The laughing bride!


 

laughing bride anchu

My childhood friend on her big day

A few days ago, I read an article by Taslima Nasreen, saying that Deepika Padukone had shattered an age-old custom and set a precedent for Indian brides, by posting pictures of herself laughing at her wedding.

And though I’m very happy for Deepika and Ranveer, and unequivocally in favour of the laughing bride, I am inclined to disagree with Ms Nasreen a bit. Just a little.

Deepika isn’t the first to shatter the custom. She’s just part of the changing fabric of Indian society, although by virtue of being a super star, she has the ability to grab eyeballs and influence millions, which amplifies manifold the significance of her laughter. However, that said, she is in no way the first.

At the risk of sounding hugely conceited and raising smirks and snickers, I will now give myself a pat on the back and declare that I was the one to break the custom, not Padukone. And I’m not a movie star either. (What the heck—this is my blog, where else can I indulge in such unrestrained narcissism?)

So here’s how it was. I was chit chatting with my friends and grinning away to glory, perched proudly on the bridal stage at my wedding in 2010—eight years before Padukone. I’m the trendsetter here—by a long decade.

The elderly ladies at my wedding would whisper to each other, scandalised at this brazen display of happiness, and one of them was later known to remark, with some displeasure, that the bride looks very contented. “Dulhan badi mutmayeen lag rahi hai!” she would declare with disdain. One of my best friends from school put it very succinctly, sometime later: “Well, you’re the girl who’s never been silent on stage, all through school and college. No one could have expected you to be silent on the grandest stage of your life!”

Touché!

(The funniest, or perhaps saddest, part in all of this is that when the wedding videos came, I realised that the videographer had deliberately edited out all the scenes where I’m laughing, with my teeth on display. Drat the world!)

However, I must give Nasreen credit for one thing: she hit the nail on the head. Mine was a love marriage. The road to wedding tears is often paved with arranged marriage apprehensions. Not just the evil paraphernalia that marriages in our side of the world have become associated with, but the very nature of arranged matches where you step into a life with a complete stranger.  That’s not to say that all arranged marriages are doomed or loveless—my parents were an excellent example of one such match that was always mistaken for a love marriage, by everyone who met this happy couple. But it does bring its fair share of fears, which, at least at the outset, aren’t present in the love marriage scenario.

So it was with me. I knew exactly who it was that I was marrying. I knew his family, I was comfortable with what I’d chosen. We’d been waiting for this day; it was a moment of joyous culmination. No nervous apprehensions of what lay ahead. (That does not, in any way, mean that what lay ahead could have been predicted. What lay ahead was perhaps equally torturous— tears or no tears. But ignorance is bliss, as they say.)

And that moment on stage was preserved perfectly in time, untouched by any sombreness or grief.

However, this would be a very one-dimensional view of the bride’s tears at her wedding if I did not also take into account several other factors—separation from the parents being one of the biggest. Most girls have never lived away from their parents before they get married, and it is a poignant moment when you know that now you shall be leaving the nest, making a new and separate life for yourself. For the parents as well, this brings a wave of mixed feelings—letting go of the precious creature they’d been nurturing all this while. Watching her step fully into a distinct life.

For the boy’s parents, this moment might come at places other than the wedding. I’ve seen boys’ mothers cry softly when their sons leave the nest to go out into the world and make an independent life for themselves. It’s just that for girls, at least in our side of the world, this usually doesn’t happen before the wedding.

For me, though, it did. I’d already been living in Delhi, away from my family, for over a year before I got married. My moment of realisation that I was finally leaving it all had come a year before my wedding, an overwhelming feeling punctuated by silent tears. There’s more to crying than just grief, or fear.

And thus it came to pass that my wedding ceremony went by without me shedding a single tear—not even at the rukhsati, the sending off of the bride.

I was far too busy murmuring rapid instructions to my sister to hold me properly, and heaven help her if she let me fall to the floor clumsily in all my wedding regalia. All this while my uncle stood by me, chuckling softly.

In my family, as is the custom, a sehra is tied to the bride’s forehead (a bit like the groom’s sehra but shorter) before she is sent off. I’ve no clue about the origins or reasons for this ritual, and I’d gladly do away with it when it’s time to marry off my son, if my future daughter-in-law so wishes. The result of all this sehra-tying is that the bride is momentarily robbed of her vision and has to be led away by family members into the groom’s car, entirely blind.  Now I couldn’t even control where I stepped, when I’d controlled half the wedding ceremony and rushed about from banks to tailors’ shops one day before my wedding—complete with henna painted hands.

So it came to pass that beneath my blinding sehra I was fiercely whispering instructions to my sister. “Where’s my vanity box? I hope it’s being kept in the car and not being left behind.”

