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Shobhaa at 60 is a lot mellowed, a little maudlin and, even while defending ageing, still a cover-girl. The sassy heroine of hormonal highs has given way to a musing matriarch of many summers who will now, in the gloaming, dispense words of wisdom about life and looks.
In Shobhaa at Sixty, Shobhaa De does some navel gazing in her sixth decade, parts of which are predictable, but parts of which are surprisingly heartfelt and reassuringly middle-class. Getting past the inherent vanity and immodesty of such a theme, there is the bravado and a genuine do-good glint behind the platitudes and the sometimes patronising tenor. After all, if anyone is qualified to write about ageing gracefully, it is De, Ms Benjamin Button of the best-seller list.
Picture-perfect with long flowing tresses (she admits to touched up roots), wrinkle-less skin and a fat-free frame, she can pssst grooming secrets into our unkempt ears. By virtue of her vintage, she can go into the what-shoulds, why-nots and the politics of aesthetics. But though she is chatty as ever, alas, the octaves have changed. The voice, obviously not touched up and still reminiscent of longhand in notebooks, is what gives away her travel through time.
A forced hospital stay had De despair: ‘I want to see, eat, feel, touch and smell at least some of the amazing things I’ve dreamt about all these long years. Things I couldn’t afford when I was young. Now that I had the money, now that I also had the time, how dare my body misbehave?’ It also turned her to matters herself;‘By 60, you know who you are. That in itself is comforting, leading to peace and acceptance of yourself in totality.’
She writes:‘As a young mother, I always put the children first. Then as a middle-aged wife, I put my husband first. It is only now that I’ve begun to place importance on my own personal priorities by saying, me first!’
The first few chapters ramble a bit on the externals before settling into the later chapters, which are earnest and constructive. Here you come face to face with a De who has studied the Indian society at some length, the foibles and the endearing traits; ‘In India, we worry too much about the future. It is a national trait. We worry about intangibles and make ourselves sick. We are forever saving for a rainy day, even during the worst drought or through a heavy monsoon. We obsess over the next generation, but forget that we are alive and have the right to a good time as well.’
She is in step with her own generation; the granny who won’t be nanny, the sexagenarian who still has sex, proudly monogamous and fiercely unapologetic of her roots. There is something feisty about the anti-gossip stance of an ex-glossy-mag editor and the mental distance she keeps from ladies of leisure, the spa-gang.
De opts for desi beautifiers like milk cream and maalish-waali as ‘a tranquil expression is one of the world’s most flattering cosmetics’ and believes in the sisterhood; ‘Men find women’s mood swings most confusing but we know exactly why we flip out sometimes, don’t we? We really don’t have to justify or explain each twitch, scowl or frown. That’s how we are, okay?’
She also takes by the horns the normally avoided issue of elderly sex.‘Senior citizens in our culture are not supposed to entertain carnal desires or thoughts, forget about having sex! Sex is seen in the context of procreation, not pleasure….Traditional societies discourage any expression of senior citizen sexuality. How can grandmas and grandpas have sex, they ask in shocked tones. Why not?’
In the chapter The Battle with Hurt and Disappointment, De gets candid. ‘Most people start to doubt their self-worth once they hit 55. Especially women who begin to feel useless, unattractive, or worse, unwanted. They hold other people responsible for their state of mind…’ And she confesses, ‘I have prayed in temples, mosques and synagogues across the world. The place doesn’t matter, prayer does.’
She is even penitent; ‘I have made gross errors in the past by opening my mouth at the wrong time and causing avoidable hurt, only because I didn’t know how to distil the material I was privy to. After many a heartache, heartbreak and minor calamity, I am now slightly closer to the stated objective — minding my own business.’
The only thing remotely reminiscent of a young De is her war cry of ‘60 is the new 30!’ No, De is not a doting grandma yet but she is becoming rather likeable. ‘My feet get restless,’ she says in the context of insomnia, ‘but I manage to talk them into not moving.’ So ladies and ladies, we give you the old, improved Shobhaa De!
Shobhaa at sixty
Shobhaa De
Hay House, 2010,
pp 212,
350