Seventy . . .

by Shobhaa De

  These are spaces that require enormous tact. Possibly, I lack the attribute. My loss. I encourage my children to reach out and stay friends with relatives they enjoy as people, and not just as relatives. Fortunately, my children have accepted relatives as friends; rather, these are people they consider friends first and relatives later. How does one maintain a healthy balance on the relatives front? It needs work. There will always be that conscientious person who never fails to call and wish you on your birthday, wedding anniversary, children’s birthdays, spouse’s birthday. God help you if you don’t reciprocate and remember. But hey—I didn’t ask you to maintain my family’s logbook and call me! I find such ‘thoughtfulness’ oppressive and fake. I dread the ‘thank you’ ritual. I hate protocol. I feel like telling these well-meaning folks to leave me alone. Ignore me but please don’t burden me with empty politeness.

  I wonder: Does this person maintain records and files like in a government office? What purpose does that two-minute call serve? Greetings are robotically exchanged. ‘How sweet of you to remember! Thank you soooooo much for calling. Yes, we have plans for the night. Nothing specific as of now. Yes! I received lovely gifts. Oh, you want to know what those were?’ Frankly, it’s a pain. Because then, the ball is in my court—will I forget the caller’s birthday four months down the line? Chances are I will. Finished. It will confirm the worst about the ‘sort of woman’ I am—selfish, egotistical, full of herself, indifferent. I’m fine with it! Really.

  Then there are those dreary ‘duty’ outings—lunches and dinners ‘to stay in touch’. Stay in touch with what? Why? I overhear conversations about similar social events that drive everybody crazy, and yet, nobody dares to break the pattern. ‘It’s a family tradition . . .’ goes the chorus. Correction: It is an imposition. It used to be a family tradition when families lived, celebrated and mourned together. Where is that cohesive, well-knit unit today? If it does not exist—bury it! Why keep it alive on a ventilator, when the plug needed to be pulled years ago?

  If this sounds horrible, the reality is much worse. I have watched family functions disintegrate into terrifying wars, because someone has downed one too many and brought up a long-forgotten scandal. There is rarely a happy ending to these artificial family get-togethers. If you can’t avoid them and are forced to participate, mark your presence, greet everybody politely, and run! Of course, you will be torn to shreds for being arrogant and rude. But at least you would have spared yourself the trauma brought on by being around to witness one more family meltdown.

  Maintaining a ‘good relationship’ with distant family needs a special skill set. My idea of balancing family responsibilities with hanging on to my sanity involves keeping a safe distance, and not indulging in overfamiliarity. Being respectful towards one and all is a given. But being chummy is an option I like to exercise. I am there when needed. I will always stand by family. But I will not indulge in a hypocritical show of ‘devotion’. I don’t expect family members to bend over backwards for me either. It should be understood we will be loyal and will protect one another. We don’t have to put on a production to prove it. Extended family relationships are taxing and time-consuming. It’s important to define parameters and stick to them.

  I don’t like to stay with relatives when I am travelling. Nor do I encourage relatives to stay with us. I have seen far too many family fights brought on as a result of this. And yet, I have also seen genuinely close-knit joint families with several branches. Families living pretty harmoniously through decades of ups and downs, with three generations sharing the same roof. They are not putting on an act. Invariably, such families are led by a shrewd matriarch or a patriarch, determined to protect the family’s legacy. And the family wealth, of course. As it happens across the world, the break-up begins with the third generation. When you see that coming, and if you are a part of the crumbling set-up, move away as swiftly as you can. Too much proximity can get destructive and claustrophobic. Relatives have their place in your life, but you get to choose the role you play in theirs.

