Manspotting: Chronicles of Mid-Life Romance by Ritu Bhatia

Author:Ritu Bhatia
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9789387693067
Publisher: Speaking Tiger
Published: 2018-02-14T21:00:00+00:00

Some of the middle-aged men I met preferred the company of much younger women. They were blatant about their interest in quick, easy affairs, and enjoyment of sexual liaisons with whoever reciprocated their interest. Since they’d grown up at the same time as me, I guessed they’d had a conservative upbringing. But that didn’t stop them from taking advantage of the ‘sexually emancipated’ new Indian woman—who was the subject of a wave of sex surveys appearing in news magazines like India Today and Outlook.

My encounter with Kartik, a guy I met at a personal growth workshop, was a real revelation in this regard. He was tall and lithe with salt and pepper hair, wore a pink shirt and shoes with white rubber soles. He laughed with an attractive abandon, and was also extremely forthright during the workshop, sharing all kinds of personal details about himself—how rejected he felt by his father, the insomnia that plagued him night after night, his addiction to gambling—the kind of stuff most of us try and hide.

I was charmed by his warmth and lack of reserve. Maybe there were some evolved guys out there after all. When Kartik strolled up to me during the tea break and suggested we keep in touch, I responded immediately, excited at the prospect of getting to know him better. The fact that I knew absolutely nothing about him didn’t matter. He suggested lunch the following day. I shook my head regretfully, explaining that I had a job and wasn’t free during the daytime. He asked where my office was. ‘That’s half a kilometre from my place,’ he exclaimed when I told him. ‘Why don’t you drop by for tea on your way home?’

For a moment, I hesitated, wondering if meeting him at his house was appropriate. Though I’d invited men to my place before for coffee or lunch, just because it was convenient, I didn’t want my decision to go to Kartik’s house to be misunderstood. To my relief, Kartik put an end to my indecision, with his next statement.

‘I live with my mother.’

The next evening, I parked my car in the park in front of Kartik’s house. He was waiting outside, and greeted me warmly. He led me into a drawing room crowded by large, ornate wooden sofas and tables. I sat down gingerly on what appeared to be the most comfortable sofa. ‘Lemon tea?’ he suggested. Before I could reply, he yelled, ‘Bahadur beta, lemon tea lao.’

A sulky-looking Nepalese boy popped his head out from the kitchen. A few moments later, an elderly woman wearing a smocked, flowery nightie wandered into the room. I smiled uncertainly, wondering if I should stand up to greet her.

But before I could get up, Kartik intervened. ‘Relax, yaar...it’s just mummy.’ He ushered his mother to the seat beside mine. ‘Come meet Ritu, mummy,’ he said.

His mother beamed at me, moving closer to examine my face. ‘You look familiar...Weren’t you eating chicken with some foreigner on one of those travel shows?’

Kartik looked flabbergasted.

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