Seventy . . .

by Shobhaa De

  When I didn’t get his call, I figured he had forgotten. After all, he wasn’t a young man any longer, just as I wasn’t a young woman. Around 4 p.m. the next day, as I was driving back from Pune, the art director called. After wishing me a long life and good health, he informed me that our photographer friend had passed away on my birthday. His wife, who had called the art director to convey the tragic news, had added, ‘Please call and wish Shobhaa Bhabhi. He would have wanted to.’ I choked back my tears and said a small prayer. It was that kind of relationship which didn’t need words or an exchange of gifts, promises or pledges. Just pure, unconditional affection and a deeper understanding that doesn’t demand validation. Now that he was gone, it would be one phone call less every year. I will always miss Vivek’s call.

  That’s how we start coming to terms with our own mortality. Too scared to deal with dying, we run away from imagining what it must be like to be sick, alone, living with the knowledge that death is a few days, maybe even a few minutes, away. And then contemporaries start dying. You scan newspaper obits, your eyes go to the birthdate of the person who has gone to his/her ‘heavenly abode’. You realize it is someone younger than you. And involuntarily, you thank God for keeping you alive. But alive for what?

  Lucky are those who have specific goals and ambitions for each stage of their lives. I am not one of them, alas. I roll along, and improvise as I go. Some things work, some don’t. I shrug and keep walking, as the whisky ad goes. But for the past couple of years, deaths of people I have known and grown up with have started to affect me a lot more than I could have imagined. ‘You sound so uncharacteristically sentimental these days,’ a girlfriend commented. It was like an accusation. As if to display vulnerability was somehow shameful. I instantly grew defensive. ‘Really? I wonder if that’s an accurate observation,’ was my weak comeback. She persisted, ‘We need to talk. You brood too much. So-and-so’s death has really affected you!’ She was right, and wrong. The person she was referring to was hardly a close friend. But yes, her death did shake me up. I said a bit testily, ‘It’s not as if I am morbidly preoccupied with death or something. But yes, I do think about it more than I used to.’ The word ‘morbid’ made me stop. What’s morbid? Is age morbid?

  People ask me where I want to be ten years from now. In my head, I say, ‘Having fun in heaven/hell. But definitely dead.’ I mean that. But it’s not the expected response. Most people want a seventy-year-old to turn pious overnight and talk of going on a pilgrimage. They want philosophy, words of wisdom, distilled knowledge. I feel like laughing out loud and yelling, ‘Screw your conventional/boring expectations. I am not about to alter my essential being because it makes you uncomfortable to think of a seventy-year-old woman whose world is not draped in a shroud. This attitude is exclusively reserved for seventy-year-old women. Men, please excuse!

  People ask me where I want to be ten years from now. In my head, I say, ‘Having fun in heaven/hell. But definitely dead.’ I mean that. But it’s not the expected response.

  I was recently called a ‘bombshell’ in print. ‘Sizzling at Seventy,’ read a caption. Somewhere else, I was described as ‘the sexiest sexagenarian’. Was I supposed to feel flattered? Initially, yes! It felt good, till I thought about the subtext. Why do we have to deal with a universal assumption that women of my vintage are nothing more than sexless, old bags? Why does our sexuality pose such a threat and repulse younger people? Is it the aesthetics that create a problem (‘Oh my Gawdddd! Who wants to bed her? Is she cuckoo? Can you imagine her without her clothes on?’)? Some of my women friends have not stopped looking at themselves, or at men, for that matter. When they spot attractive men, they look! Check them out. It does not mean they want to instantly bed them, though, why ever not? Mostly, they are paying a genuine compliment. It’s soothing to the eyes to observe a man at ease with himself and the world. He needn’t be a ‘stud’, or even good-looking. Perhaps he has wonderful hair that moves? Or shoulders that speak? A manner that pleases? A lovely voice that caresses words? Age is really pretty irrelevant. Women are not known to lech openly. But my daughters laugh when I say that. They tell me they have no problem leching. My daughters? Leching?

