In 2021 I will turn 50.
No way!! You don’t look it at all!
Whaaaat! I thought you were much older! I thought you were 68!
*raised eyebrows*
As I navigate my way through the aging process, amidst approval and affront, I wonder about the physicality of it all. Ok, ok, I colour my grey hair, and use expensive moisturizers, and work out at the gym, and avoid sugar, and attempt intermittent fasting, and therefore I ought to tell myself that half a century is just a number, innit?
Hmmmm. But it isn’t. It is far more nuanced and sanctified than digits, for the mere thought of it induces a detachment and languor that I quite enjoy. So much so, that I have devised a zen masterplan to put into execution on that blessed day (if I am alive and well, that is).
So, what is this great plan? Wait and see. Meanwhile, let me briefly describe to you how nearly 48 feels –
• Happy, when my older daughter makes me her signature ratatouille and the younger one tidies my drawers, as I entertain myself with a tv drama or my mischievous sofa destroying cats.
• Content, to have a quiet dinner at home with my husband than attend a fancy party somewhere.
• Pleased, that I performed Umrah and inspired others to do so.
• Elated, that my passion for reading novels has been reignited after two decades.
• Restless, after three days in a hotel, no matter how fancy it is.
• Comforted, to be around my affectionate and quirky household staff.
• Amused, when I say to a ‘friend’ that I do not really know someone well or have no wish to advance a relationship with him/her, and then the said ‘friend’ immediately starts giving a few thousand likes on the person’s posts.
• Even more amused, when I tell the same friend that I really like someone, and then (s)he starts giving that person’s posts a few thousand likes too!
• Disgusted, with food being wasted.
• Regretful, of not working and earning much earlier in life.
• Wistful, when I hear of others taking interesting classes.
• Sad, when someone I know has a terminal illness, or someone I care about passes away.
• Enraged, when I hear or read of children and women being violated in some manner.
• Awed, by the successes of some in my peer group.
• Humorous, around good friends.
• Perplexed, with people who have means and opportunity but are never happy.
• Secure, that I have loyal, extremely supportive and caring people around me.
• Delighted, to be able to buy all the shoes that I want.
• Irritated, with slow or bad service, and khonchas.
• Nauseated, by falseness.
• Thrilled, to meet animal lovers and itinerant travellers.
• Creative, when I see material or loose stones.
• Frustrated, that there are so many I know with mental health issues, who are not seeking the help they need for fear of stigma.
• Satisfied, when I produce a good piece of writing.
• Firm, when putting boundaries into place with those who have encroached on my personal space.
• Weightless, when I can be completely honest in a safe space.
• Grateful, for the kindness and generosity shown to me.
• Thankful, for all that I have.
Blessed? Don’t get me started on that one….
Chintamoni grew up in Dhaka, where she will always belong, but never quite fit in. She is an enthusiastic traveller, a compulsive procrastinator, and a contumelious raconteur.
