Wednesday, December 05, 2012

The Big O

To put it simply, turning 30 is tough. To put it more accurately, turning 30 is very, very tough. A day before I turn 30 is a good time to reflect on it.

When you are a child, all you want to be is a grown-up. You are fed up of the way your parents and everyone else around you controls your life, and don't allow you to eat that chocolate which has been reserved for guests, or let you play till 9 in the evening. You have waited for years to become old enough to fill your notebooks with nothing else but scores from playing book cricket. People find it difficult to appreciate you enough. You are just a smart kid, rather than a person whose opinion actually matters. Your parents and relatives and everyone else have often told you that you are young, and do not know the world enough. You want to stop them and tell everyone around you, "You know I am old enough now. Stop telling me. I know what to do."

But then, you realize, you are not old enough. And that you have no idea what to do. And you are  turning 30.

30 is a big age. You remember how when you were a child, your parents had all the answers. They had just turned 30 but they looked so old, and they were responsible adults, who knew exactly how to deal with different people. They knew how to handle the maid, how to talk to the village sarpanch, how to deal with people in marriages, how to deal with deaths in family, how to talk to the sisters of the convent in my school and most importantly - how to handle you. They could navigate through this world seamlessly, without any hiccups. They were able to pass through difficult solutions and knew exactly which puja to conduct when, and what social rituals demanded from them. They knew the value of money and what it meant to earn it. They had theories of honesty, integrity, religion and they shoved it down your throat. And while you cried at every opportunity, you never saw your parents shed tears. Well you did share your mom shed tears sometimes, but somehow you knew those tears were special and had some meaning, unlike your crocodile tears which came up every time you were denied buying a bottle of Pepsi. They were in many ways- and still are - like Superman and Wonder Woman (without the ridiculous outfits ofcourse!). And they were adults. Responsible adults - 30 year old adults.

You are no Superman. And you are turning 30.

You are not even close. You suck at social transactions - you still fumble while speaking to any girl you seem to like, and while you pretend you like being an extrovert and partying, you actually suck at it. You have still not managed to call up your first cousin whose mother - your mother's sister in law - just passed away, and offer condolences, and tell him how sorry you are. You are sorry, but well it is just too difficult to talk and you do not know how to proceed with it, something that you thought came naturally to your parents. You do not know what to gift one of your best friends on his wedding, and are most likely to go there empty-handed -  like you have done before in your other friend's wedding. You have little social relationships as compared to your parents - and even your family interactions are minimal. There are so many situations you have no idea how to handle. You feel embarrassed to admit it, but you know you have somehow not aged enough. All you really know is how to drink and appreciate some good beer and solve crosswords. And maybe solve some Analytics and data problems for your clients. You spend your weekends playing FIFA and watching sports, things you wanted to do as a child. Your life rocks, but you know you are in a cocoon. And your parents, who are after you to get married, want to get you out of it.

And so far, you have always told yourself and them, "I am not yet 30. I can live with this. I am yet to become a proper adult."

But right now, today, or rather tomorrow, you are running out of the excuse.

Turning 30 is very, very tough. It does not mark you as being responsible. All it means is that your excuses for being irresponsible are over.

And you absolutely hate it. 

The other reason, of course, why turning 30 is so tough is because it makes you realize that maybe, just maybe, your parents were as clueless about you when they were 30. And that they just put up a brave face in front of you. And that they were not Superman and Wonder Woman, but rather ordinary human beings.

But like the life of Pi tell you,you go along with the better story - so Superman and Wonder Woman it is. And that they have somehow connived to produce someone who has no superpowers.

This just sucks!!

Monday, September 24, 2012

A theory of rape

(Disclaimer: This post does not mean to trivialize the serious issue of women safety and sexual exploitation. Admittedly, I have done only some research on this matter, and do not personally know (thankfully) any rapist and/or rape victims. As with all my other blog posts, this is just my thoughts on the matter, and if you think it is an anti-woman piece, you can just read the previous blog post, which is to say, I don't ____ _ ____, This is a guy's perspective. I condemn rape in the strongest possible way. This is just an attempt to understand why it happens).

