Buro howar chinta

In 2021 I will turn 50. 

No way!! You don’t look it at all!  

Whaaaat! I thought you were much older! I thought you were 68!

*raised eyebrows* 

As I navigate my way through the aging process, amidst approval and affront, I wonder about the physicality of it all. Ok, ok, I colour my grey hair, and use expensive moisturizers, and work out at the gym, and avoid sugar, and attempt intermittent fasting, and therefore I ought to tell myself that half a century is just a number, innit? 

Hmmmm. But it isn’t. It is far more nuanced and sanctified than digits, for the mere thought of it induces a detachment and languor that I quite enjoy. So much so, that I have devised a zen masterplan to put into execution on that blessed day (if I am alive and well, that is). 

So, what is this great plan? Wait and see. Meanwhile, let me briefly describe to you how nearly 48 feels –

• Happy, when my older daughter makes me her signature ratatouille and the younger one tidies my drawers, as I entertain myself with a tv drama or my mischievous sofa destroying cats.

• Content, to have a quiet dinner at home with my husband than attend a fancy party somewhere. 

• Pleased, that I performed Umrah and inspired others to do so. 

• Elated, that my passion for reading novels has been reignited after two decades.

• Restless, after three days in a hotel, no matter how fancy it is. 

• Comforted, to be around my affectionate and quirky household staff. 

• Amused, when I say to a ‘friend’ that I do not really know someone well or have no wish to advance a relationship with him/her, and then the said ‘friend’ immediately starts giving a few thousand likes on the person’s posts. 

• Even more amused, when I tell the same friend that I really like someone, and then (s)he starts giving that person’s posts a few thousand likes too!

• Disgusted, with food being wasted.

• Regretful, of not working and earning much earlier in life. 

• Wistful, when I hear of others taking interesting classes. 

• Sad, when someone I know has a terminal illness, or someone I care about passes away. 

• Enraged, when I hear or read of children and women being violated in some manner. 

• Awed, by the successes of some in my peer group. 

• Humorous, around good friends. 

• Perplexed, with people who have means and opportunity but are never happy.

• Secure, that I have loyal, extremely supportive and caring people around me. 

• Delighted, to be able to buy all the shoes that I want.

• Irritated, with slow or bad service, and khonchas. 

• Nauseated, by falseness.

• Thrilled, to meet animal lovers and itinerant travellers. 

• Creative, when I see material or loose stones. 

• Frustrated, that there are so many I know with mental health issues, who are not seeking the help they need for fear of stigma. 

• Satisfied, when I produce a good piece of writing.

• Firm, when putting boundaries into place with those who have encroached on my personal space.

• Weightless, when I can be completely honest in a safe space.

• Grateful, for the kindness and generosity shown to me. 

• Thankful, for all that I have. 

Blessed? Don’t get me started on that one….

Chintamoni grew up in Dhaka, where she will always belong, but never quite fit in. She is an enthusiastic traveller, a compulsive procrastinator, and a contumelious raconteur.