The Signs

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Who was telling the story? And whose story was it anyway? The words fluttered and flew in the wind. They entreated as they fought the heavy air in the tremulous room, the words. They cried out to be heard, acknowledged and acted upon. But the listening silence was cautious, wary of committing and implicating the speaker in any manner. It was the calculative smarts of an ambivalent, modern professional. The school after all, ran on donations, its policies and decisions dictated by a cautious environment. There was a ball park figure to chase and livelihoods on the line. It was a standard operating procedure for everyone to watch and wait until pushed by a crisis. The question was, “Did anyone possess the empathy or the vocabulary to know the signs of one?” 

The counselor shifted in his chair, drawing back from the teenager

shrinking across his table. Garima Tandon had given up on her gritty brown eyes. The tears slid at speed down defeated cheeks. She sat perched on the edge of her seat, the right toe reaching for the door, ready to bolt. Hers was an earnest young spirit, flickering bravely through the heap of shame and humiliation dumped on her by bullying friends and class mates. “How do you feel at this time?” Her lips quivered at the careful voice of objective professionalism. She dragged her spiky eye lashes and darted an injured gaze at the falling drops outside the office window. Her slender frame snuggled deeper into the chair. “You were saying you feel empty and numb. Have you spoken with your mother?” the counselor prompted. “No. I just don’t see the point anymore. I don’t feel anything at all. I want it to stop.” The two locked their eyes briefly, startled away by the invasive ring of the telephone. Garima made to haul out of the chair, reaching for her knapsack but the counselor waved her back, raising the mouthpiece and banging it down to disconnect. It took him a while to focus back on the distress unfolding under his nose. “I am thinking of ordering the helium hood kit”, the high school senior mumbled under her breath. “What is that? Is it a video game?” He frowned at the curl in the girl’s lips. “Listen, don’t do anything stupid alright. Whatever is bothering you will settle down, I promise. It always does. You are very young. Also, our time is up now. Remember, I am always here should you wish to talk. Come and see me next week, alright? You take care Garima!”

Garima labored out of the dismissive office and through the hallway of the school, deaf to the buzz and chatter around her. No one paid any attention to the laden figure as she walked out of the building for the last time. The school guard at the gate nodded at her tentative smile, not knowing the desolation it hid. There were others of significance in the life of this beautiful young woman who had missed the cues. During an exercise in the English class three days ago, the teacher had conducted a poetry writing game. The anonymous pieces of expression were slipped into a small box and students took turns pulling one and reading it out aloud. The teacher had paused briefly at a particular poem that read, “I don’t want to share my life, if I could just give it away” before shaking her head, scanning the faces in the rooms and moving on to the next submission. Garima’s friends were, if anything, even more obtuse. At their after school parties out of the sight of their parents, they whispered about Garima, “What is with her man? She drinks too much and is easy. So ok dude, she is in pain. Well, isn’t everybody? We are all suffering. The earth is crying. Animals are dying. Children are starving. Get over it for heaven’s sake!”

“Listen, talk to your parents,” a friend had urged her on occasions.

His suggestion would be met by a sad shake of her head, “They think I am a good kid. It would break their hearts to know I have become the bad kid they always warned me against.” Garima had been distancing herself steadily from her loving parents, their pride and expectations and concern too much to bear. From proactive participants in her life, they had been reduced to being mere spectators. Their child was with them only in a physical sense. They had poured themselves into her upbringing and welfare but unknown to them, she was losing her heart and mind and soul to the perilous labyrinth created by peer parenting and the virtual space. Unkindness online, exclusion from groups, tiny betrayals, emotional rejection and an ever present sense of not being understood would have been enough to break an Atlas. She was only a golden waif. 

“There were no closed doors when we were growing up Garima.

 
What is this personal space and privacy you are constantly haranguing about?” the mother had no clue what more could a young woman want other than a loving family and fiercely proud grandparents. “I don’t want to meet the relatives. They judge too much, ask too many questions. I hate being queried about my life plans. Hell, I am figuring it all out still. What is the tearing hurry?” Mum would screech in alarm, “Language Garima!” The censure would be greeted with a violent bang of the door as the teenager flounced off with a wail, “Have the heavens fallen with one abusive word? There is no freedom of speech in this house. What do you want from me? Did you not take any parenting lessons before having me? Have you any idea what is happening in my life?” The dinner table in their hurting house often creaked under their conscious and manufactured care with words, “Bete, you know you can talk to us. We think your friends are not been responsible enough. Perhaps we should meet their parents. Bring all your friends home. We were always very happy to have our friends meet our parents. Why do you get so upset if we try to connect with any of yours?” The paternal patter would fade away at the horror on their daughter’s face. And for weeks now, she had stopped coming to the dinner table at all. Garima was fighting her demons behind closed doors, her same age peers for guidance and support.

