Mirror, mirror, on the wall...

Instead of focusing on our flaws, how about we appreciate our bodies for all that they do for us?

What do you see when you look into a mirror? Dark circles under your eyes, a legacy of too many late nights followed by early mornings? Laugh lines that bear testimony to the good times you have had? The first flash of grey at the temples that strikes terror in your heart? A slimmer waist, the results of a no-carb diet regime? Or middle-age spread that no number of abdominal crunches can banish? Do you see your father (or your mother) staring back at you? Or do you see the features of your first-born in your own crumpling face?

Speaking for myself, I must confess that I don’t dare look too closely. Well, not first thing in the morning anyway. And even after a shower and lavish applications of moisturizer, it is best to maintain a safe distance till the kajal and lipstick are in place. Only then, with a mask of make-up (okay, minimal make-up I grant you, but you’d be surprised by the difference it makes) to hide behind can I bring myself to look my reflection straight in the eye and not wince. And even so, I never allow my eyes to wander below my chin; yes, like Nora Ephron, I too feel bad about my neck.

These days, of course, the mirror has been replaced by the camera phone, as the absolute deluge of selfies on social media makes clear. The world seems to be full of people staring at themselves in their phone screens, making the requisite duck face (chin down and elongated, cheeks sucked in to create hollows, and lips pushed forward in a trout pout) and going ‘click’. The judicious application of a few filters on Instagram, and voila, you have a new image to send out into the ether that is the virtual world.

But while camera phones have their uses, there is nothing quite like a mirror to get to grips with your own image. Donna Karan, for instance, famously designs while seated naked in front of a mirror. According to her, this brings into focus all the many flaws that her body – and by extension, the body of every woman – possesses so that she can work around it.

Because let’s face it: that’s what we see when we look in the mirror, don’t we? All our many flaws, some real, some that exist only in our own imagination. And then, we duly beat ourselves up about it. If only I had bigger eyes, better teeth, a trimmer waist, longer legs, bigger (or smaller) breasts, life would be so much better.

But here’s a novel idea. How about we get naked in front of the mirror. And instead of focusing on all the flaws that our bodies possess – and in our minds, there are hundreds of them – we try and see the beauty instead. That instead of beating our bodies up for being fat, flabby and flat-out useless, we treasure them for all the value they add to our life.

Let’s start from the top, shall we? Never mind the thinning hair; people start losing hair from their 20s onwards. And if the grey really bothers you, there’s always hair dye. It’s what lies underneath that you should be grateful for. The brain that helps you remember both the big stuff and the minutia of your life: the first time you fell in love; the date of your wedding anniversary; the moment your baby thrust its way into the world; the last day to file tax returns; where you left the car keys. Imagine, for a second, that it didn’t work. Yes, you’re not worrying about your receding hairline now, are you?

And then, there’s your face; what the world judges you by. But no matter what you think, nobody else is focusing that much on the wobbly double chin or even the lines on your forehead. It’s the expression in your eyes that matters; and whether your lips are drooping down in a scowl or curved upwards in a smile.

But you know what? Never mind what the world sees and makes of you. There’s plenty here to be grateful for. The eyes that allow you to appreciate the beauty of a flowering rose; the nose that lets you take in the delicious smells emanating from the kitchen as your mom cooks your favourite dish; the mouth that makes it possible for you to appreciate fine wines, good food, and the fruits of the season.

Instead of obsessing about how your breasts don’t look like that French lingerie model, just be grateful that they work well enough to make food for your baby. That while your stomach may not have washboard abs holding it in, it can take all the junk you throw at it and still keep you healthy (well, okay, kind of healthy). Never mind the bingo wings they have acquired of late, your arms can swing the ball a long way on the golf links. Your legs may sport a bit of cellulite but they can still take you up that mountain top to witness a sunset like no other. And your feet may not look pretty but they can soak up the warmth of a beach and make you sigh with contentment when you soak them in a hot tub.

There’s really a lot to be grateful for; so just take a moment and say thank you to your body. It’s the only one you’ll ever get, so make sure that you cherish it.

Happily ever after...

