Seventy . . . Read online

  A relatively new woman friend told me disingenuously, ‘We were discussing you the other day, and one woman said she found you very domineering and aggressive, which is why she hesitates to talk to you. And I told her you were anything but. In my eyes you are a soft and caring person. I also told her you are very simple.’ Maybe, I said to her, I am both. In my heart of hearts, I was so relieved! What if this other woman, who had decided I was domineering without having met me, had actually liked me? I am sure most of us go through life battling stereotypes. There was a time I would feel the need to explain myself. I no longer bother. Call me feminist. Call me anti-feminist. Call me elitist. Call me stupid. Call me a cow. Call me whatever. Age has its advantages! At the age of seventy, people have already made up their minds about you. Those who know you and accept you the way you are stay in your life. The others? Do I care? There is only so much time left. I prefer to invest it in people I respect and love. Or people I have fun with. People I can talk to freely. Egotistical? Nope. Emotionally self-sufficient. Finally.

  People you instinctively take to generally reciprocate your feelings. These are the people who grow into lifelong friends. You don’t have to meet them frequently or have daily conversations. But when you do spend time together, that time has to be valued . . . for it is precious. Oh, and remember—if they need you during any sort of an emergency, and you let them down, you don’t know the real definition of friendship. Once, a group of students in Manipal dedicated a song I love: ‘Stand by me.’ It was a girl band, and they invited me to join them on stage. I did. It was a unique occasion at which for those brief moments, five strangers found themselves perfectly in sync. I never saw those girls again. But I never forgot them either. And the song still brings tears to my eyes. If we don’t stand by one another—what are we? I dare not provide an answer.

  I used to wonder about the exact meaning of the word ‘epiphany’. Not sure I know the dictionary version. But I experience it over and over again. It is a tingling feeling of recognition. All of a sudden, a person in front of you—a person you think you have decoded years ago and know so well—says or does something that opens your third eye, and right there in front of you is a stranger you don’t recognize. This used to scare me in the past. It demonstrated my lack of judgement. Yes, mine! And I have always been told how shrewd and insightful I am. How accurately I read people and situations. Was I ever that smart? Hardly! I faked it pretty well, I must admit!

  Time is the most expensive commodity. We don’t put enough value on it. I used to fritter the hours away earlier, only because of my inability to articulate that simple two-letter word, ‘no’. Resentfully, and fuming from within, I would attend functions I didn’t want to, and meet people who meant nothing to me. Once I started using the word ‘no’, I also realized it comes at a big, fat price! People get accustomed to your saying ‘yes’. ‘Yes’ is easier to take for granted. In relationships of the intimate kind, ‘yes’ becomes a habit. When that ‘yes’ becomes a ‘no’, problems start. Partners get bewildered. Children feel disoriented. Friends start suspecting your loyalty. ‘But you always said yes to this . . .’ they accuse. And you feel like screaming, ‘I did! I was an idiot to do so. But from now on, I will be saying “no”. Yup. To the very same things I mutely but often angrily went along with—okay? And even if it isn’t okay, I don’t care. And yes . . . I will not pick up your calls when I am writing. I may never pick up you calls. Okay?’ Believe me, after the first few times, everybody falls into line. Because they know you mean it. Because they have no choice but to accept your stand. And if not, they can tell you to take a walk, and you can do the same. Try! It’s worth it. You may find this very hard to believe, but I have been bullied and bulldozed for years and by the unlikeliest of people. When I say that, friends scoff, ‘Rubbish! You? And bullied? Come on . . .’ Sorry. What I am saying is 100 per cent true—and those bullies out there, who unfairly pressured me to go along and who may be reading this, know that.

  Put a value on your time more than on anything else. Once gone, it can’t be replaced, unlike other precious commodities. Your time is your time. Become possessive about it. Guard it. Share it only if you think it’s worth sharing. I have always liked time with myself and I can honestly say I never ever feel bored when I am alone—whether it’s at home, at work or in a foreign land. I don’t understand boredom. What’s that? How can life be boring? Is that even possible? Kabhi nahin!

