My Thoughts on the Day the Crown lost Her love

I must confess that the passing of Prince Philip would not have had much impact on me but for the Netflix series, ‘The Crown’. Every instance of his life that was presented by the BBC today harked back to the scenes that had unfolded on the screen. It helped me relate to the Prince, whom I would have otherwise considered just another royal who led a lofty life in the Buckingham Palace and about whom I barely had any understanding. Apart from the jaw-dropping opulence of the royal settings and lifestyle, (which was often referred to as ‘luxury hotel’ milieu), two things stood out for me in the viewing of the four seasons of the TV series. One, the manner in which Prince Philip stood by his wife as her biggest bulwark of support through the thick and thin. The fact that he was not only the longest serving consort of a British monarch, but also was truly the proverbial ‘significant other half’, never once doubting his role as a partner, never once relinquishing the responsibility of a husband, never once leaving the Queen to her defenses in her long reign impressed me very much. That apart, what made me sit up and take notice about the royal history is that we often fail to see the truth about people whose lives are projected as exemplary and enviable. It is this second feature that I want to address in this piece, although what prompted me to write it in the first place is the Prince’s demise. From whatever I witnessed in the series, there was nothing about the lives of the royals that I envied about. Neither the palaces nor the titles nor the regalia that set them apart from commoners impacted me. Through the several decades that were portrayed on screen, and over the many characters whose distinguished lives we had believed were fabled, one thing was reinforced — no man’s life is a fairy tale. There was so much of discontent and despondency lurking in the corridors of the royal homes that even a moment’s contemplation of what it meant to be one among them sent shivers down my spine. As an ordinary person, I am, at least, at liberty to demonstrate my emotions and frustrations, but a majority of royals lived stifled lives, their deepest desires and dreams smothered by unbending protocols and frosty demeanors. Our lives too might have been restrained by stiff traditions of our lands, but we considered it normal, because we were common people. Deprivations were part of our existence. Not so for the royals, surely? Their lives were perfect. They had it all — all that you and I could only remotely imagine, didn’t they? I mean, to be a princess or a prince is every child’s dream, it’s part of their pretend plays, their doll games, and their teenage fantasies. To be a King or Queen meant having all the wealth and glory that we are presently hankering after; precisely the things we are chasing in our diurnal routine. Let us admit it — we set ourselves on course to building an opulent life, akin to royalty. We strive for deference and adulation from people around us, we do everything in our capacity to become renowned, to be looked upon, to be idolized. Exactly the same things that the royals seem to have in abundance, things that we presume will bring ultimate happiness. Alas, what a folly! Time after time, we have been advised that these things that we celebrate externally do not bring us fulfillment. Why then do we still live in the fallacy that those are the very things we must attain, by hook or by crook. No, living in palaces doesn’t make us happier. Power doesn’t make us secure. Titles don’t make us stronger. Eating with silver spoons doesn’t make our food tastier. A Rolls Royce doesn’t make the ride smoother. I saw that truth again, although in a dramatized version, that where there was a lack of love, there was pain. Where there was vanity there was dissatisfaction. Where there was idolizing, there was fear of losing grace. Nothing, nothing at all, about a royal life was worth coveting in my eyes. People who live in castles are humans too. They too hurt, they too bleed from their wounds, and when their time is up, they too die. If there was anything that held their lives up, it was unconditional love. It is the only thing that will see us through, just as it saw the old royal couple through their more than 70 years of wedded life. Tonight, the Queen will be lonely in her grief, because not many will realize that before she became a monarch, she was a woman and a wife. The protocols of a royal life may not allow her to wear that mantle of ordinariness and grieve for her love openly, and that is only one of the many deprivations of a rich life which we all foolishly crave for. From this side, we will never know how poor a prosperous life on the other side can be.

How to Make Self-Change a Reality

One thing I have of late come to notice is how positive we have all turned as a species in the past one year; so positive that I am now beginning to feel like a proton with limbs.

Like in the wake of every other human tragedy, this phase too has turned us into some kind of spiritual incarnations. There is a sudden surge in sanguine thoughts with motivational material pounding and overwhelming us, sometimes to the point of exhaustion.

While it is all good, I am left wondering if we indeed have changed for the better with the emotional props? Have we put our concerns to rest and have our postures sobered down? Or have we only changed the veneer— seeming and sounding to have evolved over the year, but continuing to harbour the same old conflicts inside?

This is a good time for us to take stock of where we stand in terms of our true intents and aspects, what we have lost or gained through the turbulence and where we are headed from here. The biggest challenge we would all face as we come out of this crisis, whenever that might be, is answering what our new priorities in life are and how we shall recalibrate ourselves to the new realities. That is where all the transformational stuff that we are currently swamped with will be put to test.