So the other day we were at Striker, the neighbourhood bar/club. Now Striker post 10 p.m. has a nightclub feel about it on most days - there are the usual shitty Justin Bieberesque songs played by the in-house DJ on which girls and ladies (mostly married 35+ aunties, albeit hot aunties, come to think of it), are grinding into each other and into strange young men. It is a pretty disturbing sight to be honest, but somehow exciting too, if you know what I mean. And while I can honestly claim I totally abhor the music the DJ plays, I am somehow there often, as you might have guessed if you are on my Facebook friends list and get annoyed by my posts about semi clad women. I admit I am there only for the beer, but a little (or a lot) of eye candy never hurt anyone. But that day was a Thursday, which meant that an awesome band (Traffic Jam, which if you are in Gurgaon, you must listen to) was playing awesome rock songs, covering everything from Rolling Stones to Tracy Chapman. And which more significantly, meant that there were not many women in there. (I have a theory about the quality of music and the quality and quantity of girls in a place, and the fact that it is an inverse relation. Something to the tune of Quality(Music)* Quality(Girls)* Quantity(Girls) = constant. But that is a theory for another day - and probably another blog post). In fact, and perhaps linked to this fact, was that there were not many people in the place that day. Only 75% of the tables were occupied, which for Striker, is seriously under-crowded. Which made us - a group of five - the only ones head-banging on the music Traffic Jam played. So well there was good beer, good music and we were very decently high. Not really Mount Everest high, but maybe Mount Kilimanjaro high. Almost no hot girls, but we were not disappointed due to the quality of music.

But by 12 p.m.,  the band had ended, while the DJ came into his own elements, and in came three girls, all in the 8.5+ ratings category - or that is what it seemed to us in that woman-devoid place. Moreover, beer is a Aphrodisiac.  However to us at that point of time, they seemed very hot, and surprise, surprise they had no guy along with them. And they were wearing some really awesome clothes, those western summer dresses which somehow magically disappear twelve inches above the knee, exposing some very nice flesh. So because by then the DJ had started his usual shit music, these girls decided to get up and dance, and well - while it shames me to admit it - we were dancing to that music. Mainly because we were high, and in no way to distinguish between good and bad music. Good and bad looking girls, however, we could still distinguish, and so one of us, a pioneer if there was one, decided it was a good idea to go and dance near to these three girls.

Now normally, I am a big believer in knowing what's within your league, and those girls were clearly out of ours. I mean, 8.5+.  However, I also am a believer in my own theory of the drinking-confidence scale (as illustrated here, and I was confident (drunk) enough. Moreover, those girls seemed well Westernised, and I remembered my France days, and how I could talk to women easily there. So well, there I was all ready to talk to them (more like blabber), and I was sure they wouldn't mind. And so I followed the pioneer, with another fellow right behind me,  and stood next to where these girls were dancing.

All it took was one look. One look from those three girls, and I knew they were eyeing us with derision. A look you reserve for complete losers. A look that said - "Look at these losers - come to dance with us. With us. How dare you, you scum of the earth." One look (actually three looks, when you count them) was enough to take us back to our seats, to our one true love - beer. I was just having a complete uv- ajed moment. This had never happened to me before, not in France anyways. There women would at least talk to me. And I never got that look. And these women looked westernised enough, I thought. They must be open enough to have guys try and talk to them in a nightclub. But here their Indian values suddenly seemed to come into the picture. It was pure hypocrisy, I thought. And then they accuse guys of not being modern enough!!

But we were the nice guys and so we came back to the table and faced our one true love - our beer mugs. However, the entire incident just made me wonder on the hypocrisy of Indian girls, and made me imagine how a group of Jats from rural Haryana would have responded to that look, and what I concluded was not exactly pleasant -  and that's how my theory evolved.

