Birthday-eve blues

There’re just 17 days to go. Not that I’m worried anymore about the impending date. Or, unusually thrilled, for that matter. But because 27th November is going to be my 48th birthday, it’s not a date I’m likely to overlook in a hurry.

Good time, I reckon, to introspect. Balding old men in spectacles do that, I’m told. If nothing else, it helps keep the gray matter, well, gray. Not that I’m in a mood to meet Mr Alzheimer in a hurry—no sir, I prefer Michelle Pfeiffer and so what if she doesn’t know about my existence yet—I still think I have some good years left!

So what does the scene look like, when you’ve completed at least half your allotted home runs, huffing and puffing, but still think you’re fit enough to face the pitcher?

First realisation is, you can still play ball, if you can see the damn thing after all these years. Admittedly not all that big as before, but still sizeable, you have to admit. Now, everybody knows that ball-sizes matter, so don’t confuse this with anything else—not even the size of my ego. On the other hand, if you believe that egos have a way of adding on inches with age, don’t worry, my frequent trips to the gym have ensured that I simply keep expanding my chest to keep it in.

In either case, one can still hit a mean ball and that’s a fair point at this age. But this isn’t about being able to fend for oneself—that’s still eminently do-able: at this juncture one often tends to pontificate about the larger issues in life. Should one have candy-floss if one feels like, for instance, or walk about naked when there’s no one home?

To which an Existentialist must come up with Existentialist answers, I suppose, or better still, answer with more Existentialist questions. OK, so here goes: at 48, has one really achieved what one had to? What else is left? Has one secured the lives of his progeny? Has one found real happiness? And of course, the biggest one of them all—what next?

In case you haven’t caught on yet, I fancy Existentialism. Not because I necessarily believe in it that much, but because I like the way one pronounces ‘Sartre’ or ‘Kafka’. And what exactly is my Sartorial or Kafkaesque state on the eve of my 48th birthday?

In retrospect, it’s not really that different from when I was a child: except for some very minor points, which don’t really count in the Existentialist world. For earlier on, I believed I was born to make a difference to this world—now I believe this world was born to make a difference to me; earlier I thought older people were wiser—now I think younger people are; earlier only I thought I was good-looking—now the whole world disagrees with me; earlier I thought building a house and ensuring a good life for my kids was a major milestone—now my kids don’t think so. The list is endless, but like I said, if you take a bigger, Existentialist view of things, it hardly matters.

All of which proves just one thing—that one tends to come full-circle at this point in his life, an amplification in other words, of the tautology that the earth is round. And what makes me say that?

Very simply this—that whereas earlier I was anxious and always wondering how and whether one was important in the scheme of life, now I feel exactly the same way, except for a small detail: the anxiousness is gone, and there’s a happier acceptance of the fact that one doesn’t really matter at all. Life has gone on and will go on, whether I live another 50 years or 5, in much the same way.

So the questions can wait, as can the answers, I suppose. For another year, or another 100. Meanwhile why not enjoy the 48th year of Existence like none before: after all, nothing really matters, and of course, no one’s looking!

Who’s reading your blog?

People don’t read blogs. At least that’s the studied conclusion my 47-yr old brain’s reached. Blogs written by slightly, er, kinky sorts, who insist on describing how they had sex with a new partner every night just so that they might tell all the next morning and hopefully make a fortune by binding it all in a hard case if they find a gullible publisher, don’t qualify. Nor do the fancy ones created and maintained by companies and their agencies, in an assiduous attempt to ‘get to those members of their target audience who don’t watch boring TV or have never learnt to read papers’ (most of which, I’m told, have been awfully expensive failures anyway).

I refer instead, to blogs written by ‘normal’ people. So, why aren’t they read? For one, who has the time to peek into other peoples’ lives today? And frankly, who’d want to scour the Net to read through other peoples’ diaries before embarking on something of importance? After all, most people enter the virtual world with an objective: to search for information, book tickets, watch pornography et al (voyeuristic weaknesses having been dealt with above, already).

You might say this is the view of an atypical Internet user (most surveys suggest a bigger infatuation with the medium among the teens and the young). But this fact is corroborated by my 21-yr old son, who’s an avid blogger himself, and I hate to admit, the one who initiated me into this business. Fact is, he, who blogs consistently, does not get any comments on his posts either. That this makes him tear his otherwise substantial hair, or gives rise to unimagined inadequacies about his worth in the world is another matter: point is, no comments, so no reads!

