60 ....

In my college days I eagerly awaited 'star dust', the magazine on film stars that had brash gossip ladled out in generous dollops by its female editor, supposedly a beauty queen .I devoured it to the last sentence to the last page .

Bollywood took a back seat as matrimony deflected my attention , for decades.Now as I took to reading this writers articles on the net , I couldn't help laughing at comments like....

'You are a grandma aren't you?'

'How much were you paid to write this propaganda'?

'Why isn't the toi retiring this fossil'?

'Don't attempt intellectual debates , your field is soft porn'.

And so on, from obviously young viewers no older than her sons ,maybe.

I spotted this writers book Shobaa at sixty on the pavement as well as in a store, but decided against buying it as that would entail finding a place to store it in a already crammed cupboards, I decided to wait my turn at the lending library as my sixty is still some years away,there fore Iwas in no hurry to read it , only had to put on hold the curiosity I always had for this writer's , frank expressions and observations on day to day life and relationships.I am referring to her non fictional works and not to her lurid novels.I read only one of her salacious novels and decided 'enough is enough'.And never read another of her's.

The book has finally landed on my hand.It is a I,I,I, me ,me ,me book .Purely woman to woman .
Contrary to the highly westernised, high flying public persona , Shobha de comes out as a Bharath ki 'working' Nari , except for the self confessed , repetitively ,weakness for the spirits.

A poster for Art of living.