by Shobhaa De
At the end of it all…
But despite these anomalies and aberrations (which will soon be absorbed and accepted on a broader level), the ‘Indianness’ at the heart of India still exists. And will continue to thrive, because we are an emotional, sentimental people deep down. The show-sha is also a part of our sweet little selves. When we make money, we want the world to know! We like to show it… flaunt it. Yes, often in a ‘vulgar’, obvious way.
But there is innocence in these acts of showing off. For so many decades, we felt there was nothing worth exhibiting. We'd become a nation of dejected defeatists. We won nothing. We lost everything. Even our prowess in hockey, which was once the country's only sporting hope at international events (we were world leaders till other international teams re-mastered the game and thrashed us). We shuffled around. Our heads were rarely held high. We walked slump-shouldered. And spoke in defensive tones. My God! We even looked different. Bingo! I know what it was—we looked poor! That was it. Poor. That dreaded and dreadful word that has defined our identity thus far.
I remember a foreigner talking to me at Frankfurt airport while waiting in the lounge for a delayed flight to take off. After a few minutes of ‘airport conversation’, he asked heartily, ‘So… where are you from?’ When I replied, ‘India’, he looked startled. ‘India?’ he kept repeating, disbelief written all over his florid face. Finally, he couldn't help himself and blurted, ‘Oh my God! But… but… you don't look poor!’ I laughed and felt sorry for the guy. I also wanted to sock him and say, ‘Come over to my part of the world, buddy. There are thousands and thousands of people there who could buy you over… along with the airline you work for.
That isn't likely to happen these days. And even if it did, I wouldn't feel outraged at the stranger's audacity. I'd feel one up and attribute the remark to envy, not ignorance. India is so ‘up there’ and even ‘out there’, it's impossible to miss its presence globally. It's a terrific feeling of vindication. I feel like Tiger Woods or Roger Federer after a particularly challenging win. We've had to fight our way to our present position. We've done so on our own terms.
Our biggest triumph remains our unshakeable faith in democracy, as demonstrated in election after election. Rigging? Booth-capturing? Poll violence? Murders, kidnappings… you name it, we've endured all that and more. But that has not prevented the vast electorate (the biggest in the world) from exercising its right to get the leadership it wants. Perhaps we have not ourselves realized the power of that vote, since we've accepted it as our absolute right. Lucky us! What does that sparrow hopping freely around the windowsill in search of discarded wheat husk know about the misery of that bejewelled cockatoo, chained to its cage, while the mistress feeds it pomegranate seeds from a silver bowl?
‘I want to break free,’ sang Freddie Mercury alias Farrokh Bulsara, the talented singer who represented ‘Queen’. The song became his anthem—but for the wrong reasons. Freddie is dead, but my guess is he was dying to break free from sexual shackles and assert his right to opt for same-sex love. Mercury had broken free from his Indian roots and turned his back on India, assuming a borrowed identity that served him well in London—but from which he couldn't really escape. I wonder whether Freddie would have been as ashamed to be identified as an Indian today. The India Wave is a great one to be riding on, as all those profiting from it will hasten to tell you.
*
My own story is the story of India. And I'm proud to tell it. Sixty is the new forty, I'm told. And I'm only too happy to seize that description. But not before making a small confession. I love my age and am perfectly happy to acknowledge it. But like any sixty-year-old, I sometimes wish I was twenty… even thirty years younger. Most things, I would've done the same way, but some things I'd definitely have done differently, had I the option and advantage of turning back the clock.
Sixty is a great time to take stock. There are wonderful years still ahead, with much to anticipate and look forward to. And there are six crowded decades to look back on… if the corners of the mouth turn up in a smile at most of the memories, it's a sign of a life well lived. Give or take the usual crises. But if the corners obstinately stay down, then, my friends, it's not such a great story to narrate to grandchildren.
