Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

It all started with a series of conversations over a period of a few months. A couple of friends talked about their thinning hair and the prospect of going bald, or nearly so, in the foreseeable future with trepidation. I consistently brushed them off or tried to underplay their fear saying it didn't matter. It's always been my firm conviction that we spend far too much time thinking of, maintaining and improving/repairing our physical appearance than is necessary. Perhaps we believe that we are primarily judged for the way we present ourselves. There may even be theories to prove that how we project ourselves is in fact a manifestation of who we actually are, and while it may not be entirely untrue, one still wonders if it's worth labouring too much over external appearance rather than focussing on what's within us, the core of our being. 

We apply the same yardstick while judging others and decide whether we like someone or not, based on the way they look, talk or appear to be. We stereotype people far too easily. We catalogue them on the basis of their dress, vocabulary, diction, body language, hair-style or even the kind of footwear they prefer. I remember a friend once looking at a picture of me sporting a short crop of hair and saying, "You look like a butch (a lesbian who is noticeably masculine)." My first reaction was defensive indignation (like being a lesbian was in fact debase). But the next thing that crossed my mind is, "How exactly does a lesbian 'look'?" Can people guess someone's sexual preference based on the way they keep their hair? Similarly, I've heard men with an effeminate voice or walk or even colour or cut of clothes being dubbed 'gay', and then ridiculed by 'straight' men with equal casualness -- like being 'gay' is a disease they have successfully avoided contracting. 

We laugh at people's accents and judge their capabilities based on their ability to pronounce words rather than the knowledge they may possess. Since thin is in, we frown upon fat people, totally disregarding the fact that each human being has a different body type. Those who are fat put themselves through all kinds of procedures and physical and emotional hardships to lose weight and gain acceptance. Once we join the movement to 'fit in', we start rolling down a slippery slope. We can never be good enough as we are, because there's always something we don't possess -- either physical attribute or material object, which prevents us from feeling worthy.

I am aware that these things are easier to intellectualise about than live with in the real world. People are self-conscious and perennially worried about being judged and discarded. I have less of these fears, but am not entirely free from them. I have a daughter who is acutely conscious of her image and no reassurance is enough to quell her apprehensions. Ultimately, one cannot dismiss these anxieties as irrational. 

I decided to put my own conviction to test. I told my friends I'd shave my head and see how it feels. The biggest hurdle was convincing my daughter. She started crying the minute I mooted the idea and wouldn't relent no matter how hard I tried to assure her that the hair would grow back in time. She was worried about being ridiculed by her friends because of the way I'd look. I don't blame her. She wants to be liked and accepted by her friends and being the sensitive sort, is prone to hurt easily. Children can be as cruel to each other as adults, and she didn't want to face questions and jabs from her peers. I told her I'd do it just once, and that too during her school holidays. I assured her that I'd ensure that I didn't look 'silly' in public, especially in her presence. But most of all, I tried to make her understand that it was merely an external feature -- I would still remain the same person regardless of how I kept my hair.

The die was cast, but it took some time to prepare myself. Finally, I decided one Sunday morning to go ahead and just do it. I announced my decision to my family. My husband wanted me to be sure about why I was doing it. My daughter still didn't approve, but by now she'd reconciled to my decision. I expressed a fear, "What if the hair doesn't grow back." To which the husband rightly replied, "But that's the real test of your conviction, isn't it?" I spent the entire afternoon feeling restless and anxious. The appointment was at 6 pm. I found myself running my hand through my hair every now and then -- like suddenly, now that I was about to lose it, it had assumed greater significance in my life.

I took a friend along for moral support; spoke to my stylist and told him what I wanted. He had a moment's hesitation before he brought out the machine that would first give me a very fine crop. The result was most encouraging. I liked the person I saw in the mirror. There was still the slightest of hesitation about going all the way and I was about to capitulate to this 'nearly bald but not quite' look. However, the stylist said this wouldn't help my hair grow back thicker, but if I went all the way, there was a good chance the new growth would be better. Having come this far, and secure in the knowledge that in a couple of weeks I'd be back to this state, I gave him the go-ahead. 

This time he used a razor and doused my scalp with water. Apart from the fact that I was actually feeling lighter -- both on my head and in spirit -- the scalp was also cold from the combined effect of the water spray and the air-conditioner. I stiffened from time to time, worrying that the blade would cut the scalp, but he kept reassuring me nothing of the sort would happen. It didn't and in less than 30 minutes I'd gone from shoulder-length hair to a bald green pate that didn't look bad at all. All that anxiety seemed to have been in vain, after all. 

I was grinning from ear to ear as we walked out of the salon. I could sense a change already because passers-by were turning their heads to look at me. If I were craving attention, this was surely a great ploy to get it, albeit only from random people who'd see me as a specimen, a freak. That wasn't my intention, but I knew from the start that it was a hazard I'd have to contend with. When I entered the building, I just walked straight ahead without turning my head in either direction. We didn't run into anyone I knew and when I got home I was first greeted by my maid whose face froze into a smile for a few seconds before she could react -- even though I'd told her about my decision beforehand.

My dog came and sat before me, cocking his head to one side, looking at me with a worried expression -- that's not a state of mind, that's just how Beagles look! Again he straightened his head, cocked it to a side and continued staring at me. Then he came up to me, sniffed at my legs and reassured that I was still the same person, walked to his bed.

My daughter was away at a friend's house and she is yet to see me. But I've sent her pictures and while she still doesn't like it, she doesn't think I look entirely horrible. The husband, on the other hand, reacted positively -- he was initially worried shaving my head would make me look plumper. Fortunately, that hasn't happened -- I am just as plump as I was before. For the rest of the evening I walked around the house in a euphoric state, like I'd actually done something thrilling and later, wondered why I should even think it exciting at all. 

In a couple of hours, my bare head started feeling cold and I was developing a headache from the air-con blast. I took out a soft towel and tied it around the head for the night and in the morning, fished out a purple bandana and a floppy hat from my daughter's cupboard. I tied the bandana around the head and put on the hat before heading out to my Spanish class where, most of my classmates being the equanimous sort, either nodded in approval or smiled sweetly, displaying not an iota of discomfort or shock. 

From day zero to day one, I already noticed the beginning of growth -- just like a day's stubble on a man's face. I am still getting used to the head feeling cold all the time and the need to protect it. It itches and is rough to touch, besides the sudden, unprovoked stab of anxiety about the long wait to regain old tresses, which fortunately passes very quickly. I am waiting for my daughter's reaction, and my parents' too. Friends on Facebook offered congratulations like I'd done something extraordinary and that refrain drove home the point that altering one's appearance against the norm is easier said than done. 