Now, it is the opinion in many newspapers that Delhi and adjoining areas is the unofficial, de-facto rape capital of the country. Moreover, there is also a growing voice among the pro-women groups that India as a country is unsafe for women. I think the second statement is definitely wrong, for statistical reasons. Statistically, the number of rapes reported annually in India is second highest at 22000 rapes reported annually (after, surprisingly, the United States - which has 4 times more reported cases), and is far more than other countries. However, on a per capita basis, even more surprisingly, India is the seventeenth safest country with the least rapes/million population. Statistically, India is safer than (among others) USA, UK, Sweden, Hong Kong and my favourite, France.

It can't be right, surely. You would assume that India is such high on the "safe place for women" list mainly because most of the rapes are not reported. However, the funny part is that even if only 10% of the rapes are being reported, India would still be statistically be safer for women than both US and UK, and only slightly unsafe than France. Which puts a whole new spell on things, doesn't it? Let us assume then that statistics lie, and seek answer to the question, "Why so many women get raped in India, more so in Delhi/NCR?"

So, well what exactly is a rapist thinking? Maybe men do it because they can get away with it, maybe it is just pure frustration at not getting regular sex, maybe its just uncontrolled temptation, or maybe it is a factor of respect for women. Not to mention the odd psychopath. In other words the probability of rape will follow the following equation: 

P(rape) = f(frustration)*f(titillation)*f(psychopaths)/(f(woman's respect in society)*f(law abiding))

So well rape will be more in a society with more frustration and titillation, while less in a society with more respect for women and law abiding citizens. In most cases though, frustration and titillation are opposite factors. Society with higher frustration have low titillation levels (like Arab societies), while society with high titillation levels have low frustration levels (Thailand, South America, the list goes on). Rapes then become more a case of psychopaths because in most societies women are respected and are at par with men.

However, what probably sets India apart and makes it more unsafe is that it is probably in India that most rapes are not done by psychopaths and/or people who know the victim. India probably stands out in that rapes are isolated events caused by seemingly normal people to absolute strangers - such as the incidents in the car driven all around Delhi you read about in the news. It is because our law and order is a total failure which abets this to an extent, but our country is unique in the fact that frustration and titillation levels here are both high.

In Haryana, for example, there is not much of a concept of respect for women. Women are the weaker sex, and are expected to cave in to men's demands. This is the attitude that has been passed on for centuries, and certain Bollywood movies, and their item numbers have done nothing to suppress this widely popular notion. This is the mindset which runs through most of Bharat, which has not picked up pace as far as social liberalization is concerned. A woman in Bharat is now thankfully not expected to stay home, but is expected to go out and work. However, if she wears much of western dresses and talks to men, she is still very easily termed a slut. A man still has more rights than a woman in Bharat.

Moreover, our country is not very high on law abiding citizens. We often take advantage of whatever leeway we can get. We don't think much of our laws, and believe we can escape them. The "tu jaanta nahin main kaun hoon" philosophy which is entrenched not just in Bharat, but also in India, makes us perfect candidates for people to take the law into their own hands, and impress women - literally - with their "power".

India, the India we live in, is however much more socially liberalized. Most women living in India - and with it I mean the  think themselves to be born in New York or Paris, or atleast their clothes indicate so. There seems to be a race to determine who can put the most skin on display in Saket City Walk or Hauz Khas Village, for example, and often, it is difficult to determine the winner. Don't get me wrong, they are welcome to wear all they want, and if I personally were to choose, the lesser the better. But it has some very unpleasant consequence. These girls tempt. They titillate.