I grew up with India. I made my mistakes with India. And today, I also owe a huge debt to India. I am what I am (for better or worse), I am who I am (ditto), thanks to the country of my birth. I wanted this book to be a personal journey—as much into myself as into India. In the writing of Superstar, I discovered a lot about my own life, as I tried to understand life in India. What I sought to do was write a passionate love letter to the most beautiful country on earth. But even the most ardent love affairs have moments and periods of dissent, disagreements, fights and rage. So it is with me and India.
The love letter contains several reprimands, some sharp, others gentle. There was no other way to let my passionate feelings be known, without expressing the truth as seen from my involved and far-from-objective perspective.
*
The India of my dreams is almost here. But let me also say, that even through hellish times, I never once doubted its existence. I knew that the idealized, idyllic India I fantasized about would become a reality during my lifetime. ‘Keep the faith’, is such a charming and irresistible phrase to respect. I can only say, I did keep the faith. Even during those awful times when it looked as if there was no hope left (Babri Masjid, Godhra, the assassinations of Indira and Rajiv Gandhi, the Bombay blasts, the tsunami… several more, but none as powerful or macabre).
Today, when I talk to my children about ‘their’ India, they ask, ‘Why do you call it “ours”? Doesn't it belong to you, too?’ I don't answer. I don't need to. At sixty, you learn to give away all that you hold most precious. The gifts you pass on at this stage are the ones that make the difference.
For they are given with the fulness of your heart, and minus any expectations. India belongs to the young. It is rightfully ‘their’ India, and they should be intensely proud of it… cherish it. For it is a rare gift that has come to them with no strings attached. Like the best gifts always are.
One only hopes and prays that this new generation of bright and beautiful Indians values its extraordinary legacy… enriches it.
India is such a maddening enigma. The more you think you know it, the more it frustrates you. It changes rapidly, constantly, taking new avatars as it deftly recolours itself, chameleon-like, to match shifting attitudes, global tilts. No fixed rules in India! Everything depends on the situation. Foreigners find these variables frustrating. But we love our many faces, for without them, we wouldn't have survived. I love that about us—our amazing ability to adapt to any kind of change.
In Bollywood parlance, this is aptly described as ‘setting’. That delicious word accommodates virtually every need and situation.
Nearly everything in life is about ‘setting’. Need to meet a movie star? Politician? Top corporate honcho? No worries. ‘Setting kar do…’ Which could mean so many things— find the right contact, bribe someone, make an emotional appeal, kuch bhi. Nothing is impossible in good old India.
I phone. You phone?
Yes—it happened—the iPhone was cracked within weeks after its worldwide launch and now every gizmo-addict has bought one from the vibrant grey market at half the cost. Terrible? Of course. But inventive, wicked and ingenious, too! It's like that with almost anything. Ask a villager you might meet at a highway stop-over if he can find someone to fix a laptop that's acting weird. He may never have seen a laptop or even heard of it. Is he going to shake his head and say ‘No’? Forget it. He will eagerly offer to take you to someone who knows someone who has fixed ‘thousands’ of laptops… just last week! It might be a wild goose chase… but you know what? It could also turn at to be a mini-miracle. If the ‘setting’ works out, the man will actually lead you to that talented gentleman sitting at a rickety desk next to the village chaiwallah in possession of unimaginable skills at
fixing laptops!
It is this very never-say-die attitude that makes India incredible. ‘Impossible is nothing’, an Adidas ad reminds the world. In India, we live by that mantra, never mind how daunting the task! Have brain. Will attempt. Not for us the coyness of saying, ‘Well… it's not a subject I know much about.’ Rarely will an Indian confess to not knowing something. Ours is a marvellous nation of sabjantawallahs. Everybody is an expert.
We have an opinion on everything. And we aren't embarrassed to go right ahead—often, recklessly—where other, more cautious, people sensibly wouldn't. Core competence? Don't be silly. How restricting is that! Allrround competence—that's what we excel in. Often, the consequences that follow from such a gung-ho attitude are disastrous. But that doesn't stop a soul from trying.