In the process, I also understood and appreciated my friends' fears. I was terrified at the thought of my hair not growing back -- knowing fully well it was a baseless worry. I've done this, secure in the knowledge that in a few weeks time, I'll stop looking 'different'. But I've also understood -- and will experience in days to come -- how difficult it is to be 'different' and to continue engaging with the world. Perhaps it will make no difference to the way people perceive me. But I doubt it. Every single person who sees me or my picture, is going form an opinion of me based on my shaved head. It will become another tool for the world to define me.

Question is, will I use their perceptions to define myself?

Confessions Of An Ineligible Mother

Excerpts from 'Deliverance' a novella by Gauri Deshpande, translated by Shashi Deshpande:

• "Why is it like this? Is it the same with everyone? I get on well with my daughters when they're away but I don't want to be with them everyday."

• "How will we ever know, before we really become mothers, whether we are fit for motherhood?"

• "Before I became a mother I had thought that this new experience, this new person, would fill some gap in my life, that I would become more complete, that one of my life's potentials would now be realised, and so on. But what happened was just the opposite. Because of the children all my activities were curtailed. I began to wonder whether we shouldn't deduct fifteen or twenty years from our lives on account of them. No going out, no seeing anything, not even just simple reading and writing. Keep yourself ready for fulfilling the children's demands -- that is all! Since it was my lot, since it was inevitable, I did everything, grumbling all the while, and once the novelty wore off, with anger."

• "To whom can I speak of this? Ultimately, only to myself. In this world everyone will say -- you took it on knowingly, now go through with it. But when I see what the children and I suffer as we go through with it, I think one must speak the truth some time. Don't go on praising motherhood -- say that it is boring, repetitive, constricting and devastating, both for the mind and the body. Does everyone know this truth, and is this why they cloak it with fond admiration, praise, love and regard? Did my grandmother get angry with my mother? My mother with me? I think now that she did. Perhaps she didn't have as much anger as I do, or maybe she had more control over herself, but it was there."

• "Is motherhood like the story about Maruti's umbilicus then, something that everybody knows the truth about, but no one will say it aloud?"

That's one of my favourite authors at her candid best. Whether it was motherhood, womanhood, marriage, relationships or life itself, Gauri Deshpande had the ability to be brutally honest, much to the chagrin of the male establishment of the time. In this, her most autobiographical story, she examines her difficult relationship with her daughters, not sparing herself or them and in the process, filtering her own experiences into evocative literature -- the hallmark of many a great woman writer. 

Interestingly, her daughter Urmilla Deshpande followed in her footsteps by exploring the same relationship from her point-of-view in her novel A Pack of Lies a couple of years ago. Gauri would have been proud even though her daughter's portrait of her was far from flattering. In fact, reading both these stories as companion pieces makes for an interesting study of how differently two people can look at the same situation based on their individual position and sensibility. 

The mother finds parenting a burden, the daughter is embarrassed, hurt and shocked by her mother's dereliction of duty. Both agree that the mother hadn't the time or the patience to tend to her daughters through their growing years and was self-absorbed to a fault. While Gauri's book, ruthless as it is, still leaves an opening for us to judge the mother kindly, Urmilla is unsparing in her indictment, not allowing her parent's accomplishments as writer to buffer her inherent inadequacies as a mother whose love she so longed for and who was not just neglectful, but cold, cruel and graceless. She also holds the privilege of ascribing her own aimless wanderings and experiments with sex and drugs to her mother's negligence. Gauri's book on the other hand, struggles to make sense of why her daughter picked out an artist with deformed limbs to be her husband -- is this her way of getting back me, she wonders? 

Perhaps the most disturbing contrast is the episode of the daughter's troubled relationship with the step father. In Deliverance, she develops a crush on him and her concerned mother sends her to a psychiatrist to help her cope with her feelings. Shockingly, in A Pack of Lies, the daughter claims the same step father sneaked into her room at night and when she ran to her mother, the woman refused to believe her allegation and dismissed it as another attention-seeking stunt.

It would be unwise to presume that all these incidents are indeed autobiographical, given that both books are after all, works of fiction. At the same time, because both writers have narrated similar incidents from their individual perspectives, it may in fact leave some room for speculation about what may or may not have transpired and perhaps Urmilla's version is her way of putting the truth out one more time for people to judge, or then, as her mother suspects, another expression of jealousy or childish defiance. 

Ultimately, reading both Deliverance and A Pack Of Lies helps to demystify motherhood. This isn't the pretty picture of doting, self-sacrificing mothers we are fed in popular culture, but the uncompromising story of an individual with a keen intellect and sharp analytical skills who had the courage to look herself in the mirror and not baulk at the imperfection that stared back at her. 

Gender Politics and Marriage

My domestic help is getting married at the end of this month. She's a young girl of 20 years, frail, a little sickly, but extremely hard-working and affectionate. She is marrying a boy chosen by her parents, the dates and the modalities of the event are being planned entirely at the convenience of the groom's family; her father is grateful for the fact that the prospective son-in-law has a job and a roof over his head, doesn't smoke or drink and doesn't expect him to pay a dowry. The girl either doesn't have a mind of her own (which we all know is most unlikely), or doesn't want to express herself openly. After her wedding, her future husband gets to decide whether she should work or stay at home. She will probably be expected to produce a healthy baby within a year or two (if they're the decent sort they'll only rejoice more heartily if it's a boy and not blame her if it isn't) and over the next several years, it will be her duty to run her husband's house, raise kids and look after his family. If the husband needs her to supplement his income, she'll have to do all this and go out to work for a living as well. If she does, while it will put a tremendous strain on her already indifferent health, it will at least give her a modicum of financial independence (provided she isn't expected to hand over her salary to her husband or his parents, or be accountable to him for how she spends it).

I belong to an educational, social and financial bracket slightly better than that of my domestic help. Yet, the circumstances of my life weren't very different from hers. And no, before anyone starts thinking this is a personal rant, let me clarify that I am merely quoting my story as an illustrative example. It's the same for millions of women in this country and dozens I myself know, except, I don't want to talk about other peoples' lives without their permission and can speak with any level of confidence and certainty only about my own experiences. Besides, as Virginia Woolf rightly said, "If you do not tell the truth about yourself, you cannot tell it about other people."

I was 27 years old when I got married, gainfully employed (though media jobs didn't fetch the kind of fancy numbers they do today), independent and free-spirited. From the time I 'grew up' there were covert and overt signals all around me propelling me towards marriage. My mother, for no fault of hers but merely based on her own understanding of life, believed that it was important for me to settle down with a man and inevitably, once that happened, to be tied (almost) irrevocably to his destiny. My father believed so too, only he didn't say it in as many words, nor as often. Life, particularly in a society like ours, isn't easy for single women. It can get lonely and you may end up feeling incomplete without marriage and children. All valid arguments in their own right, and echoed consistently and repeatedly by family and well-wishers.

