Happy fortieth, Stan

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.