I heard a middle-aged woman laugh.
It spilled out of her, like free flowing iodised salt, just as your fingers realise the dabba lid is not shut tight. You know you need to clean up after, but in that moment, if you choose to believe you deliberately dunked it all out on the floor, it is a delight. I am not sure what she believed, but as laughter, loose-limbed like a puppet with its strings just snipped, spilled out, she seemed to want to hold it all in for that moment, her eyes crinkled shut, her neck letting go of all that she has to bear, and sinking into her chest, and she shook as if she had switched the fan on full speed just to watch the salt swirl and fly around the recently swept and mopped twice kitchen.
Middle-aged women know how to smile. They smile as they enter rooms, they smile as others enter rooms. They smile as they walk out of rooms. They smile as the past reappears, complete with legs and a face, and they ask, would you like a keema puff, or have you become a vegetarian these days? They smile at their friends’ friends, while wondering did she tell them about what happened. They smile as their friend’s friends smile back, and you know they know, and somehow it does not matter, for they are reaching out to you, hugging you, and it is not a knowing hug, but a hug that knows.
Middle-aged women know how to hug. Watch them carefully when you see them next. When they say good morning, or hello, and when their arm half circles you, it is not a hug, rather a handshake with make-up on; they know you are watching, don’t worry, they always know, they are always aware. When they do hug you, it is not their arms that circle you, but their whole body. Middle-aged women want and know touch. They give hugs when they know the other person needs one. And when they hug you because they need one, you will definitely know it.
Older women laugh, guffaw, bend over double, and do not bother to immediately adjust their saree pallu. They let the wayward pallu, the blouse, their bosom, take their time, for they were all shaken by the laughter that was just let loose. Older women also take their time with hugs, they know it is time doing the watching now. After the hug, the older women do not let you go, they hold you there, so that they can see you and chide you for not meeting them more often, not hugging them more often. As you stumble over what to say, they have turned away, their job done.
I saw a group of middle-aged women laugh. In that room, their laughter spread thick and heavy, warming everything it touched, the air lightened and rose up, and they gravitated toward each otyer, laughing at each other, laughing at themselves, and laughing together, jostling, crowding, like flesh pressing on flesh. It was a laughter that was meaty, like scar tissue pounded into nothingness.
Middle aged 