The 32nd February

Thirty-two.

I need to take a deep breath before I can allow that number to seep into my bones.

Here, swaddled between the mountains, it feels a bit easier, a bit less fraught, to be a 32-year-old, unmarried, childless woman.

A few days before, deep in the trenches of my daily life in an orthodox Brahmin household, I had felt the anxiety creep in. In the heavy silence of unspoken rebukes, it is difficult to acknowledge the privilege of growing old. Added to the tumultuous swirl of a wide range of emotions was the happy occasion of a dear friend giving birth, the consequence being a front row seat to the pain of childbirth. An approaching birthday and my friend’s physical discomfort in going through labour had a strange effect – it made me think of my own mother, as she must have been, 32 years ago. She would have held her firstborn in her arms, the momentous milestone of motherhood ushering in a new, joyous identity for her. The intervening years must have reshaped all those innocent dreams, taught her to re-sculpt her expectations & yearnings – all because I was growing up with a personality different from her imagination. It must be difficult for a woman like my mother to have a daughter like me – opinionated, without faith in God, disregarding old customs and traditions – everything she never knew as possible. The thought is humbling, heavy.

New year’s and birthdays have this invariable effect – they nudge you to look back and ahead, reflect and aspire. In the peace of a chilly Mussoorie morning, free from the distractions of a blue screen, my mind ran free.

2025 was a bruising year. The difficulties began almost immediately. My mother fractured her hand and was consigned to a painful cast for most of January. Three weeks into the month, my father was hospitalised, pushing us into a worry-ridden few days. Amidst all this, my family’s concern about me reached a crescendo. With an unmarried woman past 30 in their household, they lost all sense of restraint and turned the days into a tense carousel of displays of eligible grooms. The pressure to just pick and choose one, like how one would pick apples in a farmers’ market, was intense and crushing. Anxiety attacks, a painful desire to scratch my own skin off and relieve myself of this noose around my neck, sudden bouts of inability to breathe – things I never thought would happen to me, I found could and did happen. It was only when I sat in the cab, on the way to the airport, that I could feel a loosening in my chest for the first time in 2025.

Then, as I did this year, I found myself in another Himalayan state. In the tiny town of McLeodganj, comforted by the cleanliness and serenity of Buddhist communities, by bonfire nights with strangers, through slow mornings and coffees and books, I slowly regained myself. That first month was scary – I had been unexpectedly confronted with my own fragility, and it had left me shaken. It was only through getting away from my normal life, panting through long walks on uphill mountainous roads, that my mind got the rest it needed. I went back better, refreshed and braced.

The second quarter was a blur. Shakeups in my workplace, losing colleagues in cold layoffs, my own precarious position as an employed professional – all led to another epiphany. I had been working for a very long time without realising it. I joined the workforce at 18, naïve and doggedly pushing ahead. At 31, after almost 13 years of constant work, I realised I had not taken so much as a month to reflect on the trajectory I wanted my career to be on. I had turned into an efficient corporate cog. In my current company, I had already survived 5 rounds of layoffs, each round adding to the disillusionment that is one’s reward in America’s corporates. I had gained a semblance of financial security along the way, but had I found my calling? This question, even today, does not have a firm answer.

The months of June & July, despite the turbulence at work, were merry. My cousin, whom I am close to, got married. With him being male and younger than me, I had braced for possible unpleasantness and toxic inquisitions from my extended family about my unmarried state. But the joy of the event, the magic that human gatherings can produce and even my own willingness to immerse myself in the whole occasion paid off – I heard no comments (at least in my hearing), dressed to the nines, enjoyed myself, and we welcomed a lovable sister-in-law to the family.
These months were memorable for another reason – I finally visited Vietnam!

Now, after all these months, any mention of that country still fills me with awe. I yearn to return to its gripping heat, wondrous coffee and unbelievable green. The 8 days my brother and I spent there felt and still feels too short – the chaos of its bustling, clean cities, the raw wildness of its hinterlands, the mysterious tranquillity of Ninh Binh – these vignettes cause a fever dream even today. It was in Vietnam’s south, on its vital and vast Mekong, gently cruising downstream, that I found the second bout of peace in 2025. But perhaps the most profound of my experiences was the early morning gentle boat ride we took into the depths of Trang An, through cavernous cliffs and still waters, passing ancient wine barrels meant as offerings to long-dead kings. I do not know if I will get a chance to visit that alluring natural reserve again, but it will remain one of my most treasured memories.

For a myriad of reasons, my 20s passed by in a blur of academia, work and staying at home. I did not explore the world, I did not indulge my curiosity, I did not do anything much beyond reading. It was a decade of just surviving. The past 5 years have been different – I venture out, I meet new people, I lean into my thirst for new knowledge, I try to ignore the side of me that shies away from socialising.
2025 was symptomatic of this new way of life.
I signed up for French lessons – Paris has found a home in my heart like no other city (Bengaluru, you are first and the only other), and I hoped to learn its language. There is something about this city, with its slow and deliberate culture, its self-assurance, its air of delicious bakery smells, and incredible museums, that has captured my imagination. When I return to it, and I will, I want to be able to sit on park benches, at one with the lilt of French in the air. The classes ended, but a year later, I am still quite hopeless at it. It is a new year, though, and what is a new year without new resolutions – or being newly resolute about old ones.

