded comment, ‘Every single action in life is political, whether or not you are aware of its political subtext.’ He didn’t quite understand and I was sure it would lead to an argument. I hastily backed off, but I like to think I left him with something to chew on. These days whenever he makes a reference to that comment, I try to distract him. But I do spend a great deal of time thinking about the choices one makes. Every choice is a political act. But we don’t always know it as that. Something pretty simple like eating this and not eating that also implies a political decision (being in a situation to reject or accept a particular food). Similarly, to make friends, marry, break up, sleep with, fight over . . . so many big and small decisions come with a political agenda that we don’t instantly recognize. There is no such thing as an ‘apolitical’ person. Politics affects family dynamics the most. Social structures are created around political equations. Belief in God, or a rejection of belief, has its roots in a person’s politics. We interpret that word—politics—in a very limited sense, which does not go beyond an organized political structure. But I guess it is hard for a wife to bluntly inform her loving husband, ‘My decision to marry you was strictly political.’ Sensing a negative response, I wisely keep my mouth shut!

  Talking to a bunch of eager young women in a tier-two city, I once again cited common sense as being my guiding force. This time I illustrated my address with real-life situations they could identify with. When I mentioned mother-in-law issues, all the young wives perked up. They had murder in their eyes! I advised them to deal with those she-devils in a way that disarms them. ‘Confuse the
enemy’, as Confucius said, I joked. And then they asked me innocently, ‘Can you introduce us to Mr Confu . . . Mr Confi . . . whoever . . .’ That was when a lot of things struck me all at once . . . these women were younger than my daughters. Their reference points were entirely different from mine. I was talking to India’s millennials! And they occupied an entirely different headspace. Why was I assuming they would immediately decipher the subtext of what I was saying? Why would they even want to know anything about the past that didn’t directly concern them? I instantly changed my tone and content. They didn’t need me—I needed them! To stay tuned in, to remain relevant, one has to listen to the voices of the young. They are the future—accept that. The agenda is set by them—not you. For this generation, the only thing that matters is success—as defined by them. People like me are nobodies. We are puffs of smoke—here for the moment. Vapour the next. So what? Make the most of your time spent with the young. Learn from them. They have a lot to share, if you care to listen. Never talk down to them because they haven’t experienced what you may have. Their experiences may be far richer! Treat them like equals. Show respect. The choices they make may shock you—but they are their choices! Driving to the airport in a luxury car belonging to one of the elegant ladies, I was filled with admiration. Their bright eyes and happy laughter stayed with me. Sure, they hadn’t heard of Confucius. But was I familiar with Justin Bieber? Their ‘ignorance’ was as out there as my own. Despite that, so many of them remain in touch with me. We have a chat group, the name of which is ‘Common Sense’.

  Little things may not be as ‘little’ as you think . . .

  Sorry, but there is no Big Picture. Life is merely a series of tiny frames played at a ridiculously rapid speed.

  Sorry, but there is no Big Picture. Life is merely a series of tiny frames played at a ridiculously rapid speed.

  I used to read cheesy articles in weekend supplements and scoff at the treacly advice, dished out by God knows who, could be a computer, a robot, a bored person. There were times when I would resent the tone of the advice giver. Many years ago, I used to be an agony aunt myself. I know how tedious it is to churn out column after column filled with sanctimonious junk. I can recall my own words from way back when I ran a ghost ‘advice column’ for a famous star. I would tell some agonized soul to focus on the little things and the bigger ones would take care of themselves! Bullshit! Facetious and facile, fake and transparently phoney. I hated myself for doling out utterly meaningless, feel-good nuggets when my own sensibilities were so very different. That such columns find countless takers is no surprise. As a society, we remain pretty closeted and secretive. There really is no one around to talk freely to . . . or at all. Children feel pretty lost as they turn to peers for solutions, since they cannot approach their parents and they certainly don’t want to approach their teachers.

  Today, so many summers later, I am once again thinking of the importance of those little things I used to airily dismiss as sentimentality in the past. Now, I value them. And try hard not to ignore a person who is sharing ‘little things’ without self-consciousness. I meet with a small set of girlfriends pretty regularly. I am proud to admit we listen keenly to one another’s little things. And learn from them. These ladies are of a certain vintage, and we share many interests. But when we meet over wine and snacks there is an unspoken understanding between us. We don’t talk shop. Well . . . we do! But that isn’t all we discuss over three or four hours. Thank God!

  The last time we met, we spent considerable time dissecting the many merits of cold cream. I am an addict. It’s the only cream I trust. It’s the only cream I use—regardless of the weather. If I grew up watching my mother carefully applying Hazeline Snow on her face after her bath, my children and grandchildren have observed my special relationship with cold cream with enormous amusement. ‘Mother . . . you are acting mental . . . what do you do with so much cold cream?’ they ask. I snap, ‘Eat it!’ Come on! They know what I do with the damn thing—why ask?