I was on the marriage market from the age of 23 with varying levels of activity depending on my resistance and pig-headedness. There were times when the process was abandoned because of my non-co-operation before slowly, but surely, the pressure would start building up. As already stated above, I am not blaming anyone for the situation, merely stating facts. On my part, while I kept reiterating that I would get married only on my terms, or not at all, I lacked the courage to be entirely dismissive of the process. Visions of a long, lonely, unfulfilled life loomed large on my imagination. Never did I pause to contemplate the possibility that things could turn out just as well otherwise. I could build a career, live alone and savour the company of family and friends, perhaps hitch a boyfriend at some point, adopt a baby if I so wanted one, and found my own happiness on my own terms.

I'd met a variety of men in the four years of match-making, and although those experiences were rich fodder for fiction (and may well be put to that use at some point), most of them were disappointing. I realised that even as there was much talk of the emancipation of men, there was little practical evidence of the same. The number of men I eventually corresponded with was about 40, and personally met at least half of them. There was one particular candidate who had lived away from home ever since he finished school, worked in the US for a few years and had done everything from adventure sports to visiting nudist camps. But he wanted a wife who was intelligent, attractive and would agree to live with his parents and look after them, since it was now his desire to settle down in India and be with his family. Fortunately, this man rejected me. He wasn't the only one. There were others who I met more than once and being my usual open self, bared my shortcomings and potentially deal-breaking traits in the first meeting itself. But it still took this other guy three rather expensive lunches (we split the tab, being the progressive sort) to realise that he found me unattractive and hence didn't wish to go ahead with the alliance. If I had any sense, I should have slapped his face before walking out. I just said a polite 'goodbye' and left.

By the time I met my husband, I was thoroughly disillusioned with the process. I met him with great hesitation and almost certain that this would be another rejection in the can, more likely from my end. Except, he accepted everything I said about myself at face value and showed no sign of disappointment or disapproval. He too wanted a wife who would live with his parents. But because he was inherently decent and willing to accept me as I was, I chose to overlook the long-term implications of this pre-condition, or then, I couldn't imagine what it would actually be like to live with someone else's family for a stretch of time. Over the years, I've often wondered, whether a woman who put such a caveat would ever find a husband willing to move in with her parents and integrate with the family. Unlikely. My husband was a product of his own upbringing and conditioning and ill-equipped to break away from it.

Moving out of one's home is, in itself, a ground-breaking event for any individual (man or woman). But walking into someone else's house and family is a different ball-game altogether. Often it is a function of economics -- young couples don't have the money to rent apartments and live separately and hence move in with the husband's family (it can never be the wife's, because a son-in-law who lives with his wife's parents is considered impotent in our society). At other times it's on a whim -- the son doesn't want to leave his parents (for various reasons) and our society gives him a license to do so. (This is perhaps unique to eastern cultures. I once watched a French comedy about parents who were anxious about the fact that their 28-year-old son refused to move out of their house and actually deviced schemes to throw him out and get him to live on his own!) The situation, in my now well-informed opinion, is entirely disadvantageous to women. Most husbands and parents undertake little or no efforts to make the new bride feel at home. Even the mothers, who must have undergone the same trauma themselves, behave no differently than their predecessors and expect the daughter-in-law to fit in as unobtrusively as possible, while the house continues to function exactly as it used to before she walked in. In such families (and there are lakhs of them in this country), the son is treated as a privileged commodity and funnily, his life continues almost uninterrupted even after a momentous event such as marriage. There is no reason for men to even attempt to change their outlook in a situation like this, which is wholly to their advantage.

Even in modern urban nuclear families, highly qualified and tremendously talented women routinely give up their careers for family and kids. They're discriminated against at the workplace because of weaknesses foisted on them by a faulty social structure, which largely absolves men of the responsibility of home-making and child-rearing. Women aren't unreliable at the workplace because they're inefficient. But because it is their primary responsibility to keep the home in order and raise their kids, while maintaining their jobs if they must, either for financial reasons or for their own satisfaction and personal growth. This isn't their choice. It is a function of conditioning and a social order which make women feel 'guilty' about fostering their own aspirations and independent of their husbands, children and families. They are born into the belief that home-making is basically their function, regardless of their professional success and individual dreams. My mother, for instance, made sure that my sister and I learnt to cook, clean and keep house, unmindful of whether we enjoyed these activities or not, and notwithstanding our educational achievements and ambitions. I don't know of any men (at least of my generation) who received similar life-skills as part of their upbringing. Instead, they are conditioned to believe that just as their mothers ran their homes and juggled jobs (I have seen my own mother do it and know just how difficult it is), their wives will continue in the same tradition without any fuss. Except, nothing stands still. Not even dogmatic social norms -- although popular culture does everything within its power to reinforce gender stereotypes and regressive values through cinema, television and advertising.

Bottomline is, women are changing faster than men. And rightly so. This change is to their benefit and necessary for their survival and growth. But if men don't try to catch up, they'll be left behind to the detriment  not just of their own future, but that of the entire social order which will be thrown into imbalance. For, the more women think, reason and act at will, the lesser the chances they'll want to get into such lop-sided alliances. I know enough women who've steered clear of the marital game realising well in time that it couldn't possibly work to their advantage, for the numbers of emancipated men are shockingly small.

I am not an advocate of the institution of marriage. It's a faulty system at best and a collosal nuisance at worst. But in this great country of ours, it's looked upon with reverence (for reasons beyond my limited comprehension). Every time I attend a wedding, the thought that's foremost in my head is, "Does this woman know what she's getting into? And does she have the courage to negotiate her space and find her happiness while being married?" I wish my maid has a good life. I hope her husband is an understanding man who will love and respect her for the person she is. But more than that, I hope she has the sense to know her mind and live accordingly.

Self Image - It's All In The Head

A couple of weeks ago I watched a film called Amal, directed by Canadian-Indian filmmaker Richie Mehta. It's an allegorical tale about a simple-minded, gentle and honest autorickshaw driver in Delhi who's surprisingly untouched by his surroundings. But that's not the point of this article. In the film, Naseeruddin Shah plays an eccentric millionaire who dresses in rags and goes around the city being obnoxious to everyone in sight. Given his bedraggled appearance, he gets insulted, ridiculed and thrown out by various people, which probably proves his hypothesis that appearance and status maketh a man. For, being offensive rarely gets the rich and the well-groomed rejected by society and, if contemporary norms are to be gauged purely on practical evidence, such behaviour may even be perceived as a virtue.

