Mid-life crisis

You know you are well and truly middle-aged when...

You know you're getting old when a historic anniversary comes along and you realize with a start that you remember the event itself like it was yesterday. Well, that's certainly how I felt when I read that Princes William and Harry were planning to celebrate their late mother's memory by installing her statue at Kensington Palace. This was where Princess Diana had lived and brought up her boys, and the brothers believed that this would be a fitting tribute to their mother on her 20th death anniversary.

It was the phrase '20th death anniversary' that took my breath away. I still have crystal-clear recollection of the morning Princess Diana died. I remember sitting on my purple polka-dotted wrought-iron chair to take a call on the landline in my little barsati in Defence Colony. It was my office calling from Calcutta to tell me that a) Princess Diana had been killed in a car accident in Paris and b) they wanted a feature story on her life and times by 5 pm latest.

I remember the utter shock and disbelief I felt when I first heard the words "Princess Diana is dead." I remember lurching to the TV to see for myself if this unbelievable news was true. I remember spending the day glued to BBC and CNN, breaking away just long enough to file my piece.

Was it really that long ago? Can 20 years really have passed by so quickly?

On a rational level, of course, I know that they have. Prince William is now practically middle-aged himself, loyal husband to his wife and loving father to two kids of his own. And Prince Harry is, well, still Prince Harry. So, yes, the death of the Princess took place a lifetime ago. And yet it doesn't really feel like that. And every time I think about the fact that two whole decades have passed since that horrific car crash in Paris, I can't help but feel terribly old myself.

Nor is it world events alone that make me feel every one of my years. There are many other things in daily life that conspire to make me feel more middle-aged every day.

Last night was a good example. I walked into a new, trendy watering hole in Delhi, with my husband, looking for a post-dinner drink. And the first person we bumped into was the daughter of a friend, a lovely young woman whom we have known since she was a child. We said hello, hugged her, and then exchanged a speaking glance. When you're called 'Uncle' and 'Aunty' the moment you walk into a bar, it may be the universe telling you that this place is not for you, after all!

Of late, these epiphanies pile up every day, telling me that I am now well and truly middle-aged. Here's just a random sampling:

* Watching the controversial Netflix show, 13 Reasons Why, with one of my young nieces, I was astonished to discover that she had never used a cassette tape in her life. When did they go out of fashion? Did nobody make 'mixed tapes' any more as presents for their boyfriend/girlfriend? Will this new generation just see them as a vehicle for a suicidal teen to send a message from beyond the grave? For some reason, that makes me very sad.

* Matters have improved since Donald Trump became President of the United States (now there's a sentence I never thought that I would write) but when Barack Obama was in the White House and David Cameron in Downing Street, I always felt that there was something wrong with the world. These people were my generation, for God's sake! How did they get to be in charge? Where were the real grown-ups? And then came the sobering realization that we were now truly the adults in the room. What a scary thought!

* I guess there is a first time for everything, but I never thought that the day would come when I would turn down champagne on a long-haul flight because it was too early in the afternoon. No, I said to myself, as the drinks trolley rolled up. If you drink that now, you will be ready for bed when you land. So pace yourself and hold out for a nice glass of red with dinner. Clearly, my days of irresponsible drinking and flying are well and truly over. Now, it's going to be middle-aged moderation all the way. (What a bore!)

* And then, there is the small stuff. When staying in sounds like a far more attractive proposition than going out; when you choose the elevator rather than the stairs even if you're only going up one floor; when a gentle walk seems more do-able than a full-throttle jog around the park; when a pair of ballet flats seem more enticing than vertiginous stilettos; when you need those glasses to actually read rather than just work the librarian-chic look; well, that's when you know that middle age has struck.

If any of this sounds remotely familiar, then I have bad news for you. No matter how glossy your hair, no matter how trim your waistline, no matter how trendy your playlist, no matter how exciting your social life, your youth is well and truly behind you.

You, my friends, are now middle-aged. Acknowledge it; accept it; and, if you can, embrace it.

Take a break

But not you, though. You're a politician!