September was a fun month. History was one of my favourite subjects in school. My travels have been heavily influenced by a desire to experience art, architecture and heritage, and I usually try to understand the historical context of places I visit. So, it was always egregious of me to have never spent time learning about my own home city. To set this right, I signed up for a heritage walk leader class, unaware that I would be opening a new aspect of my life. Over the course of six Saturdays, I made new friends, learned to view heritage through a new lens, and became a fully engrossed student once again. Oh, how I had missed this! There is something delightful about being in a classroom, being a spectator while watching your favourite subject getting peeled like an onion, layer by layer, in front of your eyes. To be among peers who are equally passionate, where you are judged only by your own interest and curiosity in a shared matter – this is a gift. That month, engrossed as I was in learning how to conduct heritage walks, how to research, how to handle a group of strangers – I forgot my troubles, I forgot my crankiness. The last day of class was a glorious blast – we had to take our classmates and our teachers on a walk ourselves. We accomplished it and bid goodbye to each other, a sense of accomplishment and relief evident in us all. I had a flight to catch that evening to the US for work, but instead of anticipating seeing a new country, it were these moments that I reminisced about on my journey there.  

That was how my 2025 ended – with a work trip to the US and a stopover in Japan on my way back. The work trip was strange. I was not used to seeing vast expanses in cities, and the USA, with its endless parking lots, roads devoid of people but filled with cars, food that was just about okay, felt like a remnant of a once great country. There were spots of brightness – I made a new friend, met an old one and truly enjoyed the streets of New York. But when I boarded my flight at La Guardia, instead of the usual nostalgia for the place I was leaving behind, it was the awaiting pitstop that held my fantasy.

Tokyo, with its neon lights, mysterious alleys, clean toilets, cool gadgets and colourful manhole covers, promised more excitement.
And it delivered. It also managed to surprise me. While I entered the city expecting a complete concrete jungle, I was bewildered to see that lush garden – and lots of them – also thrived. After a hectic 3 weeks and a hectic year, as I sat on a bench in Yoyogi Park, I felt overwhelmed at the silence enveloping me. The park was so vast that I was largely alone, at peace, with only the chirping birds and gently swaying leaves for my company. The year I had lived, all its anxieties and burdens, came crashing down – almost like a reckoning for the resolute grit I had exercised in enduring it. I shivered; I shook. Had I not already been sitting, my knees would have given out. But nature has always been my safe space, and never did I feel it as acutely as I did then. Perhaps it was an overtaxed mind playing tricks, perhaps it was a mysterious message. I was reminded of my own strength, could feel it slowly return to my bones, could feel a gentle hand caressing away my anxiety soothingly. There is a place in this world for me, I felt assured, and I was grateful.

So, here I have reached. The year 2026. The age of 32.
And there is an inevitable question that I need to answer.

What do I have to show for it?

Despite all the books I read, when confronted, I find myself at a loss for words. In the book The Correspondent, Sybil perfectly encapsulated it when she wrote, “My life feels enormous, but I have nothing to show for it…”

But sitting here, I am watching a quiet sunrise. There is the comfort of my close freind’s company, and it is a freindship I do not take lightly. Evertyhing around me, at this moment, is calm. Tiny sparrows fluttering madly in the chilly morning air, almost like they are welcoming the rising sun in joyous dance. Quite easily, unexpectedly, I remember words from another book…

Is it so small a thing to have enjoyed the sun,
to have lived lightly in the spring,
to have loved, to have thought, to have done,
to have advanced true friends?
It isn’t. I hope, wherever she is, she has that in mind.

This sudden remembrance dispels the melancholy of my previous thought, and I feel I can laugh at my own dramatics. Perhaps it is the location that allows me this forbearance. All the hurts that the city bestows, the mountains and seas have the power to take away. Is that why, year after year, I yearn to return to this cold? To return to this quiet? To these places of thin air that ironically help me breathe free.

Growing up and living in a society like mine, where there are prescribed roles for every life as soon as the first raucous cry is heard, it might feel like I have accomplished nothing. I do not have a husband and am unbothered by it. I do not have a child, nor do I plan to have one. Against these grandiose benchmarks, I fall short.
But life is also about small things.
On this day, let me remind myself of the things that provide me with meaning.
I know a little more about life than I did before. The first flight I took by myself was a journey in itself – it came after fights with my parents, with firmly standing my ground in front of their accusing silence.
That strength has held me in good stead – Year by year, I have seen a bit more of the world.
I have talked to people who are different from me, in both looks and thoughts.
I tried learning a new language. I have not been very good at it. But I did try and will continue to try.
I have immersed myself in history, this amateurish dabbling providing me with precious instances of delight.
Over the years, as I made my way through book after book, I accumulated something unexpected – I know how to enjoy a good story.
I can cry at melodrama, jump with glee at a new trailer, I can anticipate with boundless excitement the release of a film and lose myself in a play. And when everything around me seems oppressive, I can allow words of comfort – like it did above – to come and remind me what a good life is.

The wrinkles that have just started to appear, the white hairs that have already taken root and are rapidly propagating – at this moment, I feel the privilege of them.
Between the miles of being trolled for being a fat little girl to now being trolled for being an ageing aunty, life can seem a bit long sometimes. But on this day, let me wish for myself things that go beyond my gender and have given a satiation which helps me endure –

I wish for myself a quietness of both mind and being.
I wish for myself not to lose this ability to find beauty in words and stories.
I wish for myself strength and kindness to heal bruises that sometimes come out of nowhere.
I wish for myself the capacity to enjoy a good meal and find joy in it.
I wish for myself curiosity about this world, our story of before and after.
I wish for myself the intellect to laugh at absurd things and live lightly.
I wish for myself a year that is new, peaceful and gentle.
And I truly wish I could get off my lazy ass to finally learn how to fucking drive.