“Where’s my purse? Did you pick it up? It’s got money in it! For heaven’s sake don’t leave it at the stage.”

“Who has my jewelry case? One set of keys is in my purse. Who’s been handed over the other set? Just make sure it’s sent to my room and not misplaced!”

So on and so forth.

Control freaks don’t cry. They instruct.

But then a few years later, one of my former classmates did me one better, for she posted a picture of herself pinching her husband’s cheek on her D-Day — complete in wedding attire. I’ll have to admit I rued not having done that with mine!

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However, now that I think of it, my family brought in the laughing tradition 20 years ago at my uncle’s wedding. I was about 10 years old, and had been officially stationed by the bride’s side to make her laugh.

My grandma, the bride’s mother-in-law, would keep coming up to her and telling her, “Darling! You can smile! It’s your wedding! No need to bend your head and look demure! Be the happy bride.”

And I, completely smitten by my aunt-bride, kept cracking jokes about family members to make her laugh. We have plenty of pictures in the album with her teeth on full display. I guess it’s in the blood. My family loves laughing brides.

Perhaps these may be exceptions to the norm, but the norm certainly is changing rapidly. We have far more smiling brides— blushing, yes, but smiling too—than crying ones, movie depictions be damned.

Ms Nasreen needs to open her eyes to changing Indian culture. The joyous bride is hardly as big an anomaly now as she was, say, a decade or two ago. Laughing brides are quite in vogue.

The bar was set a decade ago.

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My numerous ‘wives’


maids

 

I had never, ever imagined in my life that one day I’d be writing a piece on domestic helps. The ubiquitous and yet elusive maid. The subject of endless angst, animated discussions and innumerable internet memes and videos.

It is very common for Indian homes to have domestic helps—mostly part-time workers, but sometimes also full-time ones, in the form of live-in maids, whose services are generally utilised by working mothers like myself.

Lately, I’ve realised that the relationship between a woman and her help is uncannily like the relationship between the man of the house and his woman, as in the days of yore. In fact, the manner in which most women, including me, speak of our domestic helps is almost exactly the way that patriarchy-infested males speak of women such as me.

Let me explain.

You feel they are upstarts, they are getting too big for their boots, and demanding too many privileges. That they have forgotten their place. That no matter how good you are to them, it is never enough.

Yes it is true that there are domestic workers who swindle and cheat and take advantage of their employers, just as there are women who, when they assume a position of power, become more Evil Queen than good witch Glinda of the South.

And yet, these maids belong to that category of people who’ve been exploited, underpaid, trampled over for centuries. They have not had even a semblance of rights. They’ve been at the mercy of the maai-baap. And now, when they have some bargaining rights, when they have the audacity to demand and talk back to power, the maai baap resents the usurping of centuries-old privilege.

So I have to pay my maid a lot more, accept most of her demands, and complain to my friends how these maids are a necessary evil. You wish you didn’t have to tolerate them, but what can you do, you poor thing, you need them to run your life smoothly. Much like the husband that declares how his wife is a necessary evil, how he wished he hadn’t married her but then she is the one who keeps his household running smoothly.

So yes, while this may feel like an ‘inconvenience’ for us—tolerating demands, paying higher prices—it is definitely a good thing for humanity in general, especially as far as human dignity is concerned. Nobody is a maai baap anymore. It’s a straightforward employer-employee equation.

Now if only I could get some loyalty. Sigh.

Oops, there I go again!

Conditioning takes such a long time to be overcome.

——————

Postscript : This blog post was originally written several months ago. In the time that passed I realised that I have actually had several loyal domestic helps, but had to lose them when they relocated to the villages they had come from, for personal reasons. So I’ve had plenty of loyalty as well. And I’ve absolutely no reason to complain.

There are good people in this world and there are mean ones. There are good maids, and there are mean maids. Lord bless the good ones, for they literally keep our lives from collapsing!

Importantly, they also show us the mirror, giving us a glimpse of what we’d do when we’re in a position of power. As the best parameter for evaluating people is to see what they do with power once they have it.

Old school love


A fortnight ago, I was pottering around the house rifling through my book collection, scrolling through Amazon Prime, looking for something to read, something to watch. Something that came with a whiff of old-school, slow-breathing love.

I’m a romance addict. Anyone who knows me knows that. I could make do with very little food but I couldn’t make do with very little romance. I’d been cranky and angsty all week, for no apparent reason, and I was looking for the one thing that would calm me down.

And then, late at night in the darkness of the bedroom I read on my phone Natasha Badhwar’s Mint Lounge column for that week. Suddenly, there it was: a slice of romantic nirvana.

Small intimacies.