The problem is that in Delhi/NCR, India and Bharat are very close together. A man from Bharat, who experiences he has infinite power over womankind, but who also knows he cannot touch these upper and high middle class girls who have tempted him so, has somewhere to let his sexual energy go. In a completely lawful/woman respecting society, he will probably go home, shag himself and go to sleep. But India, and Bharat, sadly are not completely lawful. And a Bharat man is, as explained before, not exactly woman respecting. So while he does not have the guts to catch one of these Saket chicks, he gets horny on the first woman he can get away with, irrespective of what she is wearing. And this is what causes so many rapes.

So indirectly, yeah, in Delhi/NCR at least, what women wear does contribute to rape.

In other parts of Bharat, it is movies/item songs that provide the same effect. They tempt and titillate. And some innocent powerless soul is the victim.

Come to think of it, legalizing prostitution might be a good way to stop it. It will lessen frustration for one, and the probability of rape will come down.

(Disclaimer II: I can't write any more, but I guess I have made my point. Looking forward to your comments).

Tuesday, August 21, 2012

I don't give a &^$#

(Disclaimer: This is one of those me, myself and I posts. The kind of sad, introspective posts which were the bread and butter of this blog before I started writing the Mahabharata series and the theory posts. So if you are here for satisfying your dirty fantasies regarding those hot, semi clad princesses in ancient India, click on the Mahabharata label link on the right, and if you are looking for some theories to explain particular aspects of life, click on the theory link, again on the right. If you want to still read on, do so. After all, I don't really give a &^$#).

I am not much of a shopper. I prefer spending my money the old fashioned way of food and alcohol rather than on the latest gadgets, shoes and clothes, which I do not buy until it is extremely necessary. I am not a spur of the moment buyer, and need to be very sure of the utility of the object bought. I haven't bought a new gadget in two years despite my phone and laptop both being in conditions which would make the refugees in Assam look like living in heaven. The less I talk about my clothes the better, especially as they have to deal with me, a person who cannot go through a day without dropping food/tea/beer on my shirt. Probably, the most I spend on after food and alcohol is books, which tells you just how expensive books have become today because I do not read that much as well. And which also tell you how few clothes I own, and makes you question how cheap I am, the answer to which would be very.

Shopping for me is a very structured process of first identifying the need and then establishing what would fulfill the need. The "shopping" process, then, is generally going to the first shop which would give me what I want, and buying the desired object. I cannot envisage going through different storerooms and/or online stores to buy the perfect match. If one word describes me the most, its probably unstructured, but somehow, unlike everything else in my life, I hate chaos when it comes to shopping. And which is probably why I hate on-the-spur buying.

Having said that, my last major buy was surprisingly a spur of the moment buy. It was this T-shirt I bought in Goa. A friend was buying it - and when he showed it to me, I really liked it, and got my size as well and was soon the proud owner of a brand new T-shirt.This was what the T-shirt looks like: The front side of the T-shirt has a silhouette of a man raising his middle finger. The words "I don't give a fuck" occupy the top left. The back of the T-shirt is plain, with just the words "I don't give a fuck" again in a smaller font at the top.

I got lucky. The two t-shirts are entirely similar, except that the T-shirt my friend had bought says "I don't give a fcuk". It says Fcuk. Like the clothing company. The censored version I suppose.  On both the front and the back. It does not even make any sense, come to think of it. But my shirt does not mince any words. It tells anyone who cares to read it exactly what I think : "I don't give  a fuck." The message could not be clearer. If it is meant to be a message that is. What is it I don't give a fuck about? I do not know, but somehow those five words seem very true.

I see myself as a happy-go-lucky person. While most early readers of this blog would probably disagree with this assessment, but I think I have always been a believer in the Que Sera Sera philosophy. Whatever will be, will be. I am kind of inspired by the song "Aane waala kal jaane waala hai" which encapsulates everything there is to know about life. Live in the moment. And the Beatles Classic, "Let it be". Take the three together, and you come to realize, that you are too small, world's too vast, and that you cannot change anything. And hence, live in the moment, be happy, and let things be. Which is to say, there is not point in giving a fuck about anything. And hence, I do not give a fuck.