Prince Charles and Camilla: a love story for our times

Last week, Prince Charles brought the house down at one of his many engagements in India by referring to his wife, Camilla, as his ‘Mehbooba’. No, he wasn’t inspired by the iconic song of the same name from Sholay. The word had been gifted to him by some of his Indian friends back in the UK, who had explained that it meant ‘beloved’. So, that’s how Charles presented Camilla to the assembled guests, “My wife…my Mehbooba” even as Camilla blushed and then flashed her trademark jolly-hockey-sticks grin. And the audience lapped it up; this unabashed display of middle-aged love.

And indeed, looking at the many images of the Prince of Wales and the Duchess of Cornwall on their recent trip to India, one thing shines clear. Camilla is clearly Charles’ ‘Mehbooba’. The pair of them look as loved up as a newly-wedded couple, exchanging complicit glances, the odd giggle, and touching each other with the ease of long intimacy. They share asides, gaze adoringly at one another, laugh easily and often, and seem to take enormous pleasure in each other’s company. Not bad going for a couple which first met and fell in love in their 20s, and then made their way back to one another after two failed marriages and much rotten publicity. But clearly, all those scandals are long forgotten as the British heir to the throne readies to take over from his mother, with the woman he has loved for most of his adult life firmly by his side.

They were together on the banks of the Ganga in Rishikesh, performing a ritual aarti; they visited the Indian Military Academy (IMA) in Dehradun; they did the rounds of Asha Sadan, a home for abandoned and homeless children in Mumbai; they were the star attraction at a party hosted by Mukesh and Neeta Ambani for the Prince’s British Asian Trust; and then they headed off to Sri Lanka, where Charles was standing in for his mother, Queen Elizabeth, at the meetings of Commonwealth Heads of Government Meeting (CHOGM).

For us in India, the contrast to the way things had unfolded when Charles visited with his first wife, Diana, were too stark to miss. There was the famous kiss-that-wasn’t when Charles bent down to kiss Diana on the cheek as she handed him a polo trophy only to have her turn away, leaving him red-faced with embarrassment and fury. And who can forget that haunting image of the Princess posing forlorn and alone in front of that monument to eternal love, Agra’s Taj Mahal, while her husband busied himself with engagements in Delhi? They may have been joined together in what was billed as a fairy-tale wedding, but their strained expressions and public unhappiness made it clear that they were rapidly building up to a nightmare divorce.

Who could have predicted then that Charles would one day be back with a new wife, Camilla – then widely reviled as the mistress who had been the third person in the Wales marriage and had, in the Princess’ memorable phrase, made it a ‘bit crowded’ – the memories of the Diana years finally exorcised? Gone was the miserable git who looked perennially pensive and glum. In his place, was a man finally happy in his own skin, who had found the contentment and peace he had always been looking for in his second go-around.

I know that this is an unfashionable view, but I have long believed that the saga of Charles and Camilla is the love story of our times. Theirs is the commitment that has stood the test of time, taking on vicious attacks in the media and the derision and anger of the British public to emerge bloodied but unbowed. And you only have to look at the relaxed body language of the Prince and see how he lights up in the presence of his ‘darling wife’, to know that he is finally in the kind of supportive and loving relationship that he always craved.

But what I like most about the images of Charles and Camilla on their Indian adventure is how they tell us is that even if you screw up big-time the first time round, you are not fated to eternal loneliness. Their shining faces and brilliant smiles teach us that it is possible to find happiness the second time round.

Second marriages have, of late, become a hot topic of discussion in India, not least because of that now-famous Tanishq ad which features a single mother getting married again (Is she single? Is she widowed? Is she divorced? The answer to all these questions is: Who cares? Or even: How does it matter?) I have to confess that it left me touched and a little teary-eyed. Yes, I know it is cheesy (“Aaj sey Daddy bulaoon?” asks the young daughter) and designed to tug at your heartstrings. But it is moving for all that, with its promise of new beginnings and a brand-new love story.

As far as I am concerned, the cynics can carp all they want about second marriages being a triumph of hope over experience. But sometimes – actually most times – hope is all you need when it comes with lavish lashings of love.