Alright, big deal, I tell myself: you don’t write diaries and then throw them into cars at busy crossings like the evangelists, do you? Isn’t it a means of self-expression, a sort of catharsis, instead? This, I must admit, made eminent sense to my left-brain-by-training temperament, and I was happy to be an anonymous speck in the Existentialist Virtual World. Until last night, when someone, in the course of polite conversation, broke the bombshell of a different, till-now unimaginable possibility altogether.

There are, it seems, eavesdroppers on the Net. What else would you call people who read your blog and then, don’t leave any comments! It’s like they want to know the colour of underwear you’re wearing, but won’t acknowledge that they were peeping through the keyhole. I mean, you pay to see a movie, to read a bestseller, even to access important material from the Net. Hell, you even drop a coin into the violinist’s hat as you come out of the Underground! So, why not acknowledge the fact that you read someone’s writing by noting it was ho-hum, or simply, crap? Not just good manners, but also yeoman service to speck of dust in Existential Virtual World. Who know’s he just might stop squatting and free up some precious space?

Sigh. It’s difficult, but I can learn to live with this, I reckon. However nothing, repeat nothing, prepared me for another sort of character that’s apparently on the loose in blogosphere. And that, Ladies and Gentlemen, is the tribe of journalists. Editors, Subs, Writers, Proof Readers, even. Innocuous, often bespectacled, respectable people otherwise, the kind you’d be nice to generally and hardly want to pick an issue with (who wants bad press?). That they routinely roamed the dark alleys of the Internet to pick up information quickly to meet deadlines or took recourse to when they were plain lazy to gather in first person, I knew for a long time. But, that they actually pick up and go through blogs randomly to suit their nefarious designs: that is to say, not only read, but analyse, dissect and then pilfer, pillage loot and plunder as they wish, is something I never imagined. And here I was, being told, quite incidentally, how ‘everyone’ in a particular magazine’s editorial office had been going through my blog that morning, (for what public good I cannot imagine), and how they immensely enjoyed themselves, and so on, and so forth. Conveniently, however, forgetting to mention whether anyone had bothered to ‘comment’ or otherwise leave trace of such visit!

Is this fair, I ask? No one said bloggers are TRP-crazy nerds who exalt in the ticking of visitor-number counters (ever seen one on a blog?), but if freedom of speech is a fundamental right to be upheld, then musn’t voyeurism, eavesdropping, or plagiarism be upheld as crime?

Think, you journalists, you purveyors of civilization, makers of culture, and harbingers of truth! And yes, DON’T bother to leave a comment.

P.S. This might be my last post on this blog, for I’m sure my wife, who’s an editor of a reputable magazine, is bound to go through it sooner or later. That will leave only one of two options: either I go ‘underground’ and choose a fresh squatting place and continue with my incantations, or I pack my bags (as I’ll probably be asked to do so) and head for a white water rafting trip down the Zanskar.

Pro Vyder vs Easy Ryder

The bed’s wet. Yes, the sex was nice last evening but surely, after all these years, not all that much. It could be the wheezing generator managing to control it’s asthma, and sleeping a bit longer through a power-cut. And if I’m definitely not sweating, it could be the glass of water on the side-table, used to getting knocked around by sleepy, groping hands every night.

But that’s not the worst of this muggy night. For Enlightenment sometimes creeps through vivid dreams in precisely such conditions. And horrors, often in stereophonic fashion, trouble comes in doubles, just like one learnt in school.

So what’s that I see? That nice self-assured chap in in a perfect haircut and khakis, sporting a designer watch and smiling at me as he sips his expensive wine—surely I know him, for it’s me. Written your appraisals in office? Said your prayers? Hugged your son? Serviced the car? Got the leaky commode fixed? And yes, paid the credit card and mobile phone bills in time? I can see him cock his head to a side and amusedly ask all that in his deep, sonorous, accent-trained, almost theatrical voice.

God, it’s 3 am and we’re power-less. I don’t want to deal with this, this demon right now. Maybe in the morning, when I’m armed with my deo and laptop and blackberry and I’m on familiar territory, cocooned in my comfortable car. But right now, I want him to disappear and let me get on with my REM sleep.

But one thing’s crystal clear. He’s not the only one around. For as I blink, I see the other one. Tousled hair, unshaven with smelly armpits, in sneakers and Tshirt-jeans he must’ve borrowed from his son. Now, where’ve I seen him before? In the market, making eyes at that little 18-year old chick last Sunday, or in a Rajnikant-type B-grade Bollywood imitation? Wait a minute, isn’t he the bloke you grew up with through school and college—yeah sure, he’s changed a bit, the hair’s thinning a little, but, but it’s unmistakeably the same guy. Yes, it’s you again!

