Seventy . . . Read online

  Once a ‘kaarti’, always a ‘kaarti’

  I am talking about more than just this book. Why did I even write it? Or, on a more abstract, philosophical, perhaps even loony level—I believe this book was meant to be written. And sort of wrote itself. All I needed was a nudge—no, a shove. I had started to think the era of books had ended a decade ago. And I may even be spot on. Sure, thousands of titles make it to the bookshelves even today, but who is reading all these wonderful and not-so-wonderful books? I know I no longer have the patience to force myself to read a book that doesn’t captivate me in the first five pages. I give up! Toss it aside and look for something else to read . . . or do. Despite all these reservations, I still decided to go ahead and commit. Yes, a book is a commitment. Once committed, I am in. I have been writing professionally for close to fifty years. Writing is what I love more than any other activity. I write every day of my life. Today, I write four columns a week—all of them distinct and different, given the profile and demographic of the readers of the various publications. It is thrilling and unbelievably challenging to reach out to anonymous readers and wonder how they might react. On an average I write between 1500 and 2000 words a day. This has been my pace for decades. I don’t wish to compute the number of words this adds up to. But I am pretty pleased I have been able to achieve my targets day in and day out for five decades. There are also the twenty-odd books that, over thirty years, have carried my name as author. Despite the industry and plain slog involved, my family still thinks I don’t have a ‘proper’ job! I mean, come on! Give me a break, you heartless people!

  In a way, it’s good to be taken for granted. Everybody takes me for granted, I swear—family, friends, even my publishers! My children watch me hunched over the laptop, with a look of intense involvement, and say half-irritatedly, ‘Oh God! What is she busy with?’ Um . . . you still don’t know? My right wrist gave up on me (tendonitis), my right hand developed what is called a ‘trigger finger’—a pretty painful condition. I required medical intervention for both! And they still wondered what caused it? It annoys me sometimes. I see how others react to writers who are family members. They are treated with respect! Reverence! Their time at the desk is considered precious. Nobody disturbs them. They are allowed to shut themselves off for months and years on end, while people around them whisper in awed tones, ‘He is writing a book. He needs his peace . . .’ Yes, it’s always a ‘he’. And sure, he needs his peace. What about me? And other women who write from home? Do we possess a magic button? Are there goblins and elves writing on our behalf while the family sleeps? Are we supposed to turn invisible while we soldier away? Just so the others don’t get bugged? I choose to write from my dining table. No locking myself in a study. I guess the thinking is, ‘If she is writing in a shared space, then she’s asking to be interrupted. Sorry! We need to eat too!’ Yes. And chat loudly over the cell phone . . . and play music at an ear-splitting level. Of course, I have ‘asked for it’. Go ahead—punish me!

  I thought about this and more on a vacation I took this year. It was a break I was taking from writing and much else, with many reservations. This was to be one of my longest trips (twenty days) away from home. And it was going to be just me and my husband, adventurously opting for a Croatian cruise. I was apprehensive and voiced it. I even joked, ‘What if only one of us comes back alive to tell the tale? So much intimacy . . . so much proximity . . . we aren’t love-struck honeymooners any more. What if we argue and fight? Sulk and storm? Imagine being stuck in a yacht’s cabin for seven days and nights! What if I feel suicidal or even homicidal? Jumping into the Adriatic is worse than slashing my wrists.’ The children laughed at my anxieties. ‘It will be just fine. When in doubt, have a glass of wine.’

  My husband, on the other hand, was like an excited schoolboy, planning what we’d do at each port. I felt cynical and low. Journeys are no longer as easy as they used to be twenty years ago. Age! Everything reflects the cruel passage of time. As we packed, telling one another to keep it light (‘Remember, there are no porters these days, and we’ll have to lug our bags all over the place on our own!’), I smiled inwardly. We were carefully sorting out our assorted tablets and emergency medicines, I was making sure I had at least three extra pairs of reading glasses, he was taking his armband to support a sensitive elbow. In the past, I would enthusiastically buy new bikinis and fun kaftans. This time I was carrying sensible capri pants and sturdy footwear. Both of us were concerned about slipping on uneven cobblestones, or missing a step while exploring some ancient ruins. We were discussing digestive issues and ensuring we had muscle relaxants in the kit. Where was the old don’t-care-a-damn spirit?