A walk in the park

Sometimes, that’s the best way to see what life is all about…

Sometimes life is just a walk in park. And sometimes a walk in the park can show you what life is all about. I came to this realization late because until recently I would always walk with an iPod clipped to my pocket, its loud music drowning out every thought, blanking out the rest of the world. But one day, entirely by accident, I left my iPod behind and had to make do with listening to birdsong instead – and taking in the life that was unfolding around me. And you know what, it was a darn sight better entertainment than the loud rock and cheesy pop that I had been listening to until then.

The first thing I noticed were the many different species of walkers that exist in this world. Those most in evidence, of course, were the speedsters who streaked past the dawdlers on the jogging track, looking faintly exasperated at the existence of such laggards in the world. They wore top-to-toe Lycra to indicate just how seriously they take their running. There was a pedometer in place as well to record their daily achievements. And of course, a lot of sweat, which they sprinkled liberally on those they powered past, almost as if it were fairy dust. Charming!

Then, there were the rest: office workers who had stopped by after a quick change of shoes to put in their mandatory 45 minutes of exercise; young mothers pushing prams and enjoying the respite from being stuck at home with the baby; middle-aged ladies in salwar kameezes who seemed to regard gossiping as another aerobic exercise. There were the budding sports stars who get their heart rate up with a bit of jogging and then contort themselves into all sorts of impossible positions on the grass, all in the name of toning up; young children who have the good sense to eschew a brisk walk for a spot of volleyball, cricket, football, or even hide and seek; old white-haired gentlemen who end each perambulation by settling down on the park benches to reminisce about the old days.

But what I enjoyed most, as I veered off the jogging track to ramble aimlessly around the park, were those vignettes of urban life that exist all around us if only we ever bother to look.

There’s the old grandmother, recovering from an injury perhaps, dragging herself along on a walker. She’s accompanied by a young maid, who keeps a wary eye on her, just in case she were to take another spill. The two of them walk along in silence, together and yet apart, each lost in her own world. The image tells the story of a family, doesn’t it? The high-achieving couple who are too busy to supervise the rehabilitation of an ageing parent themselves. So, they outsource it to paid staff, telling themselves that it is all for the best. The ageing parent who knows that her kids are doing their bit to look after her, but is beset by loneliness nonetheless. And then, there’s the other story; of the other family. Of the maid, who has left her own parents behind in some village in Jharkhand or Chhatisgarh, to come to the big city and look after strangers, in exchange for a small wage, regular meals and a roof over her head.

Oblivious to all this human drama being played out around them are the assorted pairs of young lovers, looking to create a moment of intimacy for themselves in the most public of places. They position themselves strategically behind bushes or tree trunks, turn their backs on the watching world, and whisper sweet nothings to one another. The bolder among them go a bit further, until their furtive gropings attract the unwelcome attention of passers-by. One couple doesn’t seem to care who’s watching, though. They sprawl on the dewy grass, the man resting his head on the woman’s lap. Her hair brushes his cheek as she leans forward to say something to him. They giggle, dissolving into one another. And for that moment, the park – indeed, the world – ceases to exist for them. Young love.

And then, their little bubble is shattered as a terrifyingly large Labrador comes crashing down upon them, his owner in hot pursuit. The woman screams, the man starts shouting at the dog owner for letting his pet off his leash. And in the time-honoured tradition of all dog owners, the Labrador’s master announces loftily that they have nothing to fear from the animal; he’s harmless, yes, he really is.

What is it with dog owners anyway? Why don’t they realize that while they may regard their pets as overgrown babies, they seem like large, dangerous creatures to the rest of us?

I walk on briskly, trying to put as much distance between me and the frisky Labrador as I can. And as I amble to the exit, I am kept entertained by the snatches of conversation that waft past me. The two young ladies out on a power walk, weights attached to their ankles and wrists, fantasizing about the first ‘carb’ they would eat once they hit their target weight. A couple in their 70s (he with a walking stick, she with a knee brace) gently bickering about what to get their grandkids for Diwali. A harried woman in her 40s barking instructions to her office about some papers that must be mailed tonight.