How much of the life lessons we consume over various media do we incorporate into our daily lives? Are we merely reading them, acknowledging the wisdom only superficially? Which of the stories will we remember? Which of the insightful quotes and lines will hold us in good stead in the long run?

Often, these personal development posts blink at us momentarily before we scroll the screen or flip the page. They only give us a flicker of good sense, vanishing before we can imbibe them into our lives. We smile indulgently, nod our head in agreement and move on, which is true of any motivational material that we may come across unless we are keen and diligent. We generally don’t internalize them or make them part of our creed. As a result of which, we get a false sense of having transformed into positive and happy individuals, while in actuality, we remain the same limited, unfulfilled people that we had been.

Like the ancient mariners, we are left with water everywhere with not a drop to drink and quench our inner thirst. So how do we tap into the sea of wisdom and knowledge that is so abundantly available now and put them to effective use?

First, by not calling them ‘quotes’ and ‘stories’. The words, for all the good connotations they carry, have become too banal to be taken seriously. These are not mere quotes or stories. They are experiential insights given out by people who probably have understood things more deeply than us, or at least have seen them from a different altitude and angle.

Second, by taking the time to pause, and if possible, to write down the crux of the matter and contemplate on it till its essence soaks into our skin. Reading can only improve knowledge. It is contemplation that brings wisdom.

Third, by not feeding the mind with an excess of the good stuff. Even the best of supplements should be administered moderately or else, there will be reversal. The mind will suffer from goodness fatigue and down its shutters to any positive cues in future.

And last, by knowing the difference between personal opinion and profound insight. It is easy to mistake the former for the latter.

The paradox of human lives is that the more we desire change, the more we want things to remain the same. Caught in this contradiction, we often hoodwink ourselves into thinking that we are constantly evolving in spirit, while firmly resting in the comfort of our old, self-defeating tendencies.

Till we understand this irony and make a conscious effort to bring changes into our lives from the core, all the positive posts and messages that flood our inboxes will remain ill-fitting quotes on the hanger.

how do we tap into the sea of wisdom and knowledge that is so abundantly available now and put them to effective use?

Distressed Jeans

‘Mini, your mom is a star now. She is all over the media. Did you see it? It took so long for me to realize how indeed glamorous my wife is!’’ my daughter’s father said scooping a ladle of what he described as the best ever chicken curry in the world.

I remember the first time he had tasted it, soon after our wedding 49 years ago. He ate a mouthful, licked his fingers like a child and looked at me from across the table and smiled. Then, another mouthful and a smile. It was all he could do to convey his appreciation in the presence of his parents and family. But to a new bride, his relish meant reassurance. Nothing could have made life worthy for her than to know that she had found the way to her man’s heart with the chicken curry.

A knowing glance and a profound smile became the hallmarks of his minimalist expressions of appreciation in public. And I sought it every time out of the corner of my eye, as I did today. That I am 69 and he 75 is beside the point.

‘Appa, do you really think it was required? Did she have to do this?’ Mini expressed her disappointment making sure that her glance didn’t meet mine. ‘Do you know what my friends think?’

‘That you have a sexy mother?’ Mini’s appa joked and winked at me. I was appalled that he had used the word to describe me to Mini, but deep down it tickled me and I shook my head in mock dismay.

‘Appa!’ Mini exclaimed. ‘I don’t believe you are so cool about what has happened. It’s your wife, my mother that the whole world is discussing in such unpleasant terms.’

I quietly sat watching Mini hold a trial against me for a decision I had made on a whim. She had already expressed her outrage to me over phone in no uncertain terms. She wasn’t alarmed that her father hadn’t raise a brow. What upset her was that I hadn’t known it myself. That I had allowed myself to cross the limits. That I made a caricature of myself in front of people. That she had to explain it to her folks, including her in laws. That I wasn’t prudent enough to know that it wasn’t OK for a 69-year-old woman to wear distressed jeans and look glamorous on social media. That after 49 years of making the world’s best chicken curry, I was seeking out (cheap in her view) popularity by doing unconventional things.

‘Appa, it’s not funny. Why did she have to do it at this age? Couldn’t you stop her?’

‘Why should I stop her now when I haven’t done it all these years? And by the way, I really thought she looked good in the trendy clothes that she wore in those pictures.’ He grinned, infuriating Mini further.

How different a smile can look with dentures, I thought. I was grateful that the cosmetic changes apart, everything was intact between us, despite the ups and downs we had seen in our long years of marriage. He stuck up for me even when our daughter disapproved my ways, not so much because it bothered her personally perhaps, but because she had to answer people and mollify their concerns.

