Yes girl, the jokes on you. But mostly, it's on me for pretending to have standards.
Under the guide of these standards I’ve attempted to date writers, investment bankers, doctors, IFS officers, and many more people twitter would find brag-worthy. Post every one of these dates, I've called my mother and complained, "Chemistry nahi hai.” Her sage old reply? “Ek din mein nahi aati hai. Give IFS Officer another try, life mein visa problems kabhi bhi ho sakti hai.”
Let's face it - I’ve never craved for the Hollister models I superficially spend hours fantasizing about. And while I’ve ALWAYS WANTED that orphaned-millionaire Feminist Political Economist, life hasn’t served me his lemons to make myself a weekend lemonade. Instead, let my track record stand testament to my true type: a Horlicks Sales Manager, an Automotive Correspondent in Eastern Europe, and recently, Mr. Paunchy McPaunch. Ergo, I’m reduced to deduce (brownie points for the rhyme) that I don’t really have a type. I doubt that many of us do: we like whom we like, and if your jupiter is aligned, then he/she will like you back. Though if your shanni is as bhaari as mine, he'll like you back with a dash of wanting you to quit your job and have his biological babies named Karan + Taran. Taran’s a girl because he's progressive like that.
Anyway, back to the story of the man who would eat my leftovers along with his own main-course with a tub of ice cream on the side. Laugh all you want, but I started to find his eating habits along with his inability to climb a flight of stairs endearing. That’s what “liking” does to you. It gets you wet thinking of about someone who would never even make it to the top of the pops.
...and so began my sleepless nights thinking about someone who was so far-fetched from the realities of who I should supposedly like. We have all these ideas of who we should end up with, who we should be attracted to – why do we put so much pressure on ourselves when at the end of the day, our heart’s the one that calls the shots?
The more time I spent with him, the more I enjoyed his company, and the more phone calls I made to my mother about our said chemistry. Of course I had my reservations. His weight predisposed him to heart disease and whatever would've happened to my sex life if he had a cardiac arrest at 40? Uhuh, I like to think of the future (which should entail a fantastic sex life along with a side of Mohammad Hanif collection).
I tried to blame my decision to date him on my late twenties. Maybe liking everybody’s honeymoon pics on facebook had got me yearning for my own coupled display picture. Though the truth was that I had finally started to realize that nobody was perfect. You have a comb over? It's ok, I have seborrheic dermatitis.
How are things with him now in our paradise cove, you ask? Well, I wouldn't have a career as a writer if I were still with him. Nothing good comes out of a happy ending. We broke up. And for good reason.
I embraced his clogged arteries and his quick witted humour, but what I couldn't get past was his archaic view on sex and consent. As amazing as he was (in bed and otherwise), he felt his right to intercourse was as and when he desired. Umm, no hombre, it don’t work like that. People don't always want sex and nobody should put out under pressure or obligation. Le sigh, our kids would’ve made for fantastic food-hoggers.
Self-realisation number umpteenth: I may not always fall for the ones who fit my check-list and I can always survive the embarrassment of dating people who don’t know their St. Kitts from their St. Nicks, but can I really survive the shame of dating someone who thinks consent is fictitious? Yeah, that would be a negative.
By Rukun K
Photography: Avijit Pathak