  These days I find myself saying ‘no’ a lot. I wish I had done that earlier. I wasted far too many valuable hours in situations and with people I loathed only because I was too polite to say, ‘Sorry! You are not my type. I have absolutely nothing to say to you. We are losing precious time even at this very second as we try to engage. Goodbye!’ Worse, I didn’t permit myself to think, ‘No!’ My first reaction was to say yes to plans. And then fret. ‘Why the hell did I put my foot into this?’ I would ask myself. Sometimes, it was easy to make an excuse and get out. Sometimes, I was stuck. Today, I first say, ‘No,’ and then weigh the options. And I never pick up calls from unknown numbers. If they need to reach me, they can always text. Or send an email. Earlier, I felt people would judge me and say, ‘What a bitch! Who does she think she is?’ Soon, I figured, those sorts of people would say, ‘What a bitch,’ regardless! Even if I did turn up and was at my charming best. These days I get to the point very quickly. If the venue is too far (any event that requires more than thirty minutes of travel time is out), and the people inviting me are not blood relatives, the answer is ‘Nyet.’ Ditto for requests to address various social service organizations. It’s a colossal waste of time and effort. All those earnest doctors, chartered accountants and corporate top dogs are good people doing good work. But I know their main plan is to network. And eat lavish meals. And get speakers for their five-star luncheons. Why they bother to invite me, I’ll never know. Most have never read a book in their lives. Most are conformists and play-it-safe citizens incapable of saying ‘boo’ to the local municipal corporator. There is no common ground. I refuse to play performing flea, unless there’s a fee attached. No free speeches! And so it goes, with social acquaintances who suddenly remember you when they need something done. Women and men who have not bothered to reach out to me for decades phone out of the blue, thinking foolishly and mistakenly that I possess enormous clout and power. I absolutely do not! So . . . to believe I can get their duffer child into a top college by talking to the principal is a fallacy. I wouldn’t do it even if I did possess the required ‘influence’. No, no, no. I am really fine being unpopular. I don’t need more people in my life. I am not looking to make new ‘friends’ and am happy with the few I have. Saying ‘no’ comes easily to me these days. And I feel so liberated! The stupidest phrase is ‘social obligations’. Really! There are none! Unless you want to play that meaningless game. I hear people saying, ‘Oh . . . but if you don’t attend their functions, they won’t attend yours!’ The point is, I neither want to attend those functions nor do I want to invite those folks to any of mine. We should all choose early and choose wisely. I remember with a sense of horror how I used to force myself to eat rubbish at parties ‘out of politeness’ (‘Why hurt the hosts’ feelings?’). Today, I generally eat at home before attending dinners. Or decline invitations altogether. I don’t accept writing assignments if the topic doesn’t interest me—regardless of which editor will feel cheesed off and snubbed. If your heart isn’t in something 100 per cent, don’t bother. The result will be mediocre.

  That goes for the mistakes I made with some of my books too. I really didn’t want to write them! But was talked into it by persuasive publishers more hell-bent on marketing a certain kind of book—and forget what I felt. Cash in while the author is ‘hot’. That’s how it works worldwide. Writing has always come easily to me. So the effort involved in crafting a story out of approximately 80,000 words, was never a daunting prospect. But here’s the thing: Those 80,000 words can go into a book you have enjoyed writing, or a lousy one you
have rolled out under duress. I look back at some of my books and think—left to myself, I would have written a different book. I am not saying a better book, nor am I saying a more saleable book. Just a very different book! Publishers know their markets. And they knew what they wanted to do with my early books—flog them as India’s breakthrough ‘sexy’ novels written by a ‘bold’ woman. Someone who photographed well and was fun to interview. That disgusting tag of ‘Jackie Collins of India’ stuck! It will follow me to my grave. Nothing wrong with Jackie Collins. But I prefer to be me.