Perhaps I never really gave a fuck. I never desired much and hence lived a very contented, happy life. I spent most of my school days in classroom playing book cricket and filling pages after pages of mine and my friends' notebooks with imaginary world cup scorecards. I made my own book cricket rules which helped me define a 50 over match. The only time I paid attention in classes was when I was made to sit in the front seat or when I was made to read for the entire class - something I loved doing. I did not really do my homework all that earnestly either. My house is in a fairly isolated place, and I filled up most of my afternoons imitating those legendary Stefan Edberg - Boris Becker Wimbledon finals with a plastic ball and a wooden tennis racket against the wall. I had rules for the tennis points as well, and I did make my own tennis scorecard too, something in which Edberg always won. When my parents told me to study, I went to my room and started completing the World Cup of book cricket, or started browsing through the Atlas and prepared statistical charts of area, population and density. Did you know Sweden was the 49th largest country in the world by area? I did, and had my charts ready for reference. I had world lists, continental lists and country lists. All in all, I had the perfect counterfoil to study time - the non-study time.

All this meant that I did not really study nearly as much as I was supposed to. Luckily however, it was enough for me to do well through school, where I never finished lower than second in my class. I never did finish first either, but second was beyond satisfactory for me. I was coming second without any effort, then why put in the extra effort and come first in class was a logic I could not understand. And despite the pleas of my parents and relatives and friends and everyone around me, I just did enough to keep coming second.

And this continued till the 10th standard. My friends were in awe of me doing well without putting in much effort, and my ego fed off it. Who wanted to be the studious topper when you could be the stud second place holder? However, I did put in some additional, extra effort for the board examinations, as they were supposed to be a marker of real "intelligence". The result: I still ended up 2nd in school. And so I lost whatever little respect I had for working hard, or putting effort. I had tried hard to come first, for the first time in my life, but I had failed.

10th was easy, but 11th and 12th were infinitely more difficult. However, I had my ego to boost and hence my efforts were still fairly lesser than what was required. I was in a hostel now as well, in Chandigarh, and card games and cricket replaced the traditional timepasses. Instead of wasting time in class, I started bunking classes. The results were that my performance in class plummeted, but I still managed to get good grades somehow in some tuition classes. I remember preparing for 12th board exams with nightouts playing sweep with juniors. I was very under-prepared for JEE, but just managed a rank which told me I was not totally worthless.  It was a rank that was worthless but it was a rank nonetheless. And getting a rank in JEE, where a lot of my other hardworking classmates and hostel-mates had failed, only helped feed my ego more. But I also knew I had to work hard for it. This was not going to be like 10th.

And so for almost a year, I really did give a fuck. About JEE. About doing well. I never thought I could get over friends and company and television, but for that one year, I left it all. Only studied. Physics, Chemistry and Maths became my friends. I could see the benzene rings in my dreams after reading Morrison and Boyd. And got through JEE. And into IIT Delhi. There was so much more to do here than study. I wanted to discover myself. Play tennis, squash, get into dramatics, go quizzing, excel at Word games. And IIT gave me a chance to do all that.

So I stopped giving a fuck about studies. I barely passed courses, I failed courses, but it did not matter. I was living the dream. IIT was about all round development, and I had become so engrossed in that. I really cared about my hostel winning events, about dominating politics, about winning sports. And that was all I cared about. And the four years passed away in bliss, and in recurring periods of happiness and sadness, depending on how Kara did in various events. I did well in certain courses as well, courses I liked inherently, like Probability and Statistics, and Mechanics. These courses again reinforced in my friends the potential I had, and they tried to tell me to apply it better. But I never cared. Why become a Maggu,  I thought, when you could get a good return on investment. Passing 5/6 courses each term without studying is a big achievement in IIT, and I managed that. It was good. Even though it led to me passing out in four and a half years, that too after crying with the professor.