Yesterday, a friend mentioned on Facebook that she always feels under-dressed and unkempt when she goes to her daughters' school where all other parents come made-up to the hilt. I too have noticed the same at my daughter's school -- I find it mildly amusing and not in the least bothersome. Fortunately (I think) I was never plagued by issues of self-image as determined by my appearance even as a teenager -- which is when, I presume, most people are acutely conscious of the way they look and about how members of the opposite sex in particular and society in general, perceive them. It was irritating to find other girls landing boyfriends with alarming ease, while I had to go around proposing to all the boys I found attractive at different times and for different reasons only to be rejected by each one of them. I spoke my mind, didn't care how I dressed, wasn't coy or overtly feminine in my behaviour and was largely unconcerned about being judged for the way I looked. But that didn't mean I didn't want to be liked or loved just the way I was, for who I was. On the other hand, I had lots of friends, read voraciously, loved to debate various issues and enjoyed college life to the hilt, despite the absence of a boyfriend. In a way, it was for the best -- no relationship = less stress and greater freedom.

Increasingly, I find people spending more and more time, effort and money on grooming and trying to alter their appearance (for the better?). For instance, my husband and I observed at our daughter's annual concert that not only did none of the mothers sport grey hair (which, at least some of them must have, given that they'd be around the same age as us), many had streaks of gold, brown and assorted other colours added to their hair (often straightened artificially too) and were dressed and made-up more heavily than I was on my wedding day.

It seems the entire beauty-fashion-fitness industry, in connivance with the media is striving to alter the way we look at ourselves and our bodies. And it isn't for the noble cause of making us feel good but a ploy to increase sales and profit margins. I am no longer who I am, but how I look and how I am perceived by others. It has become particularly important to look attractive, trim and young, regardless of your natural body type, facial attributes and personality. But peel off all those artificial layers and it comes down to the basics. For instance, I'm a 38-year-old woman of strictly average looks, with unruly hair, a squint in my eye, a tyre of flab around my waist, stretch marks caused by pregnancy, facial hair, wrinkling skin and a bulky body.

The good part is, I don't dislike myself for the way I look. I accept it as a matter of fact, follow good hygiene, wear decent clothes, don't have bad body odour and comb my hair whenever necessary. I'm not ashamed to look into the mirror and even pay the occasional visit to a beauty parlour (strictly at my convenience and not as a matter of priority because the eyebrows have grown out-of-control) for basic grooming, and leave it at that. I don't colour my hair, don't wear make-up, don't buy expensive clothes or shoes and don't feel worse off as a result. It's not as though I frown upon these things. They just don't seem important enough, and certainly don't play any role in determining how I feel about myself.

One of my favourite actors is Denzel Washington. Not because he's handsome. His face radiates a glow of goodness that seems to emanate from his soul. And that, in my opinion, is the real essence of beauty, which cannot be acquired by applying a product or wearing a brand. I love Meryl Steep too. She's a brilliant actress, 60 years old and mother of four. She's also unusually beautiful. But even in her younger days she didn't try to look thin, and now that she's old, her skin is sagging just the way it should, if it isn't stretched and stapled in place to look younger and sprightlier. Contrast this with Aamir Khan's desperate bid to pass off as a 23-year-old in 3 Idiots (he's 45, and looks it, despite his best efforts to stay young). Streep and Washington are examples of actors who haven't let vanity get the better of them. Aging is a fact of life. So is deterioration of the body and ultimately, death.

I'm not a psychologist, but common sense dictates that one's self-image must be determined from within and not without. I need to know myself to like myself, and in that sense, the way I look or other people's opinion of me cannot matter all that much. It requires introspection and reflection on life and my own choices, a healthy acceptance of my weaknesses and the ability to get past them without bitterness. 

None of which can be purchased in a bottle. 

Towards a Happy Ending...

By Vidya Bal

This is not a thought about death
It is a thought towards quality living.

Death is the last stop on the road of old age. 'Exit!' It's a sudden, permanent exit from worldly dealings and the business of life. If you continue on the metaphor of a journey, it can be said that, generally, we can't control or know when and where our life's journey begins. And perhaps, in the same way, we don't know when and where this journey will end, nor is it within our control. Even so, it is certain that every person who's born will die. The one thing that's inevitable and definite after birth is death. Despite this fact, we don't often think about death, nor very easily. We don't like to talk about it and generally avoid any discussion on the subject.

Today, however, I wish to speak about death. For the last 25/30 years I have been reading and talking about this subject. At that time I was about 50 years old, and today I am past 70. In a way, I feel I got introduced to this topic at the right time. V R Limaye of Sangli, sent me his own book 'Sanmanane Marnyacha Hakka' (The Right to Die with Dignity) as a gift. The idea of that tiny little book seemed very important to me. Thereafter, I continued discussing the issue with Mr. Limaye through letters and personal meetings. Since Mr. Limaye was ruminating and reading about this subject all the time, I got introduced to several books on 'willful death'. If he came across anything on the subject in newspapers around the world, he used to send me those clippings. Last year Mr. Limaye passed away. Since it was he who introduced me to this topic, and now that I feel even closer with it, keeping his memory alive, I feel like spreading his message with diligence to many. Therefore, it is my wish to draw the attention of those who are old, and more so, those who have not yet reach that stage.

At this time, there are many such 'old' people in our family or amongst acquaintances; those who can't move around on their own or their faculties are not functioning properly, or have an illness which causes great discomfort to them and their families; due to lack of manpower in the house, it is difficult to take proper care of them. There is a lack of finances to hire help to look after them. The house is not large enough to spare a room for them over a prolonged period. Due to all these circumstances, that person is somewhat neglected. Therefore she is hurt or angry.

Regardless of whether that person had behaved harshly, egoistically or selfishly with others in their younger days, or was very popular in the house, in the grip of this situation, neither can she live with dignity, nor can the family get enough strength to continue to behave affectionately and empathetically with such a person.

There are bound to be some exceptions who are able to surmount the stifling circumstances. One such example is that of Meena Gokhale's family (who looked after her Alzheimer's-affected mother for 14 long years). Yet, ordinarily, an old person in such circumstances wants to find a way to escape this predicament and to admit candidly and honestly, the family too is fed-up of this prolonged illness. When I see such people around, I start thinking to myself, "My god! I too can end up in this situation at any time." There's no point in denying what is today's reality. Hence it is necessary to think about it from this very moment, to accept it and to change our thinking and actions accordingly.

As I mentioned in the beginning, I was introduced to the idea of 'willful death' when I was about 50. Since then, as I started getting older and saw the intolerable suffering of old people around me, my ideas about this concept started getting clearer and firmer.

Today I am 73 years old. So far, I haven't had a serious ailment afflict my body. I am mobile. I am independent. My head is screwed in place. But this happy state can change suddenly or gradually. I can get anything from heart trouble, cancer, Alzheimer's and Parkinson's, to paralysis. And instead of thinking about "what to do" after something happens, I have done it while I am mentally and physically fit. So I have spoken or written down my wish that if any such thing happens to me, there should be no treatment given. I don't want to be operated for anything. I have no wish to continue living with the suffering of sickness, pain and dependence. I don't want others peoples' lives, money, time and establishment to get disrupted because of me or my illness. The good life I've lived so far is comfortable enough for me. I want it to end on the same note. It shouldn't be prolonged by artificial means. Especially, if due to an accident or some other reason, I go into a coma, I shouldn't be treated and should be helped to meet my end speedily. Stating one's desires in such a manner is called a 'living will'.