And then one day, the heavens came down. There was no warning. At least the parents were caught completely unprepared. As it happens in such cases, they were the first on the scene. Their daughter did not even leave them a good bye note. She used an orange colored stole that her grandmother had bought her for a school dance drama she was participating in. There was no one at home that morbid of all days. Stealthy as a shadow, death paid the Tandon home a definitive visit that heartbreaking noon and a youthful life full of potential was nipped in the bud. What followed was an avalanche of disbelief and despair. A veritable storm broke around the family and friends. Candle marches, cries for justice, horror and shock on the social media, the deluge of wretchedness refused to abate. There was an angry frenzy to the aftermath. How could she be lost forever? She was such a fabulous talent. Where did she get this horrendous idea and courage from? Why did she not share her anguish with anyone? Could the family and friends and teachers have reached out more? What were the pressures she was struggling with? Did she have a school crush? Did anyone shame her? Was she being bullied on facebook? Did she plan the self-harm or was it an action born of impulse? What could her immediate environment have done differently?

Stung with guilt and grief, when the parents began to lash out at the
school and her friends, the picture perfect life of a young, talented child, deeply loved by her family and studying in one of the city’s best schools began to unravel. The horrific, yawning chasm between Garima’s reality and what her parents fondly imagined her life to be was every modern parent’s nightmare. “We gave her the best of care and opportunities,” her mother wailed. “I never put any pressure on her over her academic performance. She was a gifted artist and we always thought she was quite happy at her school”, her father sobbed inconsolably. “How come we were the last to know that she was facing harassment from a group of her class mates? She did mention once that a couple of teachers had counseled her regarding her report card but we treated it as just and rightful that a teacher confront a student with a constructive feedback. In fact, we made light of it with her, urging her to pay heed to her teacher’s words,” shared the mother.

With the case grabbing headlines, the media enveloped the family

completely. There were cameras galore and mikes constantly being thrust at their grieving faces. “Did you not meet with the counselor ever?” a reporter quizzed the parents. “Yes, I did once,” relented the mother. “I was concerned about Garima’s growing estrangement from us. She was moving away emotionally. It felt she had found an anchor elsewhere but I couldn’t be sure. We were always confused over the style of parenting she needed. Our parents’ formula did not seem to apply. Where to draw the line, when to concede…these conflicts were crushing us. There was no place to go, no one to compare notes with. Everyone else seemed happy and content with their kids.”

The shock and silence Garima left behind was soon taken over by the din of defense.
“I had no idea the Helium Hood Kit was a self-help suicide kit!”

“How could we know her sadness was sadder than the regular blues?”

“We presumed too much, we should have been more alert to her environment?”

“Did she have a boyfriend? No way. Not Garima. She was not that sort!”

“A lot of young people experiment these days. Could she have been in unfamiliar and threatening waters, with no one at home in the know enough to guide her?”

The ache at the criminal waste refused to heal. Lawyers, activists, politicians, loyalists, family, journalists, counselors, policy makers, teachers took up vantage spots in this arena of unbearable loss and sadness. While they wrestled, a powerful phenomenon called ‘time’ stood by and surveyed the maudlin madness. It whispered in the wind, “This is my story India. And I have changed. My values, my aspirations, my expectations are nothing like you could even dare imagine. Hark, my words are fluttering still.” But no one was listening.

The Generation

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Have you met anyone socially and not asked them what their children do? Our

culture tells us that the kids are our most visible validation. Their success and failure is ours. Our primary duty is to them, until our last breath. Anything we do for ourselves has to come after their needs have been met. It is fairly common to base retirement plans on the needs of our children. We want to continue to be available to them long past a reasonable expectation and even desire, in some cases. There is an active myopia amongst parents today that will not permit them to see that their progeny may be crying for space and independence and liberty. Freedom to be average. To live life from a back pack. To roam the world. To not shoulder family baggage. To just be, for heavens sake. To shake off the suffocating stranglehold of religion. To run from the forced socialising with extended family. To be released of expectations. To not have to plan, project, invest, save. To not be knocked down by a mace called marriage. To not bring kids into this world and give them the uninformed parenting they were themselves subjected to. To earn just enough. To not repay house and car loans. To not lose steam in the rat race. To not have to worry about standing out. To shun brilliance for contentment. To reject competition for an inclusive mediocrity. To listen only to the music of their own hearts. To drop the mask and be themselves. To be able to scream, abuse, love and experiment. To take risks. What's wrong with that? You grew up in an age of meagre means. They have matured being waited upon by proud parents and grandparents. Don't cry now. You enabled the magnificent millenial. iGen and Gen Alpha to follow!

