My Year of Rest from Relationships

I WAS STANDING IN A CORNER, waiting for the clock to strike midnight. New Year’s Eve parties don’t feel interesting anymore. Most of the time, you’re just waiting to head home and crash. Everyone partying the night away is really just doing it for those Instagram stories no one wants to see. It’s all pretence, all posturing.

These thoughts ran through my mind like a storm on the verge of breaking. The drink in my hand had barely touched my lips. I was hell-bent on staying sober—I wanted to remember that moment with absolute clarity.

The next morning. Every morning since. For the rest of my life. This would be the year I changed my life.

If life can be defined by certain moments, mine would be when I turned 30. I quit a coveted job with no immediate offerings in sight. My health wasn’t at its best. And a while earlier, I’d ended the relationship I thought was my ever-after.

SINGLE AT 30. It was my biggest nightmare come true.

I’d never been more heartbroken— but not because a relationship didn’t survive. The real pain came from a dream shattering. That one dream we all grow up believing in, with our own caveats thrown in.

And I left the country on a jet plane (literally!) because I couldn’t bear to face my reality. No one knew where I was going or when I’d be back. I had to do it—or so I felt. A la Serena van der Woodsen from Gossip Girl. I may not have had her money, but at least my issues were real. The thought that I needed a break from relationships first occurred to me during one of those horrific lockdown days. In a bid to distract myself from the death and devastation around me, I turned inward—hoping to fix the niggling issues in my personal life. The whole “how did I arrive here?” bit.

JISHNU BANDYOPADHYAY

Why hadn’t my relationships ever worked? I couldn’t imagine being single. Being by myself scared the daylights out of me. And I was willing to do whatever it takes to make it happen, like I did even after that breakup. But nothing lasted—each time, the same doubt crept in: was it me? I’m not the wearing-my-heart-on-my-sleeve kind. Serial monogamy has never been a bad thing. My relationships would sail along for a good few years, and just when I’d start to feel like this could be it, something would go wrong.

And no, that ‘something’ wasn’t always the same. No infidelity. No gaslighting. No term freshly introduced by Gen Z. Just two people growing apart while growing together—despite my best intentions and efforts. To quote one of my favourite authors, Melissa Febos: “You don’t leave out of anger or from coming to your senses, but because your love is not as strong as your reasons for going.”

The pattern had become clear. Every time I left a relationship, I jumped into another. Did I ever allow my feelings to process? Was I mistaking a rebound for romance? Not really. Or maybe I did. It never felt like that, though.

But the question lingered. And so, I finally decided to act on it—take that break I’d been thinking about. A day, a week, a month—it could be anything. But something, certainly. Which, in my book, is always better than nothing.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d failed, and it wasn’t a feeling that I liked one bit.

L OVE, RELATIONSHIPS AND togetherness —it’s the thing I thought I’d be great at. But the failure was mind alone to bear. Why? My self-esteem would take a hit, and despite me being a confident person otherwise, I never liked who I became after every heartbreak. So, I worked harder the next time.

I didn’t know it, but I was truly exhausted. My mind, body and soul were staging a protest at the mere thought of going on another date, meeting another person. Why does no one tell you how tiring it is—going from one relationship to the next, opening up and then doing it all over again? The moment I took a break, my entire being exhaled. I could feel my muscles unclench.

I made plans to travel. When the flight landed in Amritsar, it marked my first trip as a single person in years. It sounds funny (and ridiculous), but I’d never travelled without being in a relationship—even if I wasn’t travelling with them. It may not seem like a big deal, but for me, it was a first.

Amritsar was the same—and so were the things I always did there. Eating kulchas, visiting the Golden Temple, the usual. But everything felt new. Was it my freshly single gaze seeing things differently? The roads felt smoother, the food more decadent, the city wrapped around me with a kind of joy I hadn’t felt in years. Maybe it was the first time I was fully present, not tethered to someone else’s expectations, pace or preferences. Just mine.