  So it came to pass that a couple of years ago, I ran out of cold cream. Ran out! It was a major crisis in my head. No store seemed to stock it during summer, as research had established low sales during those four or five months. I sent out an SOS to friends in north India, south India, east India. One jar was found and couriered by someone who understood my condition. But what touched me the most was when my husband decided to make it his mission to track down as many jars of cold cream as he could physically locate and stockpile them for my future use. This exercise was undertaken on a war footing. An all-India hunt for cold cream followed. Today, I have backups for my backups! I see cold cream wherever my eyes travel in the bedroom. I have cold cream in all my kits and handbags. In the car too. Just in case! But my husband’s involvement in this crazy enterprise was what touched me deeply. He had fully understood my ‘little thing’, not mocked me, and actually taken a great deal of trouble to make sure I had sufficient stock of gooey cream to keep this particular anxiety at bay. Kaho na, pyaar hai!

  The other F-word

  I don’t like to be categorized as any kind of ‘ist’. It’s okay to be ambivalent about grand issues and movements. I strongly believe in myself. That is it. I was born female. I will die female. To be born female makes you a natural-born feminist. You know your destiny is female. And you live your life with that knowledge. You cope. You deal. You survive. You recognize your female identity as being the truest one—no politics. You accept it and yourself. Why give it another label? Your life becomes your own the minute you decide you want it that way. It can be painful. It can be beautiful. It can be both. But it is yours to claim, to own and be proud of, no matter what. I believe in absolute freedoms and absolute equality. That belief is enough for me. I will unhesitatingly stand up for the underdog first and only later identify the gender.

  A person who is being oppressed is a person—not a man, not a woman, but an oppressed person who may need urgent help and intervention to survive. Don’t think! Help! It’s a reflex action we often forget, so busy are we in getting the context right. There are far too many ‘isms’ for me to deal with. So I just don’t bother with any of them. The question I am frequently and annoyingly asked is: ‘Are you a feminist?’ And it bothers me. Aren’t we all? Or rather, shouldn’t we all be thinking equality? I don’t know how to respond truthfully, for the young, eager, earnest women looking at me to provide a road map for their own lives don’t really want to hear what I feel. They want an easy-to-digest capsule with the standard clichés thrown in. The word ‘empowerment’ also annoys me when it is thrown around during conferences. What does it even mean? Who is an ‘empowered’ woman? The one armed with an education? The one with enough money in the bank? The one who is single by choice and says she doesn’t need a man to validate her existence? The one who is at the barricades fighting for her sisters? The one who is pushing for legislative reform? I don’t know. I really don’t.

  We are all strugglers. Each one of us—men and women. We all deal with the same anxieties and cope with the same phobias. Basic fears are gender-neutral. Fear of death, pain, loss. All we want is to stay healthy and happy. That’s it. Achieving that goal takes a lifetime of doubt and uncertainty. Even then the goal remains elusive. We talk about Wonder Women and Superwomen, and constantly repeat mantras about how transformative this era has been for women across the world. Every era feels that way. But every era didn’t wear message tees or celebrate International Women’s Day. I see young girls declaring their independence and defying social norms. They are sure they have changed the world. Back home, when they peel off those tee shirts with teasing, brave slogans saluting girl power, they become the same person—a little scared, a little unsure. And I want to hug these girls and say, ‘It’s okay. You are gorgeous. You will win.’

  Sometimes, I find myself featured on lists of feminist writers, and I feel like an impostor. I am whosoever I am. With failings and doubts and troubling thoughts. I have compromised thousands of times when, as a w
oman, I have taken practical decisions in the overall interests of my family. I have played myself down, acted and pretended, hidden my true feelings, kept mum . . . yes, all of that. Real life does not support Wonder Women, unfortunately. We all find ways to hang on to our principles and survive the best we can. Yes, my fiction has focused on the lives of women. Yes, I choose to write about women. Yes, most of my friends are women. Yes, I vastly prefer to invest my energy trying to fathom what it means to be a woman. I find women far more complex, far more interesting than most men. I like working with women. In fact, there’s hardly any area of a woman’s life that does not engage me. None of this makes me a feminist. All it means is that my emotional investments are not equally distributed. I favour my own gender. I generously give a woman the benefit of the doubt . . . something I don’t do with men. In fact, I wish men would leave me alone. Not that they are queuing up to grab my attention! Which suits me just fine. I find it a strain to communicate with men. The effort to break the ice with a male stranger doesn’t seem worth it at all. With a strange woman, making eye contact and even starting a conversation seems like the most natural thing to do. People say I intimidate men. I really don’t! Even intimidation requires effort—why bother? I deliberately chose to stay out of the #MeToo movement. It is important to stand together in solidarity. It is equally important to help other women in real terms that go beyond trending hashtags. I have never encountered gender discrimination. No groping, no inappropriate touching. I escaped! But I am solidly behind any woman who has been victimized. Her pain is my pain.