by Shobhaa De
I am somewhat oversensitive about space—both my own and other people’s. I see this as a major liability. I am forever analysing and reanalysing simple conversations and gestures, looking for hidden meanings, imagining agendas. I drive myself and my family nuts with all the ‘conclusions’ that I draw. They tell me I have an overheated imagination. Perhaps that’s true. But it is this same imagination that has saved me time and time again.
There is no such thing as ‘good space’ and ‘bad space’ in a close relationship. I used to get mildly irritated when young marrieds complained about one partner not giving the other ‘space’. ‘Stop it!’ I would want to yell. ‘Stop whining. This is the time in your life to close those spaces that threaten to become chasms, not widen them.’ I would also raise my eyebrows when a movie star boasted, ‘Our relationship works great because we give each other a lot of space.’ I used to think this ‘space business’ was just another way of covering up for basic indifference and the lack of an emotional connection. How can two people in love want space? I would extend the argument further and wonder, ‘Can a mother actively crave for space from her children? Why would she want it?’ The word ‘space’ itself had started to irritate me.
That was till I found the answer. I realized I was afraid of that feeling. I was afraid of space. I was nervous I would have more space in my life than I wanted. I had equated space with a lack of commitment, an absence of love and responsibility. I had convinced myself that there was no space for space in my life. It took me six decades to value my own space. And to respect other people’s space equally. Today, I have freed myself from the guilt of enjoying my own special space. And this space is not physical or emotional, nor is it discernible to others. I have found it within. I can retreat into my private haven without moving an inch away from the familiar—my home, my family, my friends.
This fairly recent awareness has liberated me from old fears. It has, in fact, been my most significant self-discovery and my most valuable gift to myself. Therefore, this book.
Risk: A four-letter word
Here I am, looking back on seven decades of a life that has been pretty exhilarating. Yes, of course I have messed up. But even those mess-ups have taught me vital lessons—in survival, coping, collapsing, undoing, rejoicing. Most of these lessons have come from allowing myself to be open to everything life is throwing my way—good stuff, bad stuff, indifferent stuff. This is what I frequently tell my children when they are despairing. If you remain yourself and stay receptive to what’s happening around you, you will pick up signals that will provide most of the answers you seek. Perhaps not instantly, but the answers will come.
When I was a teenager, I used to take every aspect of my life for granted, without questioning what was going on around me. In a way, this attitude protected me and spurred me on to take crazy chances, often with my life. I thought nothing of jumping in and out of rapidly moving local trains which I took to and from school. Of course, I was showing off my daredevilry, since there was always a crowd at Churchgate station. But those adrenaline-fuelled seconds when I tried to make it inside the compartment without losing my footing gave me such a rush it made that lunatic risk very attractive. Today, I can ask myself, ‘What on earth were you thinking? Or proving?’ I still don’t have an answer that satisfies me. Perhaps I was testing myself. All I know is, danger and dangerous situations still attract me. I have never opted for ‘safe’ when there was ‘risky’ staring at me. It’s a personality trait, or a character flaw. God knows. Show me two scenarios, one that is controlled and the other that’s insane, and I’ll instinctively opt for the latter. This worries my husband and children, but deep within, even I know half of this is nothing more than posturing. Confronting fear is just a part of it.
I am in the process of identifying my biggest fears as I key this in. What do most human beings fear the most? I’d say it is loss. Loss of a loved one, loss of face, loss of security, loss of health, loss of identity, loss of mental and physical faculties. Loss of one’s own life. From this abbreviated list, I would say, for a wife and mother, there can be no greater loss than the loss of a child and spouse. Nothing prepares you for it. Nothing can. Sages advise us to start gearing ourselves up for such an eventuality from the time marriage vows are taken to that dreaded moment you are forced to come face-to-face with tragedy. Meditate, they tell you. Pray. Ask God to provide succour. Does any of this help you to deal with a wound that can never be healed? I don’t know. I hope I am never tested. But it is this fear of losing a beloved that is at the root of all other fears. As a child, you fear losing your parents. As a grown-up, you fear losing your child. Conquering this fundamental fear is what drives us to face other fears.
