Seventy . . .

by Shobhaa De

  What I do know is my vulnerability. And I have to train myself to deal with this one, like I deal with far bigger ones. Anxiety is a condition that is hard to find easy solutions for. I have never taken anti-anxiety medication, no matter how intense the stress. Perhaps it is not what I imagine it to be—it can’t be all that different from popping a tablet to get rid of a throbbing headache. But I was raised in a family that resisted any artificial interventions—the most dreaded word was ‘dependency’. It still is in my vocabulary. Stoic acceptance of suffering, big or small, was ingrained in us as children. There was a healthy disregard for the sort of aches and pains that saw neighbours in a tizzy, calling up specialists ‘to rule out anything serious’. We pretty much saw a doctor only when there was an emergency—a cut that was bleeding profusely or an acute attack of appendicitis. Anything that wasn’t considered life-threatening was meant to be borne with fortitude and patience . . . till the bloody thing went away on its own. Issues that were ‘emotional’ by definition (anxiety attacks, depression, stress, low self-esteem) were dismissed as ‘imaginary problems’ and not worth taking seriously.

  My own teenage conflicts had to be resolved privately. Any show of ‘extra emotion’ (as if there is a predetermined quota for emotions) was aggressively discouraged and labelled an attention-seeking stunt. At times, my anxiety levels did escalate radically (before competitive sporting events, before exams), but it was pointed out to me that my older siblings had coped on their own and excelled at whatever they undertook. True. Today, more than fifty years later, I wonder just how well they had coped in real terms. Were they given a choice? Was an attempt made to provide emotional support when they required it? Or were they meant to keep their chin up and soldier on? What was the price paid for this? There is always a price. Parents who refuse to acknowledge the varying emotional needs of children and dismiss them as ‘tantrums’ designed to ‘trouble parents’ play havoc with their adult lives, often without realizing the far-reaching consequences. I plead guilty too. My children’s lives baffle me occasionally. I just don’t get it. Are they being a bit too self-indulgent? Is that child a real ‘softie’? Why can’t that one be more assertive? Less assertive? Calmer? Expectations! Which parent is free of them? Which child?

  The more we mutually expect, the higher the disappointment/disillusionment. There are times when I am chatting informally with friends and family and the conversation gets over-nostalgic. Everything goes back to ‘In our time, girls had to be home by 7 p.m.—latest!’ And I laugh inwardly. Occasionally, I stick my neck out, risk being misunderstood, and ask, ‘But girls can do at 2 p.m. what society fears they will be up to at midnight. It’s not about deadlines and timing always.’ Then there are those touchy moments within family when someone decides to blurt out old truths—buried or forgotten. Flashbacks reveal unpleasant incidents revolving around childhood traumas and ugly memories of being belted, threatened, excluded, insulted, demeaned . . . the standard horror tales of difficult years, shared by millions across the world. It’s no use saying, ‘But that was decades ago . . .’ Yes, it was. But the wounds never healed. Or else why would we still be discussing these awful memories?

  How do we communicate with those closest to us? How truthful is ‘truthful’? My wiser self (it exists!) warns, ‘Truthful is hurtful.’ Yup. That’s true. Is it even necessary to be candid with people you truly love? Do they want to hear what your interpretation of a situation is, especially if that is likely to hurt them—you? Both of you? Discretion within families is a delicate matter. In our society, we believe we should be totally transparent within the family, and say it like it is. Children are supposed to listen without interrupting elders. Elders are entitled to tell everybody off. Distant relatives are encouraged to express their views on personal matters—this is what we have been conditioned to accept as ‘normal’. No secrets. No filters. You feel something—you must articulate it. On one level this is healthy and cathartic. The pressure-cooker valve in our families works overtime 24/7. But I notice today’s generation has discovered Western-style ‘privacy’. I hear ten-year-olds demanding their own ‘space’ and talking about feeling hemmed in by parents and siblings. Mothers think twice before opening their mouths and correcting kids, in case they are accused of causing ‘emotional scars’ later! Fathers talk with caution and exaggerated respect to young sons, afraid the boys will answer back, rebel or leave home. Drugs and alcohol issues are never addressed in an upfront way—because parents don’t want to deal with the truth. Sex as a topic of family discussion is strictly taboo—unless it is about other people. Forget acceptable, non-threatening topics for dinner-table conversation—these days, conversation itself is next to impossible. Children have better things to do (video games, Internet chat, outings), and they behave like investing even twenty minutes of their precious time on eye contact and chit-chat with the family is a waste of time. Which of these two scenarios is better: Too much communication, which can be intrusive and lead to volatile situations? Or minimal communication restricted to exchanging information (‘I am leaving for a meeting at 7.30 p.m. . . . early dinner? Please collect the laundry tomorrow. What sort of grades is junior getting in class ten? Better organize extra coaching. And remember—there’s a boring Sunday lunch with that auntyji . . .’).

