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"Kon Hai Wo Ladki?"

    My 677 days older sister wrote to me a few days back: “kon hai wo ladki?”. Now, the question was out of place for a person for whom “good vegetarian food” (oxymoron for some erstwhile Health Law teachers) is the only truth. Also, after 30, sab moh maya hi lagta hai! So, the question pushes you down an alley of thoughts: “aisa kya galat kr rahe hain hum ki kuch videshi log hamare jaise sant praani ke vishay me aise vichaar rakh rhe hain?” The confusion is resolved. But I am left with some self-searching thoughts (saari madhyasthata krne ki skill apne pe hi use kiye le rhe hain shayad!).

    A realization hit that my heart (not the biological organ, but the preferred name for the place of feelings in a person) has changed its worldview without sending me any notice. At 19, attraction felt like some extreme sport: it was chaotic, magnetic, fueled by adrenaline, angst, and complete lack of sleep. The wish was not just to like someone; you wanted to be drowned and violently thrown to the ground by a passionate, all-consuming storm (my PhD has been doing all that for me since 2019). Then, you hit 32. Suddenly, that need for a fiery pull is just... gone (rather you find it icky and irritating, even when you see it in others). You no longer want someone who makes your heart race (zyada race kiya to ab attack hi ayega); you want someone who doesn't disrupt your REM sleep. The ultimate romantic fantasy is no longer a confession in the rain. Rather, it is finding someone who understands that being in the same room without speaking is the purest form of human intimacy. If 19-year-old Sukrit – who bled ink over pages and pulled poetry out of thin air – saw my current romantic threshold, he would weep, and scream: "Where is the hyperbole?!"; "Where is the absolute madness?!" But losing all your hair does things to you; tum log nahi samjhoge!

    At 32, there is a death of wooing. You no longer have the energy (or will) to fake your interests just to impress someone. The masks have permanently retired. You no longer feel the need to design your words, your personality, your hobbies or your interests (no matter how temporarily) so that other/s may ‘like’ you (in any way). There is no effort to craft a ‘cool persona’ as coolness has lost its value; comfort is king!

    So, such a person, I feel, can no longer write the similar passionate odes that it once was capable of doing. When what moves you, changes, the words also change. So, what would I write, if I ever feel like inviting an innocent woman to become a lifelong witness to a disaster named Sukrit? Maybe it would read something like this:

                          “I guard my solitude carefully. For me, quiet time isn't just a preference; it is necessary for me to think clearly and focus. So, letting someone into my space usually feels like an interruption to my peace. But you do not feel like an outsider. Your presence doesn’t bother me; it doesn’t drain my energy. In a way, I do not wait for you to leave so that I may return to the comfort of the self. I have seen how you handle yourself – even when things are difficult or your patience wears thin. You do not pretend, and that authenticity is rare. I am not looking for the kind of connection where two people lose their individual personalities or manage their entire lives around one another. I value my independence too much for that, and I value yours just as much. What I appreciate about you is the ease of our parallel lives - the way we can share a space, respect each other's freedom, and just exist without the pressure to perform. I enjoy our conversations, and I equally enjoy our comfortable silence.”

It seems professional and looks mundane. But it feels grounded and true. It does not chase constant dramatic stimulation through chaos. Now I can go to sleep hoping that my sister understands creative anxiety, and doesn’t tease me and insist again “kon hai wo ladki?" 

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