  At the airport, we resembled two oldies, checking and rechecking our boarding cards and fussing with shawls, cardigans, socks. We had decided to be careful and not touch a drink on the flight (‘Dehydration—let’s stick to lots of water’). This was nuts! No champagne before take-off . . . no Bordeaux with the meal. What sort of a holiday was this going to be? Two old people behaving themselves and being model tourists getting their fill of history and culture? Hell, no! We looked at each other and without saying a thing, it was decided all those great rules we had made for ourselves would be instantly discarded. Thank God! Immediately, as the new connection and understanding kicked in wordlessly, we knew it was going to be a memorable trip. Which it most certainly was. And here’s just one example of why it turned out to be so much fun. We both grabbed the vivid memories and images of our much younger selves and decided to stay in that magical zone. Everything came back! Our reckless, naughty moments included. Late one evening, just before stepping out for dinner in Split (what a destination!), I got into a shortish black dress. Not a mini—oh, definitely not! But the hemline was defiantly and unambiguously above my knees. I thought Mr Dé would look at me sharply and suggest I change, or wear leggings. Instead, he beamed with delight. ‘You are looking hot! Let’s go. But before that, I want to shoot some pictures . . . the evening light is so good.’ I was unsure, but went along with it, thinking he’d stop after five. But no, he kept on shooting! And I kept on posing! Some of the pics were pretty damn good! And some were rotten. I focused on the rotten. ‘Just look at my legs here—oh God! Please delete!’ He was surprised by my reaction. ‘I think these pictures are great! Of course, your legs look different now—but they are your legs! And I love them.’ I was incredibly touched. And as always, when I feel sentimental, I deal with the emotion awkwardly and immediately change the subject. We set off happily, with me thinking, ‘What the hell—nobody knows me here . . .’ But is there any place on earth we Indians have not discovered? Sure enough, a largish group from Gujarat walked up to me, asked for selfies and started a conversation. I noticed most eyes were fixed on my bare legs. I wanted to hide . . . cover up! I was only too happy when the group moved away. ‘I felt so embarrassed . . . did you see the way they were staring? And that too mainly at my legs!’ I cribbed. My husband took my arm, smiled and said, ‘We should have kissed . . .’

  Mainu ki?

  I came across mainu ki rather late in life. Trust the Punjabis to have the apt phrase handy when they want to say, ‘Get lost! Just eff off!’ Today, I have made it a motto of sorts. ‘Mainu ki . . . ?’ can be used in countless ways and in countless situations. It also depends on who you are saying it to. It sort of translates to ‘Who cares?’ Or a cruder interpretation which is deliciously colloquial: ‘What goes of your father?’ But ‘Mainu ki . . . !’ is so much sweeter. It’s lovely to arrive at that stage in your life when you really don’t give a rat’s ass about most things and people. You reach a certain point—clumsily, shakily, only when old wounds have healed. And you know you have made your peace with battle scars. There is no looking back in anger. In my case, there is hardly any looking back at all. The time for that walk back into the forest is upon you, and you start seeing the forest with different eyes. You notice things you had missed earlier in your hurry to reach the end of the forest. You look down as much as you
look up. You catch patches of bright blue sky, and also enjoy the shadows. You stare at tiny wild flowers growing under the shade of tall trees. The light is mellow—always mellow. And pale gold. You stand bathed in it—feeling golden yourself. The glow you admired outside is now a part of you. You feel its warmth within.

  I came across mainu ki rather late in life. Trust the Punjabis to have the apt phrase handy when they want to say, ‘Get lost! Just eff off!’

  Those who knew the much younger you are surprised and say so. ‘Didn’t think you would ever be this . . . this . . .’ Often the word is left unsaid. I like to provide it—sometimes just to myself. Could it be ‘tender’? Decades earlier, I would have recoiled at the mere suggestion and retorted: ‘What? Me and tender?’ Now, I cherish those special moments. Especially the ones I share with my family. And even more strongly, with my husband. I feel protective and far less confrontational. I admire his gung-ho spirit. I admire his taking a huge leap at the age of seventy-five and declaring himself an artist. Not just declaring it, but putting his art and reputation on the line, exhibiting it and taking the chance he could be rejected and laughed at. That takes guts. That’s one thing he certainly has never lacked! When I watch him painting on his smartphone with a stylus (the first person to do so in the world), I feel a surge of tenderness. There he sits, a picture of utmost concentration, painstakingly filling in minute details, constantly reviewing and rejecting . . . then starting over with one image after another. He is so fortunate to have discovered a brand-new passion at seventy-five. A passion for creating art—not just admiring and acquiring it.

  These days he paints versions of me obsessively. I find it a bit of a pain. When he is done with an image, he shows it to me proudly and waits for a reaction. I can be pretty horrid. Sometimes I express my delight. But most times I am hypercritical. He stares at the image for a long time, his eyes looking for the flaws I have spotted, and then he sighs, ‘Have you seen Picasso’s vision of his wife?’ Uff! Such heartbreaking, disarming innocence!

  There is something so comforting about familiarity and habit. Today, we know each other well—my husband and I. Truly know. Finally know. There are zero filters. We fight and argue on a daily basis. Over three decades of being together has led to enormous transformations. During the Croatian trip, we caught up with ourselves—our lives as individuals and as a unit. He said to me thoughtfully, ‘You and I have spent more years together than as single people. You have spent more years with me than in your parents’ home. We have our differences. But what we share, love and enjoy together . . . now, that’s what counts. I would rather be with you than with anybody else. Ours is a good fit—physically, mentally and emotionally.’ It was stated quietly, more to himself than to me. I thought about it later. And my own conclusion surprised me! I too would rather be with this unpredictable, impassioned, frequently infuriating man than anybody else! He is my ‘breaking news’. He can’t wait to provide headlines he has just read with his cuppa. I value the service—but not at the crack of dawn! Not before I have enjoyed my first cup of chai. Not late at night either. I definitely don’t want to engage in a heated political debate at odd moments, when my mind is on more mundane matters—like, should I add lal mirchi ka tadka to the masala khichdi, and throw in a generous pinch of hing?