Doubles? You crazy? You didn’t even touch alcohol last evening (which perhaps is why the sex was good anyway!) I rub my eyes in disbelief, but no. there’s no denying the fact. And the likeness. Right, OK, so you’re in a double role in your dream, big deal. It’s your own, and who’s to stop you from casting yourself in multiple, not just double roles, dammit? But what’re these gentlemen trying to tell you?

That your mother didn’t tell you, but you were destined to have a Dr Jekyll Mr Hyde type split personality? Cold sweat happens. Followed quickly by the Eureka bit (there must be some connection between Eureka and water, your subconscious notes)! For these are but two facets of yourself, you realize. Mr Pro Vyder, and Mr Easy Ryder. One, the guy who looks after the world around you, and the other a happy-go-lucky bastard who cocks a snook at anything wordly.

You look closer, as Mr Vyder thunders at his double: “You good for nothing! Where were you when they were teaching you to shoulder responsibility? Ever seen how I bend backwards to cater to every whim and fancy of the entire family, even if it’s at the cost of myself? Why can’t you learn to selflessly serve those around you? And by the way, just what do you thing you’re wearing? Can’t you dress and look your age? Why don’t you shower every now and then?

You turn to see the response from Mr Ryder, and it’s not quite what you expect. For he doesn’t shout back but just smiles, runs his hands through his unkept hair, and looks Mr Vyder in the eye. Cocking his head to one side, he remarks, “But do you have fun? I do! So bugger off you bully.” And so saying he walks towards Mr Vyder, unhesitatingly, straight into him and morphs into the poor chap.

Disbelievingly I stare, as the duo, become one and slowly turn into vapour. Vapour that distributes and sits heavy in the dark humid night. Suddenly, with a start, the airconditioner hums back to life and the fan whirrs. I open my eyes, but only halfway, and feel my body with my sweaty palms—still one thankfully—no cracks—at least not on my physical self. And turn over, you might say, with the contented sigh of one who’s received Enlightenment in a Power-Cut.

Do the young think the same way we did back then?

One keeps hearing about how attitudes of youngsters today are so different from what ours were, back then. My response to this usually is that it isn’t really so: young people have essentially behaved, and believed the same way: it’s just that the older generations tend to romanticize the past and suggest that they had better ideals and attitudes. But two rather unconnected remarks by two young men in their twenties, who I interviewed this week, made me rethink a bit.

One of them was looking to chuck his well-paying night shift call-centre job because he wanted to ‘settle down’; which on probing, turned out to be a condition set by his (wealthier) in-laws to be. You see, he was to marry a girl who was more qualified and earning far more than he, and when I asked him if he didn’t feel uncomfortable about this, his response was, “I don’t feel uncomfortable eating off my wife; after all, I live in 2007, and can’t be expected to have attitudes of 20 years ago.”

The other chap, who’d been forced to start working just after school because his father passed away, had this to say about his situation: “I had to make money, because all that my father left us was a house.”

Smart, I thought as I listened to these statements, even though inwardly wincing a bit. And try as I might I couldn’t help but imagine if I, or my friends could’ve ever uttered them, when we were young.

I mean I’m not a chauvinist, and sincerely believing in the equality of the sexes, have always tried to ensure that my wife took all the opportunities that came her way to become financially and emotionally independent. I would even venture to think I created some of those opportunities. And today, when she’s as, if not more, economically independent and successful than I, it still never enters my head that I could sit back and live off her earnings. Not one bit. Egoistic? Old-fashioned? Sigh—you’re right!

Things have changed, after all, haven’t they? Because I can’t remember ever, EVER, thinking what my father would ‘leave’ for me. Call it the foolhardy idealism of the Ayn Rand-seventies, or an unspoken respect for the generation that fought Partition and picked up the broken pieces of their lives all by themselves, I’ve always believed in the power of the individual. And that to me has meant that parents can only leave behind their ideals and values, not property and cash for their kids. If in the process, they ensured that children got educated in good schools (and this they often did, to the best of their ability and means), so much the better. But, that’s about it. The next generation must generate its own wealth, and make its own place in this world.

So, what’s happening here? Have the young become more ‘Western’ or “Global’ as many lament? Well, maybe, but remember, most Westerners are fiercely individualistic—after all they leave home at 16 and pay for their own higher education. And neither the average man nor the woman believes seriously that he or she can live off the earnings of the spouse.

I suspect this is more a case of getting impressed by the veneer than the solid wood inside. In a way, our kids are just reacting to newfound materialistic success that India is experiencing today. They still have to grow up and make a place for themselves in this world!

Sorry if that sounds old-fashioned and clichéd. But that’s how it is!

The looming spectre of the empty nest

What do you do when it strikes you that in less than six months, the nest that you’ve toiled to build all these years is suddenly going to become, very simply, empty?