  Class divides can divide families. Strange conversations take place about those who ‘belong’ and those who clearly don’t. We judge, judge, judge on the basis of superficial, telltale signs that reflect ‘upbringing’. These rules change constantly and annoyingly. But there is no escape from instant conclusions based on nothing more significant than, say, a suitor turning up for a first date, with a shabby, unwashed handkerchief that he constantly blows his nose into. Or a loud, young person making non-stop references to possessions (‘My dad’s Merc . . . my mom’s Beemer . . . my uncle’s Rolls’). I know of one potential romance that was murdered when the young lady kept referring to her ‘business class’ travels. I also know of another relationship that died prematurely when the girlfriend heard the boyfriend abuse his driver and throw the car keys at him in a fit of rage. Whereas there is much to learn from those who conduct themselves with modesty and grace despite being born into enormous wealth. A fifth-generation super wealthy family in Mumbai makes sure each guest is personally greeted and escorted to the porch when they are entertaining at their mansion. Nobody is made to feel lesser or greater depending on their social importance. By contrast, I attended a splashy, extravagant wedding in the national capital, at which three separate areas had been created for guests belonging to different categories. The VVIP section had even hired bouncers to keep lesser beings out! And I was immensely saddened to see the indifference demonstrated by the hosts towards people who had travelled long distances to bless the couple. Every guest is a god, so say our shastras. Even if that is a huge exaggeration, every guest is certainly an equal. If children grow up watching their parents discriminating in such an insensitive way, they will metamorphose into social monsters who think it is fine to disrespect invitees by placing them in demarcated ghettos.

  Class divides can divide families. Strange conversations take place about those who ‘belong’ and those who clearly don’t. We judge, judge, judge on the basis of superficial, telltale signs that reflect ‘upbringing’.

  Yes, we are hopelessly, incurably, horribly class-conscious. Colour-conscious. Money-conscious. Everything-conscious! I have long chats with friends who also have daughters of a ‘certain’ (read: marriageable) age. We discuss prospective grooms from the available pool, and invariably the talk gets more focused and one of the ladies quickly gets to the point: Is the boy well off? Once his financial status is established, the next query is still more direct: Fair or dark? How fair? How dark? Examples are sought from people one knows. As fair as so-and-so? Darker than that distant cousin . . . ? Then comes the most important piece of information: Where does the family live? In town? Or in the suburbs? Armed with this basic info, several conclusions are reached: The prospective suitor is declared ‘suitable’ or ‘unsuitable’ based on key data that has nothing to do with any important personal attributes—his qualifications, qualities or future prospects.

  I used to hope the younger generation was differently sensitized and had discarded such stereotyping. But no! I hear the same old conversations revolving around flashy acquisitions—not genuine ambitions. Chest thumping in place of a lively exchange of ideas.

  Friends for life?

  Years and years ago, when I was fresh out of college and desperately searching for myself, I was introduced to a group of self-styled intellectuals—some seriously wealthy, others just wealthy. There was an air of entitlement about them that I found strangely attractive. All this came back to me on a recent holiday when my sister made several references to my ‘rich and famous’ life. I actively resented her comment and told her so, somewhat testily. She was equally irritated and reminded me about those very days, before asking a pertinent question: ‘You gravitated towards that set, or they gravitated towards you. The point is, you didn’t choose the other, less privileged people from your age group, and they didn’t pick you!’

  I am still not sure whether this was an accusation or an observation, nearly five decades later. But
her comment forced me to go back to those distant days and recall a few defining moments. One of them involves a chicken dish—coq au vin, to be specific. At the time, I had never tasted ‘vin’ and the ‘coq’ we had at our home was generally tandoori chicken brought in from Delhi Darbar. This was no ordinary coq au vin, let me tell you. It was the speciality of a very gracious, very beautiful princess, who was in love with a dashing prince. But the prince didn’t fancy her back and she felt the only way to his heart was to cook his favourite dish for him. Considering the lady had at least ten handmaidens on call, it was understood she wouldn’t do any of the stirring, chopping, cleaning or serving. She would elegantly supervise the proceedings from a safe distance, making sure her head remained demurely covered with the pallu of her French chiffon saree at all times. Her devotion was touching and genuine. His indifference to her, heartless and mean. And yet, each time I was invited to the carefully orchestrated ‘coq au vin’ dinner parties at her sprawling apartment, I would happily go—to feast on the pantomime as much as on the chicken drowning in expensive red wine.