  Sure, these are important matters. The state, the nation. But hey—the world can wait!

  I thought of the many times I had contemplated throwing in the towel, out of anger and exasperation. I am pretty sure he must have felt equally aggravated by me and my moods. Yet, through all that volatility and those emotional storms, we hung in there. And not because we didn’t want to ‘rock the boat’, or were worried about what anybody would say. Then why? It wasn’t because of the children. We are both pretty individualistic to let such concerns dictate our decisions. I still don’t know why. Nor how! But am I glad we did. We are here today . . . together, yes, but still our own impossible selves. I recall his words, spoken early in our life together, ‘There is no place for an ego in marriage.’ True. If only the ego would listen . . . and disappear! I also remember him saying, ‘I keep searching for the horizon. Remember, after a low tide, there’s always a high tide.’

  This chapter is over. The ‘turning seventy’ one. Maybe there are many more chapters still left to chronicle. Maybe not! But, if at the end of this book, you still want to ask, ‘Tell us, madam . . . how do you maintain yourself?’ you’ve obviously read the wrong book by the wrong woman.

  On the other hand, it’s one thing to jauntily declare: ‘Seventy . . . and to hell with it!’ You, dear reader, are entirely entitled to retort, ‘And to hell with you too!’

  Toh bhi . . . you are warned: Likhna abhi baaki hai, yaaron.

  See what I mean? Once a ‘kaarti’ always a ‘kaarti’.

  There’s today . . . there’s maybe a tomorrow. About the day after . . . who knows? Today is all that counts.

  Portrait of a wife/lover/companion, through the eyes of the newly minted artist Dilip Dé

  The Pandit sisters: Shakuntala (Aie) with Vimal and Nirmala

  Those championship years! Right on track!

  Beloved Aie, my most trusted ally

  Writers I love and admire

  With Nayantara Sahgal and Kiran Nagarkar at the Dhaka Lit Fest

  With V.S. Naipaul at the Jaipur Lit Fest

  With Amitav Ghosh at the Singapore Lit Fest

  With Vikram Seth at the Kasauli Lit Fest

  With Ben Okri at our home

  With Nobel laureate Amartya Sen in New Delhi

  With former Reserve Bank governor Raghuram Rajan, after his book launch in Mumbai

  With Prime Minister Narendra Modi in Mumbai

  With Kangana Ranaut in Mumbai

  With our SPG—wonderful men and women in uniform, during an ugly crisis in Mumbai

  With Sunita Saxena during our Ranikhet adventure

  With Aryama Sundaram and friends at his sixtieth birthday party in New Delhi

  How old is ‘ageless’ . . . ?

  Tea for two with Gong Li

  Jhoomo-ing with close friends at Arundhati’s mehendi evening

  With my constant travel date, Anandita, in Sydney

  With Ranadip and Aditya at our Alibag farm

  Adhiraj comes home with Avantikka, Pramod, Anasuya and Ahiliya

  Radhika with her son, Sudhir, in Chandigarh

  With Avantikka at her wedding

  Baby Aryaman’s day out in Seychelles with Arundhati and Sahil

  The official family portrait with all the bachchas, at Mr Dé’s seventy-fifth birthday celebrations

  Traditional Diwali aarti for my husband—an annual ritual we both look forward to

  Our Tricolour . . . and a charming honour at Reims, France

  Acknowledgements

  Kiran Nagarkar, I owe you a big one. A couple of years ago, we ran into each other at a literary event and I lightly joked about something or someone. Kiran stared at me with a look of undisguised amusement and declared, ‘You are such a “kaarti”!’ I had forgotten that delicious word, and more importantly, I had forgotten the ‘kaarti’ in me. It was one of ‘those’ moments—of recognition and terror! Me? ‘A kaarti’? At this age? Disgraceful!

  Kiran and I converse in Marathi. I do so hungrily, since I don’t get the chance often. It’s difficult to translate ‘kaarti’. But let me try. A ‘kaarti’ has to be female. And a bit of a rebellious, annoying brat. A kaarti generally exasperates people in her orbit. The last person to call me a kaarti had been my maternal grandmother. And she had not meant it affectionately. So when I heard it more than sixty years later, I was thrilled! Yesss! I am still that ‘kaarti’. Thank you, Kiran, for providing the trigger and tone for the book. I consider Kiran one of my best girlfriends. Kiran’s an honorary woman—and I mean that as a supreme compliment.