Then came the placement time, and the realization that the world really did not give a fuck over how Karakoram had done in various events. All the world really cared about was grades. And I did not have them. But by then, I had this blog, and as this blog emphasized, I did not really give a fuck about salary either. And so it has been.

To cut a long story short, the only thing I have really cared about ever since, have been wasting my  time and life going after two girls in college. Nothing ever came from all the effort I put in. "I tried so hard and got so far, but in the end it doesn't even matter" seemed to be written directly for me. Again, I had fought hard for something, and failed. For me, trying became a synonym for failure, and publicly acclaimed failure, while not trying became a symbol of studness.

And so I stopped trying. On anything. IIM happened. I was inherently good in cracking CAT questions. Alcohol did the rest. Ernst and Young interview happened on a resume I had not revised for one and a half years, and alcohol. And over time I completely stopped giving a fuck over anything. Taking things as they come. Being happy, and enjoying myself. When Ernst & Young became painful, I quit, not caring about what to do. I lived in the moment.

And thats the way life has been. Its good. Its happy. Except that I have grown very fat because of this. Its probably time to say I give a fuck again. Get thin, and then get back to not giving a fuck anymore. About anything else. Here's to a healthy lifestyle.

(I am thinking of using the T-shirt as a pickup prop. Go to a hot girl in Striker and ask her, "Do you give a fuck?" If she says yes, ask for it. If no, tell her she and you are two of a kind, and you should flock together. Either way a win-win).

Wednesday, May 09, 2012

Of marriage, fitness and a plea :).

 So well, everyone seems to have gone mad. I mean, literally everyone.

Everyone I talk to someone in my family, all they can talk about is me getting married and getting thin. When? Why? Or rather, Why not? are some of the common themes that dominate the discussion. And this is the horror part: Unlike the heroes from Saki and Wodehouse stories, I dont only have to content with a large number of aunts, but also cousins of both genders and their spouses. It is like everyone married has only one agenda left - to get me married. Here is what any conversation with a relative looks like after the usual conversation courtesies have burned out:

Me: So wassup?
Family Member (FM): So what did you think about getting married?
Me: Nothing so far.
FM: Why?
Me: Why should I?
FM: Why not?
Me: Because I am happy.
FM: What sort of reason is this? No, you are supposed to get married. You wont be able to get married later. Just lose a little bit of weight, I have a girl in mind for you. She is beautiful, smart and ....
Me (I think the lust just starts showing on my face after a while and I am like, a bit too eager): So lets meet. Introduce me.
FM: No, tell us are you ready or not. Should we talk?
Me: If she is hot, then yeah. Definitely.
FM: Okay, then lose weight ASAP.
Me: Okay, make me meet her, show me her picture atleast - and then, if she inspires me enough I can get thin.
FM: No it doesnt work this way.
Me: Okay, your loss. I am happy the way I am.
FM: No, that is not the right answer. Get married soon. Give us a timeline.
Me: I haven't thought about it. Maybe I will get back to you.
FM: Okay, you have 2 months. Decide and let me know.

It is as if, everyone's problem would be resolved if they were to absolve me of my happiness. Sadly, it does not work that way, my dear relatives. Live and let live.

One thing that really gets to me is how my relatives link getting thin and getting married together. I would like to counter this with some deep-rooted analysis:

This piece of work below is the result of a very honest analysis that I have managed to figure out. It might seem kind of boastful, but I am just being honest :). 