  I stare a lot more at attractive women too. And go up to some to say, ‘You are beautiful!’ I do that sometimes with ladies manning security booths at airports and malls. So many of them display their marital status with sindoor in the parting of the hair, bangles and rings, mangalsutras and bindis. I like those touches. I like the vanity. The rest of their appearance is masculine—they wear standard-issue shirt-pant uniforms like their male counterparts. Most people regard these mandatory checks with hostility, even resentment, and refuse to greet the uniformed ladies, forget about smiling or paying them a compliment. I like brief interactions, especially if I notice a telltale detail like mehendi patterns on the palm. I ask cheerfully, ‘Just married?’ Most times, the young bride is taken by surprise and blushes, covers her face and giggles before briskly patting me down. It’s a respite for both of us. And it’s a sweet moment. Her job is tiring and monotonous. My journey is equally tiring. That brief exchange always energizes me. I am sure it energizes the other person too.

  Sugar-free at seventy

  I was never a sugary person. Not at seventeen, and certainly not at seventy. I don’t like sugar. Even as a child, I preferred savouries to sweets. Birthday cakes and pastries? Give me spice over sweet any time, any day. I can bite into, enjoy and digest chillies, but not mithai. I find myself gagging when force-fed pedhas and laddoos, chocolates and macaroons. But these days, when I refuse dessert, other guests look at me sympathetically and ask, ‘Diabetes?’ At seventy, your systems start slowing down. I have always listened to my body. When I get an urgent message from a body part that says, ‘Whoa! Cut the speed!’ I generally listen. I also talk to my body parts and make them listen, except perhaps when I am having too much fun.

  Fun does have its limits, though. Airports! I hate them. I used to love entering one in the past. I would saunter in, my eyes gleaming, my step light. Just the thought of a new destination would make my heart race in anticipation. These days, I groan at the prospect of those interminable walks from one terminal to the next. The shuttle trains and endless immigration queues. The strained shoulder weighed down by a heavy bag. The change in attitude is inevitable. If, after a long flight, I used to be in a rush to disembark and start my trip as quickly as possible, I now take my time to get out of the aircraft and into the bus or air bridge. I let other passengers rush past me. I don’t really care if I am the last one to leave the aircraft. I wear flats most of the time. And watch my step on escalators and stairs. I used to do that earlier as well. But these days it’s a lot more obvious. In fact, observant younger companions instinctively offer their arms when I travel. Some say, ‘Hold my hand.’ Others take my packages and bags and considerately walk behind me. I am always touched and filled with gratitude. Was I this thoughtful at thirty or younger? Perhaps not. I was too self-absorbed to bother about a much older acquaintance.

  Dependencies induce anger. Even when you know the person whose extended hand you have grabbed is being courteous, you are reminded of your own inadequacies at that moment. And you feel awful. I do! ‘Are you scared of stairs?’ a young man asked me at a function. I admitted I was. ‘I was looking at you when you went up on stage—your body language had changed totally.’ That was pretty sharp of him! I grinned and confessed I was terrified of climbing steps, ever since a nasty fall in London years ago. Once that was out of the way, it was fine. I felt freed.

  I notice my children are being extra solicitous towards their mama these days. It’s a recent development. It amuses and saddens me. For years I used to nag them for not looking out for me during our frequent travels. They used to be genuinely puzzled by my scolding. ‘But, Mama, you leave us panting at the back! You walk faster and you have far more energy. You need looking after?’ It was at once a challenge and a compliment. It was also true. We would hit our destinati
on, wherever it was, and within minutes of checking into the hotel, throwing my bags down, I’d be hustling them to join me in the lobby and start exploring. They would groan, protest, not take my calls, plead fatigue and fall asleep, while I would briskly take off on my own. I still do that. But if they are around, they don’t let me wander off now without someone accompanying me. I am touched. But I also feel cross. I say those awful words that I never thought I would utter: ‘Come on, I am not that old yet!’ They smile indulgently and lie, ‘No, no, we felt like grabbing a coffee.’

  Slowing down is not fun. Not when your mind is racing.

