When you are a woman living on the wrong side of forties, you are treading murky waters. Your interest in men stands inversely proportional to your peace of mind. Your children have added you to a new level in the game of life – Stress 5.0 that comes with higher education. And the only thing that seems to keep you going is meeting your girlfriend on a lunch date. That’s what I call therapy. Blimey! Little wonder then, I find myself, feeling overly enthusiastic mid-week, looking forward to my lunch date with a close friend, jumping with joy for I get to do all things girly- dressing up, eating on a whim, gossiping and spending time as just ME, not the mother, not the wife, not the daughter, just a merry woman without a worry in sight!

I quickly get past my aqua aerobics session so that I can do justice to food. Next, I play loud music, shower and get into my most favourite pair of wide-legged jeans and a summer top. I want to flaunt these latest additions to my already stuffed and severely choking wardrobe to my friend with the clear objective of fishing for compliments and feeling on cloud 9. As I powder and perfume my brimming-with-excitement body, I realise my deodorant has been fully used up. The bottle looks hollow and empty. Just like my life. Every last drop of the perfume spreading agent has been used up completely. The bottle seems emptier than a toothpaste tube, that every Indian is used to squeezing until shame takes over. Unfortunately, this is a glass bottle. I cannot use my muscle. For once, I decide to leave my ‘desi-ness’ aside and go deo-free. But the day looks sweltering hot. The sun has been working overtime. Maybe it realises too, the future lies in Asia.

But I cannot leave home prepared to burn people’s nostrils. Afterall, I believe strongly in ISR – ‘Individual social Responsibility’. So, I decide to use my man’s deo instead. Stronger and a bit over the top for a woman’s body, but better than what my body can produce, I think. Surprisingly, the better half never seems to run out of his.  I see three different bottles sitting at eye level. And instinctively choose one which appeals the most. Then, my hand reaches out straight for my armpit inside my shirt  and my pointer finger presses the top of the bottle. But I don’t hear it spray. Neither do I feel the cold stinging sensation that deodorant sprays are known to leave on your delicate underarms. Pretty much like scars from the past that come alive sometimes. Annoyed, this is an empty bottle, I spray once more, harder this time, bending the bottle at a 15 degree angle to spray out any last bits of hidden liquid that decided to stick to corners of the bottle for self defense. Still, not a sound or feeling on my body. I choose to have a face-off with this bottle that seems to behave like the gender it serves – stubborn and unfettered. I give it a piece of my mind. Then, I shake it vigorously and spray one last time. I am baffled all that pep talk led to no good. I feel flustered with zero sensation or sound. This time, as I turn my face toward the bottle, running out of patience, ready to threaten it to work, I notice the nozzle… it looks white and fluffy!

Oh boy, this cannot be good news, I think. I slowly lift my favourite top up only to jump in shock with a screech. The insides of my top look like a birthday cake! There is fresh cream sprayed all over my upper body. Only candles and birthday girl are missing. That bottle that I was asking to behave like a deo, turned out to be shaving cream instead! What a mix up of genders, oops genres of contents!

The word nincompoop stands personified right in front of my bathroom mirror. I burst out laughing. That’s a close shave, I wink to myself. Imagine not lifting my shirt at all.

Later that afternoon, my friend and I can’t stop laughing at my experience. But I feel a bit pissed too. My intelligence and ego have taking a beating. So when daughter number 2 arrives home after school, I instantly pounce upon her with Gyaan to fix my faltered ego. As we talk, I begin my sermon about life, its ups and downs, success and failure, the power of making wise choices and the whole Geeta ka Gyaan I have so painstakingly gathered over almost five decades of existence. As I prattle on and on, rubbing balm over my deflated ego, I see I am making a strong impact on my child. She seems to be drifting in and out of slumber. Much like she zones out during the most boring lessons at school.

“Aaah, so it has meditative quality, my talking”, I bark out loud, trying hard to dress my wounds.

 The 13-yo smiles while her eyes do the talking, “So why am I at the receiving end of this mid-week? What have I done now?”

I ignore her gestures and go ahead to tell her how naive my generation was and how we limited our lives to societal definitions of success and happiness.

Before I can talk any more, she says, “I am aware”.

Now that pisses me off to the hilt. So, I take half a century’s worth of knowledge sheets to tell her something she already knows?

Warped by ego that seems to inflate perilously, I ask her, “So, what have you understood?”

Pat comes the response, “Life is Kuch Kuch Hota Hai, Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gham and Kal Ho Na Ho…”

We both laugh out insanely. Secretly, my my ego is still hurt.

And I indulge in a hat-trick, “So why I am I living with such wise souls?”

“Because you are the only one that needs to learn Mom!”

Now, was that a close shave or what?

P.S. I come to terms with the fact that no matter how much I age, I shall always act my brain age. It is also a great reminder to take people and things for their intrinsic values, not judge a book by its cover, a deodorant by its bottle or a child’s wisdom by her age!