Seventy . . .
Page 17
So long as you maintain that distance from your sensitive ego and someone else’s sentiments, you are fine. To the best of my ability, I try to never talk about the distant past when I am with young people. They really don’t give a damn. Why subject yourself and them to nostalgia? Why thrust yourself into their space when you are not entirely welcome or accepted? We all guard our spaces. The young are entitled to put up a sign that reads, ‘Oldies, stay out!’ No offence meant. So, none should be taken.
At the same wedding, I found myself sitting at a table tapping my feet to the DJ’s amazing Bollywood tracks. I knew every song and practically every move. But I also knew my children would feel embarrassed if I hit the dance floor and started grooving to ‘Kala Chasma’ and other catchy hits. So I sat tight and was enjoying myself watching others on the dance floor, when my daughter reached over, placed her hand over mine and said quietly, ‘Mama, go dance,’ I was so thankful. Permission had been granted by at least one member of the resident censor board. It was just the green signal I had been looking for. Once on the floor, I let myself go. It was fantastic and so liberating. I was dancing on my own, for myself. My eyes were shut. I had entered another zone. Dancing is meditation. I love it! I can dance anywhere to any music. I dance for myself. It is not a performance. I don’t need a partner. I dance for me, with me. Maybe that is what my children fear. They watch me closely in public spaces—at airports, for example, or inside a mall. Wherever piped music plays, if I as much as snap my fingers to the beat, I feel a restraining arm clamp around my shoulders, a voice hissing, ‘Please, Mama. Not here!’
Those words, ‘Not here!’ or ‘Not now!’, are familiar to me. In my younger days, I ignored them disdainfully. Who decided where or when I could dance or sing? I did! Nobody else had that right. Today, I meekly give in. Obedience is not my strong point. My husband chides me constantly—sometimes he is genuinely angry, other times he does it indulgently. He reminds me, ‘You are behaving like your ten-year-old self—rebellious and childish.’ He is right. Then again, I ask petulantly, ‘Why should I grow up? Why should anybody grow up? There are characteristics and traits we possess that define us but don’t have to confine us. I like some of my childish habits. Dancing is one of them.’
Knowing this, the children organize family gatherings at their homes, where they ensure there is a steady supply of Sauvignon Blanc and great music. ‘Mama—you can dance tonight as much as you like.’ And I do. I think it is very considerate of them to recognize my weakness and indulge me. I want to thank them. I want to keep dancing as long as my knees and feet allow me to, before my toes fall off!
Dance is life.
And then your aching knees disobey.
Age is also life!
Dance is life.
And then your aching knees disobey.
Age is also life!
Do buddhas and buddhis really have sex?
Don’t go ‘ewwwww’ at the thought of senior citizens at it. After a certain age, ‘at it’ has many interpretations. Of course, it isn’t the ‘at it’ of the twenties, thirties and forties. But in our scrambled and confused society, it is considered ‘indecent’ for anybody over fifty to have a sex life or even think about sex, especially women. Hitting fifty renders a woman instantly sexless. Her thoughts are meant to turn to God and matters spiritual. She is seen as a ‘person’, not a woman. Past her childbearing years, her womb loses its value. She herself gets demoted. Worse, she demotes herself. She is by now used to being called ‘auntyji’ even by men ten years her junior. Her husband prefers snores over sex. If she shows mild interest in a man, she is called a ‘frustrated nympho’. To some, she is a soft target. She can no longer get instantly impregnated. So it’s safe to screw her and scoot. If she is in a stable marriage, she is spared the nuisance of dealing with beer-bellied seventy-year-old lecherous strangers eyeing her and even propositioning her. Men at that age figure a woman of fifty has nothing to lose and they have nothing to fear.
