That day, that age, has arrived!

When I was young I was amused and sometimes irritated at the ‘good old days’ conversation that ensued whenever my uncles and aunts gathered. Children were more ‘decently’ dressed, songs were not ‘vulgar’, films were meaningful, everything in the market was cheaper, neighbours were more helpful, studies made sense, the rupee could s-t-r-e-t-c-h……..

Copy, paste to the present! Only, now the conversation is not between my aunts and uncles, but is more and more the fervent discussion between friends and yours truly! ‘That’ age has arrived. We are able to say- 40 or 45 years ago this happened or that happened. How did this happen? Didn’t we always say that we would never talk like ‘them’? That we would never have a generation gap problem with our kids? That we wouldn’t mind our kids’ manners and dresses and language? Ha!

But….maybe in some ways we are different. We aren’t thaaat shocked, we have a sneaking or not so sneaking admiration for the directness and decisiveness of our children, we support their views more often or more easily……Still, I must admit that those remembered-and-hated words ‘wait till you have kids of your own’ need to be bitten back more and more these days!

Hmmm…so we are these fairly modern, educated, broad-minded mothers of 20-something daughters. We have had more exposure than the earlier generation of mothers. Things are going to be different with us surely?

So what do I do with this thought that suddenly jumped into my mind today? As mothers we may be different but as grandmothers?? Will we be able to match our mothers, the earlier generation, with their complete loving dedication to their grandchildren, their immediate fulfillment of each little wish the grandchild whispers? Will we be our grandchildren’s confidantes and share their secrets, and laugh together? Or are we, the mod mothers, going to be in a limbo- neither totally grandmas nor considered mod enough by an even newer generation?!

Just yesterday when my husband came back home in the evening, a number of children were playing outside our house. Not one of them thought of opening the gate for him. He was balancing some packages on the bike and waited for me to come out and throw open the gate. A few years back this wouldn’t have happened- two or three or all the children would have run to open the gate, racquets in hand and ‘namastey uncle’ accompanying the big grins on their faces.

So why this change? These are nice, normal children who balance their studies and play and tv. It may sound strange but I’m convinced that the way language is used nowadays is responsible for the deterioration in the respect and regard for older people which was so evident, at least in small towns, till recently.

Top on my list of wrongly used words and phrases is ‘I and my friend’. That people all over the world have accepted this usage pains me. I do not believe I am saying anything far-fetched. How do we expect our children to be considerate or respectful when we do not teach them to put their ego on hold? I remember one English teacher during my school days always exhorting us to ‘put the donkey last’. We did it. We put ‘I’ behind all the rest. Now I realize how many things that one little rule achieved. It taught us good language, good manners and the fact that one really doesn’t need to be self-centered!

With each reality show, the standard of ‘awesome’ seems to fall more and more. I always thought the usage of this word was limited to two or three times in a lifetime. But now every so-called singer, every mediocre novel, every barely satisfactory meal is ‘awsum’. What’s wrong with saying ‘Can do better’ or ‘Better luck next time’? Why put young people on a pedestal that will definitely crumble, and soon? Surely adults realize that the false ‘awesome’ will never let the recipient develop her potential? Why have we started feeling that our youth are so namby-pamby that they can’t deal with setbacks or failure? I’ve seen girls who were scolded for not studying enough develop into great professionals and mothers. Would they have done that if their lives had been peppered(I use the word purposely) with ‘awsum’s? I wonder.

I have always been allergic to words like ‘sacrifice’ and ‘vocation’ because they are used lightly and too often. People who do the former and live the latter shouldn’t feel the need to talk about it. One doesn’t talk of sacrifice in the context of TV and pizza! Nowadays I realize how much responsibility lies on the shoulders of our generation. We need to choose our words very carefully so that our youngsters know everything doesn’t begin and end with them. Yes, the language that is used today is upsetting.