After the age of 60, the chances of illness increase. Hence I am proposing this thought for people beyond this age limit. I've given a sample draft of a 'living will' at the end of this article.

I don't believe this thought process means being afraid of illness. Rather, instead of facing illness and the circumstances which accompany it I would prefer to die. For this, I must express this wish, while I'm physically and mentally fit, to persons who are concerned with my death. I have to be able to convey to them the honesty behind my wishes. Once I identify the person who accepts my wishes and agrees to carry them out, I must give them the right to take decisions and implement them on my behalf. Again I want to reiterate that I am not suggesting this route for those who want to continue living with joy. Nor is it my intention to put pressure on people over the age of 60 to accept these ideas. I would not like to compel anyone. Nor do I have any right to do so. But this is an appeal to those who are thinking along similar lines or those who are wavering and can't make up their minds.

There is no legal sanctity to a 'living will' in our country. Suicide is a crime as per our laws. But a person who makes a 'living will', isn't committing suicide. A sick person's mind may drive her to suicide out of dejection. In this case we are talking about bidding adieu to life with a balanced mind. To stop treatment, or to not start treatment and take the path to inviting death willfully is rational thought. To achieve this it is necessary to have the co-operation between the person who is making the will, her family or any one person from the family and her family doctor. Its effectiveness or success depends on that.

Willful death is different from mercy killing. In the case of willful death, the individual herself takes a decision about her death, while in the case of mercy killing, it is a decision made by someone else. Besides thinking about willful death after the age of 60 is more a thought about living a quality life than about dying. Having faced life's small and big battles, taken good and bad experiences in your stride, this would be a decision to exit not with dejection or defeat, but bidding adieu after living a contented life.

Let's look at it this way -- we've had a full delicious meal. We've appreciated the food, burped in contentment and are ready to get up from the table. At that juncture the cook has put some more food on the plate, after hearing our words of appreciation and praise. So our stomach is now heavy and ready to burst. Instead of getting the pleasure of leaving the table at the right time, in economic parlance, the law of diminishing returns has now set in. The original experience of enjoying the food is lost. Similarly, in old age, there's a joy in dying while there's some joy in living.

Jo Roman, the author of 'Exit House' says just as you give finishing touches to a painting and are about to put down the brush, it is in such a state of mind that you should invite death. She had herself planned her death and bid goodbye to life in 1979. For this, three years before her death, she initiated a dialogue with her husband, son, daughter-in-law, daughter, son-in-law and some 300 friends. Because this thought wasn't just a personal experiment, but had social ramifications. It was her firm opinion that although an individual can't decide about her own birth, everyone should have the right to take a well-thought-out decision to end their life on a note of contentment. This is where the concept of willful death differs from suicide. A willful death is a thought about retaining the dignity of mind, body and life. It is not about running away from life, but about facing death.

Jo Roman finished the book 'Exit House' before she died. Not only did she delineate the concept of willful death in detail, but also emphasised the need to create a system for people who want to adopt this concept. Farewell House is the highest point of that system. This is a facility to ensure that willful death is beautiful, safe, and happens in joyful company.

Jo Roman drew a complete map of this Farewell House in her book. A map of the concept and the building itself. Basically, this Farewell House should have a supreme committee, comprising of doctors, psychiatrists, counsellors, advocates and people who have achieved respectability in society due to their own achievements. An individual who wants a willful death has to apply to this institution. Subsequently, if she is firm about her decision after a specified period of time, the facilities of the Farewell House will be made available to her. If, during this time, she changes her mind, or admits that she had taken the decision under duress, her application will be cancelled. If she needs any help about the disbursement of her wealth and assets or any other matter after her death, the Farewell House will make it available. Once her decision is made, she will be allowed to choose the surroundings in which she'd like to die. In that beautiful Farewell House, there will be several halls displaying the best paintings, wonders of nature and music. Plus there will be the option of enjoying the company of loved ones. Once everything is finalised, the concerned Farewell House will provide the individual with an 'exit pill', or an injection. This medication will be available only under the aegis of the Farewell House. V R Limaye too has propagated a similar concept of 'maha nirvaan'.

The concept of willful death can be one major support on the road to old age, though not the only one. There must be dialogue, discussion, debate on this subject. Jo Roman's book, 'Exit House' (publisher Bantam Books, 666 5th House, New York, 10103) should be procured and read. It is also important to read other books on the subject published around the world. It is also essential that young and old people interested in this concept should get together and discuss it. If, we reach a stage of evolvement where we can gift a book on this subject on a person's 40th birthday, it'll be a great day.

The Akshar sparsh library in Pune (020-25424915) stocks many robust books on the subject of a good death. Also, the Society for Right to Die with Dignity (022-22843416) is another institution operating in Mumbai.

Those who wish to discuss this article should write their name, address, telephone number and write to the office address of the magazine 'Miloon saryajani' -- 40 1/B, Bhonde Colony, Karve Road, Pune - 411004, Tel: 020-25433207. We can organise a meeting of like-minded people through such correspondence.

(Translated from a Marathi article published in the October-November 2009 issue of the magazine 'Miloon Saryajani' by Leena and Deepa Deosthalee)

Mumbai is Burning. Again!

It seems we’re finally tired of singing paeans to the resilient spirit of Mumbai, which, simply put, actually means nothing more than a daily fight for survival. We can glorify it all we want, but for a large number of people in this city, living from day to day itself is such a huge struggle, the threat of terrorism seems only like an occasional blip on their already busy radar. Last year, an office boy who worked with me in a fashion magazine lost his life falling off an overcrowded local train just outside Kandivali station as he was heading to work. He left behind a wife and three little children and it didn’t take any ammunition to snuff out his innocent existence. Life and death is mostly a matter of chance in this heartless city – now, not only for the teeming masses who can do little to determine their destinies, but also the privileged, who may put themselves at risk merely by stepping out for a five-star dinner.




There’s no logic to survival, beyond the realm of accidental choices, or the presence of a supreme force orchestrating our lives, depending on your personal line of belief. Ask all those who miraculously escaped the terror attacks and warded off death by mere seconds entirely on account of random decisions that somehow took them away from the war zones at the Taj and Oberoi-Trident hotels or kept them safe even in the face of extreme danger. Others paid the ultimate price for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.




