Tina Bedi is young at 80. She lives alone in an apartment in Delhi and describes this as is the most joyous (Anand Swarup Atma) phase in her life. She’s forthright about life, people, situations, and her own self. A life full of struggle has taught her to shun ambiguities and call a spade a spade. She’s brave—happens naturally to her. I admire her for what she is, and her journey to reach here.
I first met her over lunch with a common friend, Livleen Bhagat, at the Golf Club. Then, a few months later at Gymkhana Club one late afternoon. She fed me a samosa and ordered two to be packed with me. ‘From whatever little I know of you, I’d like to write about you,’ I told her while walking her to the car. She stopped in her steps and look at me with a sparkle in her eyes, ‘You find me interesting enough to write about?’ ‘Why not?’ I retorted, almost snapping back, ‘you’re an incredible woman, live alone on your terms in a city like Delhi, and seek no help, sympathy, support. That’s commendable!’
A few months later, I walked into her apartment half an hour late on a hot afternoon. The first thought that came into my mind, after giving a quick glance, is that she's in control. Her space is her innate reflection, so I describe: Clean. Organised. Beautiful furniture neatly arranged, or housed, had a sheen that comes with age. She has a fair collection of art that includes her works as well. Big and small paintings punctuate the walls. Kitchen is well equipped and stocked, her food laboratory.
There’s a pattern in the way things are arranged, but I can’t put words to it. It’s an experience to be in her quintessential space. Her unapologetic den, I felt, is an assertion of her being, as I poured lassi into a glass for my consumption. It’s clear, she’s not out there to antagonise anyone, nor to patronise. She does things in the way they make sense to her. And brings her joy. This joy is now rooted in her. She distinguishes between joy and happiness, ‘joy is when the soul sings’ and there ought not be any reason for it.
In her bedroom there are a dozen pictures of her guru—you cannot miss him. ‘By the grace of God, I ran into Swami Tejomayananda Saraswati,’ she says, and this association has been transformative for her. ‘Swami Tejomayananda touched so many lives like a whisper in the wind, and enriched it with the fragrance of a thousand flowers,’ she describes him poetically.
He has an overwhelming presence in her life, her space, her being. She feels a ‘convergence to be oneself.’ No one can really bother her out of this blissful state. Don’t get me wrong, she can still be argumentative. But with no malice. She has shunned a legacy of bitterness. A conscious choice, she’s now her best friend for there is acceptance. She is not playing to the gallery is an empowered state of being.
She lives in a big house on her own terms because she can afford to. And people may think that she’s privileged and that has made her life easy. That’s not the case. ‘I have had a tough life,’ she says with a calm air, seated on a big leather sofa in front of a large glass window that fills the room with sunlight.
Tina does things in the way they make sense to her. And brings her joy. This joy is now rooted in her. She distinguishes between joy and happiness, ‘joy is when the soul sings’ and there ought not be any reason for it.
An abusive husband is just one of the reasons why her past was challenging. She was too good for him; and most men are not wired to deal with such a mismatch. So, one day, she dealt with him in the same language he understood well, and had employed in his dealings with her time and again—violence. She pummelled him rather well and claims to have broken many bones. He learned the lesson. And that was the end of the marriage.
She refers to the day she finally secured a divorce as the ‘best day of my life.’ She didn’t participate in his funeral a few years ago, but facilitated registration of his name in the family tree register at Haridwar—he being the 18th direct descendent of Guru Nanak. And when his ashes were being consigned to the Ganges, she said a prayer, ‘I don’t want him to cross my path in this or the other world. I’m done with him for once and all.’
Mother of two grown up boys—Abhyajit—her pride and joy—and Amarinder—her laughter, philosopher, guide and nightmare—both have done well for themselves. The elder lives in Boston—USA and the younger in Geneva—Switzerland. The pictures of granddaughters adorn the wall of her living room where we were seated.
‘I’m a bachelor, and I like to keep house orderly but have failed so miserably. How do you manage?’ She smiles. She has help. He has been working for decades—started as a boy is now approaching 50. She cares for people associated with her; with time the bond gets deeper. He doesn’t need this job, but he does it for the love of her. He knows how she likes her space, and he keeps it that way, day after day, year after year. And she feels that he’s like a family.
Tina has a good set of friends. She is kind to people and is willing to help. She invariably runs into people who can be of help to the people she has taken upon herself to help. People listen to her. She has a way with words. She is open, you can talk to her on any topic, nothing really is taboo as far as a conversation is concerned. She has influence over people by way of her kindness. One of her ways of spreading love is pickle distribution that she makes painstakingly in kilos. Half a dozen big jars brimmed with mango pickles were stashed in the kitchen, almost ready.
Also, a painter—three paintings of a labrador retriever by her hang above the long sofa. ‘That’s my dog’, she informs me. She loved her dog, long dead, but is alive in her painting, particularly the eyes, they are so expressive, so real. I was staring at the eyes, waiting for them to blink. She has captured the soul of that dog in those three canvases. People have a strong presence, particularly, in their absence, here. And you get that sense here in her home. Though she may be living alone, her space is agog with living memories.
Though Tina is more of a witness unto life, it doesn’t prevent her from having strong views about polity, people and situations. She’s interested and informed and discusses issues with penchant—spirituality, polity and trivia. She is friends with senior journalists and often exchange notes. An ardent supporter of Narendra Modi, she talks with relish about the disillusioned so-called left liberals. They are victims of their own world view and can’t see things straight.
She has many stories to tell. On her birthday, Abhyajit wished her may ‘you never run out of stories.’ Her life is a great story because she lives in the present moment. And we had some great present moments together.
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