I grew up thinking that a 10-year age gap was not just normal but ideal in a relationship. Because my parents had one. It was just a number, and I thought it shouldn’t come between two people who wanted to build a life together. Maybe that’s why it took me years to notice that we treated this age gap differently depending on the gender of the older partner.

The recently released Malayalam film Bethlehem Kudumba Unit is creating a buzz across South India, with audiences and reviewers describing it as a feel-good romance. Critics have also appreciated the way the film handles the 13-plus-year age gap between the characters played by Mamitha Baiju and Nivin Pauly, without portraying the relationship as predatory or manipulative.

Mamitha Baiju is also the lead in the Tamil film Vishwanath and Sons. Interestingly, both films were released just a week apart and revolve around the same romantic premise — an older man and a younger woman. Audiences accepted both relationships easily, which I found fascinating.

Director Girish AD told The Hollywood Reporter that he capped Mamitha’s character’s age at 22 and Nivin’s between 35 and 50, but did not make him any older, as it would have felt ‘creepy’. The age gap was deliberately calibrated around the audience’s threshold of discomfort — and that worked.

This brought me to a simple question: would these films survive a gender swap? If nothing else changed except gender, would our responses remain the same?

This brought me to a simple question: would these films survive a gender swap? Just picture the same setup, the same film — family, comedy, chemistry, everything. The only change is that the woman is 13 years older. Would it still make it onto families’ watchlists? Or would the very same age gap suddenly need defending? If nothing else changed except gender, would our responses remain the same?

An age difference does not automatically mean that one person is exploiting the other. What actually happens within the relationship matters more than simply assuming a predator-and-prey dynamic. However, a vast age gap can come with differences in experience, financial independence, and social power, creating genuine concerns about power imbalances; grooming, manipulation, and coercion can exist in such relationships and should be called out without a second thought.

Our society has decided that a woman’s desirability comes with a shelf life: stay young to stay desirable, with women’s youth tied to beauty, desirability, and even labels such as that of a ‘good’ wife or ‘good’ mother. Meanwhile, men’s age isn’t measured by the same logic; instead, it often comes with status and stability. We see this common double standard in cinema too. Actor Dia Mirza once pointed out, ‘I find it interesting that I’m cast opposite actors in their 50s, 60s and even 70s — and we’re meant to be seen as romantic equals on screen.’

Conversely, an older woman falling for a younger man is often portrayed as unusual, scandalous, sexualised, or transgressive, rather than simply as love. The story ends up telling us everything except about her romantic life. Once she is no longer considered young by societal standards, she is pushed into supporting roles such as that of the mother, aunt, mentor, or caretaker.

Indian cinema, in general, seems clueless about age-gap couples. In Cheeni Kum, 64-year-old Buddhadev falls in love with 34-year-old Nina — a 30-year age gap. Yet it remains a conventional romantic comedy, complete with the usual family friction, and Nina’s decision to be with him is not questioned much. In Dil Chahta Hai, Sid falls for Tara, who is older and divorced. Their relationship takes a tragic turn, especially when compared with the other characters who get ‘happy endings’ in the film.

Age is almost invisible and needs no explanation when the man is older in these stories. The same number is harder to overlook when the woman is older.

Lipstick Under My Burkha dared to show an older woman’s longing for a younger man, with the film treating her desire with gentleness. But her family does not treat her the same way. They consider her desire a disgrace and a transgression serious enough to justify punishment and humiliation. I can’t think of a mainstream film where a male protagonist is punished in a similar way for loving a younger woman.

Wake Up Sid shows a small age gap, with Ayesha being older than Sid. She initially turns him down, and their later reunion makes one thing clear: maturity and readiness matter more than a number. But it remains an exception rather than setting an example.

Even recently, the Tamil film Hi, starring Nayanthara and Kavin, was released around the same time as Bethlehem Kudumba Unit and Vishwanath and Sons. Yet the film was met with discomfort. The real-life age gap between the actors is just 5–6 years, which is smaller than in either of the other two films. Yet online, they were even labelled ‘akka-thambi’ (sister-brother), because of Nayanthara being the older one. The director felt compelled to defend the casting, while Kavin resisted calling it an age-gap romance, describing it simply as love. All three films are premised on the same idea, yet it is only when the woman is older that the film seems to need defending.

Cinema and the public easily accept a younger woman choosing an older man because gender informs who we ‘allow’ to have choices and whose choices we accept. A younger woman’s choice also does not cancel out the fact that in a relationship with an older man there can exist a potential power imbalance. Yet we say, ‘her choice’ or ‘she pursued him’, and stop the conversation there. We apply this logic in one direction only, and interrogate her when she is the older partner.

We see the same double standard off-screen too. When Priyanka Chopra and Nick Jonas got married in 2018, she was accused of having ‘trapped’ him. Their partnership was easily reduced to suspicion and mockery. Chopra creates a double disruption to the usual script — she is both older and transgressing lines of endogamy. Maybe that’s why ‘cougar’ exists as a derogatory label without a male equivalent. ‘Silver fox’, on the other hand, is often used for a man in the exact same position.

Cinema is a reflection of society, just as society is reflected through cinema. As viewers, when we repeatedly see men being the romantic leads while women of the same age disappear from these stories, it stops looking like an individual choice and starts looking like a pattern.

As I mentioned earlier, my own parents have the same age gap, with my mother being the younger partner. I haven’t seen anyone question my parents or their relationship because of it. But I’ve watched people question a woman with a younger partner. The age difference hasn’t changed; what has changed is the story people create around it.

A friend of mine once disclosed her relationship with a man 12 years older to her family. Her parents’ first reaction was relief, not panic. They considered her choice sensible: she had chosen someone more experienced and ‘settled’. Also, nobody asked him why he wanted someone younger. The reverse is never accepted this easily.

One day, my cousin started seeing a woman older than him. The age difference was nearly the same, but the questions changed entirely. No one was concerned about whether he was happy. There were only two questions: why can’t he find someone his own age or younger, and why does she want someone younger?

An older woman with a younger man disrupts the expectations on which Indian heterosexual marriages and families are built. While power imbalances can exist in relationships with a significant age gap, we often only bother ‘protecting’ the younger partner when he is a man.

In a way, Bethlehem Kudumba Unit made me want the version of this story that doesn’t exist yet: the one where the older lead is a woman, and the film still gets to be a rom-com without needing to convince anyone. Until Indian cinema can make that film with the same warmth, ‘love has no age’ is just a line we parrot. We don’t really believe love has no age. Rather, we’ve conveniently decided whose age doesn’t count and whose does.