It’s only at times like these that we take a pause from our robotic existence to reflect on our inherent vulnerability. And naturally, it frightens us. For a long time to come, many of us will be looking over our shoulder wherever we go and will never feel safe no matter how much reassuring rhetoric flies around. We already know that our political system inspires absolutely no confidence, although we now have renewed faith in our security forces and brave police officers. Yes, the very same who, until days ago were being maligned for their communal bias, but were the first to go in and face the fire with their pathetic safety equipment.




Our politicians, on the other hand, are treading the thin line now it seems, and one hopes it is they, and no one else (especially not innocent citizens), who bear the brunt of the public backlash. Maharashtra’s chief minister Vilasrao Deshmukh’s single largest achievement in office so far has been to hold on to his chair for as long as he has managed. He is, arguably, the least effective chief minister this state has ever known and it boggles the mind to imagine that such an uninspiring man is at the helm of affairs in times of crisis. Home Minister Shivraj Patil believes nothing that happens in the country has any reflection on his role as Home Minister, and hence, he can’t really be held accountable for such frequent and sustained terror attacks in several different cities. Prime Minister Manmohan Singh hasn’t been able to assuage the citizens with his muted rhetoric summoning the ISI Chief to Delhi. L K Advani keeps threatening to scream POTA, POTA , and only just stops himself. Narendra Modi goes around making a nuisance by meddling around in Mumbai when we all know it didn’t take any terror attacks to eliminate thousands of Muslims in Gujarat in 2002. Raj Thackeray, meanwhile, has either been hiding at home, or lauding the brave ‘Marathi’ policemen who lost their lives in the gun battles. The rest can go to hell for they’ve no business defending lives on his ancestral territory. Already, various politicians have put up hoardings around Mumbai saluting the policemen who lost their lives in the encounter – for a change, we don’t see their own smug mug shots plastered all over these unauthorized publicity hoardings.




We Mumbaikars have lived with the threat of terror for nearly two decades now, apart from innumerable other equally ominous situations like say, the annual rains or overcrowded public transport, or rash driving. Trains and buses have been targets of terror attacks at regular intervals. We all know that the country’s largest city is totally ill-equipped for crisis management of any sort and after each successive emergency situation, we’ve heard hollow promises from two-faced politicians, riding on the belief that people will forget all about what happened and get on with their lives in a matter of days. We’ve always proved them right by not asking questions, by not raising our voice, by not coming together towards a constructive citizens’ initiative to make the system accountable to us and not just in times of crisis, and actually getting on with our lives as though what has happened may never be repeated, or in fact, doesn't concern us at an individual level at all. It is up to us to make our elected representatives, the bureaucracy, the judiciary and the media accountable for the way they function, because everything they do, does impact our everyday lives in some way. If we, the educated and privileged don't do it, who will?




Lighting a candle in the window is merely another variation of the tokenism we’ve seen from our political brass. For the candle is sure to burn down long before the scars and the wounds of the hundreds wounded and bereaved even begin to heal.

Cinematic Integrity

Is there such a thing as cinematic integrity on the Hindi screen? It's a question worth reflecting on with some seriousness. When did we last watch a film that challenged the boundaries of the medium? A film that blended a crafty yet intellectually honest narrative with depth of character, visual finesse, effective editing and pathbreaking performances? In effect, a film that has the strength to stand the test of time? Something that can at least aspire for visions of greatness?

I happened to watch 'Sophie's Choice' made by Alan J Pakula in 1982 and 'Bachna Ae Haseeno' made by Siddharth Anand in 2008 on the same day for no specific reason. Unfortunately, I watched the former first and was firmly under the spell of Meryl Streep's astonishing turn as Sophie when I started viewing the other film. I forced myself to sit through this piece of trash just to reaffirm my belief that great cinema is not possible in Bollywood until filmmakers start feeling shamed by their collective debauchery. We cannot continue justifying our contemptible mediocrity in the name of commercial pressures and popular demand. Nor can we keep harping on our uniqueness to avoid unfavourable comparison with the rest of the world. 

Cinema is the same medium everywhere and its exponents are all trying to attract audiences to their work. Nobody makes films for themselves and nobody works in isolation. Hence weighing our work against others in the field is not just inevitable but absolutely essential for the healthy growth of our cinema. I pick out 'Bachna Ae Haseeno', but all of Yashraj Films' dozen-odd productions of the last three years (with the possible exception of 'Chak De India', which had some spirit, even though it took jingoism to the extreme and works, at best, as a genre film) are symptomatic of the callousness and blatant disrespect for cinema that's plaguing the entire Hindi film industry, it seems. You run through everything from 'Bunty Aur Babli', 'Dhoom', 'Fanaa', 'Kabul Express', 'Laaga Chunri Mein Daag', 'Aaja Nachle' to 'Bachna Ae Haseeno', and you see a uniform indifference towards plot, character, screenplay, visual texture and direction. Yes, they were all films catering to the masses. They all were meant to be pulp entertainment and hence weren't expected to leave a lasting impact on anyone. But what about integrity within the form of popular entertainment? Many of Yash Chopra's best-known films were true to the mainstream format with a formulaic plot, melodramatic exposition and just about serviceable visual language -- from 'Waqt' to 'Chandni', via 'Deewaar', 'Kabhi Kabhie', 'Trishul' and 'Silsila'. 

Yet, all of these films had characters who've stayed with us down the years, plot devices that kept audiences hooked at every turn, dialogues and music that lent depth to the drama and a sense of cohesiveness to each work that didn't make it seem like a replica of something else, nor like a showcase for some star’s antics or a circus of assorted scenes and songs thrown together haphazardly. Why just the Yashraj Films banner, everything of Hindi cinema I’ve seen in recent years is largely indifferent work (barring notable exceptions like 'Lage Raho Munnabhai' and 'Johnny Gaddaar') either put together as a marketing project or then, presupposing its own grandeur without any justification. 

Even in well-made films, there’s little emphasis on the film form, scripts are routinely unimaginative and worse, plagirised versions of older works or of foreign films, actors are entirely out of tune with the demands of working into a character (‘Dil Chahta Hai’ did improve their attention to physical detail, but there’s no such thing in Bollywood as building the ‘emotional graph’ of a character – I haven’t even seen the so-called ‘thinking’ actor Aamir Khan do it in any film), and directors are first, and above all, merchandisers trying to sell a product at any cost. From Vinod Chopra, Sanjay Leela Bhansali and Ashutosh Gowariker to Karan Johar, Farah Khan, Vipul Shah, Aneez Bazmee, Rakesh Roshan and Subhash Ghai (apart from everyone making films for Yashraj), none have produced a work of any notable measure. 