‘Do you have any idea what people are talking about her, what kinds of comments are being posted?’ Mini thundered.

I spooned myself some rice and cleared my throat to express my displeasure at the way she spiked her voice, but Mini didn’t seem to care. Appa’s pet was on a rampage today and although I was the cause of the rage, I was not inclined to explain, justify or pacify her, for I wasn’t guilty of my act.

‘Take some more rice,’ I said to Mini, deliberately breaking her spiel. She waved my offer away and turned to her father again.

‘Appa, I am speaking to you. Oh God, what has come over my parents? Why don’t they see what the whole world sees?’

‘What does the whole world see, Mini?’ I asked gently, reaching over and serving some rice in her father’s plate.

‘How much will you feed me? I am stuffed already. But if you insist…’ he said and mixed the rice with some curry.

‘Yes, so what is the world seeing that your mother and I are not?’ Mini’s appa asked.

Mini got up in a huff, fished her phone from her bag and scrolling up and down, presented to her father a stream of responses to my pictures on Facebook. They were mean, reprehensible, and deeply misogynistic, I must admit. Some were downright vulgar and rude, and I was glad Mini’s father didn’t have a Facebook account of his own to discover the monstrosities of a new age. He saw only what I showed him, and I had carefully kept the rotten remarks out of his sight.

‘Read this, appa,’ Mini said thrusting the phone in his hand.

She didn’t have to do it for whatever good reason it was, I lamented in my heart.

I waited to see her appa’s expression as he slowly read each comment, his brows arching up with amazement when he stumbled upon a happy one and furrowing when a toxic one showed up.

‘Did you read this?’ he suddenly said and started laughing. ‘Can I adopt you, beautiful grandma? My dadi doesn’t allow me to wear ripped jeans or western clothes. Will you be my grandma for some days?’

‘You are in great demand, all said, even among little kids,’ he declared.

I beamed wide and shook my head.

He then handed the phone to Mini and said, ‘Well, it takes all kinds to make the world. I think we have to make a choice as to where we stand. We can be kind or mean to other people. Intrusive or unconcerned. Progressive or intolerant. Where do you choose to be, Mini?’

My heart fluttered and eyes stung with gratitude. He must have given me the chicken-curry smile then, but overwhelmed with emotion, I looked away.

‘What did your mother do? Dress up in modern clothes and do a photoshoot. She has always been a stunning woman, Mini; elegant and royal, and didn’t the pictures do justice to her?’

And after a pause he asked, ‘How many selfies do you and Shruti post for people to see in a week? Has she ever questioned you about it?’

‘How can you compare us with amma? Consider our ages, please,’ Mini retorted.

‘Amma is 69, you are 45. She is young and vibrant, with a zest for life, making the best chicken curry in the world, and you are shrunk and caught up in the narrowness of the world, influenced by strangers and knocked around by others. Do you know why despite being her daughter, you don’t make chicken curry like she does even after all these years? Because you didn’t learn the good things from her. You indiscriminately picked up what others had to teach you. And today, you are turning against the same hands that made you what you are.’

Mini’s face turned rufous. I wished her father didn’t say anything more. I rose, walked toward Mini and put a hand on her shoulder. I felt her stiffen under my touch.

‘What is it that bothers you, Mini? That I look good at my age and live a life of my choice? Or that your father allows me more freedom than what your husband allows you? Or the fact that a section of our society considers it blasphemous for a woman to be bold (and beautiful) and so, you disapprove it too? Or are you seriously ashamed of your mother?’ I asked without raising my voice.

‘It’s what people are writing about you. Calling you names, humiliating you. I can’t tolerate all of that. You didn’t need to go through it, amma. Not at this age. You have had an honourable life all these years. Why did you have to thwart it now by posing for a few photographs that is unbecoming of your age or stature? Are you not hurt that people are heaping abuses on you?’

I forced a smile, squeezed her shoulder once and whispered, ‘Do you know what pained me the most? That my daughter didn’t stand by me when she should have been among the first to speak up for me. That my own off spring fell to bigotry. That she made me look like an errant child. Mini, we didn’t raise you this way. Where did we go wrong, appa?’

I was careful not to sound apologetic, not even to my daughter, but I couldn’t hide my despair.

An uneasy silence seeped into our midst as Mini’s appa finished his dinner and on his way to the sink tapped my arm twice as if to calm me.

I don’t know why, but I expected Mini to respond, or at least show a hint of remorse in her face. Perhaps, she had expected the same of me too. An obstinate mother could have begotten only a defiant daughter.

It seemed unlikely that she was going to be assuaged, and I saw no need to offer her any comfort either. Those who were inflamed by my life will find their own salve, and that would include my daughter too.

