Keeping Up Appearances

Everything I share here comes from my own lived experience; I don’t claim to have authority over things I haven’t personally encountered. So, when I speak about “keeping up appearances,” I’m drawing on decades of observing people and life, offering my perspective shaped by those years.

While striving for flawless first impressions may seem admirable, it often involves presenting a version of ourselves that doesn’t reflect our true feelings or circumstances. In reality, “keeping up appearances” can be misleading, masking insecurities or imperfections behind a façade of confidence and control.

This tendency to hide what’s genuine can lead to shallow connections and missed opportunities for authentic relationships.

Have you watched the sitcom “Keeping Up Appearances”? Well, I just love the dynamics between Hyacinth and her long-suffering husband Richard Bucket, “pronounced Bouquet”, as we are reminded umpteen times in the series whenever someone gets it wrong. It always gives me a laugh, but it’s also very familiar.

I had a mother who could easily be called a Hyacinth, meticulous about our family’s reputation and always keen to impress, while my father bore more than a passing resemblance to Richard, patient and quietly supportive in the background.

Reflecting on those episodes, I often see echoes of my own family life, where appearances mattered almost as much as reality and little mishaps were smoothed over with a smile and a well-rehearsed excuse.

Much like the Buckets, my parents navigated the world with their own unique blend of charm, chaos and dignity, a testament to how TV can sometimes mirror our own truths.

Dad served as a bomber pilot during the Second World War and was one of the few survivors from his squadron, known as The Twelve Apostles. Later, he rose to become an air marshal and played a pivotal role as the founder of Garuda Airways, acting as President Sukarno’s right-hand man. Yet, despite these remarkable achievements, he never boasted about his status or sought recognition.

He trained pilots with both firmness and kindness, and once confided to me that during the war, he simply did his job, always hitting his targets to destroy enemy ammunition.

Still, he admitted that his actions may have caused harm to innocent villagers and often wondered what reckoning awaited him when his time came.

Mum, on the other hand, relished sharing tales of his accomplishments and status with her friends, enjoying the privileges and social standing that came with his success.

So the question I ask myself, especially as I reflect on all these years, is this: Despite the privileges and material comforts my parents provided, what I truly longed for was the deep sense of connection and warmth that I now experience with my own family; my sons, grandsons, husband, extended relatives, and those lively, heartfelt conversations over good food at our kitchen table.

As a child, I felt I missed out on those simple joys, since my upbringing was shaped by boarding school and the strict routines of the nuns rather than shared family life.

Back in the 1950s, sending children to boarding school was considered the proper thing to do among the social elite, it was meant to toughen us up and ensure a top-notch education.

But amidst all that, I can’t help but wonder about the things that truly matter to a young child: the everyday bonds, the laughter, and the sense of belonging that family brings.

Was the pursuit of status and tradition worth the sacrifice of genuine family connection?

On the other hand, I recognise that my experiences have helped shape me into a resilient and independent person, and I’ve found a great deal of satisfaction in my own achievements. Sometimes I wonder how different things might have been if I’d been given the same opportunities as my brother, who received our father’s business and continued living at home, even after starting his own family.

In keeping with longstanding traditions in India, it’s often the sons who inherit most, if not all, of the family assets. Yet, despite these advantages, he faced challenges managing the business and hasn’t found the happiness one might expect from such privilege.

Our mother took immense pride in the elevated social status that came with him inheriting the family business. Even during times when the business struggled, she chose to highlight his strengths and kept up the appearance of success.

She gently asked me not to mention any of our difficulties to others, and she also refused to let my husband, her son-in-law, offer any assistance, despite the fact he knew the business inside and out from working with Dad for two years. After Dad passed away, she discreetly requested my support with a regular monetary contribution each month.

It makes me reflect: just how far are we willing to go to preserve appearances?

Yet, what I carry with me most is a deep sense of gratitude for how these experiences have shaped my outlook. Instead of being concerned with keeping up appearances, I’ve chosen to live my life with honesty and openness, embracing both the joys and the challenges, and sharing them without pretence.

I surround myself with people I respect, those who value authenticity and are true to themselves, and I try to speak sincerely, never shying away from the truth.

My approach is to follow my own path, encouraging my students to trust in their own abilities, to nurture patience in their relationships, and to love their partners wholeheartedly, flaws and all.

Through the ups and downs, I’ve found strength, especially now, as I stand by my husband’s side while he faces the challenges of memory loss. I remain proud of his remarkable contributions as a top agent in counter terrorism, and I make it a point to honour his achievements and the life we have built together.

Above all, I believe that no one’s worth is measured by status or social standing. What truly matters is the kindness, resilience and genuine connections we cultivate along the way.

In this, I have found real fulfilment and peace.

Afterword

During the final month of my mother’s life, I had the privilege of sitting by her side, using those precious moments to heal old wounds and find closure. One conversation, however, stands out above all others, a moment of raw honesty and compassion. She looked at me and said, “If I could change anything, I would not have sent you away to boarding school. You must have felt I abandoned you.”

Her words struck a chord deep within me, encapsulating a lifetime of longing and the complicated emotions that come with separation. For years, I carried the weight of being sent away, questioning if I had been valued or truly understood. In her admission, I felt not only her regret but a profound love, a desire to undo a decision made in the name of tradition, status, and what was thought to be best at the time.

That moment allowed both of us a measure of healing, reminding me that love can be rekindled, even after years of silence and distance.

It taught me that compassion and understanding have the power to bridge even the deepest divides, and that forgiveness can bring peace to both the heart that gives and the heart that receives.