When I think of all those reckless stunts I performed in school and college (most of which were unknown to my trusting parents), did I stop to think what the repercussions would have been on so many lives had something terrible happened to me as I hung out of a fast train, tempting fate every second day? I continued to ride racing bikes down crowded roads, clinging on to the handle of a public transport bus for additional speed. I crashed cars that didn’t belong to me when I was grossly underage, after persuading the children of the owners to steal the car keys. I lied about my adventures in local trains (ticketless travel being the more innocent one) to my mother, who believed I was at a school picnic when I was actually bunking school and loitering on distant beaches. What if any of these silly jaunts had backfired? Point is, they didn’t. I was fortunate.
Risk-taking is something I enjoy immensely. It comes naturally to me. I like stepping into the unknown and seeing where those steps take me. This is true whether it involves love and romance in my youth or professional choices later in life. My decisions were mainly impetuous (‘immature’ is how my father described them) and spontaneous. Where did this behaviour pattern come from? Certainly not from my home environment, which was conservative, conformist and solidly, comfortingly middle class. I appreciated anarchy and chaos far more than control and comfort. This troubled my parents a great deal, and I must have given them countless sleepless nights during those restless years when I couldn’t wait to get out into the big, wicked world, the one beyond my traditional Maharashtrian home, and taste the myriad exotic flavours waiting to consume me, in Turkey, Brazil, Japan, just about anywhere. But where was I stuck? At home!
I thought about this feeling of being trapped, my desire to flee, when I was in Chandigarh recently. It was early winter and the weather was wonderful. My husband and I were with a good friend, going to a formal function, when news came that it had snowed in Shimla. I turned to our friend and asked excitedly how many hours it would take to drive to Shimla. Approximately four, he said, provided the roads weren’t blocked. ‘Let’s go after the function!’ I beseeched. There was a full moon rising over the Kasauli Hills in the far distance. We had a flight to catch the next afternoon.
‘We can do it! Let’s just go!’ I kept pleading. The men looked at each other and I knew the answer. It wasn’t going to happen. I tried another tack, ‘Look! This moment is never going to come back! Don’t give me that boring old lie, “we can plan it better and come back”. That won’t happen. Besides, it won’t be the same. We can drive through the night. Have breakfast at the Cecil, and drive straight to the airport. It can be done.’ Of course, it didn’t happen. I went through not one but two ‘official’ functions, with my mind on the powdery snow falling gently over Kufri. In my heart, I was there, enjoying every magical moment, laughing at the sky and catching snowflakes on my tongue. But in reality, I was making a speech to a hall full of enthusiastic folks.
Now here’s the dilemma: Should I have ignored a promise, not given a damn about commitments made months ago and simply followed my heart which was urging me to break all the rules and rush to Shimla? My younger self would have done just that. Alas, I did the sensible, boring thing and behaved myself. Not only did I make the speech, I also smiled at total strangers, made meaningless conversation and per
formed my assigned role. Nobody was disappointed. Except me!
Nobody wants to risk a darn thing. Nobody actively courts risk. Only the foolish do. I guess I am very foolish. ‘At my age’, to use that phrase, some of the recent risks I have taken have been totally nuts. Why did I bother? Here’s one example. I was to take a conveniently timed flight to Dehradun for a lit fest. As it happened, I didn’t read the ticket correctly. Result? I smartly reached the counter only to be told the flight had left an hour earlier. It was not the first time. My faithful driver, Choudhary, has been given permanent instructions not to leave the airport till I call and inform him that I have made it to the flight. This particular goof-up was doubly embarrassing. An event had been carefully curated and structured around my presence. There were more than a hundred invitees, not to mention a press conference and dinner. And I was going to be a no-show? Because I can’t read airline tickets?