T HOSE FIRST FEW DAYS, I SLEPT deeply. My body was finally on vacation, and I let it be. I was calmer. No one to check in with, send pictures, call or FaceTime. Not that those had been unpleasant before—but not having to do it allowed me to be more in sync with myself and everything around me.

When was the last time I’d felt that? Part of the break meant facing old discomforts head-on. A romantic movie marathon was my litmus test. I’d always hated them—those picture-perfect love stories only reminded me of what I hadn’t found yet. I’d compare my relationships to movie plots. Unhealthy, sure, but I couldn’t stop. I’d never admit to watching them to my friends though. Show disdain even if suggested going for a romantic movie. My excuse was that it wasn’t ‘manly’ to enjoy them. No one really bought that—I’m hardly an example of toxic masculinity—but I’ll give it to my friends for never calling me out.

I promised myself I wouldn’t stop until I’d sat through three back-to-back romantic films. That Saturday, I watched The Notebook, Wuthering Heights and Dirty Dancing—and somehow survived. I didn’t care for them, but nothing triggered self-pity, and that felt like a small win.

JISHNU BANDYOPADHYAY

I can’t remember the name of the restaurant now, and it’s not even important. We were in Christchurch, New Zealand, and while the food was amazing, it was the conversation that truly elevated the evening. In many ways, that dinner felt like a checkpoint on this journey. My friend and I got chatting with a couple of locals about all things dating and relationships. Since Mohit is happily committed, he was waxing eloquent about the advantages of being with someone—something about happiness doubling up when two people are together. One of the local girls, Camille, had a completely differing point of view—she believed in keeping it open. Her friend, who was married for five years, had her own points to make.

Their banter was robust, and Mohit was hell-bent on proving he was happier. So was Camille, and her married friend.

I sat there wondering why people who aren’t single always go the extra mile trying to prove they have it better. Isn’t true happiness about not having to prove it to others? Maybe I was finally learning that contentment doesn’t need witnesses.

One remark I heard all year was that I was ‘lucky’ I could afford to do this. Because of how I look. Because people have always shown obvious interest in me. As a former colleague put it, “While some of us can’t find time for even a domestic holiday, you’re putting a travel ban on the Maldives.” His wisecrack had a political spin, but I wasn’t enthused enough to care.

I’ve often wondered—would I have taken this break if I looked… well, more conventional? I guess I’ll never know what it’s like not to be called attractive or good-looking (I’m sounding way too pompous, I know), but yes, I’ve been ‘lucky’ in that regard. No point pretending otherwise.

BY THE END OF THAT YEAR, I’D accomplished a lot.

Took my folks on a long vacation. Quit a job I’d aced. Found the one where I’m at now. Decluttered my surroundings— clothes I hadn’t worn in forever, shoes that were two pairs too many. Spent the year listening to myself and doing what felt right. Not doing anything that didn’t come from within. Inelegantly, and without my consent, time passed, to quote Miranda July from her book, No One Belongs Here More Than You.

The world around me stayed the same. The single ones were still trying to change that status. So were the committed ones. The grass is always greener, or some such thing. I’d look at them and wonder—could I ever be one of them? Desperately seeking... whatever form of happiness they were after. And then I’d remember who I used to be.

It’s been six months since I ended my year of rest from relationships, and I’m sure you’re wondering how I’m faring.

I’m still single. I’ve been on a few dates and enjoyed them, but no one’s felt worth entering a relationship for. And since I’ve never been one for situationships or whatever bizarre dating trend is trending, I’m choosing to keep myself to myself. My friends worry I’ve lost interest in love. Maybe I have. Or maybe once you’ve experienced the fabulousness of singledom, you’re just in no rush to give it up.

Either way, I’m not complaining. Turns out, being in a relationship with yourself can be pretty wonderful, too.

To read more such stories from Esquire India's July 2025 issue, pick up a copy of the magazine from your nearest newspaper stand or bookstore. Or click here to subscribe to the magazine.