I would rate myself a 7 on the success parameter. I might not be a founder of flipkart or Snapdeal, but I believe I am doing better than a lot of single people. I mean, what advantage is the IIT-IIM if it cant give you success? And while I have made some bad choices in life, I am still pretty much happy and satisfied with where I am on a professional level right now.
I believe I am a fairly intelligent individual, and have a pretty decent sense of humour, which explains my pretty active social life and the fact that I am able to garner friends quickly. I have realised I am not the loser I thought I was, and that I am socially pretty adept.  I would like to believe that most people who know me like me, and I would rate myself a 8 on my social skills. I am a fairly good conversationalist (unless I happen to talk to really hot girls, which is when I become tongue twisted) and a pretty decent writer. I am also pretty good at roughly everything I try out, being a decent squash, tennis and football player. Not world beater, but better than average in roughly everything I do. I can be a bit childish at times, and I can be really serious and moody at others, and this is where I believe I lose the two rating points.
One of the big pluses that I see in myself is that deep down, I am a really nice guy. I have turned into a cynic over the past seven years or so - as reading this blog will tell you - but I still believe there are elements in me of the optimistic child who grew in Dharamshala believing in all the value and ethics systems that my middle class parents taught me. I might not be a perfect person, (and nowhere close to Sanju from Jo Jeeta Wohee Sikandar, which is how I imagined I would grow up to be, crooning Pehla Nasha for some special someone), but other than the really few occasions, where I have hurt people thoroughly under the influence of alcohol, I am a pretty good person. I have done a few deeds I regret, but I believe noone who knows me thinks of me as Haraami despite my best efforts. And hence I rate myself a 8 on niceness quotient.
Even look wise, I might be a 5, but I have the potential to be a 7 at least. A potential which is untapped because I am fat.  And, which, apparently is the reason for me to be single, or so what people would have me believe.
Taking an average of the 4, (and I believe for a woman, the first three parameters are more important that the third, so a simple average would be biased against me), I still score a credible 7. I am, in a nutshell, a 7 out of 10 guy. Kinda above average.

Now let us look at the kind of girl I want.

 The most important parameter for me is looks, and I will prefer a 8 here. I believe anything above 8 would be too hot to handle, while I wont be able to engage myself with someone less than a 8. For me hotness is a factor. Makes me look like a shallow guy, but that is who I am. (and probably why I lost 2 points on the niceness quotient). 
A 5 on the success factor would do. I would want someone who is not very driven, and who likes to chill out and enjoy life. For whom, money is not much of a criteria.
I would want a girl who is really nice - and I mean, a take-to-home kinda nice but also a will drink-with-you-in-club kinda nice. A chill out girl, who isn't afraid to drink once in a while, and who will not stop me for doing it more often than once a while. And a girl who is more than happy to dress up in salwar kameez in front of my parents. I know I sound like a MCP out here, but like I said, I have more middle class blood within me that this blog generally lets you know. I am a traditional guy more than you would imagine. Hence, I want a 8 on the nice parameter.
I want a girl who is a 7 on social skills. I do not want a girl who is too socially active, as, honestly, it would make me feel uncomfortable. Again the middle class upbringing rising to the forte. But I would expect her to be able to talk comfortably with me and our friends about topics ranging from Timbuktu to Tata.

Taking an average of the 4 qualities I want in a girl, and it comes out to a ...voila...a 7. I am looking for a 7 out of a 10 gal. So well, I am a 7/10 guy looking for a 7/10 girl. Is it too much to ask?

And so here's a plea:

If you know of a girl who meets these criterias and who has criteria which meet my attributes, please hook us up. :D.

And Mama and Papa, Uncles and Aunties, Bhaiyas and Bhabhis, Didis and Jijajis, please read this. And then find me a girl :D.