  It was through this set of ‘friends’ that I started to read J. Krishnamurti and attend his discourses, held in the compound of the J.J. School of Art. I have no idea why the princess would want to rub shoulders with the unwashed at that stage. She must have been a genuine seeker. I went along as I was curious. The first few times I pretended to be terribly interested and impressed. All around me, there were people of varying ages with one thing in common—their expression. They were clearly mesmerized. And I was clearly not. This worried me initially. Why was I not overawed like everybody else? I figured it was because I wasn’t intelligent enough to get what the beautiful man in unbleached silk was saying, his proud head like a Roman emperor’s, his voice well-modulated and supremely refined. From time to time, he’d pause, survey the crowd and ask impatiently, ‘Are you with me? Do you understand?’

  The princess would nod her head eagerly, as would the others, and the great philosopher would carry on for another hour or so, before wafting towards a waiting Mercedes and heading out to dinner with a more exclusive gathering of diehard, well-heeled devotees. This was such a fascinating phase of my own ‘self-development’ plan. Even if it did make me feel totally inadequate on so many levels. The great thinker–philosopher was referred to as ‘J’ by the core group, and after every discourse, there would be a lively if intensely self-conscious discussion on it . . . I had my views, but lacked the confidence required to participate.

  So I kept mum and tried to melt into the shadows as different ways to ‘still the chattering of the mind’ as per the Guru’s instructions were tried out by the noisy group. Of course, he was never to be called a ‘Guru’—he was vehemently opposed to such a tag. But . . . but . . . he did encourage followers . . . they were devoted to him . . . yet, they didn’t call themselves his ‘disciples’. Then what were they? I found the whole thing a bit of a farce, even though ‘J’ had a powerful presence that made me go back for more. I actually enjoyed looking at him—the many vanities on parade. I would stare at his carefully groomed silver mane, framing the face of a saint or a king, the aristocratic curl of his upper lip almost a sneer. ‘J’ was a god. Yes, he was—god of beauty and beyond.

  I would notice his pampered, pedicured feet, neatly manicured hands, the radiant glow on his face, his silken attire, the nonchalant air that is bred by a highly privileged existence. I would watch his fawning admirers as they formed a possessive, proprietorial ring around him, making sure his immediate environment stayed free of people ‘pollution’. This was a rarefied world which belonged to the intellectual/moneyed elite of the city. And they were not about to surrender even an inch of this fiercely guarded turf to anybody. He would be hastily swept off to a grand home on Pedder Road, and the discourse would continue—this time for the chosen few alone. I did make it to one or two such sessions, but didn’t enjoy the subtext of exclusion. The public discourses were meant for the janata—which may be why he chose to talk down. These were closed-door sessions for the inner circle, and he was a different man in this setting. I was welcomed—but cautiously. Which was fine by me. I could never have been converted into a fawning sycophant, and the group realized that quickly. I remained an interested outsider, a vigilant observer, and that trait has never left me.

  Which is why when my youngest daughter asked me recently, ‘Were you always this aloof?’ I was a little taken aback that she, not any of the older children, had guessed my secret! I laughed and wondered aloud, ‘Why aloof? You really think I am aloof?’ It was her turn to stare at me quizzically and retort, ‘You may fool the world. But you don’t fool me!’ I was never trying to fool the world! I was merely being true to my own fears. I like to stay away from hostile situations that I know will lead nowhere. Yes, I don’t trust easily, and that again has to do with a fear of betrayal. I tell my children the same thing: ‘Don’t be cynical. But for God’s sake, don’t be gullible either!’

  Friendships are created on several levels. At different times in your life, you automatically shift gears, just as your friends do the same. In a highly romanticized notion of ‘friendship’ people believe it lasts forever. It doesn’t, and nor does it have to. So long as it is sublime while it lasts, be happy. I know people who cling to relationships that are clearly over. Once upon a time, the same relationships were intimate and close. Well, it’s a different scenario now. Deal with it! But how?

