Grey

 “I don’t want to get old,” my voice filled with defiance.

“Everybody will get old,” he replied calmly.

“No, I will not grow old. When I grow up, I will find anti-ageing medicines.”

“Yeah, good for you,” he said with a hint of amusement.

“You know what I don’t like about ageing? It’s living with all my desires and dreams destroyed and depending on others’ mercy.”

“Its not the real story. Being old is just a part of the big game called life.”

“I always want to be healthy and young, you know ?,” I continued stubbornly.

“Who says old people aren’t healthy?” he countered with a gentle smile.

It’s been 40 years since that conversation happened. Back then, I believed I should marry that playmate because no one else had ever soothed my fear of growing old so beautifully. That memory has lingered with me ever since, and today, inspired by it, I find myself compelled to write.

A day as usual. Need I mention that? Aren’t all days the same, like a lover’s kisses—sometimes fun, sometimes boring?

Now, at nearly sixty, my hair is mostly grey, with just a few black strands scattered here and there. What haunts me now is the thought that I could have lived a little better. Isn’t it sad to feel this way when you know there’s no going back? I gave so much of myself to my children and husband, despite being told in my childhood to do things for myself. I raised my children like parasites, nurturing them without making them self-sufficient. Looking back, I wonder if I should have lived differently.

When I got married, we held strong beliefs about the division of labour and equality. However, as the years went by, I realized those principles were merely superficial. I never felt like I was living a life for myself; instead, I became a shadow, always in the background for them. Human beings, it seems, are inherently ungrateful, constantly demanding more than what the universe provides.

Today, the children who visit their mother once a year don’t truly know her or understand anything about what she has experienced. If she dares to open her heart even a little, they label her a drama queen. They will only understand how it feels to be old when they are old themselves. I remember when my parents told me the same thing; I couldn’t grasp the depth of their words back then. Some lessons in life must be learned through self-examination, right?

Familiarity has always bored me, a relentless continuity with no change to claim. Sometimes, I feel an odd mix of love and indifference towards my man. I vividly remember the day I discovered my first grey hair. When I showed it to him, it shook him to his core.

“Look, I’ve joined your club,” I announced, pointing to a couple of grey hairs near my ear. I can still recall the expression on his face at that moment—surprise mixed with a hint of concern. His hair was already partially grey, his beard and moustache completely so.

That night, after moments of tender affection, he nestled close to my neck. In that quiet moment, he whispered, “Not everyone is fortunate enough to have this luck last. I consider myself lucky—I have friends whose wives have had grey hair for years.”

I remember the moment he told me he didn’t want to add his name to mine as if having wife is not like marking ownership after marriage. In that instant, a wave of joy washed over me. It was then that I knew he was the one who was truly made for me.

As I struggled under his weight, an overwhelming urge to push him away surged through me.

 “I can’t breathe,” I gasped, 

and he apologetically shifted off me, he was panting. From that moment on, his presence felt suffocating for me. Gradually, a simmering anger built inside me towards him. Everything he had said, both before and after that moment, seemed empty and insignificant. 

I discovered a small measure of joy in defying his words. As I embraced the onset of old age, I celebrated by deliberately choosing clothes he disapproved of, nurturing flowers he had no fondness for, and playing songs he didn’t enjoy. Each act felt like reclaiming a piece of myself, asserting independence in subtle but meaningful ways. It was my quiet rebellion against conformity, a silent declaration that my preferences and passions mattered, even as the years advanced.

“For today’s event, can you wear that blue saree?” he asked

I nodded without meeting his gaze, wandering my mind elsewhere. He stood at the doorstep for a moment, perhaps waiting for more, but when none came, he turned and walked outside.

Our love life now consists of just a few exchanged words, but I still like him. On the rainy nights, a breath of helplessness from self-indulgence creeps behind my ears.

 How could I not see that grey-haired boy with his tongue poking out, lips pursed, and eyes focused intently on the colours as he drew to pass the time?

Some days, when I see his face lying there with his mouth half-open like a lonely baby while he sleeps, I can’t help but love him.