Repression (Micro Fiction)

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“You have everything. Good looks, youth, health, great education, opportunities…why the rage? What more could you possibly want?”

Arjan whistle breathed through his mouth, his bewildered eyes locked with the defiant glimmer in his teenage daughter’s glare. The air bristled, their hearts raced and emotions ran riot. “This is your fault,” he turned his helpless anguish at Tia’s mother, “giving her so much liberty. You never let me put my foot down with her!”

Tia’s face began to crumple. She watched her mother rub her forehead. Guilt and fury fought in her head, “The migraine, but of course. It flares up every time there is a conflict in our home. How I wish Mum would come right out and say what is on her mind, this is shitty, I feel like running away from here. Why do I need to be around all of this, there is enough drama in my life, as it is?”

She clamped on her thinking horse, and exploded at her parents, “Patriarchy! I am not putting up with this, there has to be space enough to express emotions, it is inhuman, this constant appearance of control in families.”  It made her harsher to see their shattered expressions. “Ahahhaaa..,” her mother had begun her primate wail. “Mum, I can’t take this. Please! You have no clue what my generation is struggling with.”

“Oh my God, how can you speak to your father like that Tia? He carried you around in the snuggler, you have always been his princess,” the mother couldn’t believe this was happening to their family. “We did our best, were we not there for you kids always? Where have we gone wrong? We tried to be good parents!”

Tia threw her hands up in the air and bolted out of the room, past her grandmother rocking herself in the television room. The house froze for that split second, ears cocked for the sound of her scooter starting. The father peeked through the curtains, “She has gone,” the household exhaled and sat back in battle fatigue.

While Tia raced along the Ring Road towards the Hauz Khas Village to let steam off with some friends, her grandmother continued to stare at the breaking news on the television. It was about Leslee Udwin’s controversial documentary entitled “India’s daughter”. The senior watched, outwardly passive but distraught with conflicting emotions inside. Her fingers traced the prayer book lying unopened in her lap. Nirbhaya’s rapist Mukesh Singh and the defence lawyers were spouting cultural toxin:

“She should not be put on the street just like food…if you put her on the street, the dogs will definitely take her away”.

“We have the best culture, in our culture, there is no place for a woman.”

“You can’t clap with one hand…a girl is far more responsible for a rape than a boy…only 20% girls are good.”

Tia’s mother had recovered enough to be bringing in a plateful of food for her mother-in-law, “Here Mummy ji, shall I get you the medicines?” The older eyes missed nothing, they saw and connected with that air of resignation, the tension of a body readying for blows. And unbidden they came, washing over their turbulent present, frames from another generation gone.

How could Mummy ji forget that late night when her adoring worship of her father had died a painful death? Daarji had returned home late from a party at the Clarks Shiraz. Bebeji had been livid, “These businessmen you associate with are not good people.” Words had begun to fly and accusations traded; the heat would have risen but for a sudden sound. Daarji had puckered his mouth and with all the force he could muster, he had spat at Bebeji. As long as she lived, Mummy ji knew that the memory of her mother banging her forehead on the flaky wall would haunt her.

The horror of that rejection, the impotent fear in her daughter-in-law’s face, her own state of abject dependence, she watched the young women swarm the television screen with their rebellious faces. A centuries old repression was striking vents. That dam of a devalued distress was riding precariously on a Scooty, eating up tar.

Tick…tick…tick…tick…tic…tick…tock!

Hospitality (Micro Fiction)

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Asmita was your typical Indian mother. Guests were gods and friends of her children avatars of God. The household pulled out all stops when the young people came visiting. Not only would all the domestic services be pressed into action, family members took time out to be social around the visitors. The best of snacks would be served in the fanciest of cutlery. The farthest nook of the pantry would be dredged up to rustle every possible snack. “Girija, pull out the dry fruits and slice some apple. Isn’t there something in the freezer, are the sausages over? Steam them quickly,” the help at home was used to the drill.