  Yes, I don’t trust easily, and that again has to do with a fear of betrayal. I tell my children the same thing: ‘Don’t be cynical. But for God’s sake, don’t be gullible either!’

  Last year, I found myself spending hours with a girlfriend I have known for thirty years. She was lamenting the end of another close friendship and feeling really upset by what she considered a ‘betrayal’. Was it really that? Or had the other person outgrown my friend? Possibly, the spouses weren’t compatible. Or they had both moved miles away from what had once been the main area of common passions. It happens and when it does, step away and acknowledge it. Once you recognize the reason for the crack in the friendship, it’s much easier to accept the new reality.

  I asked my friend to figure out what exactly it was that she missed. Companionship? The two hardly met any more. A confidante? Their lives had changed dramatically, and so had the emotional equation between them. A mentor? Possibly. But if my friend needed a new one, there wasn’t a dearth of mentors to choose from in her field. After several hours and a great deal of tears, I finally figured what it was that she was seeking: approval. When the friendship ended on a sour note, my friend experienced a level of rejection she was unable to handle. Her ego was bruised. She felt deflated, as if her friend was saying, ‘Sorry, you are no longer the same woman. We have nothing in common today. You are not good enough for me.’ That stung!

  My friend asked, ‘Am I really that unworthy? That boring?’ Of course not! But had her friend said so? Or was she presuming too much? What had led to the betrayal? An incident? A breach of trust? It turned out to be both. Tough after so many years of closeness, but there it was. Now what? My friend was a broken woman, weepy and depressed. It’s always hard to deconstruct an intimate relationship dispassionately and ask yourself where you had failed. That is an important first step. I advised her to stop pushing all the blame on the other person and spend time introspecting. Did she want to go back and start again? Was she expecting an apology? If not, there was no point in digging up the past. Instead, she would be better off remembering their wonderful times together—all those lovely holidays they’d taken, the laughter and crazy moments getting drunk, dancing in the rain, watching world cinema, reciting poetry, eating home-cooked biryani. This is what makes life richer, more bearable.

  When any relationship dies—a slow death or a cardiac arrest, death is death—it’s best to mentally organize a decent funeral for it. And continue living. Continue seeking. Friendships, even intense ones, are replaceable. Most people find that hard to stomach. Frien
ds are like precious jewels. One has to place enormous value on them. Preserve them well. Look after them. But they can’t be locked up inside a vault. That’s when suffocation happens.

  Friendships must be shared. Don’t get proprietorial and possessive about those you love. Be confident enough to introduce your beloveds to other beloveds. You lose nothing by doing so. If anything, you are enriching your life and several others’. There is a great deal of joy in getting like-minded people together. Be open and large-hearted—the more you share, the greater the pleasure.

  I love hosting evenings at home for visiting writers. The other guests are friends who may or may not know one another. Within the first hour, I can sense new bonds developing, numbers and addresses being exchanged, and it makes me feel genuinely happy to play a ‘facilitator’. Sometimes, a casual encounter at home leads to an unexpected romance—even marriage! That’s the icing on the cake. Other times, people drift away, and we meet years later. So what? At least for those short hours we shared a wonderful time, laughter, goodwill and sparkling conversation. Shouldn’t that be enough?

  Why do friendships have to shift and change?

  I received a distress call from an old friend. She had just finished reading one of my columns where I had made oblique references to friendships that sour. Clearly, I had hit a raw nerve. She wanted us to meet immediately. There was much to share. But mainly she wanted to discuss two long-standing friendships that had crumbled virtually overnight. Over a glass or two or three of chilled Chilean white, we talked late into the night. At the end of her narration, I said something pretty obvious and simple. ‘From what you just told me, these two women were never your friends!’ It hadn’t occurred to her that the ladies with whom she had holidayed frequently, met regularly, confided in and invested so much of herself, over a forty-year period, had no feelings for her. If they had been on holidays together, it was only because it suited them! If they spent Sunday afternoons with her, it was because they were equally at a loose end. If they unfailingly attended one another’s dinner parties, it was because they belonged to the same social circle.