The tiny, mostly unnoticeable details in a marriage that carry a subtle, soft undercurrent of romance. Like the tucking back of torn-off buttons. Natasha used this example from old Hindi movies to illustrate her point: “From Hindi movies, I had internalized other aspirations of domestic togetherness. Like the scene in which it is discovered that the man has a button missing in his shirt just when he is ready to leave for work. The woman steps in to deftly sew on a button while he is still wearing his shirt. She moves her face close to his chest to cut off the thread with her teeth, because real women don’t use scissors.

Unmoved by my romantic yearnings, my husband’s shirt buttons have remained steadfast and immotile over the years.

As soon as I read this line I blushed a furious red.

Despite not possessing the qualities of the sanskari sewing-darning woman in the least, I have to confess that it is with quite a degree of fondness that I stitch together my husband’s kurtas that begin to come apart at the seams. And no, not when he’s wearing them. Merely the act of having this mundane piece of white cloth—his kurta— in my hand and putting the quick four-five stitches to mend it, or tuck the odd button that has fallen off, evokes a deep, familiar sort of affection, a feeling akin to sitting face to face at the dining table and talking long past the food is gone.

This whole love-through-sewing thing was probably internalised by me through the very cinema that Natasha speaks about. Drat those movies!

She then goes on to narrate an anecdote from her aunt and uncle’s life, of them doing their daily puja (prayer) together. “When she is pouring oil into the lamp, she needs his presence to prepare the wick. He holds the prayer book open as she reads out the verses. From a distance, one can see them instructing each other to do what is so routine for them, you wonder why they are speaking at all. They close their eyes together and go silent, probably praying for the same thing. Their temple room is full of images of deities but they seem like they are in communion with each other.”

The image seemed to fill my room as well. Fill my heart, lighting it up like a diya for the puja.

For the past few days or so, ever so slightly, I’d been feeling a wave of restlessness, a wave of irritation at myself.

My husband and I come from diametrically opposite backgrounds. East is east and west is west and never the twain shall meet, said Rudyard Kipling. But he only needed to see us together to know how the twain doth meet. All these years, my guy and I have been constantly juggling his intensely traditional background and my decidedly modern one, keeping it together by sheer will power and force of love—and umpteen recalibrations.

Sometimes it overwhelms us.

Sometimes I end up asking myself why I got into this at all. How could I have dumped myself in this mess? For that entire week, I’d been reeling under one of these spells of unexplained restlessness.

And then along comes this. This little paragraph about a couple that lights a diya together and prays side by side.

Takes me back a decade in a swish.

Prayer.

When Sajjad and I were still waiting to get married, one of the most romantic things I imagined with him—much longed for and anticipated—was prayer. Together. With this man who brought immense peace and spirituality to my life.

We would imagine the time when we’d be together in one room—our room—offering our namaz with our prayer mats spread out before us.

Joined in prayer. Joined in soul.

“In communion with each other.”

Suddenly, just like that, I remembered precisely why both of us had dumped ourselves into this ‘mess’.

It’s what we had wanted.

We married each other because we had wanted exactly what our other half brings to the table.

I had wanted him, a deeply spiritual man, a calm man. A man who possessed the capacity to listen. A man I could trust. And I, I was what he wanted. A thinking woman, a woman with a mind and a voice. To quote him verbatim, “A woman whose brain is the most attractive part of her body.”

Had he wanted a more traditional woman to match his traditional background, he could have had his pick from the dozens around him. Had I wanted a more modern man to match my modern background, I could have chosen from the dozens that tried to woo me. The reason we were here, together, wading through these frequently-turbulent waters, cutting through the foliage and battling it out together, was because we had both wanted it.

There are times in every couple’s togetherness, when we begin to wonder how did we ever come to be here? The present, the future and the world around gets too much for us. We resent the sacrifices we made, the life we had to give up in order to live this one. Was it even worth it?

In times like these, it makes sense to close our eyes and remember what it was that we’d wanted in the first place. Why was it that we made those sacrifices at all?

That might, perhaps, bring back the answers we already know, but often forget. The answers that sometimes hide within the smallest of things–the things that make up the essence of old school love.

 

 

 

 

It takes a village to raise a Mother


 

Recently, on a mothers’ group, someone posted an anonymous post, and it was a very distressed mother from the looks of it.

The mother was extremely upset—to the point of hitting her child, locking him up in the room and letting him cry himself to sleep—and the reason was that he “preferred” her mom-in-law over her. He followed his grandma around wherever she went but he didn’t do the same for his mom. The kid even followed his grandfather—her father in law—but just didn’t seem to care about his mom. It made her so furious that she refused to breast feed her child that day. And then she also spoke about how she had left a high paying job for the kid and she is not back in shape after having had a baby.

