Seventy . . .

by Shobhaa De

  Families that diet together stay together. Eating together is a different matter. Within this delicate dining-table space, nothing of any consequence takes place, what with every family member engaging with a mobile phone. Menus are customized to accommodate dietary requirements. One person is on a gluten-free course, another eats chicken but not red meat, a third avoids carbs and focuses on proteins. It is a wonder there is any joy left at mealtimes!

  I attended a community feast recently and was delighted to rediscover the pleasure of sitting on wooden platforms placed on the tiled floor, being served a shuddh vegetarian meal by family cooks and senior ladies of the household. Most of the recipes had been passed down from earlier generations and the mood in the large dining room was lively and relaxed, as along with each dish being served, there were anecdotes and memories galore revolving around other family feasts. Suddenly, the barrenness of contemporary meals struck me forcefully. Why have we stopped talking—really talking—and started ‘exchanging’ polite noises that pass for conversation? This is where social media also plays the villain. All these links that have to be opened and read, all those videos that have to be watched, and the games that need to be mastered. I confess I have tried and failed to ban mobile phones at the dining table. And since example is supposed to work better than lectures, I never make or take calls during meals. Often, I find myself staring stonily ahead while everybody else is busy punching keys.

  Large families mean large problems. They also mean large joys. But it’s the problems that act as speed breakers in intimate relationships; they start to choke and gag and stifle, and you want to run away. Mothers and wives are not supposed to admit they want to flee. Most women I know well want to flee from time to time. They are not sure where they are headed, nor why they want to escape. But they do! Some of my more daring girlfriends have done exactly that—run away from home and family. One of them left for Goa and never came back! She is blissed out and content, living the life of an ageing hippy in a beach shack, surrounded by like-minded people from all over the world. After years of ‘not forgiving mom’, the children are back with her. And she dotes on the grandkids who adore their hip, tattooed grandma. The husband, who had turned into a vengeful demon when she had fled, has reconciled himself to her way of life—albeit most reluctantly. He spends half the year with her and doesn’t seem angry any more. But then she is an exceptional woman. She has always made bold decisions. Not every wife–mother–daughter has her guts. Most grit their teeth and stay put.

  But what if society ‘allowed’ women to flee from time to time? I think it would lead to happier marriages in the long run. Fleeing provides perspective. Away from the tyranny of domesticity (I really don’t know a single woman who ‘loves’ housework!), women come into their own in creative and wonderful ways. Most spend time with themselves engaging in activities they may love but don’t find the time for, trapped as they are in routine. The basic family fears that the woman will ‘run wild’, have an affair, drink herself silly and get into trouble are entirely misplaced. The reason families think like this is because families are selfish and insecure. They need the pivot (the woman) to keep their lives going.

  When they express their worries about the woman’s safety when she is on her own somewhere and they can’t reach her, they are, in fact, worried about themselves. ‘What happens to us if she doesn’t come back? What will we do on our own?’ The vagabond/absconder is made to feel terrible about forgetting her primary duty! Most times she backs down, even after her bags are packed—metaphorically and in reality. She shrugs and says sadly to herself, ‘Forget it! The family is right. They need me. I should stay. What was I thinking?’ And she stays. Everybody claps. They tell her she has done the right thing. They make her feel valued once again. She lulls herself into believing the false praise. She cries a little. Or a lot. Nobody sees her tears. Nobody is interested in her regrets. She tells herself to stop yearning. Stop dreaming. She gets busy in the kitchen. There is a collective sigh of relief. One more escape successfully stalled by those who claim to love her. If only they knew! If only they loved! She’d be free . . .

  I see you stare, see if I care!

  I was checking my Facebook page and came across my youngest daughter’s cheeky post. It was one of those ‘truthful’ personal statements that are peddled by various youth-driver sites. It read: ‘Yes, I dance in the car. And I see you stare. I don’t care!’ And I was instantly ashamed of my many lectures to her in the past.

  Anandita was born dancing. She has the music in her. We all admire her unrehearsed moves. Anandita can, and does, dance anywhere and everywhere. That’s the way it should be, right? That’s what I stated very confidently. But when Anandita was a few years younger, our old faithful who chauffeurs her around told me with some alarm that Anandita was being stared at by other motorists, especially when the car stopped at traffic signals. He said, after carefully lowering his voice, that she had the car stereo on at full blast, and refused to listen to him when he requested her to stop dancing in the back seat.

  ‘People think she’s a mad girl!’ he blurted out. In my heart of hearts I knew it was they who were mad—obviously, they’d never danced just for the love of it. Obviously, they were not accustomed to seeing a young girl lost in her own world. Obviously, they needed to loosen up. She was not harming anybody, merely embarrassing Choudhary. He, in turn, was being protective towards his charge, and giving her ‘good’ advice. But I fell for it and did the right (predictable) thing by admonishing her. Anandita looked genuinely puzzled, then hurt. She asked what was wrong with dancing in the car to unwind, relax, enjoy the music. I told her pompously, ‘But people stare!’ And she replied witheringly, ‘So let them stare! I don’t care. And you shouldn’t either.’

