Last week, I had every reason to believe that Gandhi would have been proud of my daughter. Out of the blue, one day, she began to practice the kind of austerities that Bapu embodied in his lifestyle. “Be the change you want to see,” she echoed him, and though she didn’t go so far as to start spinning khadi, or even eschew violence if shouting at the presswali who had ironed the pleats on a dress all wrong was any indication, she did turn frugal in her diet. Shakes were rejected, she wanted no part of animal flesh on her dinner plate, a few leaves of salad, some nuts and clear soup would do her just fine instead.
So, this week, from Goa, when she called to say the seafood was awesome, and she was piling on weight, I couldn’t help but wonder at her renunciation of a few days ago. “Honey,” explained my wife, “she was on a diet so she could wear a bikini on the beach, and you don’t do that unless you have a washboard stomach,” she looked down ruefully at her own rotund form.
That explained a lot. Some days before they left for Goa, my daughter had invited her sorority group over for lunch, a meal noticeable more for what they didn’t eat than what they consumed, leaving us with leftovers that lasted several days. They pinched absent waists, pulled in stomachs that couldn’t be sucked in any more as they pirouetted before a mirror, and feigned nonchalance while peeping at their profiles from under bangs and fringes. “How many boys will there be on the trip?” I asked my wife, who had been responsible for their bookings and had the roster of names and flights at her fingertips. “There aren’t any boys,” she replied, “they’re just a bunch of girls on their own.” “Then why are they preening so much?” I couldn’t help wonder. “You’ll never understand,” said my wife, “girls are so much more competitive among themselves.”
Having starved, exercised, plucked and primped, off they went, out of cellular range since they tended to abandon their mobiles rather than carry them to the beach. When we managed to catch up with them as they dressed up to head for a casino, or party shack, it was clear that Bapu wouldn’t approve of these goings on. When they weren’t having squid or shrimp or mussel, they were out gambling, and if the squeals behind were any indication, the use of intemperate language was not infrequent. Gandhi’s three monkeys would have had their hands full blocking off sight, sound or speech that was intended to offend.
Since I tend to observe most anniversaries for what they represent — a trait I hoped my children would inherit — I was a little surprised when my daughter called last evening to ask if, along with her girl gang, she might have a beer. Perhaps it had skipped her mind — easy enough in Goa — that it was Gandhiji’s birth anniversary, a fact I reminded her of. “Would you like us to cut a cake for him?” she asked a little dubiously.
I reminded her that it was a dry day. “I am not one to judge,” I added, “but Bapu would not have approved of your bingeing, leave alone drinking.” My daughter hung up soon after, though I noticed that she had made no reassuring noises about observing prohibition, a fact I pointed out to her mother, who ignored it to remind me that we were scheduled to go out for a birthday dinner in the neighbourhood. “Seeing that he was foolish enough to be born on the same day as Gandhi,” I observed drily of my neighbour, “I hope he’ll at least have the sense to serve decent booze.”