Poor old Rahul Gandhi. The chap simply can't catch a break. Actually, scratch that. The man does take breaks. And entirely too many, judged by the sanctimonious chorus of protest that always breaks out whenever he heads abroad for some time off.

Initially, it was the secrecy and the lack of information that people (well, mostly hyperventilating media people) objected to. Why couldn't he just tell us where he was going, for how long, and what he intended to do while he was there? What did the man think? That he was entitled to privacy when it came to his private life? Honestly, was there no limit to his sense of entitlement? (No, don't answer that. The questions are purely hypothetical.)

Well -- perhaps as a reaction to all that criticism -- the Gandhi scion has become more forthcoming about his travel plans. He now tells us why he is travelling though there is still no information about his exact destination (apparently the secrecy is a precautionary measure because he forgoes SPG security when he is abroad). Now he is off to escort his mother back after her medical check up abroad. Now he is heading out to spend time with his 93 year old grandmother. Now it's time for a little light meditation and a spot of Vipassana.

You would think that the timely disclosures would help. And you would be quite wrong.

Even when Rahul tells us in advance when he is heading abroad and why, he gets little joy from his critics. Doesn't he know that the Assembly/municipal elections are on? Doesn't he realise that there is a farmer's agitation raging in Madhya Pradesh? And so on and so outraged.

Which brings me to my question of the week. Are politicians entitled to any time off? Can they take holidays like the rest of us to attend to family matters, recharge their batteries, or just chill? Do they have the right to a vacation without having the wrath of a self-righteous public descend on them?

Well, if you were to ask me, the answer to all of the above questions would be a resounding yes. But going by the outcry every time Rahul goes on vacation, I am clearly in a minority.

Not that it's Rahul alone who gets flak for indulging in too much downtime. Donald Trump famously attacked Barack Obama for spending too many days on the golf course when he was President. It is another matter that, in a delicious irony of fate, President Trump is now being ridiculed for playing too much golf (though on the bright side he can do relatively less damage when he is on the golf course as opposed to when he is hard at work at the Oval Office).

Over in the UK, David Cameron was routinely accused of 'chillaxing' when he headed for his summer/autumn/winter break when he was Prime Minister. What on earth was he doing on a beach in Cornwall/Ibiza/insert destination of choice when the world was going to hell in a hand basket? The poor chap even tried to deflect criticism by a) holidaying in the United Kingdom and b) flying budget airlines like Ryanair. But it was a lost cause. "Cameron away on vacation while the world burns" (I exaggerate, but only a little) remained a perennial headline that could be reliably pulled out and recycled every holiday season.

Clearly, no matter where in the world you are, nobody likes the sight of politicians heading out on a vacation. Where do they get off just taking off when the world is in the state it's in? There is a terrorism alert on; elections are coming up; the economy is in a mess; and here are our leaders just packing their bags and skipping off into the sunset with nary a care in the world. It beggars belief, doesn't it?

Those who maintain that politicians should forget about holidays and buckle down to work 24/7 all 365 days of the year often hold Narendra Modi up as an example. Ever since he became Prime Minister three years ago, Modi doesn't seem to have taken a single day off. Even his jaunts abroad are work trips rather than vacations, with the PM keeping up a punishing schedule that would put much younger men to shame.

But while we can all take pride in the fact that our Prime Minister is a superman, who thrives on a 18 hour day and doesn't need a holiday to recharge his batteries perhaps we can also accept that that is not necessarily true of lesser mortals. While the supermen of the world can go on and on and on (much like the Duracell bunny) the rest of us tend to flag at some point or another. That's when the cares of the world get too much to bear, when our everyday routine gets us down, and when we need a change of pace, of space, and of routine.

There comes a time when all of us need to get away from our quotidian lives so that we can come back reenergised, recharged and rejuvenated. We all need to step off the treadmill occasionally to catch our breath so that we are fresh and raring to go when we clamber right back on. We all need to take that break, to go off on vacation when it all gets a bit too much.

So why do we assume that politicians are any different? And why don't we cut them some slack when the holiday season comes rolling by once again?

Kitchen politics

Do we really need to peek into the personal spaces of politicians to judge how they will perform their public duties?