At first look people would judge this mother, calling her horrible and irresponsible and all sorts of insensitive things. Almost everyone was on the ‘side’ of the baby, little realising that the mother and the baby are always on the same side. When one is angry and hurt, the other cannot remain happy.

This post was a cry for help. This lady needs a lot of love and tons of hand holding and hugging—and more importantly, empathy.

Having been there myself—hitting my son and unintentionally taking my frustrations out on him—I truly, deeply feel for mothers who are so distressed.

The problem in the above case, the way it appears to be, is that the lady in question has many frustrations piling up one upon another. She is hurt and upset by the fact that she had to let go of a successful career, and she probably has major differences with her in-laws, so the idea of her son—whom she considers a part of her soul, and for whom she made major sacrifices—preferring those people over her, people whom she probably dislikes intensely, makes her feel unloved and defeated.

The lady didn’t speak of her husband, but I’m guessing there’s a lot of frustration there as well. If the husband were supportive and affectionate, she would find the love that she craved from him and not feel quite so possessive of her son. The boy in question is merely 2 years old.

This mother is perhaps a quintessential example of distressed moms in our society, who suffer intensely on account of a lack of love and appreciation. Lack of love makes us lonely and angry. Lack of love makes us bitter.

In addition this is also a showcase of the problem that ails women by and large, even unconsciously: having to let go of all your dreams for the sake of motherhood, and then attaching all those unfinished goals and unfulfilled expectations with your child.

People expect the mother to be mature, grown up and sacrificing and able to handle every problem even at the cost of her own wellness. That is too much pressure on a young woman, especially a first time mother, and especially one who had to let go of a successful career. People forget that the world of parenting is as new to a young mother as the world of people is new to the baby. The child and mother are both growing together, both learning to navigate in and make sense of an unknown environment, facing stresses they never faced before, coping in a high pressure world. The new mother is almost as vulnerable as the newborn. She needs to be taken care of and soothed and loved as much as the little baby—and yet she is the one responsible for the rearing and nurturing and keeping alive of one whole human being, while no one pays the scantest attention to her needs.

Inevitably, her pent up frustration pours out on the child. And then the world shames the mother for being cruel to her child, the world shames her for being incompetent, the world shames her for not being “mother enough”.

What’s to be done in this scenario?

Let me hark back to the famous statement: it takes a village to raise a child.

Now let me twist it a bit: It takes a village to raise a mother.

What we are used to is the idea of insta-mothers served up in 9 months with garnish on top. Mothers, on the contrary, are created over years and years; they grow and evolve and learn on the job. A mother is a human being first. She is an individual first. She has her own needs and desires and dreams and problems and expecting them to put everything aside and just focus on being a mother is downright cruel. It takes a village to raise a mother because when everyone chips in to ease the burden on her, only then can she be a happy woman and, by consequence, a happy mother.

Unhappy women do not make happy mothers. How can they? You can only give what you have in the first place, and if you have no joy in your heart, how can you share it with others?

It is the imperative therefore, of the entire village—the new age village that includes not just spouse, in laws, parents, friends but also bosses, co-workers and flexible workplaces—to raise the child and also raise the mother. Raise her happiness levels, raise her self-esteem and her self-worth so she does not have to live her life bearing only the burden of sacrifices.

In the case mentioned above, the mother is plagued with extreme insecurity related to her child, she is stressed by feelings of rejection that arise from her child following his grandparent about, “preferring” them over her.

Herein lies another major problem that I’ve talked about on several previous occasions: making your child your only source of joy and love in life, attaching all your dreams to him/her. It has happened for decades in previous generations— when women were deprived of love from every other source, focusing solely on the child—and still happens when women give up all their dreams for motherhood.

The child was not born to fulfil your expectations or fill the gaps in your soul. Every child is born with a destiny of his/her own, with a purpose in life to be fulfilled by him/her alone. Your children will not remain attached to you forever, they will—and they need to—become independent and find their way in life and find other attachments and people to love. It is important for them to have healthy relationships not just with grandparents but also siblings, friends, classmates, teachers, girlfriends/boyfriends, spouses, co-workers and so on. With each new relationship their circle will get bigger and you will naturally have to share more and more. How then will you find the strength to let go?

It is extremely important, therefore, for a mother to have other people to bond with—spouse, siblings, friends, co-workers, neighbours. Other sources of love and joy in life. And also to keep following one’s own dreams, perhaps a little more slowly than before, perhaps with some breaks, but keep following them nevertheless—to keep a sense of purpose and direction in life. To have other sources of achievements and fulfilment than just ‘parenting’.  Not only does it ease the misery of your heart, it will greatly ease the debilitating burden of expectations upon your child.

