Interview | ‘I’ve always felt 60 in my head’: Twinkle Khanna aka Mrs Funnybones returns

When you take a step back and look at the collection, is there a thread that ties all the stories together?

When I started thinking about this collection, I wanted to show how India has changed over the past decade — and layer that with how I’ve changed, too. My family offered a point for reflection and analysis: I lost loved ones; my daughter grew up; my son became a young adult. Managing the writing of time across all these columns was a technical challenge. I wanted to bridge the past decade — politics, elections, technology — within these pieces. I approached the collection the way I would make my daughter have an antibiotic — I will start with saying it is sweet, and I will make sure the first dose is a sweet syrup. Some columns were chosen to make you laugh and draw you in, others to make you reflect. The book starts lighthearted, but as you go along, it deepens into themes of loss, grief, and mortality. And hopefully, it ends with optimism.

Can you tell us how the collection accumulated? How long did it take to put this together?

I resisted doing a sequel for a long time. My editor, Chiki Sarkar, keeps saying that the Funnybones voice comes easily to me, and I take it for granted, compared to my fiction. Perhaps, I resisted the sequel because of this. But over time, I realised my newspaper columns — and the first Mrs Funnybones (2015) — meant a lot to people. When I was touring to launch Welcome to Paradise (2023), I met a young woman who called the Funnybones book her bowl of kheer as it offered comfort. Another reader even took the book to Afghanistan while covering the war. That’s when I understood this was more than just entertainment for myself or others — it was connection. That’s when I decided to work on a collection.

Mrs Funnybones returns at a complex time in India — new technologies, new socio-political cleavages, or perhaps new ways to manifest old grievances. I noticed how the stories capture the way these larger changes creep into our families. The book feels more political than your past work; you write about rituals and godmen. In a time of deepening divides, can laughter survive and bridge gaps?

If laughter doesn’t bring us together, what hope is there? Humour is a unifying thread. We lost somebody recently and I went to pay condolences. I noticed how there is always someone whose job is to make family members laugh. And the family needs it; they require that release. If laughter can join you in your lowest moments, why not when you see the world differently? You can’t convert someone, but you can connect with them. I don’t believe differing views make anyone inferior. I always wonder: what can I learn from this person? For me, laughter is that bridge. Can somebody else use laughter as a bridge? Yes, you can but your jokes have to be pretty good.

I am writing a book on ‘Indian Uncles’ and found the character of Uncle Biren hilarious and insightful. I am excited to see how other readers react to him. Where did he come from?

Uncle Biren is an amalgamation — a bunch of uncles from my family and acquaintances. I have Punjabis and Gujaratis at home, which makes all family gatherings very lively. The Gujaratis are ruling the roost these days, full of pride. My mother-in-law’s side is Kashmiri, I have family from the Hindu and the Ismaili world — these experiences reach my columns.

The first Mrs. Funnybones was released before you went to study at Goldsmiths University. How did that academic experience shape your columns and this new collection?

When I was going to university, my editors Neelam Raj and Chiki worried about how the training would impact my columns. They worried that I would write in a pedantic manner. I did online courses at Oxford before Goldsmiths, and while the training changed how I approach fiction, my process for the columns has remained the same. I have a skeleton for how I write the columns. First, I pull together ideas, research, notes. Then, I go walking around the garden, play with my dogs, and the connections emerge. Earlier, I used to sit at my desk and wait for the connections to be made. But I am too old now and my neck hurts if I keep sitting at my desk. So, I potter about, and the connections clarify. But nothing about my training changed the writing of the columns. Maybe, because I had been doing it for so long and it was such a set process, it did not need alteration.

I found the stories on motherhood and your own father very moving. Between the time your columns started and the release of this book, how have gender roles within families evolved in contemporary India?

Honestly, not much has changed. I was 39 when the columns started; now I’m 52. Through this time, the fabric of our society and family life have remained the same. Although, our aspirations have shifted; women have more of a voice. But deep-rooted conditioning persists. Women take on the work of care because of how we view our own roles, no one is forcing us. The new generation is far freer of this baggage. Change will come through how we raise our children, and how we demonstrate small changes within ourselves.

How do you write so candidly about ageing? There is no awkward self-consciousness in those pieces.

I’ve always felt 60 in my head! Ageing never terrified me — it felt liberating. Even in my 30s, I planned for grey hair, short nails, and riding a scooter in Goa. I viewed ageing as a phase that would free me from many responsibilities. I also realised that by writing about my own ageing, I can take control of my narrative, instead of letting society or someone else decide what ageing means for how I look or how desirable I am. My body is desirable to me, even if it is falling apart. Writing helps me work through these dilemmas, loneliness, fear. That’s when I realised I’m truly a writer and nothing else: when I could write my way through a problem.

What’s next? I heard you were writing speculative fiction.

I’m 30,000 words into my next novel. It is my world right now. That’s all I can say!