There are far too many assumptions in this narrative. Let’s get one thing straight: Senior citizens have sex, okay? Senior citizens like sex. Senior citizens think sex. A lot. Deal with it! Surprisingly, women at fifty and above these days seem to be far more sexually active than their thirty- or forty-year-old counterparts. They look after themselves better than my generation ever did. They are fit, well groomed and confident enough to wear swimwear on a beach without shrouding their bodies in voluminous kaftans. Despite that, when it comes to getting between the sheets with someone, the same glamorous ladies baulk at the thought. ‘I can’t possibly undress before a man, or make love with the lights on.’ But why? ‘It’s so awkward! I also don’t like the idea of looking at a naked man. Besides, I am far more fastidious now about tiny but important details—like smells, BO, personal hygiene, bathroom habits. Sex at my age involves far too much work!’ But at least, there is a certain lively interest in and a naughty discussion on the subject. And if the ‘work’ part is made less of a chore, I know quite a few of my girlfriends who’d be actively interested in resuming this familiar and pleasurable activity.
By contrast, the young wives I meet seem to lead pretty bloodless, sexless lives especially after they have children. They stop having sex with their husbands as soon as the pregnancy is confirmed. Most say it’s because they feel scared of ‘harming’ the baby. But that’s a lie. Many sheepishly admit they experience a welcome sense of relief to not have to provide ‘duty sex’ or sex on demand. They all complain of constant tiredness. Their souls seem more fatigued than their bodies. Their eyes are lost and listless. It’s hard to think they have lost interest in sex. Sex that keeps the world spinning. It almost makes life worth living. It’s a whole lot more interesting than planning for the next destination wedding. And yet, urban couples seem disconnected from the sensuous world altogether. Do they smell mogras? Like the feel of Chantilly cream on their bodies? The taste of each other’s skin? How can an erotic thumri not arouse them? Why are they dead to beauty? Is their body obsession nothing more than vanity? Do they ever see their body in the context of ‘the other’? Does it at all interest them to see their bodies with their partner’s as one form, intertwining, disentangling, making patterns? No? Why not? Ed Sheeran’s ‘Shape of You’ was displaced by Luis Fonsi’s ‘Despacito’ as the most watched video of all time. Both songs are sexual, erotic and impossibly catchy. The young love to dance to these hits. But they don’t love sex? Or not as compulsively as my generation? A contradiction!
It alarms me when young girls confess they are ‘bored of sex’. Have they had too much of it at twenty? What is ‘too much’ in any case? Or is it partner fatigue? Too much bad sex with the wrong partner? How can they be ‘bored’ of their own sexuality? Knocking off the veil of discovery and mystery from the act of love is to insult what is the ultimate act of giving. When you share your body wholeheartedly with another, you share more than pleasure. You share complete trust. There can be no greater intimacy than when you become one.
This tender feeling should stay and sustain you at whatever age. Yes, even at seventy. You are not going to be a throbbing, panting, sweating mass of unbridled desire in your seventh decade. But you have a body that still responds to stimuli. You aren’t dead—emotionally or physically. There is no shame to feel what you feel. There’s nothing more comforting than a caress from a loving partner when your self-esteem is low. A caress—not a friendly hug. A lingering, gentle caress. A caress that makes you feel like a desirable woman. A caress that makes you forget those extra kilos, the wiggly bits, the wrinkles and lines, the cellulite and grey down there. There is a more devastating honesty in an expression of physical love at my age than there ever was when I was younger. There are no games to play. No facades. No filters. And you have the leisure of time on your side. No hurried couplings. No tricks to prove how adept and ‘hot’ you are. Just a mellow coming together of all the years shared and the many mistakes made. You can laugh in bed finally. And that’s so damn liberating!
> Self-consciousness kills sex. Women want to look perfect when they are naked. They are never happy with their bodies and that intense preoccupation destroys any enjoyment of sex. I doubt they even look at their partners, so entirely absorbed and self-critical they are. As we all know, if two perfect bodies try to make love, it ends in disaster because acute vanity gets in the way. Young mothers look for easy solutions. Sometimes they suppress their sexual urges and sublimate those energies into some other activity by jumping energetically into a demanding sport. Their husbands do the same. So we have two fit people who share a bed but do not have sex regularly because they are dead beat at the end of the day. This provides a convincing alibi as well. They declare how much they love each other and they mean it. ‘It’s just that we have loads of stuff to deal with to have sex in addition to all that.’ The occasional sexual romp is reserved for a semi-drunken Friday or Saturday night. Fuelled by alcohol, inhibitions sufficiently lowered, they get home and make feeble attempts to get it going. Most times it doesn’t work. Or as they put it bluntly, ‘It’s too much effort for a few minutes of fun.’