Sunday, February 12, 2012

Of Valentine's Day and Other Heartbreaks

When I was 12, my cousin first told me about Valentine's Day. "It is a day where you can propose to any girl", he said, "and she will have to say yes". This was a God sent opportunity for someone like me, who had just been initiated to the entire dating scenario. There were a couple of girls in class who I had developed huge crushes on. However, the fear of rejection held me from doing absolutely anything about it. Now, this Valentine's Day was apparently the way forward. Sadly, my school, being in the mountains, was closed during the winters, and I missed celebrating Valentine's Day with the girls I most wanted to during that time. It was also the days before mobile phones became such a rage, so I could not text them out as well. So I spent most of my next 4 V-days just wishing what could have been.
After finishing my 10th from school, I went to Chandigarh - taking admission into DAV College, which I believed at that time, to be a CoEd.
By the time I reached Chandigarh, my huge crushes had petered out, and I looked forward to dating the hot Chandigarh girls you hear so much about. Imagine my surprise, when I found out that the college I had enrolled in with much expectations was a Boy's only college, a fact that was reiterated and impressed to us over the five day ragging (Yeah, nothing like the IIT "Healthy Interaction" shit - this was ragging) period in the Boy's Only hostel. Over time, the hostel became the major points of community life - and cricket, and sweep, and Debonair, Letters to Penthouse and Fantasy were the major pastimes.
Thank God for tuition and the tutors. These were the only places where we could interact with those Chandigarh chicks. And boy, were they hot!! However, being a shy, rotund, awkward 16 year old meant I never had the courage to ask anyone out - and I waited excitedly for Valentine's Day. And I wasn't the only one. There were other people in the hostel making exciting plans for Valentine's Day and finding girls. There was this girl in my tuition I had a crush on - and I thought she would be the perfect target to try out on Valentine's Day. I had never really talked to her before - but she looked really friendly, and often smiled at me. I was very sure she was the one for me, and that I was deep in love with her. So on the allotted day, during the Chemistry tuition, as she sat next to me, I asked her out, through a passed on slip - asking her if she wanted coffee - and to my horror, she wrote a big NO, and smiled at me. I wanted to explain her the concept my cousin had told me years before - she was not supposed to say NO. However, I was too sad to argue, and took the NO slip, and smiled back. That same day, after tuition, I saw her talk to this St. John's alumnus, and they went off in his motorbike. While I was the heartbroken kid you hear about in American Pie.
I remember crying that day, or something to that general effect. Could there be a worse feeling than being rejected on Valentine's Day, I wondered. Luckily I was not the only one. There were a couple of other hostel guys who had tried their luck at the Chandigarh girls, and all of them had been rejected, which kind of alleviated the pain. We wondered what we had done wrong to be rejected on V-day, of all days. It was then we realised that there is nothing special about Valentine's Day, and that Feb 14 was just a random date, albeit one, which came exactly nine months before Children's Day.
Time, they say, heals everything, and this pain was also healed pretty soon. What I had imagined to be true love turned out to be nothing more than lust. Plenty of it, but still pure lust.
That day, however, I lost all respect for Valentine's Day. It had promised me heaven, but had delivered nothing. I have never celebrated Valentine's Day since (Not that I have had someone to celebrate it with, but that is a separate story altogether). I had lost my faith in St. Valentines. He was a cheat, someone who just wanted to sell more cards, cakes and chocolates. Over time, I have had other crushes, some more than crushes, but I have never went the St. Valentine's way. I have asked girls out without his help, and done quite well.
One thing that has happened since, and it is a pretty late development, is that I have even lost all respect for the word love. Like a friend in IIT once said, "Only unrequited love is true love, requited love is just lust." I believe both unrequited and requited love are overrated and are hyped out by the same people who had hyped Valentine's Day earlier.
As those who have read the first posts on this particular blog will testify, there was a time when I believed in the whole concept of love. Now I don't. Love for me has also become just another asset, much like money, which is more shown-off than actually felt. Watching movies like Pyaar ka Panchnama has actually helped, and made me feel happier for my single status. I am yet to meet a perfectly happy married or committed man.
Because, over time, I have come to realise that love and Cupid, are hand in hand with St. Valentines. They only want to sell more cards, cakes and chocolates.
Which is why, when my facebook status reads: "I love Valentine's Day. It makes me so much relatively richer as compared to all my other married and committed friends." I believe it.
Here's to another year of an awesomely single life!!