I was ashamed and close to tears. There were zero flights to Dehradun at that hour. I called the organizers to declare, ‘I am a complete ass.’ They didn’t disagree. One bright spark told me if I tried really hard, I could catch the last flight to Delhi and then drive up to Dehradun. Without asking about the logistics involved, and out of a deep sense of shame, I foolishly agreed. Landing in Delhi, I was met by a scruffy fellow who shuffled up to say he was the assigned driver and could we please leave before it got too dark and too dangerous? Dangerous? How many hours will it take? I asked him. He looked up at the sky for answers and shrugged. ‘Six, eight, nine—depends on the traffic.’
I calculated I could have gone to London in the same time. Too late. I was in his smelly, run-down car and we were on our way. A smart army colonel I had met at the airport had told me it was a risky drive. ‘Ma’am, I suggest you go back to Mumbai.’ Any sensible person would have done just that. I am anything but sensible. I had not dared inform my husband. He was under the impression I was already at my event in Dehradun. I phoned a friend in Delhi, who was aghast. ‘I know that road, and it is not safe.’ The worried friend kept tracking me on the mobile phone, but frankly, that was not helping. ‘Oh God! You haven’t crossed Meerut? Call me when you get to Muzaffarnagar. Tell the driver to avoid Khatauli—there are no lights on that stretch and it is most dangerous. Don’t stop on the way, no matter what.’
It was close to midnight when I finally arrived at the Dehradun hotel. It was cold. And all I could feel was relief.
It brought back memories of an even more terrifying late-night ride in Lahore, getting into a dodgy-looking car at 3 a.m. with an unknown driver, speeding along unlit back roads and taking deserted shortcuts. This was after landing at that unearthly time, no thanks to a delayed flight from Dubai. At that hour, what choice did I have? My phone was jammed. For all practical purposes, I was cut off from the world. The man behind the wheel could have been anyone, even an ISIS agent. Maybe I was being kidnapped. All these thoughts were racing through my sleep-deprived brain, but it felt more like I was going over a racy movie script that had nothing to do with me. Instead of my heart pounding with fear and apprehension, I was calmly staring at the countryside, looking for signposts—were we even on the road to Lahore? Or driving out to some unknown destination? Would armed/masked captors stop the car and order me to kneel in the nearby field before videotaping my beheading? I was thinking of Daniel Pearl instead of focusing on myself. It was almost surreal, like I was not in the picture at all.
Worst of all, I was travelling with my daughter Avantikka, who had left two little babies at home to join her mother on this crazy trip—her first, and possibly last, to Pakistan. It all ended wonderfully well, I am happy to report, give or take some major unpleasantness at the airport when we were departing. Do I still want to go back? In a flash! I have wonderful friends in Karachi and Lahore. Friends who extended the warmest, most lavish hospitality, and have since become like my extended family members. Their homes and hearts were generously thrown open on each visit. One day I would love to reciprocate their love when they come to Mumbai.
I still harbour tremendous hope that during my lifetime, the two countries will see sense and become better neighbours.
A few years later, when I recreate that harrowing ride in my mind, I ask myself incredulously, ‘What were you thinking? Or weren’t you thinking at all?’ Even now, I am not sure what it is that goes through my head in such situations. Is it a self-protective detachment that acts like a filter and keeps me from panicking? Or do I go into instant denial and tell myself, ‘This is not happening to me. Ignore it and it will go away.’ When I discuss similar situations with other women (most of whom proclaim dramatically that they are relieved never to have been in such insane situations in the first place), they stare incredulously at me, before asking in sepulchral tones, ‘Surely you must think of your family! Children, husband? It’s only natural for a woman in a similar crisis to first worry about what will happen to them.’ We are brainwashed into believing every mother places herself last. I am no exception. I do the same, mostly. But in self-created crises, another self takes over. That self is a strange creature.