Lastly, but most importantly, when you’re under extreme stress, get help. Get professional help from a therapist or counsellor, or at least approach your closest friends and confidantes. You mental wellness is paramount, and approaching a psychologist/counsellor does not mean you are ‘mad’, any more than approaching a doctor means that you are disabled for life. (No offence to differently abled people.) It merely means that you’re facing a health issue at a certain point in time, and proper care and treatment will lead you to wellness once again.

To the lady who was facing those issues, if you happen to be reading this, let me first hug you. One big, squishy hug to let you know you are not alone. We’ve all been there, and it’s terrible, but trust me you’ll come out of this, and both you and your baby will be happy. You are loved, my dear, especially by all of us mothers out here. One big solidarity bump.

But one word of advice to you—and to all those mothers reading this.

Mothers, please put yourself first.

Yes, you heard that right. The world will tell you to put your baby first, put your family first, and some people will go to the lengths of calling you selfish if you dare to voice your own desires and any kind of ambition for yourself.

Don’t pay any attention to them.

Tune them out like static and ugly sounds from a bad radio. Turn them off like that hollering news anchor on TV (you know who I mean). Shut them down like the gaping smelly mouth of a toilet seat.

The child does not come first. The Mother comes first.

Mothers, please learn to value your sanity, your happiness and your dreams as well. And most of all learn to focus on your health and wellness, because that is crucial to happiness.

Relatives and family members, stop pressurising the woman to sacrifice everything for her child. Stop putting a halo atop the heads of mothers and turning them into martyrs.

Stop worshipping the kind of mom for whom ‘nothing is more important than her child’.

Everything has its due importance in life. Friends, family, work, ambition, children and yes, the self. The mother must not be pressurised to give up all of them and keep just one.

And yes, I’ll say it again to you— the mother must come first. Before you think of what’s best for the child, think of what’s best for the mother. Because unless she is in the best state of mental, physical and emotional wellness, the child cannot thrive.

Think of it this way: the mother is most important for the child’s well-being, and if anything bad were to happen to her, who would be most affected? The child. If you would not be functioning one hundred per cent healthy and happy, who would be most affected? Your child. So, for the sake of your child, put yourself first. Treat your health, wellness and happiness as paramount. That’s what I always tell my mother. If you don’t take care of yourself, who’s going to be there for us? Who will we turn to whenever we are down and out?

And that’s what I say to all mothers out there: For the sake of your children at least, take care of your own self.

For you must always remember, you can only give what you have.

Mom n Child

 

 

 

Who’s watching your mess?


kitchen

Our cosy little two-bedroom flat high up in a tower has an open kitchen, like most others in Delhi/NCR. Whatever goes on in there is visible to everyone else, including the guests.

To the visiting relatives from our respective native towns this is blasphemy.

“Oh! You have an open kitchen! I seriously can’t stand those,” says a visiting lady.

She is one of those relatives on my ‘nice’ list and if this statement had come from anyone but her, I’d have taken it as an insult. This being her though, I laugh amiably.

She continues. “Everyone gets to see the clutter inside the kitchen! It’s so awkward and uncomfortable.” I laugh a bit more, for I am genuinely amused. I’d have contradicted her, but I can’t do it out of the respect I have for her. I know what she means though.

Sajjad looks at me with a meaningful glance. He rarely ever contradicts relatives but every so often he will give me this fleeting glance to let me know he and I are on the same side.

I know he loves open kitchens as much as I do—even more, to be honest. Even better, he will often talk dreamily of us having a home with an island kitchen—you know, the kind with high stools arranged round an ‘island’ countertop right in the centre of the room. He’s had this dream for a long time now, and he will always come up to me holding a magazine or a newspaper supplement in his hand, pointing to an advertisement of a gorgeous designer home with an island kitchen that is to die for. The sheer enthusiasm with which he shows me these glossy pictures, the confidence with which he promises me that one day we’ll have such a kitchen is absolutely endearing. It makes me laugh. But he also knows it’s not a certain kind of home that makes me happy. It’s the people I’m sharing it with.

On the subject of kitchens, though, I’d take an open one any day. I’d take the oneness of the open kitchen that merges it with the rest of the house, bringing it within the fold of family space, as opposed to a restricted, sweaty space where women alone are segregated.

The kitchen in my flat opens into the lobby, with the dining table visible directly from the cooking space. This dining table is more of a watering hole for the family—a place to sit and chat or read or write. So when Sajjad sits there reading the newspaper, or doing nothing but waiting for food to be served, we can chit chat across the kitchen and the lobby and hold entire conversations as the food is cooked. Sometimes he might come and start cooking alongside me. Or when he’s cooking and I’m at the dining table reading a book or writing one of my articles, we still feel like we’re in the same room, close to each other, and cooking becomes a family activity. My son is the one who utilises the open kitchen to its fullest—dragging his little chair close to the counter and standing on it to investigate the recipe every time something is being cooked. He is a regular little chef in the making, and roots ardently for his dad every time he sees the big man cooking.