Shrug it away, sit down with head-in-hands, or smile your way to the Himalayas?
Or, probably, go through each one of those, in turn.

The euphoria of learning that your elder son has made it to Oxford dissipates rather quickly when it hits you that he will be onboard a plane in just 5 months from now. And the relief of finally escaping the terror of Higher Secondary Board exams that you’ve virtually lived with your younger son for many months, too evaporates when you realize that he’ll probably start living in college hostel in 4 months.

The first reaction is only human—that of shocking disbelief: this happens only in the movies, and that too, to 60-year-olds. Not to 40-somethings who’ve hardly had a moment of respite from their own crazy, whirlwind fight for survival, and have just built their own house, in preparation for that golden sunset which they think is many, many moons away. What will happen to their rooms for all the years they’re going to be away (you still assume, of course, that one day, they will return)? Who will you come back home for after a tiring day of work? How the hell will you pitch tent by yourselves in the hills? Who will you share the loads of wisdom you’ve so assiduously collected all these years?

In phase two of your bad dream, you whack yourself on the head and return to reality in 21st century India. In this day and time, you can hardly assume your children, even if they’re both sons, are going to stay with you till you decide it’s time to leave them with a one-way ticket to the skies. Especially when you’ve grown them up on a diet of strong individualism spiced with the idealism of chasing one’s dreams. So, the only sane option is to help them on their way, as you’ve done all these years. Which means you pitch in the search for scholarships, buying woolies (and brollies!) to face the gloomy weather in ol’Blighty, setting up a hostel room in the North Campus, et al. with a beeg smile of course: remember, never fight or cry before your children!

In the next, and hopefully the last phase of your nightmare, you imagine all the wonderful possibilities this situation can actually give rise to. And savour the thought of living through each one of it…

Scenario 1: Summer in Oxfordshire
Imagine the thought of not having to spend unbearable summers in dusty Delhi or grimy Gurgaon. But instead, joining your son in the pleasant, clean environs of the English countryside. In-haaaale, hold, relax, and then ex-hale slowly…it’s already working wonders for your health. Really, the possibilities are immense: you don’t have to pine for the dark, frothy Guinness anymore, or catch up with The Premier League only on ESPN. So what if you you’ll have to crowd in with your son in his single room, eat microwaved packets of Bangladeshi food, travel mainly in the Tube, sigh at the spiraling prices when you visit Oxford Street, or even, catch hay fever in the process? You will, after all, be united as a family, and family, as we all know, is the biggest thing that man invented after the spear.

Scenario 2: Roaming the North Campus, again
Winter, then, can be a glorious, sunny affair spent with your younger son. Binging on chaat and chola bhatura in Kamla Nagar occasionally, bringing him home every other weekend, talking about his future and his love interests, can all be very supportive for yo ur son, and can probably add years to your life too! As can brisk, late evening walks taken with him, observing how colleges have hardly changed since the times you stalked the campus as a student.

Scenario 3: Gazing into the sunset, together
Since your children merely come through you in a Gibranesque way, it’s wise after all, to let go of them, at least in spirit. And think once again about the two of you—after all you did get married because you wanted to spend the rest of your life together! Now, you can drive off into the hills without the hassle of packing enough baby food and diapers, visit all the relatives and friends you neglected all these years, not cook dinner every evening, hold hands anywhere in that huge house, even, make love in every room, and no one will ever care. How wonderful!

Scenario 4: Alone again, naturally
In a somewhat Gilbert O’Sullivan way, you realize that after all you must let go of all attachments and become one with nature again. But before you swing the proverbial last pack on your back as you head into sanyas, you decide to enroll for a PhD (in metaphysics, probably). Somehow, do all the things you wanted to but cruel life did not let you. The exhilaration of being able to get back into academia, the thrill of bungee-jumping, skiing in the Alps, scuba-diving off the Maldives, or a leisurely walk in the lazy Mediterranean, all appear rather rosy. As does the final picture of you building yourself a hut in the hills, next to a stream, living off fruita and fresh air.

But alas, the extended-REM-sleep, final phase of your glorious dream punctures and mutilates it in a totally real yet surreal fashion. It’s when you wake up with a start and remember your dream stark vividly—then realize you’re not awake at all, but still in your nightmare, or somewhere in between. It’s in this twilight zone between reality and fantasy; you realize you’re destined to live. And you must.

Which is when you pull the sheet over your face hoping to get some extra winks of sleep before you wake up. Even as you mentally turn over all the looming crises in the day ahead, and your midlife in general that you still have to face, much before those 6 months are over!

Have you ever?