Smiti bustled around the dining table while her friend Saurabh flicked his phone screen. “Mum, why don’t you let the eats be, he will help himself if he wants to,” Smiti’s voice held a speck of exasperation.

“Come, come…try the chips Saurabh. Would you care for some fruit juice?” Asmita was unfazed by the lack of response from their guest. A lifetime of conditioning had rendered her incapable of registering anything but gratitude for hospitality. One corner of her mind did curl at a certain look that passed between her daughter and the boy but the generic focus on playing a role did not permit any great realization.

“How are your parents? Where do they live? What does your father do?” went her one way friendliness, articulated to put the guest at ease.  Saurabh had begun to shift, his chair scraping a few times. The smile was in place but his hair had begun to lose its shape. He lowered his head a little, the spectacle frames screening his gaze safely.

“Smiti, would your friend prefer lemonade? Ask him to stay back for dinner. Where is he going to go eating now, his roommate is out of station as it is.” A quick dash into the kitchen to brief the cook and Asmita was back with the guest, “Twenty minutes, the food will be on the table. Would you like to freshen up?”

Smiti led him away in the direction of the bathroom. There was the sound of urgent whispers, almost a verbal duel. “Are they arguing?” the mother knit her brows, quickly dismissing the thought , “Can’t be, they are such sweet kids. It is so wonderful to meet friends of our children, we must make them feel at home. It builds faith and trust and communication with the young people.”

“Auntie, I will be making a move. It is getting late and I have an exam to give tomorrow,” Saurabh had begun to edge towards the front door.

“You don’t 'give' an exam beta, you 'take' an exam,” Asmita smiled her indulgence. Two pairs of eyes met again over her happy head.  “Do come again!” she trailed after the pair to the lawn gate.

“Mum, I will just walk him to the bike,” Smiti forced a smile at her mother.  Asmita nodded encouragingly and held back a little, all the time staying in their line of vision. In a few moments, the mother daughter pair was strolling back into the house. “Mum, I need to get going, there is a workshop planned at college,” Smiti escaped into her room and within seconds, her ‘getting ready’ music had come on, audible through the door.

Asmita was still gathering up after Saurabh when an angry vibration startled her. Smiti’s phone was protesting. Just as she lifted it, the screen lit up, “Dude, your Mum is painful, too much formality man…not meeting you at home ever again!” 

Base level (Micro Fiction)

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“Add the Calzone Pockets and the Choco Lava Cake to our Pizza order, will you?” Meha did not bother hiding the smile, her mother was used to their unabashed amusement at her expense. “To hell with my weight, I have earned this today, all that heavy duty relocating, life can be tough” the maternal rummaged around in her bag for the exact change. “It is rude to keep the delivery boy waiting” she directed the gem at Meha, “they are providing us a service and we must respect that.”

The mother daughter pair settled into their domestic hum, an expectation of hot pizzas easing their unsettled space somewhat. The house was like a war zone, boxes and packing material strewn around in untidy heaps. “This is the one thing I hate about being in the Armed Forces. When I look back, life seems so fragmented” Meha half heard the familiar litany. She had covered the rainbow range of uniform colours, having attended ten schools in fourteen years, ‘friends come and go’ was the eternal truth scarred into her retina.

“Here, hang this uniform up carefully….it is a symbol of honour and privilege…you see those stars on the epaulettes….they don’t come easy….there are years and years of consistent work behind the salutes directed at your father” Meha quietly plugged her ears, logging into Grooveshark online for music. “What an archaic, servile and hierarchical structure, completely out of step with the millennial world and its challenge to authority and patriarchy” her young mind whirred dismissively.

It was as though Meha’s generation had penta-jumped ahead of the parents, their heads and ears abuzz with signals from a global monoculture. Liberty, personal autonomy, ownership of one’s spaces; their modern buzzwords duelled with the family idioms of solidarity, group identity and ancestral approval. Where did one end and the other begin, it was hard to fix the base level!

The bell chimed and Meha pattered to the door. “Wonder what the conversation is about, the order was pretty clear and I gave her the exact change”’ her Mum furrowed her brows at the soft voices. She fought her paranoia at events going awry for lack of anticipation and foresight. Years of negotiating a busy and productive life had taught her the value of staying organized. She heaved herself up from the dining table, pushing back her chair only to knock into Meha bringing in the Pizza boxes from the door end.