  But on one level, I did care. Double standards!

  The more sinister side of social media pressure involves the ‘coolness’ factor. Parents of pre-teens are at a complete loss here. Unable to access this virtual world their children belong to, they feel powerless and excluded. They also feel exceedingly insecure. Most parents I talk to are ignorant about their children’s lives outside the home. They have no clue whether their kids are underage drinkers, have experimented with drugs, stolen the family car and taken it on a few spins, had sex, got an abortion or made friends with potentially dangerous people they’ve met over FB. Nothing is as it looks. The parents are frightened and baffled. ‘Should we interfere?’ they ask, anxiety written all over their face. I don’t understand the word ‘interfere’ when it comes to children. There is no such thing as ‘interference’. Either you are intimately involved in the minutiae of their lives or your children could be dead. It is happening all over the world. Children are getting radicalized, joining cults, playing dangerous games (Blue Whale, anyone?), participating in secret rituals, keeping guns. Parents have the right to know, period. It’s a non-negotiable right. Children cannot take away a parent’s legitimate concern over their lives and safety.

  I had battles galore with my own—and still do—when they felt I had crossed the line and invaded their space. It’s 4 a.m. and they aren’t back. I am aware of the event they’re attending. But know nothing about the ‘after-party’ and the ‘after-after-party’. All I know is my bedside clock is ticking and my heart is pounding. Their mobile phones ring, but of course, I get no answer. I start having morbid thoughts. ‘What if . . . ?’ I wait for the landline to ring. It could be a call from an emergency ward in a hospital. Or from a police station. All sorts of wild stories pop into my head. Finally, my call gets through. I ask in utter despair, ‘But . . . but . . . where are you? It’s nearly 5 a.m.!’ I hear an exasperated sigh. ‘Don’t worry . . . I am two minutes away . . . we are taking the turn at Mantralaya.’ It is always the Mantralaya turn! ‘Come on, I am not such a donkey. You are probably at Juhu,’ I want to say. But I keep quiet. I feel grateful my call was accepted at all. I remember my neighbour’s kid making several distress calls and not getting a response late on a Sa
turday night, because the poor, exhausted mother had switched off her mobile phone and fallen asleep . . . till that early-morning knock on the door. You know the rest. It has become a common narrative across the country. Why should mothers have to put up with such tyranny?

  I don’t understand the word ‘interfere’ when it comes to children. There is no such thing as ‘interference’. Either you are intimately involved in the minutiae of their lives or your children could be dead.

  Today’s progressive parents are supposed to ‘mind their own business’ and stop ‘being nosy’. What’s nosy about asking basic questions like ‘When will you be home?’ I really don’t get it. We are supposed to respect our children’s choices. Mostly, we do. We are also supposed to pretend we are deaf, dumb and blind. I have often felt like chopping my tongue off after saying, ‘Oh my God! You are going out dressed like this?’ Those terrible words tumble out before I can stop myself. It’s war after that. I am told I know nothing about how people dress these days. I know nothing about the latest hair and make-up trends. I am not a nail person, so clearly I don’t appreciate nail art. As for body-con ensembles—come on, what’s the point of going to the gym and working out strenuously if all one can wear is a shapeless tent? Small difference: Mumbai has a posh locality called Malabar Hill. But Beverley Hills it ain’t. This is where I sense a lot of clashes between New India and Old India. I am suspended in between. I understand my daughters want to dress like their global peers. But our social environment is far from conducive for flaunting this level of fashion. I worry about reactions to their on-point dressing. I see them through a mother’s filter. And all I can observe is risk. Sorry, I am an old-fashioned hypocrite when it comes to safety. In principle I support and encourage every woman’s right to dress and behave as she pleases. But I confess I go into panic mode when I see my youngest daughter leaving for a night on the town, dressed à la mode. I fear she will be singled out for verbal or physical attack from people who ‘disapprove’ of her clothes. ‘Showing legs, showing arms, showing so much . . . do these girls have no shame?’ That awful word—shame. A shiver runs down my spine. I forget my politically correct stand on the matter of female attire and throw a shawl at her, ‘Take this . . .’ I call out desperately. Not that she is going to wrap herself up. But, I console myself, at least she has the option.

  It takes me back to my own ‘shameless’ days as a teenager who lived in shorts. I had a legitimate ‘excuse’—I lived on the sports field. But shorts remained my most favoured attire, much to the disapproval of my parents. It certainly was a big cultural departure for my family to watch their youngest child running around half-clad, especially since their eldest was compelled to switch to sarees when she ‘came of age’ at eleven! My father was serving in the hinterlands of Maharashtra back then. By the time our family relocated to Mumbai after ten years in Delhi, I was ready to break the mould and kick-start my life on a fresh note. What must have seemed rebellious, radical and defiant to them was perfectly natural to me. So it must be for my daughters too.

