Saturday night fever and the game of stayin’ alive

9.30am I want to sit on the balcony with my coffee and continue staring at a boat cutting across the still ocean with a plume of shimmering ripples and scavenging birds, but I have an urgent to-do list. It starts with managing my portfolio which, thanks to Trump’s tariffs, is making me see red figuratively, and on the trading app. I call my accountant and while waiting for her to pick up the phone, I start jotting down a weekly menu for the family. I can’t cook nor do I have an avid interest in food besides soya chaklis. Yet, this menu planning is by default my department until I die, or if I am lucky, get dementia and can’t recall anyone’s favourite dishes. The cheeriest thing this morning was a thoughtful email from the kind folks at Myntra informing me that I can avail of their 46% Happy Women’s Day discount on a black seamless tummy & thigh shaper.
While there is merit in acknowledging the progress women have made by having a dedicated day to celebrate our wins, sometimes it does feel like a relay race. Every generation passes the baton forward, only to find the next leg of the race is also uphill; we are dressed in shaping underwear and stilettos and are still underpaid.

Credit: Chad Crowe

She frowns. ‘Are you stoned? What the hell does that even mean?’
‘We indulge our Saturday night versions, by which I mean our present selves, and leave our future or Sunday morning versions to clean up the mess,’ I reply. ‘One drinks, the other suffers. One binges, the other repents.’
When she looks puzzled, I tell her about ‘The Substance’, the Demi Moore horror movie that changed my perspective. A washed-up ageing actress injects herself with a green serum that spawns a younger, better version of herself. They are supposed to time-share their existence, seven days in each body. ‘Remember you are one,’ the serum dealer warns them. But the younger one keeps overstaying, partying, and draining the other older body, which rapidly decays.
The film is about ageing and the societal pressure on women’s bodies and self-worth. The absolute horror for me was seeing the two bodies side by side and the immediate effects of what we do to our future selves daily: the extra drink, the midnight cake, the ‘just one more episode’ binge.
‘Whenever temptation strikes, I tell myself that the Saturday night me and Sunday morning me are one. It stops me in my tracks.’
‘Can I tell you the truth?’ my sister says, ‘Every version of you, including this Friday afternoon one, is a big bore.’

3pm On my way to a Women’s Day event, I catch up on the Trump and Zelensky showdown. The Ukrainian president found himself in an uncomfortable situation at the White House where he was grilled on his lack of a suit, talked down to like a preschooler, and expected to show the same level of gratitude that Trump saves for his beloved hairspray which, fittingly, is called CHI Helmet Hair. As women, we are often in rooms with uneven power dynamics. If Zelensky had asked for advice, I would have told him the first rule of survival in a lopsided negotiation: Always state your case like you’re threading a needle — steady and careful, trying not to prick any pricks in the process.

6pm I coax my little one into playing football at a neighbouring compound. She returns earlier than expected, stating that the older kids were cheating. I try explaining that sometimes things may not be to our liking, but the game goes on, and so do we. When she continues whining, I threaten to ground her.
‘I will ground you instead,’ she says and orders me to go and stand on our garden stoop. Trying to lighten the mood, I climb up and say, ‘It’s cool because I am used to being on a pedestal.’
She replies, ‘If you want to be on a higher pedestal, then just climb up your ego.’
Her sarcastic retort both dismays and amazes me. Unlike in the movies, I suppose you don’t need to inject a green serum into your veins to spawn a younger, better version of yourself.

9pm I scroll through the photo library on my phone and see pictures from my recent trip to Kolkata. Some are taken at Kumartuli, where artisans craft stunning idols for Durga Puja. It’s a fascinating process that starts with a wooden and straw skeleton before adding layers of clay. The guide who took me to see the artisans at work said that traditionally, women were restricted from practising this craft. An irony that women, despite being the embodiment of Goddess Durga, are now fighting for their place in crafting her image.
I suppose life’s scales have always been rigged. A fortunate few get to choose how to live; others have to choose what they can live with. Whether you are a president fighting for your country’s survival, a kid on a playground, or a woman looking at equality that lasts beyond a perfunctory celebration, this holds true. We don’t have control over the outcome of any of these games besides the one we play with ourselves daily. The tug of war between our present and future selves — between impulse and restraint, indulgence and wisdom. Well, unless you are an anomaly like Donald Trump, whose Saturday night avatar revels in junk food, lawsuits, temper tantrums, and yet his Sunday morning version — defying Newton’s third law of motion that for every action there is an opposite and equal reaction —pats him on his head and even fixes his hair in place as he keeps stomping on.

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