  People hurt people. That’s a given. The closer you are to someone, the deeper the wound. What can one do to minimize these painful incidents? I read self-help articles and books constantly. I practise deep breathing. I have tried counting to ten before reacting to provocation. Nothing works. It is only family that can affect you this intensely. But a few ground rules that I try to adhere to have prevented small arguments from escalating into major battles. It’s easy to tell others not to hold grudges. Can you do it? I have a peculiar memory. I remember what I need to and focus on pleasant happenings . . . but all of a sudden, when I least expect it to happen, there comes a vivid flash reminding me of a really disturbing exchange which may have taken place a long time ago. All my self-regulation goes straight out of the window and I end up saying some pretty awful things. Later, I feel terrible . . . it’s too late to take back those ugly words. I apologize. But the apology has little meaning, the person’s justifiable anger has not subsided . . . and I am hitting a stone wall with my sincere words. Sincere from my side—but hollow from the other person’s. It becomes a stalemate. And there it often stays. What should one do? I recommend a cooling-off period. Leave troubling situations alone. Give yourself time and watch the developments calmly. You have done the right thing by offering a genuine apology. The other person is not receptive at that point. Perhaps a change of heart will follow. Perhaps not! But at least you have attempted to make amends.

  People hurt people. That’s a given. The closer you are to someone, the deeper the wound.

  Ditto for tact and diplomacy when you sense the other person is experiencing an emotional low and saying things that are not expected, or behaving uncharacteristically. Switch on your empathy button. Switch places. Put yourself in the other person’s situation . . . and suddenly the picture will change. Some people say defensively (and obstinately), ‘Oh, but I can’t be diplomatic. I am very upfront and blunt. I say things the way I see them . . . too bad if that attitude is mistaken for rudeness.’ I feel like pointing out the obvious—it is rude! A little kindness doesn’t hurt. It may not help either. But at least the recipient is spared more pain. Like when a young person is about to step out for an important meeting or a crucial romantic date. And he or she asks, ‘Am I looking bad?’ There’s no need to be 100 per cent candid and say, ‘Yes—since you asked. Hate the colour on you.’ The impact of those spontaneous words can be lethal! The confidence levels instantly plummet—there goes the job! There tanks the romantic date. Because all that you have achieved via your bluntness is to generate low self-esteem. Instead, if you say gently, ‘Well . . . you always look good. This isn’t your best look. But your smile is fantastic! So wear your smile!’ You haven’t lied. But you
haven’t emotionally injured another either.

  This is something to keep in mind when dealing with young adults. They are so sensitive and touchy about their appearance that a crucial meeting can get totally ruined by an unguarded comment from you. One of my siblings is a great one for ‘telling it like it is’. I keep reminding the person, it is a pretty counterproductive approach and should be corrected. But no! So I have stopped giving unheeded advice. I have decided to change my own responses to such exchanges. The other person rarely changes. But you can—that’s entirely in your own hands. It’s worth doing, especially at the workplace, where bluntness is a real handicap and may cost you a promotion or two.

  People confuse diplomacy with hypocrisy. There is a huge difference. Hypocrisy involves manipulation and falsehoods. Diplomacy is about sensitivity towards the other person’s state of mind. You can always go back at a more conducive time to say what you didn’t earlier. There will be more receptivity and respect when that happens.