Funny how those two words—‘too much’—colour so many aspects of young lives. I hear the phrase ‘Too much fun, yaar’ and smile to myself. Better that than ‘too much boredom’. Short attention spans have shrunk everything. Try having a conversation that satiates all the senses at once like a gourmet meal. It has become rarer and rarer with any person of any age group. At some point your eyes glaze over and, abruptly, the interaction is declared finished. There is an immense sense of relief as the bored person looks around frantically for someone more interesting to talk to. I remember feeling really awful at a family wedding when the elders were abandoned and left to amuse themselves while the younger generation chatted animatedly. I told myself, ‘You will soon join the ranks of those family elders left on the sidelines to fend for themselves.’ No way, I say defiantly, looking nervously at myself in the small mirror I discreetly fish out of my large handbag.
I don’t want to be the little old lady who once had an interesting life. I don’t want to be the woman waiting to be served her meals at a function because she is unable to walk to the buffet table and help herself. I don’t want to be the woman people walk up to uncertainly to ask, ‘Aren’t you so-and-so? I wasn’t sure. So what are you doing these days?’ An ego is a terrible curse. I tell myself mine is a healthy one. It isn’t exaggerated one bit. I ask my family if I am doing fine all the time. They are tired of reassuring me. When I questioned Avantikka for the hundredth time, she told me gently, ‘You are used to people looking at you. That’s how it has been for most of your life. It takes time to get accustomed to a different response, when that happens, if that happens. Don’t think about it right now. Knowing you, there will always be something else you will find that is enjoyable and fulfilling. Maybe some other passion that will fascinate you. That’s the person you are.’ It’s difficult to view yourself turning into a non-entity, a non-person, an old person. Old in spirit. Old in thought. Old-old. Will it happen to me?
I console myself with memories of M.F. Husain at ninety-five. Productive, active, agile, attractive, alive—physically and mentally. What broke him was not old age but rejection. He aged quickly after he was banished from his beloved India. He had no will to carry on. Even though he had everything else—enough fame, money, admirers—what he didn’t have was home. Rootless and despairing in the end, the person I met on his hospital bed in London a few hours before he died was a broken man. For the first time in his life, Husainsaab looked like a sick, old person, which indeed he was. But till that moment when all was taken from him—his izzat—he had been the legendary, iconic Husainsaab. Ageless and gorgeous, exuding vitality in every jaunty step, as he traipsed all over the world, restlessly forever seeking beauty.
Where will my ‘rejection’ come from? In what form? Will I recognize it in time? Should I even care? One part of me says, ‘To hell with such boring thoughts. You will deal with whatever it is, if and when you have to. For now, drink up the moonlight. Stay thirsty. Stay hungry. Dance!’
Where will my ‘rejection’ come from? In what form? Will I recognize it in time? Should I even care? One part of me says, ‘To hell with such boring thoughts. You will deal with whatever it is, if and when you have to. For now, drink up the moonlight. Stay thirsty. Stay hungry. Dance!’
Some people take rejection in their stride, as if it’s the most natural thing. But it isn’t. Nothing and no one should feel rejected. There is room for all. The space in this life, in this world, is vast. And yet, most of us experience rejection several times in our lives. Most of us deal with rejection very badly. People say foolishly, ‘Don’t take it personally, it’s not about you!’ Then who is it about? You just fired me. You turned down my proposal. You ditched me for someone else. You hated my project. And you are telling me not to take it personally? Even an infant understands rejection. Watch an unloved, uncuddled child. Even if that baby is well fed, cleaned and taken care of, the absence of love will register. Love has no substitute. A baby that isn’t held and rocked and soothed and kissed responds very differently to the world, not just when he/she is a baby but for the rest of his/her life. The importance of touch cannot be underestimated. That applies to old people too. Nobody thinks of holding them. In some cultures, it is considered ‘improper’ and perhaps disrespectful to hug elders. How absurd!