Last year a little fellow, all of seven, came to me with some grammar problems. He opened his bag and said, “Oh shit! I don’t have my book”. Dropped his pencil and picked it up with a ‘Shitt!’ Startled, I told him tersely that he was not to use that word since shit belonged in the toilet. He looked surprised and unconvinced but mumbled ‘ok’ and we proceeded with the lesson. When he was packing up he almost said the word again. Exasperated, I said, “ Where did you pick up this word?” and was dumbstruck to hear that his class-teacher used it often. Next day he was careful not to use the word. But soon, with a thoughtful frown, he ventured to say, “I think there must be two kinds of shit. One that you told me about yesterday. And the other one that my teacher says all the time.” Oh teacher!   

Some of my memories are of things that can never be seen or experienced now. A ride in a bullock cart with the sun beating down on my head, the green trees swaying in the breeze and the red soil providing a great contrast. That said, I must add that the ride was most uncomfortable!

Jackfruit trees laden with the heavy fruit, thick shiny leaves and the huge jackfruits hanging by just a tiny stem and the tell-tale leaf, waiting to fall when the fruit ripened to perfection.

Cashew trees with their colourful fruit- yellow, orange, red- and the sweet yet acidic fragrance. The cashewnut  itself looking rather brown and ridiculous, like an over-sized ear-ring, stuck to the bottom of the soft fruit , an afterthought; not at all like the plump, white nut found in packets.

Mornings in the village, stepping out of the house into the garden redolent with the fragrance of green champa, the bathroom with its huge hot water ‘ bhaan’ and the smoky smell of wood burning under it. The tiny green coconuts with their little brown caps and cool raw smell, fallen to their end before they could grow. They looked so smooth and perfect, I could never resist picking them up and gloated over my hoard until some adult scoffed at me and threw them all out.

The feel of picking up a small calf-“ yes, yes, hold him just so, or he will kick”, ‘helping’ to milk the cows or draw water from the well; the afternoon siesta(compulsory!) on the cool granite platforms in the mutth, falling asleep in the cool breeze of the woven coconut leaf fans, the evening walk to the bazaar with grandfather, the grittiness of sand between our toes as we walked back from the sea-shore…..

It surprises me that I have so many memories of my visits to our village, Gokarn. And it saddens me that I do not have stronger ties there, that I will now be a stranger.

There are other memories, too, of a by-gone age, of things and happenings that the future generations will only read about(as e-books, no doubt!)…..climbing guava trees with my father to snack on the freshest guavas ever; of a mango-laden tree in our garden, with mangoes touching our knees as we walked around the tree admiringly;of riding home from the market majestically in a tonga, enjoying the clip clop clip clop of the horse, the red and yellow plumes on its head moving in time to its gait; of an entire room reserved for mangoes of different sizes, hues and fragrance. And the same room being filled with crackers and our joy, at Diwali; of contented evenings sprawled in yellow cane chairs on the lawn; of the happy days when we had strange pets- baby squirrels, a hedgehog- and the not so strange ones- an Alsatian pup, and later on, our dear Silky who, while chasing his own tail and going round and round, swirled his way into our memories forever.

Much later we had two tortoises, Speedy and Sweeney. Calmly chomping their way through cucumbers and tomatoes most of the year, their sleep filled motionless winters made it possible for us to go off on holidays without worrying about them.

Late afternoons with mother and grandmothers rolling and frying and storing goodies in tall steel dabbas; leisurely after-dinner read aloud sessions with parents, chuckling over humourous Marathi and English stories, the characters of which I still remember; listening to the AIR news by Lotika Ratnam, itching to talk but quiet as mice with father engrossed in the state of the world; the Vividh Bharati radio programmes- listening avidly, trying to decide which movie to see; finally going for the movie with chips and candies and water bottles…….

These are some of the memories I have, growing up in a middle-class home in Bombay, with vacations in townships, in large old fashioned houses and sometimes a month in our seaside village. Middle class but very, very rich!