Filmmakers working with smaller budgets are either too conscious of their limited resources to really try something different or just aren't allowed the freedom to do so. It's shameful to learn that films like 'Bheja Fry' and 'Aamir' which have, in some sense, provided an opening for off-mainstream cinema are themselves derived from foreign sources.  Yet, we march along, scratching each other’s backs for sub-standard work that wouldn’t stand any critical evaluation, slam critics for not understanding cinema and being dismissive without a cause and pay actors salaries and attention they don’t deserve. Neither the Oscars, nor Cannes, Berlin, Venice or any other international film festival of any repute is likely to honour a Hindi film, leave aside finding it award-worthy, anytime in the future. So let’s just continue jumping in our tiny little puddle and pretend we’re splashing around in the ocean. And let others around the world celebrate cinema in all its glory and create works of art that’ll vindicate the medium, over and over again. 

Is This Why We Wanted Freedom?

Woke up this morning to hear the news that Raj Thackeray has been arrested in the middle of the night from Ratnagiri (why couldn’t they do it in broad daylight, one wonders) and is being brought to Mumbai to be produced in court. This is an event that shouldn’t really affect my life in any significant way, for, other than being the leader of just another political party with a handful of seats in the state assembly, he has absolutely no locus standi and clearly isn’t the guardian of ‘Marathi asmita’ as he’d have us believe. I don’t support his politics, nor endorse his divisive, myopic and wholly opportunistic modus operandi – a mere photocopy of his uncle’s ‘sons of the soil’ propaganda of four decades ago! He’s just another hypocritical Thackeray (funny these followers of Shivaji spell their family name after a famous British novelist of the Victorian era called William Makepeace Thackeray!), who proclaims his righteousness by bullying people while moving around in fancy imported cars, going hunting with the filmi brat pack when not extorting and grabbing property in the city by all means possible and sending his children to a fancy, upper-crust English medium school (no Marathi schools for sons of this Marathi manoos).

Sadly, anything Raj Thackeray does, or anything that’s done to him, tends to disrupt my life. For, this self-styled ‘inheritor’ of Shivaji’s guerrilla warfare tactics has an army of goons who hunt in packs and evidently, carry out their business of sabotage with the blessings of the state government and the police machinery. For the Congress-NCP alliance, Raj is a weapon against the increasingly toothless Shiv Sena. For the Sena, his violent agenda is a provocation that must be met by an equal show of strength. For the media, he’s a constant source of entertainment – hence his every move is chronicled in meticulous detail, which further feeds his purpose. For the common Marathi man, he’s perhaps the guy who will get them the jobs they may or may not deserve and by dint of force if necessary; and for the non-Marathi population, he’s a nuisance and terror that just can't be wished away. So Mumbai has come to a standstill again today. Some hapless taxi drivers will get beaten up and their vehicles smashed about, a few shops will be stoned and damaged (naturally, nobody except the owners themselves are going to pick up the tab), many schools in the city are closed as a matter of precaution (and in some, like my daughter's school, exams were abandoned midway and children despatched home in panic), while the public will exercise caution in sensitive areas like Dadar and prefer to defer their Diwali shopping. The media will blare sensational headlines all day, panel discussions will speculate on the implications of Raj’s arrest, journalists and members of other parties will spout sagely wisdom on the matter, his own spokesperson will rant about the injustice being meted out to this great Marathi leader and so on. In a matter of hours, Raj Thackeray will be out on bail, and, emboldened by the attention being showered on him, go on to bigger challenges and cause greater damage. 

I am not an authority on politics. Yet, the atmosphere of our vastly polluted democracy is increasingly incensing me. It’s not just the malaise of Raj Thackeray and his ilk that worries me as a citizen of this country. It is the shallow political environment which allows thugs and goons to bully their way around (virtually in every state), where no institution, party or individual is incorruptible. Where development, like secularism, is a dirty word tossed around casually. Where people are mere statistics of castes, communities, religious groups and vote banks, all cleverly pitted against each other. Where neither the judiciary, nor police, nor state can administer justice to those that need it most. Where the large mass called the middle class (of which, I shamefully admit, I too am a member) are too dazzled by their life of comfort and brain-numbing reality television to protest about anything. Where the poor have no choice but to get trampled. Where the rich have no concern for anything except the next cocktail party. Where sacrifice is foolish, principles are redundant and money is god. Is this really the India we so desperately wanted, an ideal for which scores sacrificed their lives, and many more underwent tremendous untold hardships? If this be freedom, did we really need to oust the British? As Sahir Ludhianvi aptly put it half a century ago: “Jinhe naaz hai Hind par woh kahaan hai? Kahaan hai? Kahaan hai? Kahaan hai?” Deepa Deosthalee

Mumbai Meri Jaan

Every once in a while, unexpected joys sneak out of life’s crevices to lighten the weary heart. Like this afternoon, I found catharsis in the form of a writer of Pakistani origin called Kamila Shamsie. Last year, I’d given her book Broken Verses to a dear student as a parting gift after her post-graduation, since I liked what the back-cover said and because I’m partial to women writers and curious about Pakistan. This year, it came right back to me as the only fitting present she could think of on our first meeting after her move to Dubai. “Read it. I think you’ll like it,” she smiled.

And I did -- much more than like it too. Enough to comb bookshops for Shamsie’s other works and come upon Kartography, which, in turn brought on the epiphany that my befuddled brain desperately longed for. Both books speak of everlasting, fated love; but that’s not why the coin suddenly dropped. It’s the fact that both are as much about the city of Karachi as the characters that live in it -- its own story flowing through their blood streams and, in more ways than one, defining who they are and what they are destined to become. 

By the time the second book was over, not only had I fallen in love with Karachi (a city I’ve never seen), I’d found a mirror being held up to the only place on earth I can call home, Bombay (Mumbai, Bambai, call it what you like; name don’t change the place). Of course Shamsie’s Karachi is far bloodier than I’ve ever seen my hometown being – gunfire and random killings being a matter of routine occurrence (in between civil war and ethnic cleansing) and curfews and deserted streets a norm. 

Or at least it was, in 1971 and 1995, (if Kartography bears any resemblance to facts) when the lives of two generations of friends unfold amidst torrid times and for most part, the primary agent of upheavals in their lives is the city, tearing them apart while burning in its own misery. Both cities seem like soul sisters – port towns, symbols of their respective nations’ prosperity, melting pots pock-marked with innumerable scars of petty bigotry, plundered and pulverised by millions and yet pulling along with undue resilience. 

I’ve feared for some time now that Bombay is dangling over a precipice. And when it goes down, it’ll take me with it. Mawkish as this sounds, it is the truth. I’ve grown up here. I know the city inside out – and many of the cities within. I can differentiate between the wide-ranging smells of its filth and myriad sounds of its hysterical pace like they are a part of my own being. I’ve hung out of crowded trains to suck in the breeze, been ensconced in anonymity amongst swarming crowds at Churchgate and Dadar, watched the sun drowning behind the Haji Ali mosque from my car window, exulted at the sight of a B.E.S.T. bus at Chembur after just a week’s absence from the city and even grinned gleefully to myself aboard airplanes approaching touchdown over Dharavi after vacations in far, far cleaner, greener, safer and fancier lands. 