  People confuse diplomacy with hypocrisy. There is a huge difference. Hypocrisy involves manipulation and falsehoods. Diplomacy is about sensitivity towards the other person’s state of mind.

  I used to be pretty brash and bratty years ago. I was also living up to an artificially constructed ‘persona’. Strangers expected me to be aggressive, outspoken and frank to the point of being ill-mannered. This was a natural consequence given my sharp columns filled with opinions on pretty much everything around me. Some would draw conclusions without meeting me. Others would take their time to greet me and start a conversation. And somewhere along the way, I started to prefer this shield that acted like a filter and helped me to retain my privacy. Later, I realized how much I was missing out on! There were wonderful people out there who were staying away from me—without giving me a chance! My children assured me it was okay and asked whether I really wanted to interact with so many nameless strangers I wasn’t likely to meet again. My answer surprised me as much as it surprised them—I did! I had figured the loss was mine . . . and I had to do something about it. Gradually, I let the mask slip little by little. I smiled a lot more—and that got my children all worked up! They pointed out that I smiled at strangers who looked vaguely familiar, and those people didn’t know how to respond! I said it was fine. A smile doesn’t cost a thing. It was their decision whether to smile back or not! Gradually, things started to change. The energy field around me had obviously altered. My body language shifted as well—from stiff aloofness to a more open, welcoming posture—relaxed, not cross-armed. I hugged much more and received many hugs in return. It felt lovely! There was a new openness when I met people and this deliberate switch liberated me on many levels. I wondered why I had allowed myself to move so far away from my essential self. What was I ‘protecting’? What if a few didn’t ‘approve’? Had I ever given a damn? Not really. So why now?

  Age has a lot to do with that too. It is really most annoying! That’s our social conditioning. I couldn’t greet people with a warm hug in my much younger ‘avatar’. It would have been misunderstood. As a woman, I was raised to be very frugal with my hugs and kisses. One only kissed babies in public—that’s it. Kissing adults, even people much older than yourself, was deemed ‘inappropriate’. I never saw my mother kissing anybody other than her own children when they were kids. I don’t remember receiving a kiss from my father, except on his ninetieth birthday, when he kissed my forehead awkwardly and permitted me to kiss his! Hugs were equally rare. When one grows up with so much self-consciousness about any physical demonstrations of affection, those inhibitions are difficult to shed later. One of my daughters does complain that I don’t hug her enough! I wonder what ‘enough’ means? She retorts that if I have to ask such a dumb question in the first place, I don’t understand the value of hugs in life! She is right. But I still can’t hug ‘enough’. I’m trying hard to break this obstinate bastion. And learn from Anasuya Devi, my granddaughter, who has come up with a new word and a fresh definition—she asks for ‘huggles’ and likes ‘huggling’ her parents before falling asleep. I asked her, ‘What’s a huggle?’ and she answered quickly, ‘Oh . . . it’s a hug and a cuddle—see—like this!’ Gosh! I’ve missed out on a lot in life, I suddenly realized. I need huggles now!

  My childhood did not feature too many ‘huggles’. I was raised in a family that did not demonstrate emotion easily. Anger, yes! Impatience, yes! Irritation, yes! But not affection. Not appreciation. Not spontaneity. Restraint was a highly prized ‘virtue’. Exuberant greetings or full-frontal hugs were deemed unbecoming, even vulgar. My parents would look witheringly at our north Indian neighbours in Delhi, and remark on their loud conduct, excitable conversations and frequent backslapping. If they ‘galey dabao-ed’ during Diwali, Holi, Id, even that gesture was frowned upon. Almost as if physical contact was somehow abhorrent and ‘unnecessary’.