“Did you check the delivery? They once got us an incomplete order. Let me get the scissors for the seasoning sachets” the senior pushed open the spring door to the kitchen. A rustle and a flap caught her eye on the table. She squinted at the five hundred rupee note tucked under the napkin holder. Confused and full of self-doubt, she turned towards Meha.

“No big deal Mom! We do it all the time in the hostel. I gave our neighbour’s address on my cell phone. They are out of station on leave you know…I saved the delivery guy from logging a non-delivery…he sold me the order for half the price. Chill!”

Reversal (Micro Fiction)

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Pic by Aqseer

Shekhar frowned at the thought of his son. He talked all too much about feelings. “What’s with the boys these days?” he complained to his wife, “I don’t remember airing my thoughts and emotions so much. We mostly kicked ball or spent time doing house errands. All Pat does is jabber and sit around with friends over God knows what all; they call it chilling I believe. I hope he is not doing drugs?”

Shamita shooed him off, too busy surveying her pantry. Growing boys were such hogs, dinner time was approaching and she had her usual challenge of putting both quality and quantity on the table. “The snacks vanish from our cabinets before I can get them in, Prateek demolishes the reserves too. I feel so nervous when guests visit; there is nothing in the house to offer them.”

“Pat! Sam! Mug! What a waste of those elaborate naming ceremonies, why do we Indians even bother, these children are ruthless with shortening their original names!”

“I feel so disconnected with this “want it all” generation, may God bless them with wisdom and patience!”

The father gathered up his papers, unperturbed that neither the wife nor he was hearing the other, they both had peeves to air and time came at a premium. Pat had miraculously come home for the night and Shekhar was not about to waste this event. The youngster often slept over at his friends’ and was so self-absorbed  at home, an array of digital gadgets plugged into his physiology that it took forbearance and tremendous self-esteem to break through the opaque exterior.

Reaching out with trepidation now, Shekhar knocked at the teenager’s door, Pat liked his privacy. “Could he be watching pornography?” the father shook his head to clear the thought. He entered hesitantly at the silence from inside. There was the sound of water rushing in the toilet. Brushing aside his ‘deer in the headlight’ moment, he decided to wait, lowering himself on the single bed in the room. He skimmed the usual disarray in the room, looking up at the sound of the latch clicking. Pat had frozen at the sight of his father bunking in his room.

“Dad, please say you are not parked here to discuss my future plans! We have gone over that an umpteen number of times. ”

“Well, I did hope to bounce some thoughts off you…..” Shekhar trailed off lamely.

“I am good on email father, how about shooting me one, I promise to be prompt.”

Shekhar stared at the floor, his heart heavy and then heaved himself up, fighting down images of the two year old toddler he used to carry on his shoulders. His dismissive young son had already busied himself with rummaging around in his dresser. ‘How trustingly the baby would snuggle into his neck that lifetime ago’ Shekhar continued to reminisce. Back then, the roles had been reverse, Pat was the one seeking closeness. The older man nearly tripped over the doorway on his way out but what was this, Pat indeed was calling out to him, “Hold it Dad, have you any use for these? I am going off action for a while, need to keep it together, my SAT and all, you know how it is. I can’t afford distractions at this stage of my life.”

The room went suction vacuum still as the man squinted with his mid-forty vision at the packet the boy was holding out.

A cheerful pouch of Kamasutra Wet n Wild! 

The Planners

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Basic education done by 22, work for the next two years, Grad school over in a year plus,  marriage at 26, baby by 28 and time for reading, travelling, chilling and the occasional adventure.
This generation wants everything! And all of these subheads come under a more ambitious header called “Life’s passion”.
I fear for them. 

Even though I have lived my life by the dictum that attitude matters more than facts and that the mind can bring about anything it visualizes strongly enough, I shudder at the audacity of the young life planners today. Are they being too wishful and unrealistic? Are they off mark in agonizing so much over discovering what it is, their heart hankers after? Are they right in trying to cram everything into one lifetime? What are the odds that they will lead their lives with a reasonable measure of happiness with so many conflicting needs? Are they setting themselves up for a lifetime of frustration with their ‘instant gratification’ theory? Is it them who have it wrong or is it us, with our jaded, apologetic and fearful tales?!