‘Amma, can you do me a favour? Can you please write a post that will bury this for good, and… take your photos down? And please, if you want to be in the limelight, do it in a way that doesn’t bring us all shame. I live in a joint family, for God’s sake.’

I laughed aloud and rejected her proposal almost instantly. Taking the pictures down was out of question. A follow-up post could be considered. I conveyed my thoughts to her and said it was up to her to either take pride in her mother or be ashamed of her. She had a choice to applaud her mother for standing out or hide in a closet with embarrassment or even disown her if that would bring her peace. All these because I was different from other old people she had known in her life. What an irony that the one she had to know the closest was the one knew the least!

The rest of the evening was spent in a realm of uneasy calm, all of us speaking only what was necessary. A couple of attempts by Mini's appa to lighten the air with some small talks was shot down by Mini with cold grunts.

‘Mini, remember this. I gave birth to you and not vice versa,’ I said a tad coldly as she began to leave. I had to remind her that I was in charge of my life, and not her. So much response was imperative to appease my simmering soul.

Later that night, after Mini’s appa had gone to sleep, I pulled out my letter pad and began to write. I had promised to write a follow-up post.

My dear daughter, (and all others who hate me for living life on my terms),

Thank you, first, for making me famous. For 69 years, I lived a relatively anonymous life, happy within my confines, doing the things that made me and my family happy. I have always heard that the twilight years were a drag. They were accompanied by aching knees, diminishing faculties, foggy memory and above all, savage boredom.

I had started waiting for these things to afflict me the day I turned 60, because that’s what I believed the law of life dictated. But guess what? Even as the limbs began to slow down, the spirit remained intact, as sprightly as a teen’s. Life, instead of winding down, gained momentum once I retired from service. I found myself opening up to a myriad of things to do and spend the rest of my life. That I had the whole-hearted support of my spouse in whatever I did in my life was an added advantage to me. God bless his good heart.

The first thing I did after I hit 60 was to stop colouring my hair, not because I didn’t have the need to look younger, but because I felt the salt and pepper look added glamour to my greying years. I loved the sense of freedom and confidence looking naturally good at 60 brought me. It’s a blessing to feel beautiful at that age. For reasons I have never been able to fathom, the older one got, the less significant looking good became. It still baffles me why. It’s in the autumn season that the leaves look pretty, don’t they? Does the tree condemn the beauty of its foliage at that time?

The next thing I did was to resolve that I would not take post-retirement lessons from others of my age. It had nothing to do with what they did, but I realized that each had their own way of justifying their time on this planet, and I wanted to chart my own course without influences. I allowed them their choices, and I expected them not to interfere in mine.

I had a number of unfulfilled dreams stacked up in my kitty. From little things like growing a balcony garden to learning to cycle to moderate things like wanting to learn fine art to fairly ambitious things like taking up an acting course and joining a theatre group. Suddenly with all the leisure in the world, I felt like I owned all the field to play my shots as I pleased.

All the while, you were all conspiring against me in devious ways, to thwart my joys, to curb my space, to make me fit in stereotyped closets of old age, weren’t you?

There can be several (irrational) motives behind someone throwing cold water on others’ lives; I do not know what yours was, but if it has brought you satisfaction and made your life better, I am happy.

As someone who has seen a lot more life than you all might have seen, I have only this to say. I do not know how many years are left of my life, but whatever remains of it, I intend to varnish it with positive, vibrant paints. I might be an ageing piece of wood, but I refuse to become a fossil while alive. And after death, I want flowers to be planted on my grave to remind people that beneath the earth my soul still thrives.

I invite you with no malice or rancour in my heart to join in my celebration of life, or if it still rankles you that at 69 I look a lot happier, freer and at peace than you, let me say, ‘it is not too late. Sow the right seeds now so that you will reap a rich harvest as time passes by.’

How we spend our old age is something we must all reflect upon when we are younger. How we fashion our thoughts in our prime is what will decide the nature of our advancing years. It is not about what life will give you, but what you will give life back that makes the difference. A lot of muck and dirt are the last things we would want to carry on our backs to the kingdom of peace.

I owe no explanation to anyone for the things I do in my life for I mean no harm to anyone. It’s to no one’s detriment. I am merely living my life to the fullest, and I wish you will too.

God bless.

I remain.

xxx’

I folded the sheet in half, held it for a few moments and with deep deliberation, tore it through the middle. I made a few more pieces of it and deposited it in the dust bin in the corner of the room. I snuggled into the blanket after turning the lights off, closed my eyes, and said my prayer as the soft purrs of Mini’s appa’s snoring swept over me.

‘Life hasn’t been perfect, Lord, but if you were to give me a chance to live all over again, I wouldn’t want you to change a thing. Thank you, for everything.’