Danger has always fascinated me. In the sense that I always wonder how I would react when faced with a potentially life-threatening situation. What would my immediate response be? Are my reflexes good enough? What about my survival skills? Do I know how to think on my feet? Will I freeze or act? It’s a test I give myself. It has nothing to do with anybody else. Not husband and not children, since they are not part of that scenario. I am generally alone, dealing with a mess of my own doing. Saving my skin under challenging circumstances may not be my biggest strength. Despite knowing that, I tend to push the limits. Why? I search within for some mysterious inner source to provide answers and solutions. Somehow, so far, at least, I have managed to find that special something when I have most needed it. I have found courage. A little voice yells from inside my head and heart, ‘Don’t look away. Don’t back off! Don’t blink! Keep going!’
Danger has always fascinated me. In the sense that I always wonder how I would react when faced with a potentially life-threatening situation. What would my immediate response be? Are my reflexes good enough? What about my survival skills? Do I know how to think on my feet? Will I freeze or act?
I swear that little voice has saved my butt countless times, especially when I have had to deal with political goons. I have had my share of run-ins with Mumbai’s lumpen. Well-meaning advisers would say, ‘What’s the point of taking on these hooligans? You’ll end up hurting yourself.’ And then, the ultimate ‘warning’ issued to stubborn women: ‘Think of your family.’ Yes, I do think of my family. A lot. But when faced with nameless, faceless fellows using muscle power to intimidate me, I think of myself. And I know by standing up to them I am doing the right thing. Giving in to bullies, negotiating with them, meekly going along with strong-arm tactics, backing off from threats and ultimatums, is simply not an option in my book. You surrender once and you surrender for all time.
The umbilical cord
The premier space is created at childbirth, the moment the umbilical cord is cut. From a single entity, suddenly there are two. A lot of mothers find this hard to accept, as they hold a squirming newborn in their arms and coo lovingly. Is this what was inside me for nine months, they silently ask. Some like the tiny creature they are holding but a surprising number don’t. Mothers are not allowed to articulate their true feelings, unless those feelings are positive and loving. But there is no such thing as ‘instant love’, even between a mother and her baby.
As I write this, one of my daughters is expecting her first child. She has mixed feelings about the pregnancy. I tell her it’s okay. Perhaps she isn’t psychologically ready for this life-altering development. Even as I tell her it’s okay to feel what she does, a part of me is saying, ‘You are dealing with this a little oddly.’ But as her mother, I realize I have to bolster her confidence all the time, tell her motherhood is the most beautiful emotion on earth. Make her believe in the miracle of life
. Motivate her to bond with the unborn baby. I do that too. But in my heart of hearts, I also understand her feelings of uncertainty, doubt, fear. Her space is not 100 per cent her own any more. She has already started to share it with her unborn baby. Their heartbeats are connected. This can be disconcerting and confusing. She has to drink, eat and rest for two. The feeling is alien and confusing.
Some women instantly accept the major change within—and without—while others take more time. Perhaps, a couple of months later, my daughter will experience the magical maternal bond, when she is fully geared for the major development. Right now, she is concerned with other issues—a new job, maintaining her trim, toned body, her life as a wife. All of these are legitimate concerns. She is being upfront and honest. If she feels squeamish about the stirrings within, she is entitled to feel that way. If she wonders about her own ability to deal with the new entrant, she should be allowed to do so, without anybody making her feel guilty. And yet, when we meet, I feel it is my ‘duty’ to lecture her and make light of her anxieties. I think, for a change, I am being the sensible, conventional, wise mother, whose job it is to provide instant pep talks and dole out advice. This is the predictable role I have never been comfortable with. But my daughter is more conventional than I. And I am tuning into her emotional requirements this time.
I instinctively know that if I were to be candid at this point and say, ‘Hey, it’s okay to feel resentful, it’s okay not to feel mushy, it’s okay to focus on a new job,’ it is she who would be confused. She will most likely remind me that her friends’ mothers would never say that, and that she wants me to be more like them. I am really not like those wonderful ladies. Wouldn’t know where to begin. Once or twice I have hit back and asked, ‘Are any of them like me?’ And heard her mutter, ‘Thankfully not!’