  My own children don’t remember being hugged and kissed by my parents. When we did exchange ‘forehead kisses’ on his ninetieth birthday, it was a little awkward, and my siblings stared at me in that strange way which indicated they were surprised and embarrassed. With my mother, I was a little more relaxed and would place my head in her lap while she stroked my hair, and we chatted companionably. I don’t remember hugging or kissing her too many times and vice versa. My grandmother was a taciturn, spry lady I barely knew. I always got the impression she disliked me intensely, so the question of hugging her did not arise. Both my grandfathers and the other grandmother were dead by the time I was born. I used to wonder whether this minimal physical contact within the family had anything to do with just our family—were we cold and peculiar? Unfeeling? Uncaring? Uptight? That too! But I think it also had a lot to do with our austere Maharashtrian upbringing, which glorified sacrifice and suffering above all else. There was an absence of joyfulness . . . Laughter had to be rationalized and rationed. Mirth had to be calibrated. You couldn’t laugh for ‘no reason’. Elders would remind us, ‘Only idiots laugh at nothing . . . for nothing.’

  And I used to think laughter was therapeutic!

  To my absolute horror, I find myself using similar words when Anandita, my youngest daughter, laughs at a private joke she doesn’t wish to share. I glare at her accusingly and demand, ‘What’s so funny?’ She shakes her head and says, ‘Nothing, Mama . . . it’s just something I remembered.’ I get bugged. I do. It’s hard to shake off childhood memories and instructions.

  My ‘beef’ with khana–peena

  My son Aditya conducted a family puja at his beautiful home soon after our return from Iceland. It was a puja to mark the start of an auspicious period. But we all knew the puja was his way of expressing gratitude to God and saying ‘thank you’ for the positive developments that had taken place in his life after a long period of frustration and struggle to get an ambitious project off the ground. As the panditji chanted the Gayatri Mantra 108 times, and all of us participated in the havan, I looked around at the faces surrounding the holy fire. The panditji from Jaipur was a seasoned Arya Samaj priest who knew his shastras. He also knew urban attention spans and had reduced what can be a ritual spread over hours and hours of sitting uncomfortably on the floor in mid-April heat, to a forty-five-minute jhat phat affair, gently adding ghee to a fire with flames rising higher as blocks of dried wood kept getting added to the cast-iron urn.

  A lavish feast was planned for later, once the prasad had been distributed to all. I stared in disbelief at the overladen dining table, with platters of rich vegetarian specialities piled on it. Knowing my children’s dietary hang-ups, I wondered who would eat all those calorie bombs. I brought up the word ‘waste’ and my son glared at me. He came up to say, ‘Nothing will be wasted. Don’t worry. I want to share the food with all the people who work for us and are responsible for our daily comforts which we take so much for granted.’

  Suddenly, that word ‘waste’ acquired a new dimension. Nothing is a waste if we know what to do with our resources—limited or otherwise. Waste not, want not, my
father would often say. Well, I still want! But I needn’t ever waste.

  I sometimes wish I had discussed beef-eating with my father during his lifetime. He was a progressive person on many levels, but as a Saraswat Brahmin, he had his beliefs. We ate simple, nourishing, healthy vegetarian meals at home. Except on weekends, when mutton was cooked. Mutton, never chicken. I wonder why. Fish and prawns were enjoyed occasionally, and we waited to devour ham and sausages as treats during leisurely Sunday breakfasts, but there it stopped. Beef was never a part of the culinary discourse. So I don’t really know if my parents had strong views on the subject. It was unspoken but understood—we were a ‘no beef’ family.

  Since food preferences were largely determined by what my mother cooked, I tasted a beefsteak much later in life. I must have been in my thirties when I walked into Gourdon restaurant near Churchgate station, and my friend ordered a beefsteak with pepper sauce—buffalo or cow, I don’t know. One bite and I was converted! I don’t think I ‘confessed’ to my parents—the question never came up! Today, when I see what is happening across India in the name of the cow, it pains me deeply. I continue to enjoy my steaks, but these days I have become acutely conscious of the fact I am eating beef—even when I am travelling overseas. It is not a religious dilemma at all. I know my beliefs and those have nothing to do with the consumption or non-consumption of beef. I am not less of an Indian for eating beef. I am not a bigger patriot for shunning it. I respect the sentiments of those who choose vegetarianism. I equally respect those who don’t. The politics of food across the world is far too complex and comprehensive an issue for anybody to convincingly decode or comprehend. But for me, the question ‘Where’s the beef’ has always had a singularly challenging meaning. Does anybody really know where it is?