You know what, I think I’ll leave the headphones off the next time as well. Much more fun, this way.

With a bang...not a whimper

Make a fresh start as Diwali rings in a new year…

First off, a very Happy Diwali to all of you. I hope you’re having a splendid morning. That you’re not too bleary-eyed after staying up into the early hours because of the loud crackers heralding the beginning of ‘Chhoti Diwali’ (the prelude to the main act that starts today). That you are not hungover, having had a few too many at the party last night. That you’re not bummed about having lost money at teen patti with friends (if it helps, remember that losing means you will make much more money this year). And that you’re starting the day with a piece of mithai (kaju barfi is my favourite) with your morning cup of tea and coffee.

If you are in business or trade, you will soon be heading to the office or shop to conduct a Lakshmi Puja, an invocation to the Goddess of Wealth, so that she continues to bless your ventures. And if you are a traditionalist, you will be starting a new book of accounts to herald the beginning of the New Year. 

Well, I am all in favour of starting with a clean slate at this time of year. But given that I don’t have a book of accounts to ceremonially start over, I thought that I would start with my life instead, giving it a little reboot this festive season. Out with the old, in with the new, that sort of thing. So, starting today, this is what I plan to do. If you want to join in, here is my master list.

• Actually scratch that. No more making endless lists of things that I never get around to doing (honestly, who was I kidding? I was never going to make it to the gym in the morning!). Instead, I will set myself one goal every month (or every couple of months). And if I don’t achieve it in that time frame, then I will strike it right off. 

It’s like those clothes languishing in the back of your closet. If they haven’t seen the light of day in a year, they are likely to remain unworn forever. Just make your peace with it and chuck them out. Similarly, if you haven’t finished what you set out to do in a certain period of time, the likelihood is that it’s never going to happen. Move on.

• Do one new thing. And by new, I mean something that you have never tried before. Something that you never even thought of trying before. Something that is so out of your comfort zone that grown men laugh and children giggle when you say you intend to give it a go. Yes, that something new. 

In my case, it’s going to be: learning how to play a musical instrument. No, I have no natural aptitude. And the odds are that I will suck at this no matter how hard I try. But even so, this should be fun; though perhaps, not so much for the folks next door (it goes without saying that in the interest of good neighbourly relations, I will steer clear of drums).

• Brush up old skills; yes, the ones you barely remember you possess. In my case, it’s going to be languages. Having invested several months to studying French and Italian many moons ago, I am rather shamed by the fact that I have forgotten as much as I ever learnt. It’s only when I am travelling in those parts that the cadences of those lost tongues evoke something lost in me, and the words come rushing back. In a day or two, I can make myself understood, but only at the cost of doing significant damage to the language in question. The Italians are sweet and indulgent about it; the French superior and scornful. But in both cases, it serves as an incentive to dust off those grammar books and watch a bit of Rai and TV5. Or maybe enroll in a refresher conversation course.

• Make new friends. I don’t know about you, but I find that the older I get, the harder I find it is to make new friends. There is none of the forced intimacy of schools, where you spend the best part of the day shut up in a room with a bunch of girls (or boys). The leisurely days of college when you could while away the afternoon just gossiping in the canteen are long gone. And new, corporate-style offices don’t encourage the matiness that the casual chaos of their earlier avatars did. 

So, how is one supposed to make new friends? And more importantly, good friends? Okay, I concede that it’s not easy. And you will have to kiss a lot of frogs and frogesses before you find the real thing. But if you keep yourself open to the possibility of friendship, it can be quite amazing what you find out there. You might find a kindred spirit at the school gates as you drop off your daughter. You might bond with that over-muscled man at the gym (who you always thought was a bit of a freak). Or you might just meet a bunch of like-minded folk on social media (I know, I know, famous last words…). And no matter how things work out, you will have a few laughs along the way. 

Meanwhile, there’s always Diwali to celebrate. Go on, light a diya and say a little prayer. And steer clear of firecrackers while you’re at it.

Where's the party tonight?

And do you know how to work it?