An open kitchen makes the culinary space gender-neutral and inclusive somehow, welcoming the entire family with its open arms. The closed kitchens I’ve seen all my life, both at my mother’s house and at my in-laws’ place seem somehow designed to keep the kitchen a private, sacrosanct area. My impressions of them alternate between two extremes: sometimes an exclusive club meant for dominance by a few, at other times a ghetto meant for an underprivileged minority.

I’d rather not be in either of those.

As for the mess on display that our relative complained of, I am reminded of a statement by Adil Ahmad, founder of The Palace Collection and one of India’s best interior designers, whom I interviewed last year. His office was a riot of colours and objects as I walked into it, and this is how he described it: “Contrived Clutter.” A meticulous kind of mayhem.

He told me he was put off by homes that looked like showrooms when you entered them—homes that had no personality of their own. What he liked instead, were spaces that were “well lived”, spaces that said you had been on a journey. And journeys, as we all know, aren’t just made by road, rail or air. The kitchen is the living example of culinary maps charted out and journeys undertaken every day.

So if you have guests over today, for instance, and the kitchen is full of sights and smells  that speak of the journey you undertook to create that magic loaded onto the dining table, what’s wrong if they get a glimpse of it?

I suppose it is again connected with the differences in perception between this generation and the previous one. For them, it was very important that the messes and the chaos be pushed behind a curtain, and only a perfect façade put on display. For people like me, life is beautiful regardless of the clutter, for that is an equal part of who we are.

Messes are to be celebrated. They speak of a full life—a chaotic one, perhaps, but a real life. One that is filled with sounds of laughter and shrieks of glee— as opposed to the silence of a morgue. Celebrations, reunions are punctuated with noise and revelry. Loneliness is silent.

What’s a little mess on display compared to all of that shared joy?

Waiting for the story?


So what happens next? 

All you lovely folks out there who’ve been waiting for the story of The Reluctant Reproductionist to continue, please don’t worry. You’ll get to read the rest of the tale. Just bear with me awhile, and I promise you’ll get the whole story straight from the horse’s mouth. Meanwhile, I hope you enjoy being my companions on these other little trips through life!

 

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Chapter 43 (ii): Letter to my 60-year-old self


(Disclaimer: This post is not supposed to be a comment or judgement on anyone, it is merely a presentation of thoughts on how I’d like to see myself in the future.)

“Perhaps the world progresses not by maturing, but by being in a permanent state of adolescence, of thrilled discovery.”

― Julian Barnes, Levels of Life

About a year ago, when Richard Branson turned 65, he took on 65 challenges given by fans. Those challenges included writing a letter each to his 10, 25, 50 and 65-year-old selves. Interestingly, not one of those challengers asked him to write a letter to his older self—none went beyond 65, his age at the time. But why not?

Penning a letter to your older self would be far more fruitful than penning one to your younger self. Let me explain.

Writing to your younger self is like baking a cake for a dead person on their birthday—they can’t actually enjoy it (though you might feel good about doing it). In effect, it’s just an exercise in self-congratulation. You will never be 25 again—or 10 or 15—so there’s absolutely no point in giving advice to a non-existing person. In truth, these letters are written purely for the benefit of others—younger people, newer generation—so they may benefit from the wisdom of your years and all that you accumulated in experience, which is particularly pertinent when you’re a swashbuckling entrepreneur like Branson.

But as far as your own self goes, the exercise is completely futile. What would be more meaningful, I suppose, is to write a letter to your older self. Assuming that you stay alive till the date, it would be quite a revelation to know how your younger self saw the world, what she or he thought and experienced. Memory is a fickle lover—it plays tricks with your consciousness; it shows you past events coloured in the light that you’d like to see them in right now. But it would be infinitely interesting to know your real experience of that moment, as and when it happened. A few months ago, I happened to come across an email conversation with a friend of my college times, and I could neither recognise my own voice, nor did she recognise hers when I sent it to her. We had both forgotten so much of our younger selves from merely 10 years ago. So what makes you think you’d remember yourself correctly from 30 years ago?

That’s actually what a diary or a journal is for—recording your former self. But a journal is a record, not really advice per se. Giving advice to your older self might open up a whole new perspective. Perhaps, once you reach that age, it might enable you to see things from your children’s perspective—and lessen the inevitable generation gap. The acuity of youth is so badly discounted, and then you let it all slip away, turning into an exact replica of your forefathers and foremothers.