Do you know what Narendra Modi’s kitchen in his Race Course Road residence looks like? Or even the one he left back home in Ahmedabad? Have you any clue what brand Sonia Gandhi’s kitchen stove or mixer-grinder is? Have Arun Jaitley or Rahul Gandhi ever given you a tour of their kitchens? Has Sushma Swaraj invited the cameras in as she rustles up a mean phulka?

Of course not. Our politicians would never dream of doing any such thing. You may well argue that this is because our politicians on the whole don’t have much to do with kitchens (unless you’re talking of kitchen cabinets). As is common in most Indian homes, the kitchens are probably the preserve of cooks and maids. And the reason they don’t show off their pots and pans is because they have no clue where they are stored.

And you are probably right about all of that. But that said, it is also true that private lives – and personal spaces, for that matter – of politicians are still treated as off limits by the Indian media. We may ask an actress or a model to cook spaghetti Bolognese for the benefit of the cameras. We may request a sportsman to pose with an energy drink in front of his refrigerator. But we hardly ever seek to peer into the homes of our politicians.

Well, consider yourself lucky. In the run-up to the UK elections, the poor British electorate has had more kitchens thrown at it than it knows what to do with. Prime Minister and Conservative Party leader David Cameron kicked off proceedings by inviting the cameras into his kitchen at Downing street, where he was photographed combing his daughter’s hair to get her ready for school, while wife Samantha bent fetchingly over the kitchen stove in the background. He followed this up with an interview conducted in his constituency home, as he rustled up a salad and some cold cuts for the family.

So, what could the Labour leader do but follow suit? Except that, being Ed Milliband, he couldn’t help but start a controversy in the process. Ed and wife Justine Thornton were pictured standing awkwardly in a tiny, forlorn kitchen, bare surfaces all around, sipping on mugs of tea. Cue, much chortling about how Milliband’s characterless kitchen was a metaphor for his own personality, not to mention his campaign. To add injury to insult, it was then revealed that this was not the main kitchen of the Milliband home, but a tiny kitchenette used by their live-in nanny. Cue, many jokes about ‘Two-kitchens Ed’!

With Cameron and Milliband in the fray, how could Nick Clegg be left behind? The Liberal leader dutifully turned out for kitchen duty with his Spanish wife, Miriam Gonzales Durantez, each of them clutching a glass of white wine, while a pot of paella simmered away in the background. Probably not the best subliminal messaging but then this is Nick Clegg we are talking about.

To be fair to the British media, they have entered the personal spaces of politicians only by invitation. And that’s because every politician worth his sea salt wants to prove to the British public what an ‘ordinary Joe’ he really is. So, they all line up to show how they can fix meals in the kitchen, get their kids ready for the school run, supervise their homework, and then relax with a glass of wine just like any other knackered parent. I guess this is supposed to make people like them, to see them as ‘one of us’, to appreciate that they perform the same ordinary chores like everyone else. Except that they also run the country (or would very much like to run the country, if only people would see the light).

Honestly, are these staged photo-opportunities the best way to decide who is the best man for the top job? Does David Cameron become a better candidate for PM because he knows how to comb his daughter’s hair into a high ponytail and stick a scrunchie on it? Does Ed Milliband think he can endear himself to his Labour base by preening in a tiny kitchenette that they could presumably identify with? And does Nick Clegg… Actually, scratch that. I have no idea what Clegg thinks he’s trying to achieve – and it’s beginning to look as if he doesn’t either.

But what all of this malarkey does achieve is make me so very thankful that I live in India, where I don’t have the kitchen sink thrown at me every time a politician stands for election. I would much rather judge politicos on the basis of the soundness of their ideas rather than the softness of their idlis. I don’t need to know what kind of pressure cooker a politician uses to decide if he can stand up to the stresses of a high-pressure job. And I really don’t need to peek into his personal space to judge how he will perform in the public sphere.

As the saying does not go, if you can take the heat, stay out of the kitchen.

A very French affair

As President Hollande is caught between two lovers, do the French people care? Not a bit!