Have you ever…

Let a ladybird climb onto your finger…
Slid an icecube down your shirt…
Licked the chalk on the wall…
Driven to nowhere in particular…
Boogied with your image in the mirror …
Wanted to be kissed under a waterfall…
Tried to get drunk without managing…
Choked on an emotion you never thought you were capable of?

Boy, am I glad I have, and still want to!

Ok, what then, are you good for, buster?

“Why the hell can’t you understand a simple thing?” “Why are you repeating yourself?” “Sure you also studied the same course at college, but don’t you realize things were so different back then?” “Oh God, why must I face this every evening at home?”

Ever heard that (or similar quips) from your grown up sons? If this seems familiar, welcome to the Club! If, on the other hand, you’ve been spared such epithets so far, then you must have exceptionally polite sons (notice I’m gender-specific here, in the desperate hope that daughters might be a little more considerate, but that’s something I’ll sadly, never be able to verify as I have only sons). Or, you’re probably lying. In the vain hope that your position as ‘head’ of the family is still intact and things will get better.

What IS your position at home, now that you’re 45-plus, buster? Ever wondered? I often do, and in 9 cases out of 10, reach the conclusion that, as you grow older, your relevance to family, and to society in general, begins to diminish.

Overtly cynical? Maybe, maybe not! But really, what’s happening here? Is it that you’re getting senile? Is it just a case of the nasty generation-gap? Or, could he just be, hell, right?

So, let’s deal with the preliminaries first. Face it, your sons can look after their basic needs fine without you (probably better): you no longer have to wake them up, bathe them, pack them off to school, or feed them. And no, you don’t take them on picnics anymore, as they have infinitely better company available. Holidays together are becoming a rarity, as each has his calendar worked out independently. You don’t take them to the movies (they do, occasionally, when they’re feeling kind). You can’t shop for them, as their sizes change ever so often you can barely keep track—in any case they’re hardly ever likely to appreciate what you bought (this shirt is so, um sixties!), if you did manage to make that mistake.

But then, you think, we’re now like friends, so our er, engagement must exist on a HIGHER plane, right. Wrong! Tried asking your son how his day was at college? Or when or where or even IF he’s going to apply to that College in the US? Don’t even think of bringing up life-changing questions like, “Um, er, what exactly do you want to do in life”, or “what’s the name of that girl you like?”

“Come to think of it, boys do need space of their own,” you rationalize to yourself, thinking hard about what conversation to make at the dinner-table. So just when you decide to keep your mouth shut, up pops the innocuous question, “Can I take the big car when I go for rehearsals?” And quietly, you decide to pour yourself another drink…

Our elders (bless them), never tired of telling us we shouldn’t have any expectations from anyone, and, I suppose that included kids. So, imagining that your kids will help manage the house, or better, contribute in your work is of course, OUT of the question. But, is it too much to expect your son to drive home safely well past midnight after his rehearsal, night after night? I’m not saying you ought to worry if he’s getting drunk, or doing drugs or that sort of thing (after all, you must have FAITH in the big boy). But what if you get nervous thinking about how he must be tired and sleepy and has to plough through the insane traffic on the highway at that hour? What’re you supposed to do – stay up and watch stupid telly until then or sleep peacefully, instead?

Never mind, it’s the burden of being a dad, you console yourself. And when you hurry downstairs, relieved, to open the door when he DOES turn up and tell him it’s about time, don’t be surprised if all you get is ‘What’s wrong with you dad; I told you to go to sleep!”

About this blog

This is a blog about growing up. “Growing up,” did someone groan? For all those who dread such realities, particularly from among an age group in their teens and 20’s that disdains such and other um, realities, let me clarify.

This is about a different sort of growing up. A ‘second’ growing up, if you wish. The transition into middle age, or ‘menopause,’ as the wise men label it. So all you youngsters, here’s something you can gladly skip, for this is for your parents – the lot that you claim refuses to grow up!

Who then, is this for? If you’ve started lingering that much longer at your image in the mirror, squinting at the receding hairline, or tried to puff up your chest in the hope that it would somehow help you fit into that 34 (worse, 32) waist-size handwashed-jeans, read on. Or if you’ve started encountering memory-loss, even if for a moment, or facing grown-up kids who talk back to you at the dinner table, or come to terms with the fact that Mallika Sherawat or Angelina Jolie can never be yours, then this one's for you.

Read on, identify, pontificate, smile. Laugh out loud, if you wish. At me, at the writing, or inwardly, half at yourself. As they say, ‘Whate-ver,’ but don’t give up, for there’s still a lot to learn, many discoveries to be made (mostly about yourself!), some more growing up to do…

Cheers!