PART 4 #2
Our twenties brain works entirely differently from our thirties brain.
In our twenties, we can party, vomit and yet make it to the office the next day.
We can let utensils rot in the sink for two days without consequences.
The laundry can pile up. We forgive and forget easily, make rash decisions with few second thoughts or lingering doubts.
We are kinder, easier to be with, more accommodating of life’s vagaries.
There was plenty of time to take remedial measures if decisions went south.
But not in the thirties. In the thirties, every decision becomes calculated, and so choosing someone to settle down with becomes an exhausting checklist of what you want and possible deal-breakers.
What we want is someone who fits into our very specific scheme of things.
It’s harder for older women, like me, of course.
Strange to call myself an older woman because I feel young in my head.
But in pornographic terms, I’m more in the cougar category than the babysitter category.
Men my age can get married to women half their age, intellect, etc.
Women can’t. It’s worse because a woman in her early thirties who has pushed marriage in favour of a career is most likely successful.
And there are very few men who would want to get married to someone earning more than them.
So, the options are few and far between.
I hate to say this, but people in their mid-thirties who are still unmarried are extremely hard to live with—me included.
Anshul and I are both trying to be good listeners.
It’s clear that both of us want to be speakers in the conversation, not listeners.
I, for one, have a reason—my job as a psychologist involves listening to people all day long.
On a date, if you can call this a date, I want to be able to speak and be heard.
As Anshul explains how booking Airbnbs is a better option when travelling through Europe, my eyes flit to Vanita and her six-year-old son.
I feel a pang of envy at the fierce love Vanita has for her child.
In the past few years, Vanita has been trying hard to have another child.
After three miscarriages and a broken heart every time she lost a pregnancy, she gave up.
And every time she lost a pregnancy, I felt an illogical regret for aborting my own pregnancy all those years ago.
I had let go of something Vanita would give anything for.
I know my decision at the time was right, but that’s how my mind toys with me.
Vanita went back to work two years ago, but still harbours hope for another child, hoping to adopt a girl.
I’m not that crazy. I don’t have it in me to love something that doesn’t come from me.
I grit my teeth as I ask Anshul, ‘And what happens when you have travelled all across Europe and South America and have had all the experiences? After everything that’s there to be done is done?’
Anshul looks at me with a raised eyebrow, his expression one of mild amusement. ‘What do you mean?’ he asks in an almost mocking tone. ‘There will always be new experiences to be had.’
‘Sometimes, I think I overestimate how much happiness comfort and money can get me. And I can only say it now that I can buy comfort. It’s such an upper-middle-class thing to say.
That money isn’t enough, that money isn’t the answer to everything.
Fifteen years ago, I would have given an arm to be where I am today and now . . .’
Anshul smiles as if he knows and asks, ‘What do you want then?’
‘I look at my peers juggling parenthood and work, while I just have so many hours wasted in the day . . . it feels strange.’
‘You’re complaining that you have too much fun and not enough responsibility. That’s the dream situation, isn’t it?’
‘It should be, right?’ I answer. ‘It’s all I’ve ever wanted. And yet it doesn’t feel dream-like.’
‘Is that why you want to get married? To bring some complexity into your life? Don’t you think that’s, like the young people would say, toxic?’
‘Who cares any more, Anshul? Everything is toxic. A dependent friend is toxic, a lover is toxic, parenting is toxic, news and social media and mansplaining and feminism and trans movements, name anything, any feeling, and it’s toxic.
It’s the word of the decade.’ The weight of my words seemed to press down on both of us like a heavy blanket of sadness.
‘I just thought there would be more to life.’
The light I had noticed in his eyes earlier dies down.
He knows now that he won’t ‘settle down’ with me.
That’s the hallmark of dating in one’s thirties.
Everyone thinks everyone else is weird and hence, single.
No one thinks they are single because they are weird too.
I have many clients my age who can’t understand why they are the only sane, single, mid-thirties people around.
‘I’m here mainly because my parents want me to get married and have kids. That sort of thing,’ he says, leaning back into his chair.
I can see him relax, for now, that he has no future with me, he can be himself. And so can I.
‘Papa’s dead,’ I tell him. ‘. . . and Maa wants me to stop being alone.’
‘She is here? In Bangalore?’
‘Dehradun,’ I say. ‘They couldn’t bear to stay in the same city in which their son committed suicide.’
He lets out a silent gasp. ‘Oh.’
Another reason why it’s harder to get married late. There’s decades more of baggage you come with compared to a twenty-five-year-old. A twenty-five-year-old is probably untouched by death, by sickness, a life-ending failure.
He tries to change the subject. ‘How did you become a psychologist after, you know, SRCC? That’s where you went to college for undergrad?’
I suppress a sad chuckle. ‘Some people get a haircut when they want to change things. I got a graduate degree,’ I say softly. ‘I wanted to understand my brother’s mind.’
He has no option but to engage. Vanita frowns at me from the other table for letting the conversation get to this point.
‘Did you understand it?’ he asks.
‘At that time, I didn’t know that what I was really looking for was a time machine, to go back and stop him.’
‘Has it got any better since then?’
‘I get messages from my patients that I’ve saved their lives. They overstate, of course. It’s one thing thinking that you will kill yourself, another to be actually doing it.’
‘Do you enjoy your work?’ he asks, genuinely curious now.
‘More than anything in this world.’
He listens attentively as I tell him I’m part of a team of therapists who do roadshows for an organization dedicated to raising mental health awareness among college students. I’m in Bangalore for this reason.
‘What exactly do you do?’
‘So, a lot of kids need therapy, but, of course, they either can’t afford it or there’s a stigma attached to it, so they don’t go for it,’ I answer.
‘We create a safe space for students to talk about their feelings. These conversations start at a surface level but often end with someone revealing things about themselves—their sexuality, history with sexual assault, parental abuse and that sort of thing—for the first time. We do it like storytelling sessions so it’s not very formal. ’
‘Better than people like us who just bury everything,’ he says. ‘So, it’s just conversations?’
‘Pretty much. Sometimes they go on for, like, twelve hours. It’s very cathartic for them. And for us.’
I could take Anshul home with me. A few shots of vodka and he would start to look attractive—but this is something I’ve noticed as I age.
When I was younger, sex felt like a currency to be used sparingly or made to work hard for; now, it’s something to do, like watching a show—nice if it’s good, but no big deal if it’s bad.
I don’t go back to my hotel with Anshul. Vanita drives me there.
‘No, Maa,’ I tell my mother on the phone. ‘He wanted me to move in with his parents.’
‘So what?’ scoffs Maa. ‘That’s what girls have to do. After a while, that’s where you live, beta.’
‘I’m not giving up my freedom, Maa. If I live with a boy, a man, I will have to think twice before coming to visit you.’
‘I agree,’ says Vanita. ‘It’s my fault. I should have screened him out.’
Maa disagrees. ‘You don’t have to come to me every week. I’m not a child.’
‘You’re alone.’
‘I’m the president of Lioness Club in Clement Town,’ Maa points out rather proudly. ‘You think I have time to be alone?’