It was a famous silken-tongued Hindi film lyricist, who shall remain nameless, who first called me out on it. We were both at a party held on the manicured lawns of a ministerial bungalow in Lutyens’ Delhi. I was being held hostage by the most boring poseur ever and could not for the life of me figure out a way to extricate myself from the most mind-numbing conversation ever. But just when I was giving up on the evening in despair, my lyricist friend joined us. He said a few words, witty as ever, and then steered me off in the direction of another group.

“You really don’t know to work a party, do you?” he said pityingly. I nodded sadly in affirmation. “Let me tell you how this works,” he said firmly, “you spend 10 to 15 minutes with one person and then go on to the next. No lurking about, no casting helpless glances at your friends telegraphing for help, none of that nonsense. Just say, ‘It was nice meeting you,’ and move on.”

Well, it’s all very well for him, I thought darkly. But this sort of thing is easier said than done. And sure enough, at the next big party I attended, I found myself in the same fix. Stuck with the biggest bore in the room, and with no escape in sight. Let me tell you, it’s not easy to spin out the ‘It was nice meeting you’ line to someone who never pauses to draw breath as he witters on and on and on.

So yes, it is a truth that I have come to terms with. I really do not know how to work a party. I either spend the evening tucked away in a corner with my core group of friends, having a good laugh or two; or I end up stuck with someone who has reached his anecdotage and is not afraid to inflict it upon anyone that will listen. And sadly, more often than not, that turns out to be me.

Which is why I have nothing but pure admiration for those intrepid souls who think nothing of walking up to the guest of honour – film star, Nobel prize winner, celebrity author, head of state, rock musician, take your pick – and engaging them in witty banter. Though my lip does tend to curl a bit when they do not know when to back off and allow other people to bask in that reflected limelight. And I am always reminded of what Prince Charles once said about why he hates going to parties. It’s always the pushy, obnoxious people who come up and try to make conversation, he lamented. The decent ones are too shy and leery about pushing themselves forward. As a result, he never meets the kind of people he would like to. (Me neither, Your Royal Highness, me neither!)

But there are some people, like my lyricist friend, who know just how to get the most out of the party. They hit the ground running, heading straight for the host and telling him or her how fabulous the party looks. Niceties done with, they scan the room for the guest of honour. They go up and introduce themselves if there is nobody around to perform that office. They engage him in conversation about himself (a quick Google search on a smartphone on the way to the party is much recommended) for five to six minutes. Then, before the queue forming up behind them gets too disorderly, they say their goodbyes and move on.

Then, it’s one to the buzziest group of people, the A-listers who are much in demand. They hang around the sidelines, listening to the latest gossip, laughing at all the right moments, and soaking in the atmosphere. They know it is not necessary to say very much at this point. It’s enough to be seen in the right company.

Ten to 15 minutes of this and it is time to move on. This time it is to the fringes, to all those B-listers who are dying to be told what the A-listers were talking about. This is the time to get chatty, to give ‘paisa vasool’ as we say in these parts, relaying all those tasty tit-bits they’ve hoovered up so far.

If this is a game you want to excel it, remember some salient rules.

One, never spend more than 15 minutes with any one person or group. But while you are with them, give them your full attention. Don’t look over their shoulders to see if anyone more interesting is hoving into view. That’s just plain rude.

Two, if you want people to think of you as a brilliant conversationalist, then for God’s sake, don’t talk too much. Ask questions instead. And then listen to the answers as if you actually care. Ask a few follow-ups to show how interested you are. There’s nothing people like more than talking about themselves. Give them a chance to do so, and you won’t have to do very much at all.

Three, don’t drink yourself silly. Keep a drink in your hand, because if you don’t you will spend the entire evening explaining why you are not drinking, yaar! Take a few sips because otherwise you may not get through the evening. Abandon it on a surface half-drunk and move on. A waiter will sidle up to hand you another. Rinse and repeat. And leave sober.

Now, that’s how you work a party. As for me, I will be sitting at home, ensconced on my sofa, watching a DVD box-set and eating dinner off a tray. Try not to be too envious.