Contrast that with the ‘correctness’ adhered to by other cultures. A doctor who will not touch a dying accident victim, even on humanitarian grounds, out of fear of malpractice suits/loss of his licence… even because he has a degree in a highly specialized field, maybe inner-ear surgery, and will not waste it on ailments that don't require it. The patient can bleed to death while the paperwork is being processed, but nobody will touch his person. Are we just more instinctive in our responses? Not always the best thing, but still better than a cold, clinical attitude that adheres to rules, rules, rules.
There is some method in our madness, too. Which is why Indians succeed in alien environments, using native ingenuity and inventiveness to stay alive, get ahead.
Yes, we actively annoy people in an adopted land by our far-from-endearing desi habits—we spit, scratch, belch and pass wind in public without the slightest self-consciousness. We plead guilty. These are national traits that need to be addressed and modified since nobody finds them anything but offensive. Perhaps the neo-Indians who are global globs, blending seamlessly into the international circuit, will be more conscious of tailoring their social behaviour to conform to what's universally acceptable.
One can already see this change taking place, as young adults squirm, pull faces and sharply correct parents and grandparents who burp contentedly after a hearty meal in a posh restaurant. My heart breaks a little, as the older folks shrink, look shamefaced and humiliated. In their time and setting, an audible belch was considered a compliment to kitchen staff. Hosts waited to hear it at the end of a meal. Suddenly, age-old habits are being rudely challenged by our sophisticated internationalists, leading to hurt and alienation.
These may appear to be small, inconsequential issues. But in fact, it's the Indian Belch that is the benchmark of a society in transition. When the belch goes, a lot more will go with it, without our realizing as much. The belch was a symbol of a passing era, when we could be ‘ourselves’. Today, we are uncertain about that identity. We no longer know how to define ourselves. Like Bollywood's childlike hankering for an Oscar, the rest of us also seek approval from outsiders. Perhaps India will turn into aspic; bland, colourless, flavourless? Personally, I hope and pray that never happens. Our eccentricities are far too precious to abandon. After years of both struggle and apathy, India has joyously rediscovered itself. Its secret strengths. Its forgotten assests. India has found its suppressed voice. Its buried ambitions. Most importantly, India has recognized its precious resource—its people. When those billion-strong people join forces and sing Iqbal's inspiring anthem, ‘Sare jahan se achcha Hindustan hamara’, the heavens will stop to listen. Global superpower? That's us. So now, you know the answer to question: ‘Where's the party tonight?’
It's right here.
Right now.
And the whole world is invited!
Epilogue
I'm writing this during a very auspicious period—‘Ashtami’ marks the eighth day of the Durga Puja festival. The goddess is visiting us for an all-too brief period—just ten short days. In my immediate neighbourhood, there are five awesome images of the all-seeing, all-forgiving Devi installed in imaginatively decorated pandals. Each evening, I can hear the sound of aartis, when hundreds of devotees gather to rain marigolds on the deity during Pushpanjali, as priests clad in fine-spun dhotis conduct the rituals to the blowing of conch shells, the clash of cymbals and the mellow thunder of dhaks. The air is filled with fragrant dhoop that stings the eyes and causes young children to cough while keeping up the rhythmic chanting with elders. Women clad in exquisite Dhakai sarees, with bright red sindoor in the parting of their hair, close their heavily kohl-lined eyes and pray fervently, confident in the knowledge that the awe-inspiring goddess, who has slain countless demons, will listen carefully to each plea and oblige the believers with generous boons.
In such a charged atmosphere, it is impossible to remain untouched or unmoved. I stop whatever I'm doing, to shut my eyes and surrender to the enchanting moment. It is a feeling of such completeness. For the duration of the aarti, I am entirely at peace. As are millions of others like me, no matter which puja pandal they may be visiting in whichever city. Soon, the chanting will be replaced by film songs blaring over the sound system. But the mood will endure, not missing a beat. Young girls in gorgeous Navratri ghagras, will emerge from their homes to dance the night away, with equally colourfully dressed swains from the locality. This is how it has always been for centuries. This is how it will remain…
Like a lot else about India.