Which brings me back to myself— sitting on the fence, peering into the unknown future, thinking: Someday, I’ll be a mom-in-law too. And though there are numerous reasons for writing a letter to my older self, this one is as good as any. Here then, is my letter to my 60 year old self. 60, because I was 25 when my son was born and hopefully he’ll find himself someone to spend his life with by the time he’s 30, give or take a few. Here then is my strategy for the future. It may turn out to be completely unusable advice by the time I actually reach the said age, but it’s worth a shot anyway:

Romantic girl writing in a diary lying down outdoors

Dear 60-year-old me,

If you’re reading this you’ve managed to stay alive for six decades, which is no mean feat in itself. I’m sure you’re far wiser than me; you’ve experienced the vicissitudes of life in far greater measure. But I’m also quite sure that your memories of me have faded to a point where you see me only in sepia tint.

You’re standing at a great height now and can see a greater expanse. But since I’m standing lower than you, closer to the ground, I can see small things in much greater detail, with a lot more colourful vibrance. And I want you to never, ever lose the colours in your life. I don’t want you, 60-year-old me, to find your colours fading into grey like your hair would be for sure. Grey in the hair is a good thing, actually: it means you’ve got dual-toned hair without spending a dime at the beauty salon. But I’m hoping you would still be visiting the salon when you’re 60—don’t let yourself slide into dreary ‘sainthood’ just because your kid’s all grown up.

The reason I’m writing to you now is to remind you of how you were 30 years ago, and to remind you of what youth is like. So you can understand those who would be ‘new’ then, even as you’re slowly entering the ‘old’. Now, here’s my little secret to remaining close to your child—and especially to the woman that falls in love with your child: Don’t Grow Old.

You heard that right—Stay New.

Don’t you have heirlooms and jewellery and chandeliers and all, which never deteriorate no matter how “old” they technically get? They remain classy— vintage, so to speak. ‘Good as new’, don’t they say? But being vintage and remaining ‘good as new’ requires a lot of effort. And no, I’m not talking about trips to the salon—although those won’t hurt either.

The most important thing that needs to be kept as good as new is your mind, through careful maintenance and refurbishment. If you are to understand the ‘new’ people of your time, you will have to read and watch carefully the thoughts and ideas prevalent among the youth at the time, you’d need to be aware of the things they find entertaining and the things they find enthralling—as well as the evolving thought process— without being dismissive and judgemental of them. I can tell you for sure that they would be miles away from your own value system and interpretation of the world, but being dismissive or disparaging won’t help. In fact, you’d need to keep an open mind, for it may well be that the things you considered acceptable turn out to be truly outrageous—don’t forget that there was a time when slavery or sati or domestic violence all were considered acceptable. It won’t harm you to try and understand where your generation had been wrong, too.

You’d need to read as much contemporary literature of the time as you can, and watch contemporary movies and read/watch the news and be aware of events around you. You’d need, beyond anything, to listen to what your children are saying, analyse the things they say and discuss them along with your own ideas. If you feel they need guidance, discuss your ideas with them based on reason and sensibility, without resorting to the clichéd appeal: “in our times, my son…” or “when I was your age, my son…” I know for a fact that I absolutely resent being presented with these lines, and your son will resent them too—to say nothing of the woman he will share his life with.

The best approach is to find a middle ground— but only when it’s absolutely necessary. In most cases, children that have grown into adults can and should be able to take their own decisions, and the best approach for you as a parent is a hands-off approach. You raised your son to be an independent boy, so let him exercise that independence now, and let him take decisions together with his partner. If at all you need to offer advice, offer it in a positive manner—and preferably to the boy you raised, not to the girl raised in another family with possibly an entirely different set of ideas, values and lifestyles. You may not understand her at all at first, so it would be best to let the man she chose to live with handle all the sticky bits.

How else do you remain new? By adopting the gadgets and technology of the age you live in. I understand it wouldn’t be easy at all, for I can’t imagine what the technology would look like 30 years from now. But I need you to recall now, how difficult it was to first learn to cook. To first learn to drive. To first learn to bring up a baby. To first learn to manage in a big city all alone, after living your overprotected life in a small town. Everything is difficult for the first time, but you’ve mastered bigger things than a new-age gadget, so I’m expecting you to be interested in and using new age gadgets even now, when you’re 60. New age inventions will let you into the fresh world and you won’t feel left out. That’s going to be important, I think, as you get greyer in the hair.

What’s going to be even more important, dear 60-year-old-me, is to have other achievements, involvements and sources of joy than just your kids and grandkids. Believe me, that’s going to be crucial for your own happiness. That’s one of the reasons I find so much joy and pride in my writing—both personal and professional—and in my books and in my travel. If I were to centre my entire life round my son, and make him my only achievement in life, you would be the biggest sufferer, for sure enough that achievement—that son—would no longer need your mothering at 30, and find solace in another woman instead. I want you to be prepared for that, and to not make your son the focus of your life.

