The body as battlefield: a single woman’s reflections on ageing

By Reeti Roy

After a week of writing and editing, I was elated: a large organisation had invited me to participate in their Symposium on Gender Equality – a first for me. I decided I must look sharp. At the salon, a stylish young gentleman introduced himself as the head stylist. He glanced at my hair, gasped audibly, and said, “All of your hair at the back has turned grey. You must dye it. You look much older than you are.” Everyone turned to look at me.

Casual ageism like this is common in the spaces I inhabit, even if I’m just in my mid-30s. If someone isn’t commenting on my weight or my single status, then a younger acquaintance is asking why I wouldn’t want Botox for sagging skin or a dye for greying hair.

As a woman who grew up watching her mother embrace a natural face – no makeup, no cosmetic procedures – this world feels alien. But I don’t judge women who do choose those options. In a shallow, transactional city like Mumbai where people size you up at parties or announce on dates that they’ve lined up six others the same day, I understand why some women embrace whatever helps them feel better.

As for me, I am a quiet rebel.

The more I like someone, the more I dress down. No frills, no fancies. If the relationship lasts, I’ll eventually dress up. This defies the ‘first impressions’ rule, but perhaps it comes from growing up insecure in my own skin. My body was never the right size or shape by others’ standards. It took years of unlearning the male gaze before I felt even a semblance of peace in my body. Not confidence, but acceptance.

Buddhist nun Pema Chödrön once said: “The most fundamental aggression to ourselves, the most fundamental harm we can do to ourselves, is to remain ignorant by not having the courage and the respect to look at ourselves honestly and gently.” For me, embracing flaws has been the highest form of self-love.

Last year, I developed feelings for someone. They weren’t reciprocated. The sting was real, but I wasn’t bitter or angry. My first thought was: of course I was rejected – I’m getting older, less desirable. I knew there could be many reasons, but insecurity raised its head again.

I had to treat myself better.

So I bought flowers. I played Miley Cyrus on repeat. I read love poems and affirmations aloud to myself. I hugged nieces and nephews who healed me unknowingly. Friends wiped away my tears. Family stood by me like a rock. I was sad, but I wasn’t broken. I asked myself: was I lonely or was it just the fear of ageing?

Grief for my grandmother had already made time feel painfully finite. Grey hair only confirmed it. My friends were having children or ending long-term relationships. My career was steady, but I still struggled in love. “You’ll find the right person,” people said. But what if there is no right person? Maybe the point is to be the right person for myself.

In All About Love, bell hooks reminds us: “The practice of love offers no place of safety. We risk loss, hurt, pain. We risk being acted upon by forces outside our control.” You can do everything ‘right’ and still face rejection. Add to that the constant societal message that women are only desirable when young, and it’s a brutal mix.

When older public figures dress boldly, trolls queue up to mock them. Even if the celebrities never see the comments, women like me do – and internalise the cruelty.

I’ve been told not to be too aggressive, too opinionated, too much. Male friends tell me to “grow a rhino hide”, but their dismissal only invalidates my reality.

And yet, slowly, I’ve started reclaiming ground.

I now wear what I like. I reach for bright red lipstick again. I feel more desirable, not less. I embrace the flecks of grey. I call out lecherous behaviour instead of swallowing it. As Gloria Steinem said, “Women may be the one group that grows more radical with age.”

Do the comments still sting sometimes? Yes. Do I still war with my body? Yes. But I now accept that some days will simply be hard. Instead of body positivity, I reach for body neutrality. I can accept sagging skin and greying hair because ageing, after all, is proof of a life still being lived.

As I finish this essay, a friend calls: “It’s the last few days of spring! Let’s go for an early breakfast. Wear your red lipstick and a pretty dress.” I smile.

The world may be harsh, but joy still exists, if I let myself notice it. As the Buddha said in the Mahāparinibbāna Sutta: “Do not look for a sanctuary in anyone except yourself.”

Reeti Roy is a creative entrepreneur, writer, and cultural commentator whose work delves into the intersections of memory, art, identity, and politics. An alumnus of London School of Economics, her background includes roles at Harvard, UNICEF, IIM Calcutta, IIM Lucknow, and Jadavpur University’s School of Cultural Texts and Records.