Words of no meaning
Modern dating: Navigating romance between identity and the politics of language
She watched the water boil, while coming to terms with a hard truth. No morning tea for her today. None of that ginger-stewed, lightly milked, light- russet chai that she looked forward to after weighing herself every morning. She had forgotten to replenish the teabags, and in the absence of an automated replenishment system, which ironically was what she was setting up for a large organisation in her line of work, this boiling water would have to turn into coffee today.
While the water boiled, she peeked into the two barely used rooms of the apartment to ensure that her cleaning didi did not leave the lights on. The vacant amplitude of her house contrasted with the small house of the guy she met yesterday. He was nice, but she had no deep wish to meet him again. Even before they met, he had pigeonholed himself into characterisations and personifications which looked hard to break out of. She was the one that had initiated their meeting, to refresh the fracas within her own head for once. They met on a dating app, and her first step into the house made her sure that they will have a ‘safely distanced’ encounter.
While sipping the coffee, she thought of the things he had told her before they met. “I’m an introvert and I don’t usually like meeting people.” Later, while they were innocuously figuring out where to meet, and struggled to zero in on a place, “you can end this conversation right here if you want, I’d understand”, to her annoyance. However, their meeting went differently - he sat her down and started telling her all about himself. His stories unraveled fast - from his parents and their conservative ideals for their son’s life, to his choice in masters, to his disillusionment with the work he did and the kind of moral dilemmas he faced, to his experience(s) with his therapist, to his foray into advertising, writing and eventually movies. He told her about the 30-day ‘Writer’s club’ of 4 guys that were living in that tiny apartment till 2 days ago, and the stresses of a job which had no professional or personal boundaries.
She listened, engrossed, for 10, 15, 20 minutes. She found it refreshing to hear the stories she heard, stories of a separate life, rooted in the same realities. If she was a lotus (not to imply she was), he felt like a different flower, growing in the same pond, exposed to the same environment. Their struggles - in his case, stresses - were the same, mundane, emblematic of a privileged generation, and yet, their flowers bloomed differently. At some point, he was jolted out of his soliloquy, as he eventually asked, ‘So tell me about yourself. What do you do?’ He seemed a little embarrassed of his verbosity. He added, with a pause, ‘Or don’t tell me, if you don’t want to... I mean, no pressure, it’s upto you.’
She thought for a moment, taking a swig of the Chenin she had suggested for their date. For her own amusement, and in her characteristic playfulness, said, ‘Well, I work on simplifying the supply chain for a retail company… yada yada, you’ve heard the stereotype of a management graduate, right?.’ She imagined that he’d know from her profile that she liked philosophy, she was studying German, and that she had a fluid sexuality — he could tread on whichever direction he preferred. He stepped into her pause with, “Oh I wouldn’t know, I don’t believe in stereotypes at all. I’m very mindful of the assumptions I make.’ He paused for her to fill the silence, gesturing for her to say more. She pursed her lips, replying with, ‘Well, I guess that’s all I have to say for now.’ She had come to be resistant to disbursing her thoughts or experiences like a vending machine to strangers - ‘Insert your own story, and get mine in return. Ka-Ching!’ Ugh. No.
As they spoke further, he shared his ideas - about politicians, about movies, about the idea of romanticisation, and how the country was full of romanticised notions exploited by those in power. At one point, she interjected - ‘You talk a lot, don’t you?’ She couldn’t seem to perceive him as an introvert any more than he would’ve perceived her as a woman preoccupied with niceties. Of course, she had thrown him off. ‘It’s only polite to keep conversing when with someone, right, or else you might think I was a weirdo if we sit in silence.’ Her question was not meant as an attack, although she knew the words had been taken to be. She was merely dipping her feet in the chasm between the adjectives people chose and their real truth.
The evening progressed and their interaction softened, amidst the velocity of the wine. As they sat close together, he murmured, in what would’ve taken him a lot of effort — "I love your hair", his voice tinged with genuine admiration. "It's so... natural."
She smiled. "Thank you," she whispered, leaning into his touch ever so slightly. "You can touch it if you want." Not missing a beat, he murmured, “I’m sorry”. He sounded sincere as he said, “I didn’t mean to objectify you.”
Post midnight, after he had walked her back to her place, he texted her. With some hesitation, he asked, ‘Did you at all think I was mansplaining to you?’
Her coffee almost over, she mentally sighed and wondered about the impact of the words people marry, the identities people hold on to, even as the meaning of those words drifts farther and farther from their reality, while they allow themselves to be major players reduced to something less than they are1. She felt jaded, not just by his inability to perceive the broader context of his experiences, and the inherent contradictions of his socio-political leanings, but also by the identity he was so tightly wrapped around and fiercely protecting. The date notwithstanding, he was a mere symptom of the broader canvas of social experiences she was growing accustomed to.
In a world obsessed with identity, where consumerism dictates the worth of people’s social labels, everyone around her risked becoming mere caricatures of themselves—reduced to marketable, commodified entities that fail to capture the richness of their interconnected, authentic lives.
Words are who we elect, to represent us.
She contemplated the tale of the moth, a poignant narrative2 through which Virginia Woolf illustrated the limitations of life's vessel, as a fragile moth’s life force is trapped within the confines of its physical form—its diminutive, delicate body. The moth extinguishes himself after protests and struggles, as its body becomes incapable to carry the bead of ‘pure life’ it carries. Perhaps, we too allow ourselves to be defined by the adjectives, the words we marry—a shallow vessel scarcely incapable of carrying, let alone encapsulating our richness—akin to Woolf’s moth too restricted to contain the entirety of life's majestic force, unraveling the fullness of our existence.
This was written during Covid, part of my abundant journals in the period.
Please leave a comment to share your experience with the politics of labels and the limitations of language. I’d love to hear from you - it’d make my day. :)
The Cost of Living: A Working Autobiography, by Deborah Levy (2018)
Death of the Moth, an essay by Virginia Woolf (1942)