Today, more than ever, I miss my mother. The closest thing to Durga, in her unique way. Her demons and battles may have been terrestrial but the subtext of her struggle and eventual triumph was the same.
Soon, it will be Diwali, the Festival of Lights. And I shall miss her still more… With her has gone a priceless legacy of Maharashtrians delicacies which she so laboriously prepared, seated on a wooden platform in a simple kitchen, with her own austerely dressed, widowed mother by her side, painstakingly supervising the proceedings. From a large iron kadhai, filled with boiling oil, would emerge crunchy chaklis, delicious crisp chirotis, spicy chivda, frilled karanjis, boondi ladoos held together with perfectly balanced sugar syrup, besan ladoos with pure ghee, pungent sev… and—the pièce de résistance—sweet and sour anarsey, crusty on the outside, mushy and yielding within.
Their hands would be red and scalded at the end of four intense days of moulding ladoos, stirring spices, kneading hot mixtures of dough and masalas, coercing fried puffed rice through gigantic sieves, but never would there be any evidence of fatigue.
So many years later, I regret I did not participate more fully in the activity or bother to record those secret family recipes. Those are treasures lost to me forever. And with their loss comes the realization that my own children, and later their own, will have no knowledge, no memory of this valuable tradition. And several traditions as precious and priceless as this one. There are no substitutes for legacies that knit and bind cultures and communities in such subtle and profound ways. Who can put a price on this?
Even as I continue writing, I note my own paltry preparations for Diwali, most of which are remote-controlled. I fear I have turned into an NRI (Non-Recognizable Indian), even without leaving our shores! Gone is the time the house would be emptied room-by-room, and hand-washed top to bottom. Right now, I can hear a vacuum cleaner whirring noisily as our hyper-excitable Irish Setter Keira cowers in fear under a sofa. The sweetmeats will be bought from a store in Thakurdwar, everything pre-ordered and pre-packed. Like a takeaway pizza. There will be no Diwali feasting at my parents’ home, no dahi-pohey to relish either. The familiar, annual venue for festive family gatherings is now joyless, dark and empty, after the last link—my father—passed away. Rangoli? Well yes—but of the stick-on variety. Who knows anymore how to trace intricate patterns on the floor with rice powder? I certainly don't. Diyas? Sure. But no oil wicks since they stain marble floors. How about tea-candles, instead?
Our modern lives have provided quick and easy options which ease our celebrations. Except that we have fewer and fewer people to celebrate with.
Soon, we'll get used to it. We get used to everything.
Ten years from now, we'll wonder what the fuss was all about. Is it so awful to send and receive Diwali SMS-es and e-mails? Are electronic greetings less sincere? Does anybody care whether one sends Belgian chocolates instead of home-made mithai? Or that the traditional Diwali bath has been replaced by a quick shower using spa products instead of fragrant oils made out of crushed chameli blossoms or rose petals?
Turn, turn, turn
Change—sudden and dramatic change—can either be viewed as cataclysmic, catastrophic, or challenging in a positive way. Today, India is at a crucial crossroads. There's no looking back… the momentum is such. Yes, India is unstoppable. And has stepped into a future that is seductive and tantalizing.
‘What could threaten India's rise?’ I was recently asked. And my response was simple. Any threat, as I see it, is not external but internal. Today, we can deal effectively with any force that challenges us militarily or economically. I am not as confident of our own societal revolution which is taking place, perhaps subliminally, but surely. India's biggest strength has always been its sense of family. That beautiful word kutumb is too delicate and evocative for literal translation. What other word can fully capture the sublime essence of the sentiment that lies buried in the intimacy of kutumb? ‘Family’, in its deepest, broadest sense, has provided India its backbone. There can be no underrating of that structure. Through centuries, the great Indian family has provided the thread of continuity for the social fabric of our highly complex society. Withstanding assaults, overcoming invasions and colonization. And, in 10,000 years of its history, never invading another.
