Stanley should have read the
signs before he booked the tickets and packed his bags. When Michelle and he
were looking at possible travel destinations, his first choice had been Coorg,
while hers had been Goa. Goa got its way and Coorg settled for rejection. It
didn’t surprise Stanley. Their relationship had an unspecified pattern; if they
didn’t agree on something, he would eventually agree with her. For once, following her lead did not ruffle
him. She could decide where they went but the reason for their vacation and all
the celebrations that were to follow were entirely his. It was his birthday.
“So it’s all decided then,” cooed
Michelle in his ears the night before they were to leave.
“We are staying in Miguel’s
shack. God, I can’t wait to see him, it has been so long. He is so sweet, when
he heard I’m visiting he moved his guests to another shack so we can stay at
his. Isn’t that just amazing? I have picked up a nice shirt for him. That’s the
least we can do for him, right?”
“Of course, that’s really kind of
him,” Stanley agreed emphatically. He had learned over the years that merely
agreeing to what a woman said was never enough. You had to find the right
expressions and energy or they would see right through you. If a distant
insignificant relative of hers died, you had to wear that look of devastation
to go with your commiserations. If the conductor had short-changed her on the
bus, putting your arm around her and saying that it’s okay was never as
effective as punching the pillow and cursing the corrupt “fucker.” Yes, it’s
one of those rare occasions when you could use that word and expletives in
general without earning a scornful stare from her. He wondered why this was
never written about. All men did that. You read up on relationships and the
Mars-Venus theories, you would find it all about women faking it in bed. He
never understood why no author had caught on to the distinctly male act of
faking it in everyday interactions.
Michelle’s impassioned recital of their itinerary didn’t let him hold on to that thought for too long. She was
determined to make this big. From staying at Miguel’s to setting off Chinese
sky lanterns to bring in his birthday and ‘losing the plot’ at the Tantric Turntables
gig by the beach, it was all set. The Facebook album for their Goa pictures
would be called ‘Goan with the wind,’ after her favourite book. “Trust me on
this, you are going to thank me for giving you the best birthday of your life,”
she grandly signed off. Stanley chuckled at the sudden recollection of all his
previous birthdays, before he had met Michelle eight months ago. She didn’t
need to know, she had never made the effort to know. Their relationship had
just two stories, her story and their story. On days, he was convinced that
both were in fact, just one story. He had his moments in a story that was hers.
Later that night, unable to wait
for the morning any longer, Michelle decided that their meticulously planned
holiday would be advanced ahead of schedule. The party had to start now. She
fixed up two glasses of her favourite Cardhu. She mixed it with ginger ale. He
preferred just ice but the memo to him was to be open to new experiences, while
on holiday. So he complied. The music was turned up loud.
“Come here, dance with me. You’ll
love these guys. They’re called the Psychedelights, oh I just love how they
transport me into this space, where I can just be.”
It made sense. It was his
birthday and he was supposed to be having fun. So he trudged toward her and tried
gracelessly to match steps with her. She seemed one with the music, moving to
her left one moment, whirling another. Her hands moved like they had
surrendered to the tune. And he just moved awkwardly, conscious of every step,
awed by her fluidity. He felt stiff as he laboured along because he was
supposed to be dancing.
What had happened to him? His mind
raced back to a time, not so long ago, when the discovery of a new piece of
music filled him with a joy he couldn’t contain within himself. He would note
down the artiste’s name, look up the lyrics online and create a playlist. He
would dance without feeling exposed to invisible eyes. He would move
unrehearsed and happy. And here he was, feeling like an intruder who had walked
into someone else’s moment. The songs, the celebrations, the place, the dance,
nothing belonged to him. He was an outsider trying hard to rediscover a sense
of wonder and abandon.
Suddenly, a queasy discomfort
took over him. He was no longer sure how he felt about the impending turn of a
year in his life. Perhaps, age wasn't a number after all.