  My husband has framed a picture of me as a sixteen-year-old track and field star. I am wearing alarmingly short shorts and carrying running spikes in my left hand. It’s a black-and-white picture, grainy and somewhat out of focus. But he loves it! And often says with enormous longing in his voice that he wishes he had met me then. It’s all about youth, isn’t it? And why not? The cycle of life doesn’t stop spinning for anybody. Today, I look at similar pictures (taken on their mother’s nifty phone), of my granddaughters winning track events during their sports days. I am shy and afraid to participate in the charming ‘grandparents’ race’. What if I don’t win? Some of the grandmoms are ten or fifteen years younger, fitter, hotter. What if I suffer a cardiac arrest trying to beat them to impress my grandkids? I can’t do it!

  What my body can no longer accomplish, I hope my mind still can, and must. I say that to all my contemporaries as they struggle with the same issues. I run into them at airports and note their ‘comfy’ (read: dumpy) attire, flat shoes or bulky sneakers, mouse-coloured shawls and handcrafted pullovers, coiffed bob, light foundation, discreet make-up and standard pearls. I can never become that kind of woman. I stare guiltily at my own attire. I must resemble a leftover relic from the hippy era, in my hoop earrings, gypsy skirt, silver bangles and large handbags. My hair (so much thinner) is still left loose and untamed. My make-up has not varied (a touch of kohl, lip gloss), and my attitude remains the same. It’s the gait that gives the game away—cautious and watchful.

  My hyperactive mind is in overdrive, noticing everything minutely. As always, I am devouring sights and sounds. An unfamiliar accent makes me spin around to see who it belongs to. I stare at the bright green nail polish on my neighbour’s overgrown toenails. I shamelessly eavesdrop on conversations and smile to myself. I start writing my next column mentally, or imagining a new character for my next novel. There are dozens of parallel conversations going on inside my head. I am never bored. I like my own company. I talk to myself a lot. Not aloud, of course. But even before falling asleep, I indulge in some ‘me talk’, review the day, think about my life, figure out what I have done wrong, congratulate myself for doing something right. So, when I finally shut off my mind, there is nothing incomplete left to carry forward to the next day.

  Here’s a confession: When it’s difficult to fall asleep, I design clothes. Yes. I love doing that. In my mind. I start by reviewing the contents of my cupboard and figuring out what to keep and what to discard (I end up keeping everything!). Then comes the all-important mix-and-match session—I get excited when a new way of wearing an old favourite pops into my head. I make mental notes and tell myself to try it soon. That never happens! But I enjoy the game. Some may find this superficial, I find it most creative.

  We all have to find our own ‘games’. They are harmless and they can be most entertaining. Our games allow us to keep the mind active, alert and energized. A lazy mind sans stimulation becomes dull, leading to the onset of depression, loneliness and possibly other more serious medical conditions. The more you exercise the brain, the sharper your perceptions are. It works on the same principle as physically exerting yourself to keep those muscles more toned and efficient. I hardly exercise my body. I have never worked out in a gym nor engaged a trainer. As and when I can grab a few minutes, I stretch and attempt a few basic yoga asanas. My latest is the ‘chair suryanamaskar’. Not sure what good it does, but it makes me feel virtuous. I confess it’s not terribly smart of me to ignore a regimen recommended by far wiser folks. I just feel restless and bored jumping around by myself. But this is short-sighted as some form of exercise is essential for the system. I could climb stairs, walk, swim, do a few real suryanamaskars. Each new year, I make the same resolution: start exercising! Each year it’s broken by 10 January. Doing housework is perhaps the best exercise of all. Unfortunately, I am no domestic goddess either.

  Okay, I can be an ostrich sometimes . . .

  Aah! Now comes that magic word—denial. Most of us fall back on it when the alternative is hard to change or absorb. When I am faced with a no-hope situation, I take my time to react. Generally, I walk away and retreat into myself, scrambling to find a solution. There is no problem on earth that does not have a solution. It may not be the ideal one—but it’s comforting to know it exists at all. These dark phases are the hardest. Especially if one has to present a ‘social face’ at a high-profile event and smile at strangers, when all that time, there are demons within, and enormous, tempestuous emotions to deal with. Anger, rage, hurt, disappointment, disillusionment, contempt—it’s a cauldron boiling over, but the surface has to stay calm and controlled. Or else—what will everybody think?