You’ve got to love the French. Their President, Monsieur ‘Normale’ Hollande, is photographed trysting with French actress, Julie Gayet, a stone’s throw from the Elysee Palace, where he lives with long-time partner, Valerie Trierweiler. He exits the apartment, disguised (or so he thinks, poor sod) by a motorcycle helmet, climbs on the back of the motorbike driven by his bodyguard (who had, earlier in the morning, delivered croissants to the amorous pair) and goes back home to Valerie and his many duties as President of the Republic.

The photographs duly appear in a French magazine called Closer, and the entire world is agog at the sight of a head of state behaving like a love-struck adolescent. Not so the French. They simply shrug and say the French equivalent of ‘A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do; and what does his private life have anything to do with his public role?’ As for the President himself: not for him, denials of a love affair or anything quite so puerile, thank you. He just puts out a statement condemning the magazine for having intruded into his privacy, to which – like any other French citizen – he is entitled.

Meanwhile, the First Lady (or First Girlfriend, as some cruelly label her) checks into a hospital and lets it be known that doctors have advised her a ‘cure de repos’ (rest cure) to recover from the shock of learning about her partner’s affair (which she likens to being struck by a TGV, or high-speed train). But ‘friends’ of her let it be known that she is ready to forgive and forget so long as she gets to stay on in her role of First Lady.

You’d think by now, the French would have their juices flowing. Mais non. A survey conducted soon after shows an overwhelming majority of 74 per cent reiterating that President’s Hollande’s domestic life and love affairs are entirely his own business, and the media should steer clear of reporting on it.

And sure enough, when Hollande arrives to address his annual press conference at the Elysee Palace, in a room heaving with French and international media, there are just a couple of questions about his tangled love life. Hollande responds that this is neither the time nor the place, and that he will clear up any doubts about who France’s First Lady is before he embarks on a state visit to the US in February. And then he begins droning on about his economic vision for France. A few days later, Valerie checks out of hospital and moves into La Lanterne, the Presidential weekend residence in the park of Versailles, to recuperate in quiet while Hollande decides whether he will stay with her or move on with Julie.

Can you imagine events unfolding quite like this in any other country?

How do you think it would work for President Barack Obama if he were to be pictured sneaking out from a secret tryst with, say, Scarlett Johansson? He would either be doing the full Clinton in a televised press conference (“I did not have sex with that woman”) or he would be writing his resignation after a few left jabs executed by Michelle (she of the perfectly-toned musculature). And all of America would be up in arms at the moral turpitude of their President. (God alone knows how President Kennedy and his harem of women in the White House would have fared in today’s multimedia age; fortunately for him, his Presidency was played out in front of a more deferential world.)

Or let’s say that David Cameron was rumbled having a bit of nookie with a famous model like Kate Moss. The British tabloid press would go into full meltdown mode. There would be editorials asking for Cameron to go, given that he had betrayed the family values the Conservative Party stood for. He would be expected to make a statement clarifying whether he and Samantha were still a couple and intended to remain so. Kate would be door-stepped at her residence. Her friends and family would be harassed for a quote on the affair. Columnists would write endlessly about the fairy-tale union of David and Samantha and how it had come to such a messy end.

There would be none of that Gallic shrugging and saying that this was a private matter between two people (okay, three) and that it was no one else’s business. That a politician’s private life was nobody else’s concern so long as it did not impinge on the performance of his public duties.

As you can probably tell, I am a fan of the French approach. And so far at least, back home in India, we have taken our cue from the French rather than the Americans or the Brits. We have allowed our leaders their privacy when it comes to their love lives, unless of course, it explodes into the public space as it did with N.D. Tiwari’s paternity case. But so long as our leaders have behaved with discretion, we have been content to look the other way and let them get on with it.

And if you ask me, that’s the best way to go. A person’s private life is just that: private. We can judge them by their public conduct but as Francois Hollande put it so elegantly, “Private affairs must be dealt with in private. With respect for the dignity of all involved.”

Vive La France! Vive La Vie Privee!

