A fine balance
Leila Seth

I have now completed the age of threescore and ten. Though I feel young, and think that old age is ten years ahead of me, I know I am living on borrowed time. I began writing this book after lighting a diya before a statue of Ganesh at 20.02 hours on 20.02.2002. I will not be here for the next such palindrome, when all the zeros have been replaced by ones. Nor probably will Nandini, for whom in the first instance I have written this book. But, as long as we have not messed up our world, very likely her granddaughter will.

The process of writing has been one of contemplation— about words and the nature of language, about the history of my times, about my chosen or chance profession of the law. It has also been one of introspection, of trying to understand how I became who I am. From a shy and somewhat frightened girl, who neither felt fully at home in the world nor comfortable about trying to change it, I am now someone who is willing to fight for change, though in a quiet manner...

I suppose I had potential but no confidence; I flowered after marriage. But many women wither after marriage, exhausted by cruelty, dismissiveness or the daily grind. Though my marriage has been happy, and though when I look back I can see that I did put some pressure on Aradhana to get married, I still cannot claim that marriage is invariably a good thing. My mother would not have had such doubts. She was educated in an English-medium school, and had what was then thought of as a modern outlook, but she could not have conceived of a life without marriage. It was mandatory, especially for a girl. My parents believed in a good education for me, and my father repeatedly told my mother that no dowry would change hands at my wedding. Nevertheless, my mother, as a widow, dinned into my head the admonition that I should learn to be submissive in character, as I would have to adjust, in time, to my husband’s family...

Now, as I look at my children and those whom they have chosen to spend their lives with, I feel a sense of happiness; I am freer of doubts. Of course, as the Moroccans say, in the eyes of a mother, every beetle is a gazelle. I am trying, however, to be objective. In many ways, things have not come easy for any of them.

What my children call my Reader’s Digest kind of morality, my ‘What will people say?’ stance, also comes in for its share of criticism. Over the years I have learnt—or, rather, I have been trained—to be more broad-minded, and to examine my prejudices and preconceptions from a more objective and humane point of view...

The balancing act has not been easy. Two considerations have, however, helped me. One thing I realised quite early on is that if you are sincere with your work and love your family, you can share your problems and difficulties with them. It is surprising what solutions emerge through consensus. Even small children, who want as much as they can get of their mother’s time, make suggestions that show their selflessness. For one thing, they can get into the shoes of someone in desperate trouble who needs their mother’s help in her capacity as a lawyer or other professional. For another, just as a mother feels good about helping her children sort out their problems, they too feel good helping to sort out hers.

The second consideration is that in some ways doing two different kinds of work is less stressful than doing only one. When I felt stressed by my legal work, I could switch to housework, and vice versa. This change of occupation was itself a form of relaxation.

Work has brought all sorts of concomitant rewards. As a child I longed not for money or power but, for some reason, to see my name in a newspaper. Perhaps this was because I was enamoured of the written word, perhaps because I saw it as an acknowledgement of merit and achievement. The first time I saw my name in print, which was in the Times after I did well in the Bar Examinations, it gave me a quiet thrill. Since then, my reaction has varied.

When I first came to live in Delhi, a couple who were friends of ours were invited on Republic Day to Rashtrapati Bhavan for the President’s annual tea party; he was the head of the Delhi office of an important company. His wife described the beautiful gardens, Moghul in style, with their emerald green grass and vast variety of roses, and in particular the sunken garden at the end with its profusion of flowers. I felt a twinge of yearning, perhaps even of jealousy, and wondered whether I would ever get to see it. Once again, as a result of my work, a small dream became possible. As a judge of the Delhi High Court, I had the good fortune of seeing and enjoying the gardens once every year for thirteen years. Indeed, when I was a member of the jury for an award, the chairperson of which was First Lady Usha Narayanan, I had the pleasure of a very private showing. She took us around and pointed out, with justifiable pride, the fabulous tulips she had grown...

In Rashtrapati Bhavan too, I was once introduced to the Queen of England. She appeared to be having rather a boring time, standing stiffly and nodding her head as a great many people, arranged in two long queues, Indians to the left and Britishers to the right, were introduced to her one by one. I spoke to her, and we exchanged a few words. I later discovered that this was quite a faux pas; I should merely have curtsied or bowed, and spoken to her only if I had been spoken to. On another occasion, I was introduced to President Clinton. On yet another, at a small lunch, I had a long conversation with Hillary Clinton. I have over the years met a fair number of the great and good—or not so good. In a sense, the little fatherless girl with no connections has come a long way...

I have tried to inculcate in myself a spirit of detachment as advocated in the Gita, but have not always succeeded in not caring for the fruits of an action performed to the best of my ability. I wrote a judgement dealing with extradition law in 1990; it went up on appeal to the Supreme Court and though they decided it in 1993, I only learnt of its fate in 1996—by pure chance, since I never consciously made an effort to ascertain what happened once I had decided a case. At a social occasion during a conference, I overheard a lawyer praise a Supreme Court judge on his judgement in a particular matter.

The judge, seeing me standing nearby, turned to me and said,‘It was all your hard work. I fully endorsed what was an excellent judgement.’ I was very pleased to hear this praise; any attempt to remain detached went by the board. One of the things most difficult to be detached from is the regard of those for whom one has regard.

Excepted from On Balance An Autobiography by Leila Seth, Penguin Viking.

Suitable son

VIKRAM'S novel A Suitable Boy was launched in February 1993 in New Delhi by Penguin Books. He was very keen that the first publication should be in India. .. When we were living in 8 Rajaji Marg, he used to walk to the Nehru Memorial Museum and Library regularly and read the newspapers and gazettes pertaining to the period. He also watched movies from the late forties and early fifties; he must have seen Deedar half a dozen times. He learnt Urdu from a teacher in order to understand the nuances of Muslim culture better. He met and interviewed our extended family, our friends, our acquaintances and many others whom he felt could give him an insight into understanding particular aspects of life or work or the psyche of the times...

But he didn’t go out and socialise. And if a friend of his came over for dinner, we were often left to look after her or him, while he went off upstairs to sleep... He had set up a huge chart in his room indicating the ages and locations of his characters at various moments...Vikram wrote the bulk of A Suitable Boy in 8 Rajaji Marg, its revision and some additions were completed in Armsdell in Shimla. During the long process—lasting many years—of writing, revising and producing the book, quite apart from the creative stresses and difficulties, he had hardly write or type with; with his computer and printer, which were forever malfunctioning; and later, during the typesetting process, with his cheerfully optimistic friend and publisher, David Davidar. Vikaram, facing deadlines from his foreign publishers who were dependent on Penguin India’s typesetting and film, and impatient with the slow and erratic progress which he could not control from distant Noida, moved with a bridge table and chair, clothes, bedding, papers and books into David’s flat in Delhi. At night he would sit for hours through power-cuts and system crashes in the typesetter’s small shop. By day he would sleep or correct proofs. Whenever he became too fraught, David offered him whisky. it was a rather turbulent time and tempers ran high. But when the book finally appeared, resplendent in dark red and gold and elegantly printed on fine paper, all was forgotten...

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