But I can't bear to romanticise my city. I don’t love it for what it is – nor what it was when I was growing up in a relatively quiet suburban neighbourhood and revelling in its indestructible spirit as a child or as a youth full of dreams that my beloved hometown promised to fulfil. If the western world lost its innocence in 2001, Bombay lost hers in 1992-93 (at least for me, it did), when self-righteous right-wingers stalked the streets, systematically burning up Muslim establishments and dragging people out of their homes and buildings like ours, to ascertain their faith and punish them, ostensibly for ‘wrongs’ committed by their ancestors and later, when the first bombs exploded in her face (an equally mindless act of alleged retaliation, but plainly put, the city’s first official terrorist attack) and ripped apart much more than the lives of 1000 people who were either killed or maimed in their wake and their loved ones.

I still remember getting up every morning through the riots of 1992-93 and nonchalantly boarding a train to college, unmindful of the tension in the city, or standing on the building terrace and watching tongues of flames bursting forth from burning shops in the neighbourhood, a gentle gust floating towards us with the smoke and the heat of those fires and scorching our eyes with collective guilt. 

It’s not just the senseless violence that shattered the myth. It’s the feeling of being lost in your own home, battered past recognition by forces beyond one’s control – deplorable politicians, crumbling infrastructure, unsafe roads, apathetic policemen, unbearable pollution, opportunistic scamsters… The list goes on and on. But most distressing of all is the much-vaunted resilient spirit of the citizenry – their eyes either too dazzled by the possibility of winning that one big lottery or too numbed by the drudgery of a lifelong struggle to survive at any cost whatsoever. The incongruity of gleaming shopping malls standing right across the road from slums, wretched beggars pecking at your complacency on every traffic signal, ugly skyscrapers blocking out more and more of the skies, the weight of a million immersions reducing the sea to a stinking discoloured mass and the entire city gasping and reeling under the aspirations of 15 million people – and slipping away from my grasp. 

I’ve sometimes been tempted to walk away from it all – more now than ever before. The colony of my childhood is now like an old people’s settlement, most of the children I grew up with, long gone in search of better opportunities. I too have tried imagining a life away from this madness, in tranquil climes relatively untouched by the brutality and inequity of human life. I’ve closed my eyes and conjoured images of being someplace else and instantly snapped them open, feeling disorientated under unfamiliar skies. It doesn’t look like I have a choice in the matter. My parents were born here, as was my daughter. And somehow, the city is as irrevocably tied to me as the umbilical chord. No place on earth can make me put Bombay out of my mind, and there’s nowhere else I can put my head on a pillow and feel like I’m home. 

A Marriage Of True Minds

In the middle of a perfectly harmless online chat, a journalist friend popped a snap poll question for an article she is writing: "If you had to choose between being bored out of your mind in your marriage and your husband's infidelity, which one would you prefer?" It was a no-brainer. I'd choose the latter option with or without its qualitative comparison with lifelong boredom (which, I'm afraid, is a logical inevitability in any long-term relationship, but especially marriage -- considering the floozy, faulty premise on which it's often based). She was taken aback and I asked her why. "You are the only one who's chosen this option," she said. "Most people I spoke to (and they're all 'people like us'!), are mortified at the mere idea of their spouse's infidelity."

I'm not surprised. Most people grow up with fairy tales that inevitably end in "And they lived happily ever after", watch Hindi films (or their Hollywood equivalents) where the hero and heroine walk into the sunset having overcome all odds against their undying love, read Romeo And Juliet (or Mills and Boon, depending on their literary leanings) and have dreamt of eternal love. They may never actually have seen a perfectly happily married couple (I confess, I haven't, and am beginning to suspect it's merely a fictional concoction), but believe that they have the will, the capacity, and most of all, the patience, to build that one exceptional marriage which makes the rest of us believe fervently in this institution and plunge headlong into it with foolhardy bravado. I did too. But this article isn't a confessional about my relationship (which isn't any better or worse than any other I've seen from close quarters -- which, I might add, is almost a huge relief, considering my own impatient temperament!), but rather about the very nature of marriage and the idea of infidelity.  

It is not, therefore, with cynicism, that I believe monogamous relationships between woman and man (or woman and woman, or man and man) are a mythical idea we are desperately trying to cling to, because of generations of brainwashing and lack of other practically suitable alternatives. As a point of argument, I'd invite anyone who's ever got married (or even been in a long-term relationship) to stand up and declare she/he was never maddeningly attracted to another member of the opposite sex (movie stars and tennis players included, because they're far easier to embed in our fantasies than real people who have the potential to complicate matters), or wistfully imagined being with someone/anyone else, or contemplated the hypothetical possibility of not being in marital bondage and hence free to exercise choice without guilt. Naturally, none of the above has anything to do with eternal love. If anyone were to actually try being in love with another human being with single-minded devotion forever, they wouldn't have the time to do anything else, and would eventually start slipping into boredom. Guaranteed. Remember, Romeo and Juliet died long before they could find out. 

Marriage is a practical option to keep the human race better organised and easier to manage, just as prisons are a sensible way of keeping errant elements isolated from society to minimise their nuisance. So instead of exercising our free will in accordance with our animal instincts and mating without moral inhibition, which in turn may lead to innumerable social inconveniences, we choose to 'settle down' in matrimony, and like all good creatures of habit, soon forget that it's possible to even conceive living any other way. Then we turn this practical necessity into a virtue and swear by its near-religious sanctity like hard-core fanatics. Obviously then, infidelity must seem equivalent to complete blasphemy. We expect our spouses to be utterly 'faithful' (like our friends of the canine variety), no matter what, and can accept almost anything else, but the thought that perhaps we aren't actually entirely equipped to fulfil their needs on a lifelong basis (nor is it our cardinal duty to do so at any cost) and hence, they are well within their right to look elsewhere. Infidelity generally isn't about 'us'. It's about 'them', and their tendency to stray from the straight road, while we continue to trudge along, despite the odds and the temptation -- which also gives us the higher moral ground. Mostly we do it because we're reined in by our upbringing and because it's too much trouble to rock the boat and live with the consequences. 

If there really were an 'ideal' relationship (marital or otherwise), it would be one that has no room for 'ifs' and 'buts'. Where two people didn't live in dread of each other's choices and actually encouraged each other to live to the fullest, irrespective of its impact on their own lives. That would, I suspect, also be the relationship that's truly based on love, where no risk is too high; and not the conditional contract we seem to mistakenly refer to as the real thing.As my beloved Sting aptly put it, "If you love somebody, set them free."