Dearly departed

Funerals may be difficult to negotiate, but that’s no reason to goof around at them

Unless you’ve been living on Mars, you must have seen pictures of that now-infamous ‘selfie’ that Danish Prime Minister Helle Thorning-Schmidt clicked with US President Barack Obama and British Prime Minister David Cameron at the memorial of the late, great Nelson Mandela. The three world leaders, grinning cheesily into the camera, craned their necks together to get into the frame, oblivious to the thunder-faced Michelle Obama who looked pointedly away.

I am no mind reader, but I can pretty much guess what was going through Michelle Obama’s head as her husband grinned goofily for the camera. What on earth are you thinking, Barack? This is the memorial service of a remarkable man who inspired millions across the globe. Countries from across the world have sent their leaders to pay homage to his soul. This is a solemn occasion to mark the passing of a true hero. This is not the time to pose for a ‘selfie’.

But then, much of the world was thinking along the same lines. Memorial services and funerals are supposed to be about remembering those who have passed on and honouring their lives, not posing for cheesy pictures on the sidelines. You can just about forgive giddy teenagers for gaffes like these, but heads of state and government? Seriously, what is the world coming to?

Of course, there were those who said that we were making much ado about nothing. The Mandela memorial service was about celebrating his life and having a rollicking good time while at it. So, what was wrong if Obama and Cameron decided to flirt a little or even pose for a picture with Ms Thorning-Schmidt? It was all in good fun, and knowing Nelson Mandela, he would probably have chuckled along, or even leant in for a piece of the action.

As the debate raged on, I couldn’t help but wonder: what is the right funeral etiquette these days? There was a time when there was general agreement that funerals were solemn occasions, where grave faces and discreet tears were the order of the day. People came clad somberly in black (or white), sat quietly to pay their respects, and then left to allow the family to mourn in peace and privacy.

These days, however, all that seems to be changing. First off, in India at least, nobody seems to abide by the all-white dress code. People come wearing pretty much what they like, from jeans and kurtas, to saris and shorts, all in colours of their choosing. Many people don’t even bother to sit through all the bhajans, leaving as soon as they have marked their attendance with the family. Those who do, fiddle discreetly with their phones, answering mails and sending smses so that they don’t miss out on a single minute of a working day. And the close friends and family members who stay back for a cup of tea or coffee afterwards, shuffle awkwardly as they try and make conversation with the bereaved – and take off as soon as they can without violating the laws of common decency.

Part of the problem, of course, is that all of us are – at some level – rendered acutely uncomfortable by death. There is an element of ‘There, but for the grace of God, go I’ in our reactions to the news of someone’s passing. And in that maelstrom of emotions, we find it hard to negotiate the best way to communicate our sympathy to those who have lost a loved one. “I am so sorry about your loss,” sounds exactly like the cliché it is when we say it to someone who has lost a parent, a spouse, a sibling, or even worse, a child. But no matter how acutely we feel for them, we don’t seem to have the vocabulary to express the depth of our feelings. And so, it just seems easier to just avoid any meaningful conversation until the worst of their grief has passed.

But no matter how uncomfortable we feel, it behoves us to treat a funeral with proper respect. And that means turning up on time, instead of half way through the prayer service. It involves dressing in a manner that respects the memory of those that have passed (it doesn’t have to be funereal black or white so long as you stick to formal wear). It means no cracking silly jokes, just to break the tension.

And even if you can’t think of what to say, don’t avoid meeting those who have lost a loved one. Just hug them close, and give them the chance to weep on your shoulder, should they want to take it. Don’t make them embarrassed about their tears. Don’t tell them to cheer up. Never say, “Don’t cry”. Offer a tissue to wipe their tears, give them the space to share their feelings with you, and most of all, allow them to grieve in your presence.

It doesn’t matter if you are not good with spoken words. Find some other way to acknowledge their loss. Write a letter sharing anecdotes about those who have passed on. If you have some nice pictures of the departed soul, frame them and send them to the family as a remembrance. Share a book or a piece of music to help those grieving.

But whatever you do, don’t take your lead from the leader of the free world and goof around at a memorial service. And (I had hoped that this would go without saying, but clearly I was wrong), for God’s sake, don’t take a selfie.

