How to fill the void inside?
This could be or not be an autobiographical account of my attempt to date again.
I got out of the cab and straightened my dress as gracefully as was possible, assured that the tights underneath were visible through the sheer hem. F$#* it, they’re just shorts. The driver was sulking because somehow the payment had been done online while he had expected cash instead. I made a mental note to check the payment options in the cab booking app later and headed to the complex. I was back after six or seven years and for the first time during the day. Places tend to look different in the daylight and its lack of. I was tempted to open navigation on phone and yet get lost. I didn’t do either. Was it a good sign? I didn’t care. You see, I live in this state of emotional vacuum. It is like the edges of my sharp hurtful emotions have been blunted by something of my own making. Most of the time I don’t feel things. But when I do, it is preceded by either a weight dropping in my stomach or a sudden claustrophobia. Then a fast downhill roll follows.
I reach probably my favorite pub in Delhi, or so I liked to believe. No memories or guilt come rushing by. The only times I had been there before was with the man I used to love. The man I have asked to leave me for a number of times now. The man who clutches to me like I’m a trophy. Not even once do I think of him while confirming my reservation. There is a tall man with salt and pepper hair standing there. Could it be him? But he looked older than me despite the mask, so definitely not him. I go in and pass by the bar. A masked man sat there probably smiling at me. I confirmed my table and breezed upstairs. No more guessing games. Remember you came to this blind date with no expectations.
I settle in and check for his messages. Yes, it was him sitting at the bar. I call him upstairs. He was pretty much what he had described himself in the post, tall with a gym-built body. A man who was eight years younger, looking for a casual date and I had responded to his post on a social network. We shake hands and sit down, taking off our masks. He chuckles at my double-masking. The face reveal seems not to disappoint him, I am neutral on the other hand. Sure he looks fine but all this seems a bad idea now.
It had been what? A decade since I have been on dates. Why did I have to do this? I was doing just fine otherwise.
He is nervous so I start to talk, aware of his eyes scanning my face and lips. Then he blurts, you don’t look your age! I thank him and jokingly ask how old would he have guessed otherwise. He says maybe a decade younger. I do not feel flattered.
I let him decide the drinks since he wanted me to choose the food. I go for the safe bet, a thin crust farmhouse pizza. He decides on Mojitos, again a safe bet for hot Delhi afternoons. The drink is sweet and icy, just the way I like except for too many mint leaves. He is not impressed but I do not feel guilty about that. We eat and chat. I am a bit distracted and on auto-pilot while he tries hard to impress. He has stories, yes. They are not boring either. But my mind keeps wandering for I know that he is not the one; if they even exist. Then he orders Pina Coladas, the drink I would never order. But nothing about this date was what I wanted. I keep up my chattiness and jokes and then decide to call it a day. It was anyways meant to be a two-hour long lunch. He seems disappointed but agrees. I appreciate that he is not pushy. He does ask if we could meet again. I give a very evasive answer that should have been a good hint.
My cab didn’t take long to arrive, something that rarely happened before. We said our goodbyes and I left after the customary ‘Can I drop you somewhere?’ Thankfully he declined. I sat in my light-headed emptiness. Well at least in that moment I felt some emotion even if it was a relieved hollowness. It was not sad or depressing. It just felt like a dry eye that you learn to live with. You don’t like it, you try a couple of things, get temporary relief and it returns.
Within five minutes I get messages from him. He would like to see me again. I take good ten minutes to reply that it’s too early and I was not sure. He proceeds to ask if we should exchange numbers. I don’t feel angry or irritated. God, old me would have been annoyed! I calmly tell him that I’m not ready. The car windows were open, letting in hot late-afternoon air along with the noises of traffic. I liked that. The crass sounds echoed in the emptiness inside. I was the sun, the dust, the smoke, and the heat. What I was not? Myself.