  Of course, I am often trapped in these highly conflicting situations. And I have sort of trained myself to deal with them with a level of equanimity but only I know what price that extracts. The public persona stays in character (can’t let the side down), but I am so emotionally churned up within, my heartbeat accelerates dangerously, my head pounds, my gut rebels. Yet I give nothing away. I realize this is detrimental to my physical and mental health. I try to control my mind as best as I can, and then I wonder—is this the solution? I know the answer. I am evading truths. I am being a coward. I am running away from dealing with a crisis upfront.

  Unspoken arguments are running through my mind as I go about my day, dutifully filing columns, attending to domestic chores, handling children, all the while making sure my voice and expression remain ‘neutral’. But why? I want to yell, cry, hit back, argue, but I don’t. My mother was not like that, I remind myself. When she was angry or upset, she expressed it. My father would say, ‘She wears her temper on her nose’ (an untranslatable Marathi phrase that says it all). Her subterranean rage would surface, her eyes flash, and her voice would go up a few decibels. The outburst would subside fairly quickly, and then she would sulk. Her brow would stay deeply furrowed for a few days but she would carry on with her ‘duties’ regardless. She would retreat in silence to the kitchen to prepare the family’s meals, just like I rush towards my laptop and start keying in stuff blindly. We would walk around her without daring to intrude into her space. I have no such protection, alas! So I do the next best thing. She cooked. I write. Both adopting a life-preserving tactic, for the same reasons. She must have found cooking as therapeutic as I find writing. It’s a pity I never asked her that question. Her answer might have surprised me. Nobody asks me either. Just as I took it for granted that my mother cooked for us, every day, twice a day. I guess my family takes it equally for granted that I write every day, most of the day. It is assumed my mother and I had the same choices—and we chose! Did we really? Maybe she wanted to write. Maybe I want to cook. Too late to ask her, but not too late to ask myself!

  Denial is a dangerous place to be in. It resolves nothing. It delays everything. Eventually, whatever it is you don’t wish to face will not evaporate into nothingness. It will wait. Sometimes for decades. And it will bite. Then what?

  It is assumed my mother and I had the same choices—and we chose! Did we really? Maybe she wanted to write. Maybe I want to cook. Too late to ask her, but not too late to ask myself!

  I have no original answers to offer. For decades, I have struggled to make sense of life’s tricks—the big ones and the small ones. The one thing I have observed is that those who deal with inner grace rarely crack as badly as those who wilfully hurt innocents
. Sensitivity is about other people, not yourself. I remember pointing this out to a good friend when she was harping on about her own high levels of sensitivity and passing judgements on those in her life who didn’t possess it in the quantum arbitrarily decided by her.

  After hearing her out for half an hour, I stopped her mid sentence and asked what the definition of sensitivity was. As expected, she spoke about herself, her emotional response to family situations, friendships, colleagues, and how intensely even tiny rebuffs impacted her. At this point, I sensibly backed out of the conversation. But years later, she reminded me about that afternoon and said she thought about our exchange and realized how selfishly she was living, only thinking of her own reactions, without pausing to think of anybody else. It happens to all of us when we are smarting from fresh hurts. We can’t think beyond the hurt. Unable to cope with the intensity of the emotion, we run in the opposite direction. Denial strikes again! Accumulated denials start piling up, till one reaches a breaking point and something gives—generally the body, which protests vehemently against years of suppression. Even at that critical stage, most of us treat the physical symptoms, without bothering to find out what caused them.

  Younger people are suffering from stress-related conditions. Some of them are acutely aware of the triggers that generate stress, but plead helplessness. ‘It is our hectic lifestyle these days,’ they rationalize. And if anybody says the obvious (‘Change it, in that case’), they shrug and change the subject instead. I am terrified when I look around me and see twenty-somethings trying in vain to cope with multiple issues and failing to resolve most. The levels of competition they are compelled to deal with are frightening. The pressure to conform to near impossible ideals of what constitutes a ‘good life’ makes them chase ridiculously unrealistic dreams. The reassurance that larger families provided troubled household members is absent in today’s nuclear units. With little or no guidance, kids are adrift, left to their own devices to seek bigger answers to deeper questions than the ones they respond to robotically in their exam papers.