So I choose to believe

The road stretched out endlessly into the night, but all I could see was the path illuminated by my car’s headlights. I drove past a rest and refueling stop. “Its only 45 minutes from here. Maybe I can make it,” I thought. A few miles further down, I wasn’t sure I had made the right decision. And that was the story of my life. I never seem to have faith in myself or in the road ahead.

I am on my way to Shruti’s place. I have known her for more than five years, and seven months ago she moved to the suburbs with her husband and her one year old baby. It’s a “starter home” - a four bed-roomed row house in an upper middle class suburb with a good school district. As I sit on her sofa upholstered in chintz, I am gripped by a feeling of both relief and inadequacy. Shruti busies herself in her lime green kitchen and cuts the perfect picture of a housewife in American suburbia – seemingly safe and stable, and yet very sterile and stifling. Still, I can’t help envying her. Every night I return to my cluttered and chic one bed roomed apartment in the hippest part of Boston, and I find myself turning into the quintessential yuppie – successful yet cynical.

I know that Shruti’s invited me over for dinner to introduce me to some of her husband’s single friends. She is well-meaning, but I do feel like taking a bit of a break from the whole man and marriage saga. I am at a stage in life where most of my friends have recently got married/engaged or are trying to get married/engaged, and the rest are trying desperately to find me a guy. So much as I try, I can’t seem to escape conversations about love and marriage. Then of course there are magazines articles with helpful tips for single women on how to land a man, and there is my mother who insists that I am too picky and according to her someone who says “I Luvs to do meditation n go deep in to my self” has some minor grammatical issues that I should be able to overlook. Truth be told, all this talk about marriage and love scares me. Maybe I will not find the one. I had my chances, and perhaps I will not be given anymore. I want to believe, I want to have faith....but there are times when I can’t seem to find it.

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I heap Biryani on my plate and move towards the edge of the kitchen. I am a little wary of going into the living room because for the past one hour we have all been oohing and aahing over Shrutis daughter. Now – don't get me wrong - I am all for cute babies, but honestly, twirling around like a headless chicken and saying 'pepki' is not a talent that needs encouragement - give me a buzz when she learns to do a headstand or play the cello. I was also sitting next to an extremely earnest Bengali guy who was single and clearly ready to take the next available Bengali girl home to his mother in Boubazar.

As I put my wine glass down on the kitchen table, I notice this guy walk towards me – he has a tired face but a nice boyish charm. We smile at each other – a
smile that straddles cultures, countries and cities; straddles youth
and adulthood – a smile that resides in this strange space called
in-between.

“Nilanjana, hurry up – we’ll be late for the play.”
“ Give me a minute .”
“Your minute will turn into an hour.”
“Sameer – if you’d stop rushing me like this , I could actually get stuff done faster.”
They had settled into the banter of a comfortable couple.
Both were too cynical to be in love.
Yet, despite their worst intentions, they were happy.
Whether, they will be so in the ever after
is another story...

though I choose to believe that they will
look at the stars , see how they shine for you.