  As protective parents, we tend to over-romanticize our own histories. We also concoct myths about our past. Most times we get away with the quasi-lies and half-truths. Children are too self-absorbed, too lazy to probe or dig for the truth. This suits everybody just fine. But what if you decide to table the truth, the whole truth and nothing but? Do you really think your children want to know? Just the other day I was dealing with a daughter’s meltdown. One of the siblings told me softly, ‘The problem is you confide a bit too much in her . . . she knows all your weak points.’ And you know most of hers. That’s a problem? I have no real ‘secrets’. I prefer my family to know it all—warts and everything. I don’t want to hide a thing. Perhaps they are not dying to know about my life before they were born or even what it is today? Why inflict unwanted information on the unwilling or the disinterested?

  I started to think about sharing too much with my children after that stand-off. For a couple of days, my new-found insights worked brilliantly. By day three, there I was, dying to perform an emotional striptease once again. Why?

  Most mothers and grandmothers crib about the apathy of children. This is universal. There are ‘good’ children and there are ‘bad’ children. But all children are indifferent. Mostly. Understandably. Recall your own childhood, if you dare.

  No child is born ‘bad’. So why do some children turn into brats? Psychologists have their own take on this. Tomes have been written on the subject. History books are replete with examples of ‘good’ and ‘bad’ children. After raising a few myself, I think ‘bad’ children are products of ‘bad’ parenting most of the time. Poor handling of a difficult kid leads to that kid growing up into a seriously dysfunctional adult. This is, of course, a sweeping generalization. But there is an element of truth in it. I have seen children born of the same set of parents behaving so differently, it’s hard to figure out what could have gone wrong. I’d say inconvenient timing is the most obvious cause. Some kids are born too early, some too late. Very few are fortunate enough to be born when both parents are ready for them. It is this out-of-sync accident of birth that dramatically affects a child’s personality and psyche.

  Most parents are unaware of their own emotional state at the time of conception and after. Young parents are so wrapped up in just managing their time, money, in-laws, health and other priorities, they don’t have the energy to invest in a toddler. If both parents work, as is common, the situation gets further complicated. There are pressures galore to cope with—an acute shortage of time being the main bane of parenting at this stage. Supportive in-laws take care of the nitty-gritty of everyday issues—they stand in for day-care centres. Even the most loving grandparents find it hard to manage a tantrum-prone kid. There is confusion and guilt since nobody can figure out why the child is yelling so much or throwing toys around. ‘We give our baby everything . . . whatever is asked for,’ hapless in-laws from both sides lament. Perhaps that’s the problem! Giving a child ‘everything’ leads to certain disaster. But it’s the quickest way to shut the kid up . . . peace is bought with chocolates, video games, unrestricted access to television, some other bribe. Soon the kid realizes their power. And uses it ruthlessly. Not knowing he/she is being ruthless, of course.

  I am trying to see the world through the eyes of my grandchildren. It’s a daunting task. Not being a typical grandmother, I cannot coo and cuddle for long. I get distracted and bored after a point. I enjoy the gurgling and the drooling, but it doesn’t keep me enthralled and engaged as it does most of my contemporaries. In fact, I fail miserably when they attempt to draw me into the grandmom stakes, a silly competition that involves gushing and bragging. No, I don’t know how often the babies poop, how much and the quality or colour of their poop. Frankly, I don’t care either. So please stop telling me about it when we meet. Then comes the question of how many grandchildren we each have. ‘Oh, you have just five? I have seven. Any grandsons? I have three.’ Sometimes, I ask why they boast about this, considering they have not physically produced those babies. This doesn’t make me terribly popular in the Grandmom Club. I can almost hear them whispering, ‘What does she know? She’s too busy with her own life and career.’

  Indeed I am busy with my life and career. Without that, I’d be an even worse grandmother—crotchety and critical. Demanding and possessive. I want to meet my grandkids as young adults.

  Indeed I am busy with my life and career. Without that, I’d be an even worse grandmother—crotchety and critical. Demanding and possessive. I want to meet my grandkids as young adults. I may not be around at the time, but that would interest me far more—I’d be able to converse with them, watch movies together, share books and ideas. Figure out what they’re all about. Till such time, I am happy to meet them a few times a month and watch their antics. I confess there is only so much of messing with fake ‘slime’ and play dough that I can take. I guess that makes me a lousy naani.

  When the toddler grows into young adultho
od, trouble starts. Big, big trouble.

  These days, parents don’t shy away from seeking professional help either for themselves or their kids. Counselling troubled teens has become big business in India, and I frequently meet teenagers with mega attitude who sulkily boast, ‘Aunty, I am in therapy.’ Our movie stars have made it trendy to go public with mental health issues. There is an upside and a downside to this. Young, impressionable adults with resources and zero awareness take advantage of their parents’ panic-stricken response to crises and seek the services of trained counsellors, who may or may not have the answers the youngsters desperately seek. We are stuck! Today’s grandparents lead active, full lives. They don’t have the patience to listen to the problems faced by their grandkids. Even if they have the time, they lack the insights needed to conduct an intelligent dialogue.