Forty and the pandemic

As Coldplay sang: Nobody said it was easy/no one ever said it would be this hard

I’ve finally reached the end of a very long rope. One that stretches all the way from the beginnings of my life, not far from my favourite Bandra pub, to my fortieth year, err, not far from my favourite Bandra pub. At the end of this month, the clock will strike 40 and life will change irrevocably.

Virtual unreality

There’s a special kind of irony to turning forty during a pandemic. On the one hand, it’s horribly privileged to even be able to think of birthdays and other Hallmark occasions at this most trying of times. On the other hand, we need Hallmark occasions to help dispel the gloom. I know whiskey gets all the fan mail, but nothing stands up to cosmic dread like an old-fashioned chocolate cake. It’s impossible to submit oneself to worrying abstractions in its solid, reassuring presence.

But we live in a world where an old-fashioned chocolate cake is not enough. Turning forty requires an altogether different approach, I’ve learnt from a year of pandemic fortieths. There must be secret chats with endless agonising about the perfect gifts. The gifts must, of course, cover all the stages of the giftee’s life, from their Super Mario obsession in 1990 to their kimono fetish since early lockdown. The day itself, of course, is a series of Zoom calls in which the birthday celebrator tries to make all the right noises about the very thoughtful series of gifts received, some of which she/he will be wearing as proof of their loveliness. Everyone drinks. The ones joining in on their phones see and understand very little. By the end of the “party”, everyone feels the unbearable incompleteness of being virtual.

The comfort of strangers

Now that I’ve ruined all my chances of receiving any thoughtful gifts for my fortieth (unless some sensitive soul takes the kimono bait), let me try and redeem myself. The start of one’s fourth decade is a good time to take stock of one’s life, of which relationships, I feel, form the most important part. So many relationships have either been lost or temporarily suspended due to the pandemic monster who feeds on everything we hold dear. As the bilingual (Marathi/english) poet Dilip Chitre writes in Travelling in a Cage:

In the middle of my life

I have come to a white page

In which I must live.

Curiously, the empty spaces in our lives are not left by the most prominent relationships; they somehow persist, because that’s their manifesto. What I miss as I hurtle towards the fearsome forty is the camaraderie of those acquaintances I ran into at a bar or restaurant. Small talk with the coconut seller and magazine vendor.

LIFE BEGINS AT FORTY

The start of one’s fourth decade is a good time to take stock of one’s life

Stolen glances at ATMS and cinema halls. The real world and all its random, spontaneous, trivial pleasures. Of course, everyone misses hugging their friends. But, let’s not underestimate how important it is for our sense of well-being to inhabit public spaces shared with not unpleasant strangers. The charm of the incidental trumps the rewards of the expected, don’t you think? Not you, the introvert I lost at “not unpleasant strangers”.

CURIOUSLY, THE EMPTY SPACES IN OUR LIVES ARE NOT LEFT BY THE MOST PROMINENT RELATIONSHIPS; THEY SOMEHOW PERSIST, BECAUSE THAT’S THEIR MANIFESTO

Aliens, check

Since I haven’t made it to any fancy ‘40 under 40’ list, I’m trying to put together a checklist of my own, of things I feel a respectable forty-yearold ought to have accomplished. I’ve begun by watching ET – a film that is almost as old as me. Thought it was about time. Sadly, I kept comparing it to Koi Mil Gaya in my head, a film I remember scarily well. Another fantasy I’ve long nurtured is of being a sari-wearer in my forties, flaunting handloom beauties while sitting elegantly yet languidly in intellectually charged living rooms that possess the ability to turn into unruly party halls at a moment’s notice. Damn Covid. Then there are the kitchen fantasies involving food that doesn’t come out of packets and with a tastemaker. A marathon dream. A coral reef hope. The lifelong ambition to open an Excel file without trepidation.

Twenty was a tease. Thirty was a warning. And now, here comes forty, unwelcome, unkempt, unavoidable, like that insufferable family friend who makes you dread every social occasion. And I plan on meeting the moment as gracelessly as possible.

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