Last evening
an amiable taxi driver started chatting with me on my five-minute ride home. I
got to know he had been in the country for 22 long years, managed to go back to
his country once every two years and every time tried to have a child. In his
pursuit of producing kids he had successfully managed a 9 year old son, 2 year
old daughter and a 3 month old son. He told me about how he has seen Dubai grow from
nothing to the fairytale land that it is today, his issues with money and having three kids education and health to pay for.
A minute
away from home he decided it was time he got to know my life story. So the
first thing he asked me, “How long have you been married? How many kids do you
have?” (in one sentence) for a second I was taken aback. Did I look married in
a short skirt, blouse and jacket, all about in my corporate avatar in place or
could he not imagine a single, independent woman could exist? However, not wanting to
scandalize him, I decided to play along.
I told him I
had been married for one year, my husband worked here and I hadn’t thought about
kids because it was too early and I had no money to bring kids up. Thankfully, as soon as I
finished my spiel we stopped in front of my building.
He looked
back and with the most stern, serious eyes I have seen in a long time and told me
that my biological clock was ticking. Money was in the hands of God and so were
kids, both would eventually come with each other however my age wouldn’t come
back.
My jaw, now
almost in my lap took some time to adjust itself in place as I got out of the
taxi and walked home.
Very often
when I have gone out for social gatherings especially the ones infected by
married couples, I have been asked where my Husband is. The taxi driver said it
crudely, everyone else just sugar coats it.
When we are
fresh out of college, we are told to make a career and stand on our own feet.
Men can come later. By twenty-five we are at the edge of a social defined time
frame labeling us as – ‘Ready to get
married.’
Post that it’s like a domino effect. Everyone you know is getting
married year after year. Around the time you are thirty, you have lots of
dressy wedding clothes worn once that now take up useless space in your
wardrobe.
By then most
women have fit into the second slot– ‘The married.’
Ever since
the epic taxi ride I’ve been thinking, in the 2 prime decades of her life, are
there only 2 slots a woman can fit into?
What about
the ones who are happy and comfortable being alone?
Why do they
need to explain the reason for their anchor not firmly parked in the confines
of a socially defined term?
Where in the
middle of the two slots do these women fit?
And so I
wonder, with the clock in fast forward motion and new lines around the crows
feet fast approaching, have we become so jaded that a white lie about a
relationship status is way better than going through the a long, weary
conversation on why despite having everything a man has and perhaps being more succesful, life is still incomplete
without a ring on the finger?