I can’t help but stoop to pick up my jaw every time I stand across a twenty something, holding forth on the milestones they see very clearly on their life’s journey. The predominant sense is of a worldly wisdom far beyond their years. It is as though life has fitted them with far seeing binoculars that ruthlessly filter all romance and airy, bubble views.

  

My response to the fifty year plans I hear is a mix of admiration, concern and a shade of what they call ‘blah’. Why this heart breaking awareness; this excessive need for a sense of control and order? While I marvel at their courage to follow their heart, I wonder if there is just that misstep between the plausible and the possible.

Of course we have a role to play in this ‘all or nothing’ theme song when we offer unconditional support to our young. It is we who bring them up to think all paths are smooth when we do not allow them to bear the consequences of their actions. Perhaps we spoil them by always standing by. There may even be an anxiety born of a relationship so open with parents that everything is shared, including misgivings and insecurities. And with so much generic alarm and mess around them, is it any wonder so many young people suffer from insomnia and depressive disorders. 

What an industry of guilt around parenthood we have built up, we dare not be anything but the most appeasing, reassuring, understanding, accepting, deep breathing Moms and Dads. I now believe there might have been a sense of reassurance, even security in our parents’ non-committal ways!

This generation ought to be whooping with joy. They are path breakers in that no other lot had their brand of educated, supportive and aware fathers and mothers. They are enviably poised to be able to have their cake, eat it and take some home too!

So grab it all with ten fingers, two hands, arms and toes kids, will you? And do us proud, in the passing.

The pain of irrelevance

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My grandmother lived by one abiding dictum, “Daughters must never be left alone anywhere, overnight.” She was obsessive about Mom’s friends and rationed her rare friendly visits to the last minute. In fact, she is known to have chucked a pair of scissors at her once, over a five minutes delay, returning home from a class mate’s. My mother was chaperoned, supervised, guarded and watched over closely. She did not dare incur my grandmother’s wrath.

By the time I came around, the rules had bent more than a bit. I did stay over at one odd home of a colleague for an all night movie session; there was even a group detour to ‘Ghungroo’ at the Maurya, not leaving the bike ride to Mathura. I went out on school trips, as also outings to do with work. The peripherals had transformed but the core of parental approval still remained intact. Their sanction had to be sought for every little adventure and their happiness was personally important to us.

The tyrannical power of my grandma’s generation had given way to a watered down and benevolent form of authority, a progressive model of parenting tempered with caution. There were no diktats but Dad and Mom’s involvement and active presence was presumed. The heavily authoritative tone of the earlier generation had made room for a moderate, accommodating acceptance based on the premise of the parent holding the superior position.

Though we picked careers of our choices and married people mutually chosen for us, we led our lives with our parents as our lodestars. They were there with us, in all of our life’s events and it was important to keep them informed, connected and supportive.

It is 2012 now and a lifetime later.Children leave home early for college. There is a sense of independence, in personal goals and life’s markers. Many of their emotional needs are met by those outside of the immediate family. Parental approval may still be critical for some but there are likely a few riders. Home is a neater, more convenient hostel. Involvement with the household affairs is negligible. They don’t necessarily align by the family rhythm. Existing in the twilight zone of digital overload and emotional tentativeness, they inhabit rooms with the ‘do not disturb’ sign on the doors.

There is a new parent-child vocabulary at play. A parent’s affectionate concern could be construed as criticism. Beware of making that friendly but unannounced trip to their place of work. It may come across as interference. Gentle nudges towards life’s great truths may be taken as attempts to sabotage their life’s passion. The slightest tone of disapproval is likely to elicit threats of moving out. Heaven help those incorrigible optimists who set out to spell some home truths to their progeny…all their years of sleepless nights and diapering and fretting will smoke out under the burning reminders of their parenting disasters.Do watch out for the pitch and tone in the voice, it can rake up their childhood traumas that plenty gets traced back to, in any case. The degree of parental expectations have steadily declined over the generations. It is cause for celebration and gratitude today if the offspring are happy, chilled out and clear of trouble.

The kids did not ask to be born, remember! And now that you are beginning to feel a little bit irrelevant, well, lump the pain…….or well, go ahead...shed those tears! 

Auntyji

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If you are a woman, approaching fifty and like voicing opinions in India, the trendy young will label you only one way: an Auntyji with a desperate need to be politically correct.

There is an unfair assumption that the solo slant you will contribute will be a moral one. There is a hasty assumption of implicit fear, an impatient presumption of a certain wariness of social disapproval. 