Overfamiliarity is actively discouraged in certain communities. Daughters are not hugged by fathers or brothers or uncles or grandfathers after they attain puberty. Who is not trusted? The young girl? Or do the men not trust themselves? I have never understood nor accepted this attitude. We are so stiff and aware around one another. A little boy learns very quickly that he must not cling on to his mother—at least not in public, unless he wants to be teased for being a sissy. Little girls stop dead in their tracks before rushing into a male relative’s arms, with just a ferocious frown of disapproval from a senior family member.
By the time we are ten or twelve, we have been well-trained to restrain ourselves from touching anybody. Like touching is dirty. Touching is a sin. Soon, we forget what touching feels like. The only touch we condition ourselves to recognize is a sexual touch. We hear about mothers teaching their kids the difference between ‘good’ touch and ‘bad’ touch. I feel wretched watching little children staring warily at friendly adults greeting them in a park, for instance. Not every adult is a pervert. Then again, how does a parent take such a chance? So we have overzealous parents constantly reminding their children not to talk to ‘strange uncles’, not to accept sweets from an ‘unknown aunty’, not to, not to, not to. And soon the kids grow into suspicious teens, constantly looking over their shoulder to check whether there is a dangerous stranger waiting to molest them. And soon they forget the comfort of an innocent embrace. Sad!
The ‘age thing’
So here I am, contemplating what to wear to a chic cocktail and supper party being hosted by two grande dames. One is older by a few years, the other one younger, also by a few years. I checked with my son, Aditya, and confessed I was thinking of ditching. A certain ennui has definitely set in of late. By 7.30 p.m. I start asking myself whether the effort required to don party clothes and a party face is worth it. Most times, the answer is no. This time, I surprise myself by saying, ‘Maybe I should go. New people!’ It’s funny. I thought I was done with ‘new people’. I could barely handle ‘old people’. Then again, I don’t enjoy meeting people my own age. Most are tired, cynical and jaded. They want to discuss visits to the orthopaedic surgeon who has recommended knee surgery, hip replacement, God knows what else. I always feel like joking morbidly and saying, ‘Why not a heart transplant? A new brain?’ But I shut up. I really don’t enjoy discussing ailments—my own or other people’s. To each our own hernias, if you know what I mean. Why should seventy-year-olds feel compelled to discuss ‘seventy-appropriate’ topics? Who decides what those are? I am not dying to know more about the swankiest senior
citizen facility in the Himalayas. Nor am I keen to track a grandchild’s every burp and loose motion.
I want to talk about fun stuff. I can do that with much younger people, or much older. But not seventy-year-olds. It’s like seventy is a strange number. An in-between number. You are not entirely decrepit, nor are you technically middle-aged. You are old. But not that old. Most of my gal pals are in their forties. Some in their fifties. They have lived life. They’ve seen the world. They have stories to share. I like their attitude, the way they dress, talk, hold their drinks, hold a conversation. We enjoy the same things—movies, food, dancing and books. We love to travel. We are vain, but not self-obsessed. We are pretty cool, or so we like to think!
Summer holidays these days have nothing to do with summer. Or even holidays. The only reason people take a vacation now is for the pictures and selfies they can post on social media. Does anyone have as good a time as they project in those carefully curated, perfectly art-directed shots? While planning our family breaks, I am no longer surprised when someone asks, ‘But is the destination photogenic? Can we wear cool looks?’ Narcissism has taken over our lives! I laugh and go back to more research. I have been made the designated holiday planner. I have earned the post, I can tell you! For years, I would wait and wait and wait for someone to take the initiative and let the others know: ‘Okay. Here’s the plan. We are booked to go to a tiger/hippo/elephant/rhinoceros reserve. These are the dates. Here are the tickets. Start packing.’ That never happened. One fine day, I decided to announce my own travel plan. I made it clear I was happy to go on a solo trip, because I was plain sick of waiting for everybody to make up their minds. The family stared in horror and disbelief. ‘What’s wrong with you? How can you go by yourself? You will hate it! You’ll have the worst time. You’ll miss us. Forget it. Please cancel immediately.’ I stood my ground and said, ‘Try me. I am going. That’s that. Next?’