A friend of mine confessed to masturbating from the age of eleven. Now this is one activity that is solitary, and should be confined to that sphere of politics, I feel. It is uncomfortable to discuss one’s activities behind a closed door, whether it is to do with bodily functions, or morning ablutions, or indeed, sex. And so, unwilling to enter that closed room with my friend, I tried to change the subject. No, but listen, she said, taking a deep puff from her fourth cigarette of the evening, don’t you think I’m weird? Yes I do, I said to myself, but not for the reasons you imagine. HOW, I ask in capitals but again only to myself, CAN ONE TALK ABOUT MASTURBATION? But she was clearly carried away, had had one drink too many, and was determined to follow up on this topic till death. And so I listened, determined to erase the tape of this conversation from my memory as soon as it ended which, I could only hope, would be soon. Don’t you wonder why I started so early? Let me tell you, said my drunk companion of the evening. I did it to give myself some attention. There was no one else to do it for me. She paused, as though groping for what she should say next, and then asked Do you remember my mother? I did remember her mother. Who could forget her? My friend and I had gone to kindergarten, nursery, primary, middle and high schools, as well as undergraduate college together. It is now more than twenty years since I last met THAT WOMAN, as we were wont to call her, but the memory of that flamboyance will stay with me forever. Mrs.___ was a stage actress, a prize winning writer and a kathak dancer in her spare time. She was beautiful, vivid, creative and kind. What she was not was a mother. Having given birth to her only daughter, she promptly proceeded to forget her, bestowing upon her eyes an occasional wet kiss, taking her along to watch her stage performances, and enrolling her for kathak classes with Uma Sharma, the renowned dancer, never mind that the daughter was born with two left feet, and was tone deaf in the bargain. But as a child, I had nothing but admiration for Mrs. ___. She was everything my mother was not. My own mother was the embodiment of ‘middle class’. She cooked balanced meals, kept a neat but drab house, stitched all my clothes, and listened to all the evening programs on Vividh Bharati. Our house was quiet and neat, and possessed not even the whisper of an artistic temperament. My mother often clicked her tongue at my friend’s unpressed clothes, and untidy hair, and was amused by her voracious appetite for the supremely unexciting fare of chapattis and lentils that we ate every day.
The rest of the evening was spent in my friend expounding on her childhood bewilderment and misery, and I trying to suppress my guilt at admiring a woman who had, by all counts, ruined my friend’s life by making her masturbate at the age of eleven.
