My grandmother was a strong and fearless woman. Her choice of clothing, khadi saris, not only represented her identity as a freedom fighter but also embodied her commitment to Gandhian principles. She lost her spouse at a young age and single-handedly raised her four children, and adopted a girl child. My memory of her is as a no-nonsense woman who became a superintendent at Nari Niketan and associated with women like Aruna Asaf Ali and Sucheta Kriplani. She fretted over a variety of minor inconveniences during her lifetime, but the one thing I never witnessed her do was fret over her age or beauty.
A woman of multiple talents, my mother was a dusky damsel who thrived as a classical singer, educator, and social worker. I recall her as a patient and mild-mannered woman, always clad in crisp cotton saris that she would exchange for silk ones for concerts and other events. She had a master’s in literature and discussed literary gems of her times, but I don’t recall her talking about beauty, complexion, or body weight. The one thing she never forgot to wear was a wide smile, and that was her beauty tip to her four daughters.
These women shaped my life and my perception of beauty. They were strong women who valued knowledge and compassion above physical beauty. I was told that the beauty within a woman is more crucial than her physical beauty. Not surprisingly, I breezed through my teenage with my nose buried in books, only to awaken to beauty secrets during college.
In my twenties, I fell in love with a soldier, and we got married. My role as an army wife demanded I maintain an elegant and gracious persona, which I did until my husband hung his boots. Chiffons dominated the wardrobe Pearls were my mainstay. Jars of lotions, potions, and creams lined the dressing table as I changed one role for another. The prescribed attire for welfare meetings was crisp cotton and handloom saris, chiffons were preferred for social gatherings, and silks were reserved for the night. I ramp-walked, entertained, counselled. I extended my shoulders to grieving women, held hands in hospitals, and offered solace to the distraught. Despite the stress, I was young, and determined, and secretly enjoyed staying in touch with the latest trends.
However, time is a wicked soul. As wrinkles began making their presence known, anxiety came knocking in. The cheeky wrinkles didn’t arrive alone. Along with them came their dearest friend, the crow’s feet. More lotions and potions joined the line of jars as I combatted the signs of ageing with the same determination my hubby displayed while combatting the enemy. Soon, the force of gravity joined hands with the lines. It was a hoard of uninvited guests storming the party, no matter how hard I tried to shut the door. It was a conspiracy I found difficult to combat. Yoga and jogs were no match for ageing. I denied myself the pleasures of crispy fried samosas and syrupy rosogollas. Just a few more years, I told myself. Reflecting on my grandmother's and mother's carefree lives, I couldn't help but regret not being born in a different era. They had never stepped on a weighing scale, nor denied themselves the joys of crisply fried pakoras. The words calories, LDL and HDL cholesterol, and fasting sugar levels were not part of their vocabulary. I reassured myself that once I hit 50, I will have the freedom to enjoy any food I desire.
It did not happen, of course.
Instead, twisting the spine and punishing the body became a regular ordeal. Throughout the 30s and 40s, I had prioritised my role as an army wife, leaving the author persona in the background. After my husband retired and we moved to the city, my inner writer burst forth with enthusiasm. Hit by FOMO, I spent hours bent over my laptop. Relieved from the pressure of dressing up, I relegated the chiffons to the back of the wardrobe and happily lived in baggy kaftans. The retinols, AHAs, and other acids which rightfully belonged to the laboratory were discarded. After all, I was in my 50s.
It was not just the emerging writer who embraced the kaftans. I was 60 and a grandmother. Grandmothers were entitled to maintain their natural appearance. Bollywood, too, made a special concession when it came to defining grandmothers. Nirupa Roy, Lalita Pawar, Leela Misra, and Durga Khote were allowed to be themselves. Besides, I thought of myself as a feminist. Feminists did not succumb to the pressure of the beauty industry. And who was the world to define the way a woman should look? I defended my choice to age gracefully and embraced the grey strands that gave me a distinguished appearance.
Not everyone was pleased with my decision. The younger offspring issued a warning. You better continue dying your hair until I am married. I refused, of course, and am I glad I did.
Unfortunately, things changed quickly once my generation discovered the joys of social media. As I made my way onto Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok (which I promptly deleted as soon as my daughter installed it on my phone), I felt a different kind of pressure creep in.
Almost overnight grandmothers became glamorous. Hema Malini, Sharmila Tagore, and Helen became the benchmark. I could no longer escape living up to the image of a modern grandmother. The 60s were the new 30s; I was told. Encouraged by my two daughters, I panted my way into a gym, only to return with groaning muscles and protesting joints. Defying gravity was no mean feat.
How was I to know that the worst was yet to come? The age-old image of an author was swiftly changing, too. We went from being introverted desk-dwellers to suddenly being in the spotlight. We were required to go 'live' on Instagram, share pictures of ourselves, and make public appearances at book launches, signings, and literary festivals. Our readers, agents, and publishers expected smart and glamorous authors. The days of letting our work do the talking are long gone. Now was the age of publicity. For someone who had only just discovered how to share an Instagram story, this felt like yet another challenge the world had thrown my way.
Nevertheless, I pushed myself to learn the nitty gritty of modern technology. Enlisting the help of a teenager, I pressured my brain to learn the terms that sounded like Greek and Latin.
Adding insult to injury, right after I posted a carefully crafted message, I received a comment saying, "You don't look like an author." What the hell is an author supposed to look like? Should I grow horns or wear a tail to set myself apart from other humans? My quick research showed that handlooms were de rigueur. I set out on a mission to collect handlooms from every part of the country. I also mastered the art of applying kohl without looking like a hyperactive raccoon.
Last month, I stepped into my seventieth year. My hair is grey, but wisdom has finally dawned. It tells me gravity will play its role. Jowls and busts are going to sag. Hormones will dry up. Hair will sprout in the most unlikely places. Muscles will lose their tone. No one can stop these from happening. Stressing about these just brings some more wrinkles. Sometimes the anxiety comes creeping in, but I have become better at welcoming the guests that come along with age.
As for my daughter, she is still unmarried.
(Tanushree Podder is a well-known travel writer and novelist, passionate about traveling and writing. Three of her books, Boots Belts Berets, A Closetful of Skeletons, and The Girls in Green, are being adapted into web series.)