I don’t want you to base your entire happiness on events in his life either—his marriage and his kids, because the core of that happiness belongs to him; for you is only the periphery. If you’ll draw your entire happiness from his marriage and his kids or even his professional achievements, you’ll find yourself trying to control all those decisions in a way that makes you happy. If for instance, he chooses a profession or a girl that doesn’t fit your ideal you’ll feel betrayed because that was your only source of happiness. If he chooses to have/not have kids against your wishes, you’ll feel betrayed for you’d have concentrated your happiness only on them. For the sake of your sanity, your happiness and especially that of your son, draw your joy from things in your own life.

Set goals for your own self, goals unrelated to family. Goals for your own achievements, professional or otherwise. Don’t let your only skill be taking care of others, for then you’ll never be able to let your son behave like a grown up. Worse, you’ll even begin expecting your daughter-in-law to act like a ‘mom’ to your son—which is a fatal mistake.

Instead of expecting your kids and grandkids to return the favours you did for them and make you happy, construct your own happiness around you. Stay in touch with friends and visit them. Join a book club or some such community where you have other people to share your days with. Don’t make family the only focus of your life. Make a list of books you’d like to read now, make a bucket list of places you’d like to travel. Yes, I said travel. Just because elderly people in India aren’t expected to travel anywhere except for pilgrimages doesn’t mean that elderly people from other countries don’t pack up their bags and globetrot once they’re retired!

In fact, just imagine how big an opportunity this is, for travel as well as for romance.

Your son is all grown up and has a family of his own. You finally have the house all to yourself and your man. Isn’t that a delicious thought? You could just take your cue from the grey in your hair: grey is sexy. Don’t believe me? Just ask all those screaming fans of Fifty Shades of Grey.

So go all out and plan vacations, explore the world, try new things and have fun. Age is no bar for adventure—and young people anyway would like more enthusiastic elders around! Plus, when you’re having fun in your own life, you won’t grudge all the fun that your daughter in law would be having in hers.

Yes, you heard me. That’s what generally causes a lot of heartburn to mum in laws: “Hamne to kabhi aisa nahi kiya!”

‘We never used to do this, tsk tsk.’

When in truth what they’re really thinking is: “Kaash hamne bhi aisa kiya hota!”

‘Wish we could have done this too!”

You better believe it.

And yes, when your son becomes a father himself, try and understand that it’s his turn at parenting. You’ve had yours when you were bringing him up. So you let his wife and him bring up their kid their own way. Suggestions are good, but be careful that they are worded positively and don’t turn into taunts of incompetency or laments of “aaj kal ki maaein… (oh, these modern mothers!)” If you want people to benefit from your experiences, try and be helpful instead of judgemental.

Of course, I understand that when you’re 60 you’ll be possessed by a fair bit of nostalgia for the world as you knew it, the life that you’ve lived. It’s only natural, and you’re only human. And it’s perfectly okay to be nostalgic, because youngsters like listening to stories of an age past, stories of a time they never knew. It offers them a doorway into a wondrous ancient world—ancient to them, at least.

It fascinates them, just as 16 year old me was fascinated by the stories of her maternal grandfather who watched the coronation of Queen Elizabeth on a large screen in a London street, or the story of how he defeated King Zahir Shah of Afghanistan in a clay pigeon shooting competition aboard the ship that took him to England.

Remember him, the gentleman that he was—how he quoted Ghalib and Meer and Dard and Iqbal with aplomb, but dearly loved Simba from The Lion King as well!  Remember the things he stood for— always ready with kind advice but never dismissive of the new world.

And yes, there will be so many times your kids will still need you, times when they’ll be at their most vulnerable. In those times, I hope you’ll be like your own mother in law—in the way she stood by 24-year-old you when you were pregnant and a complete mess, how she took care of you when you were struggling with a newborn, how she taught you things you never knew, and especially how she never once gloated on all these favours upon you.

And I also hope that you will possess some fraction of the steel that shows through your own mother’s nerves, in how she coped with a devastating personal tragedy, how she single-handedly brought up two headstrong girls and how she still retained her infinite kindness, humanity and generosity.

Dear 60-year-old me, I’m quite sure you’ll rise to meet all the challenges and responsibilities life brings your way, but I’m also hoping you’ll have fun in the process—finding moments to bathe in the rain, to explore a new land, to steal a kiss.

I’m hoping you’ll stay new forever.

With love,

Your inexperienced, short-tempered, impatient, naïve, idealistic 30-year-old self