The show must go on...

What is it about Indians that we are never ready or willing to retire?

Over the last few decades, politics has become a young man’s game in the West. Tony Blair was 43 when he became Prime Minister of Britain. Bill Clinton was marginally older at 46 when he was inaugurated as President of the United States of America. Barack Obama, the next Democratic President of the US was 47 when he was sworn in. David Cameron was 43 when he took over as Prime Minister of a Conservative-Liberal Democrat coalition in the UK.

Small wonder then, that some doubts have been expressed about whether Hillary Clinton, the Democratic front-runner at the next Presidential poll, is past the age of being a player. She will be 69 in 2016, and if she wins two terms, she will be 77 by the time she is ready to retire. And that, say political observers, is simply too old.

Contrast this with Indian politics. Our two-time Prime Minister Manmohan Singh turns 81 this September, so you could be forgiven for thinking that retirement would be on his mind. Not a bit of it. As he recently declared in one of his all-too-rare interactions with the press, he is not ready to call it a day quite yet. If the UPA won the next General Election, he would be happy to serve under the leadership of Rahul Gandhi.

But why blame Manmohan Singh alone? At a venerable 86 this November, L.K. Advani is still not ready to walk into the sunset. Having suffered from the ‘always the bridesmaid, never the bride’ syndrome through his last few decades in politics, Advani wants one last chance to walk down the aisle as the main attraction. And even though the BJP has announced Narendra Modi as its prime ministerial candidate, Advani persists in hanging around the fringes just in case opportunity for that final fling at power presents itself.

Yes, I know that attitudes to age – and the respect accorded to it – are very different in India than they are in the West. There, they equate youth with vigour and value it accordingly. Here, we see an equivalence between age and wisdom and venerate both. But even so, nursing political ambitions at the grand old age of 80+ is beginning to seem a little absurd to most of us.

But the more I think about it, it seems to me that this is not just about politics in particular but about our character in general. There seems to be something about the Indian psyche that just cannot contemplate the thought of retirement.

Take our cricket stars, for instance. None of them wants to go out in a blaze of glory. Instead, they stick around as the magic fizzles out bit by bit and there’s nothing left but sheer weariness as we see them hovering at the edges, mere shadows of the stars they once were. Yes, I know, you’re thinking of Sourav Ganguly, who took years to retire: first from one-day cricket, then Test cricket, then first class cricket and finally the IPL (I am a bit hazy on the details; it all took so, so long). But even the great Sachin Tendulkar is playing to much the same strategy, rolling out his retirement plan in slow motion, as everyone speculates as to whether his 200^th Test will actually be his last.

If Sachin or even Sourav had been Australian, they would have retired at the peak of their game, not when their fans were getting piqued by their lack of performance. Adam Gilchrist retired from Test cricket when he was still on top form. Ricky Ponting said goodbye to his Test career the moment his performance started flagging. But not so our Indian stars. They hold on for dear mercy, squeezing in one more series, one more tournament, one more endorsement deal…

Movie stars are no different, really. I am not suggesting that they need to retire from acting as they age, but surely it is not too much to ask that they recuse themselves from playing the young, romantic lead – especially when the girls they are harassing into submission could pass off as their daughters? But no, the audience is expected to suspend its disbelief as 40-something actors try and pass themselves off as college kids.

So, what accounts for this peculiarly Indian disinclination to move on? Why do our politicians, our movie stars, our cricketing superheroes, all cling on for dear life, having to be dragged away from centre-stage kicking and screaming?

I have to confess that I am baffled. This is the country that gave us the concept of four stages of human life. Brahmacharya: when a man leaves home to be educated and leads a celibate life. Grihasta: when he marries, starts a family and assumes his worldly responsibilities in the world of Maya (illusion). Vanaspratha: when he renounces the world to live like a hermit. And finally Sanyasa: when he concentrates on spiritual matters in an attempt to attain Moksha (freedom from the cycle of rebirth).

Alas, in the India of today, nobody is willing to let go. And Maya trumps Moksha every time.