  I enjoyed writing about sex. That is fine, not complaining. The reactions were tedious. Making me more and more determined to raise the sex bar as it were with each successive novel. I tried strictly no-sex books too. And focused on chaste non-fiction for years. But no! That tag of being a ‘porno writer’ (if you please) refused to go away. Hmm, I said to myself tiredly. Damned if I do and damned if I don’t. So . . . why not just bang them out and have fun? I am determined to write even sexier books in future. What will our puritanical ‘samaj’ say? ‘Yeh buddhiya badi badmash hai.’ What fun! That’s it? I can handle that. Besides, if you are a buddhiya, better to be badmash than a bore!

  I look back at some of my books and think—left to myself, I would have written a different book. I am not saying a better book, nor am I saying a more saleable book. Just a very different book!

  Write with your heart . . . not just your head

  I am a little cross with myself for going along with the ‘written to order’ books, even if the stories, characters and all else were mine. Some of the novels were mangled during the editing process. I thought I would offend the star editor by not agreeing with editorial tweaking. A lot of it was invaluable, I readily concede. But most of it was just meaningless interference. I watched mutely as a total mess was made of the manuscript. I kept quiet and accepted the mangling passively. Why did I keep silent? Because I didn’t want to offend the know-alls who were butchering the original by arbitrarily reshuffling sequences. I wanted them to ‘like’ me and not think I was throwing my weight around as a ‘senior bestselling author’ and being egotistical or a bully. They meant well, I am sure. They were just not competent. And I bloody well should have yelled, ‘Noooooo! Leave my book alone. It’s my book and my ass on the line. It may be the worst, most unreadable piece of tripe. But it is mine. My words belong to me! Let readers decide.’

  A good editor nudges, never shoves. Suggests, never imposes. Nurtures, never demoralizes. Tightens, never twists. A good editor is the author’s most trusted ally. There aren’t that many good editors around!

  Young writers are so much smarter. I was headed to yet another lit fest. Seated next to me was a hugely successful author—a former banker (how come there are so many bankers-turned-authors suddenly?). This gentleman was my son’s age. We started chatting. He was being a bit too deferential and I began feeling like a ‘mataji’ straight out of a television serial. He wanted to talk books. Nothing but books. Okay, I said to myself, let’s talk books. I asked about his latest ones. And he shared so many wonderful details about the making of the book—how long it took him to research and design the intricate cover, how each tiny symbol came with a deep philosophical meaning and why he preferred to write a certain kind of book, after consulting his wife who heads his publicity team. At no point did he discuss writing! It was more a marketing presentation and less a conversation about creativity. He was generous enough to share a great deal of relevant sales information with me. He knew most major booksellers by their first names and stayed in daily contact with the top few. He travelled extensively to network with book agents and distributors across India, on whom he lavished gifts and sweetmeats. ‘If you invest in these guys, they make sure your book gets a prominent display. If you ignore them, they can kill your book by shoving it to the last shelf,’ he confided innocently. He also admitted he bought back thousands of his own books in order to stay on bestseller lists. Why did he need to do all this? He said earnestly, ‘It is very, very important to stay at number one! Writing a book is only a small part of it. Marketing is everything.’

  Of course, the ball game has changed. And it is authors like this person who have altered the rules. This is the new generation of writers, who first strategize with a smart, savvy team and then write a book. They have the pulse and they don’t feel at all embarrassed to go out and hire a top PR company to project them across media platforms. Most young novelists have their eyes on cracking a Bollywood deal. They write primarily with that goal in mind. Bollywood is the ultimate dream, and they waste no time pursuing it, via agents and ‘contacts’. Once in, they work the system and do whatever it takes to stay in that orbit. In essence, they are scriptwriters in search of a producer. I admire their focused, single-minded agenda. They are there to make money, period. They go about writing a book like they are filling a ledger. They don’t read. Have never been readers. But that does not mean they lack imagination. Somehow, conducting a market survey first, and then deciding on the theme of the next novel, seems a pretty mechanical way of writing to me. But it works! I call them the canny ‘spreadsheet’ authors. First—a business plan. Then the book. No wonder so many successful authors are former money managers. I enjoy talking to them when we meet at lit fests. And marvel at their confidence. ‘You are such a rock star!’ I teased one, who had a bunch of teenage girls trailing him across the lawns. He smiled smugly, shrugged and said, ‘I know! Just look at my fans!’ Okaaay! Impressed!