The desire to maintain status quo is what shines from over your aging skull so far as they see it. It is therefore very hard for some twenty somethings to appreciate that you did cross that milestone once on your way to middle age.

As a rule, I support young people who invest in social revolutions. I may differ personally on issues e.g. I do not support sexual adventurism amongst the young; I do believe that the women’s fight for freedom need not extend to the liberty to stand and pee; I certainly do not equate free speech with foul language; I do hold that personal choices come with the onus for bearing the resultant consequences; there absolutely is relatively greater black and white in my book of life’s rules  vis- a-vis the grey. To the obvious labels that would then ensue such as ‘rigid’ or ‘unrealistic’ or ‘politically correct’ or ‘antiquated’ or ‘out of sync’……my defence would be only one word: time! Time will tell. Time always tells.

It is with time that I have realized that the more we have changed the more we have managed to remain the same.

This phenomenal discovery however, is far from what I wish upon the socially conscious young who are trying to make a difference today. The fact that change does not snowball fast enough is no reason to stop and give up. Socially, we most certainly have covered some path.  But it does baffle me somewhat when young Turks dismiss the inputs of my generation out of hand. What happens to their avowed principle of being open and receptive to all voices? Since when did fighting shy of fifty become synonymous with fighting shy of sanity?

Lest they forget, India’s new brand of social revolutionaries would do well to acknowledge that as a generation they probably have had the fortune of greater parental/family support than any preceding line-up.  

Slipper clad SODA

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SODA. Ready to go.

SODA.


The Senior Officers’ Daughters’ Association.


Affectionately viewed and indulgently pampered, this is a greatly looked forward to, periodic presence, lending verve and spirit to an otherwise predictable life on defence bases out there in the beyond of wilderness. The sporadic appearance of SODA on trips home from schools and colleges makes news on stations. There comes with them, a frisson of life in the bachelors’ alley, the prospect of an exciting new potential partner for the anniversary dances and some bonus colour-cum-glow in the Holi bashes and Diwali festivities.


SODA is always welcome except for one recently occurred, technical detail. More and more, SODA is coming calling in slippers these days. Slippers! Those darned slippers. Now everybody knows what a chip the defence households carry on their brass shoulders about chappals. This item is too informal, too insolent, too laid back and not finished enough to find acceptance in OG (Olive Green) homes. One does not air them outside the bath or the bed rooms, better still, keep them to the dressing rooms.

Heaven help us, if we do not have a clothing revolution on hands that is shaking the very core of a protocol bound society for the simple reason that it is striking from within and behind the lines. The offensive is from the SODA, in their carefully cultivated “out of bed” look. Mussed hair, parallel jammies, gunjies and horror of horrors, them slippers. Those harmless looking, colourful flip flops are devastating an age old code, leaving Military homes struck and shattered. Converse, Puma, Adidas....they may be the fanciest of brands, call them by any name, chappleeez are chappleeez. They are not smart enough and make the wearer seem in a state of unpreparedness, both anathemas in this part of the woods.


Mothers are better able to absorb this foot fad. It is the soldier Dads who don’t know what to make of this terrifying trend. A Commander at work but a vexed father at home, he stands there, spluttering and protesting his daughter’s choice of footwear. What is this shabby, strappy contraption the girls wear that looks like it is ready to fall apart?

These sights are not unusual in cantonments any more: a Flag Car in waiting, engine running, the Flag Officer in full regalia, body rigid with disapproval, scowling at his vibrant, spirited young Princess, standing her ground in a pair of sliders. In many defence homes in Delhi, the evening fencing begins with an innocuous enough query, “Shall we go out as a family?” Instead of the whoop of joy this should elicit, the proposal is met with a pregnant silence, the unexpressed thought being about the “dress code”. An institutional dress code that has been a way of life for generations.


Oh no, the legion is not about to give up without a fight. Some valiant Dads continue to resist these stringed inroads into a way of life they hold sacrosanct and dear. Several pairs of shoes have been bought and acquired. And the one day she decides to humour the old man by gamely slipping on a pair, he can’t stop smiling and the compliments come in a rush, “What a nice pair of slip ons !” Easy, easy...lay it on easy, he is thinking.....


Anything will do; anything, even a peep toe, a pump or a gladiator. Anything but those silly, wispy affairs.


In one particular case I know closely, the father looks stricken as though he has just been dealt one in the solar plexus, when he learns that his young lady is riding her Pulsar in...in...in ...those very skidders.....