  Sometimes I wonder, if I had asserted myself thirty years ago, and not participated in the circus, would I have written any differently? Why did I go along with those over-the-top photo shoots? Why did I constantly play myself down by making self-deprecatory comments? Why was I so apologetic about my ‘glamorous’ appearance, or the ‘elite’ lifestyle that obsessed critics? So many books and years later, nothing much has changed. I still have people come up to me to ask angrily, ‘But why do you have so much sex in your books? Why can’t you write about ordinary people? Do you know what it feels like to be poor? You are so hi-fi!’ I plead guilty! Had I been shrewder and put my foot down the first time I was asked to go along with the marketing strategy that ‘positioned’ me forever, I would not have had to put up with crass, ignorant, idiotic ‘assessments’ of either me or my work. I laughed at myself a lot (I still do!), and it was a licence given to strangers to do the same! Self-deprecatory humour is not for everyone. It certainly didn’t work for me. Young writers are clever—they laugh all the way to the bank.

  Sometimes I wonder, if I had asserted myself thirty years ago, and not participated in the circus, would I have written any differently?

  I am awestruck by young writers who are so full of themselves after publishing one piddly little nothing of a novel. They strut around like they have changed the world through their words and ideas. Nobody laughs at them. Their pompous pronouncements in interviews are taken at face value. They hire stylists and PR outfits to project them in the right light. They brag and hustle non-stop. Suck up to lit fest organizers. Brazenly manipulate each and every aspect of the publishing world. Nobody laughs. They employ touts to buy back their own books. Some have mini godowns stacked with copies of their titles. Nobody laughs.

  My fate was sealed the day I agreed to pose for a glamour photo spread, lounging on a tiger skin for Time magazine. And it was that profile which created the nauseating ‘Jackie Collins of India’ nonsense. (Damn you, Anthony Spaeth!) Why did I go along? Sheer stupidity! I was flattered. I fell for the spiel. Even on that tiger skin, dressed in an antique rani-pink lehenga—I was laughing at the absurdity of what I was willingly participating in. But, unfortunately, the joke was on me.

  It is important to value yourself from the word go. Don’t get talked into publicity campaigns that may sell more books, but may cause you immeasurable damage in the long run. Of course, publishers are greedy beasts. They want to milk you for all you have to sell. But nobody can force you on to that tiger skin! I was not for
ced. I did it voluntarily as a bit of a lark—to have some entertainment. It was an extension of my modelling past, that’s all. I was sending myself up! But that is not how it works! As a model, you are participating in a fantasy. All those crazy shoots I had done over decades were just that—someone else’s fantasy. But this was me playing me in reality! How come I didn’t recognize the difference? Once stuck with that ridiculous image, I was branded for evermore. With each subsequent book and the ensuing publicity blitz, the stereotyping got further entrenched. I had asked for it! Nobody complained . . . least of all, my publishers.

  But—aha—there is an upside to all this golmaal as well. Over time, I had become a part of the Penguin India family. These days I joke, ‘I am the designated grandmother of the group.’ It is a position of enormous privilege and I deeply value it. What better then than to have been offered an honour of a lifetime when I was asked whether I would like to head an imprint of my own, under the Penguin umbrella? I nearly fell off my chair. We were at Mumbai’s iconic Sea Lounge, in the Taj Mahal Hotel. Three of us—two top dogs from Penguin and moi. I wasn’t sure I had heard right. The offer was repeated. I still didn’t take it seriously. I mean, the only other woman with an imprint to call her own that I had heard of was Jacqueline Kennedy. I asked what the offer actually meant. ‘It means you get to create your own publishing list, and the books carry your name as publisher,’ a representative of Penguin explained solemnly as David Davidar grinned broadly. I can be really immature at moments like this. I needed to pee. But I stayed put and let it sink in. Done! It was that easy!