Prose before hos

I need to absorb my anger, I need to grow out of blaming people for what they've put me through and instead, look outwards and onto new things. 

Resentment has defined the tonality of my relationships—nearly each important person in my life and I've had a moment of bitterness (a moment only if we're lucky) but it is transcending onto something stronger and I can feel it in my bones, burning. 

It's trauma, it's a whole pile of shit that I've balanced for far too long and everything is coming down. 

You know what's worse? It's all falling down to the tune of the least inconvenient bit, the one that is supposed to make no difference. I suppose the most silent farts are the smelliest so that's that. I'm currently in a room of rotting relationships, each worse than the last. 

My heart bleeds when I think of where I am and how I've come here but I don't know how else to be. It'd be like doing a disservice to myself if I fake being okay with things or people or circumstances. Unfortunately, it boils over when I'm PMSing so I guess we knew today was going to be a day. 

I don't know but something about being the person I was last year makes me miss myself the most. I was heartbroken and deeply sad but not angry. I was not reactive nor was I acting out of uncontrollage rage and pure hatred. I was operating from a space of tender love, care, thought and detail. 

In a year, I've traded everything for anger. I've cut relationships, some important and most trivial without a thought, I'm in process of writing others out. In the last one month I've met so many people who probably did very little to irk me in the past and it made me realise how my anger got the better of me then to cut myself out and hideout. Today, when I look back at them, I see what I'm doing, but the best part is, I'm unable to stop myself. It's like participating in arson when you're in a burning house yourself. Let me burn some sage, why not keep myself warm in the midst of fire— like I can see I'm self-destructive and yet I'm on it.

This morning, I was burning with seething passion and trying my best to keep it in. I don't even know why, but I think this journey will last me a lifetime, everything I experienced through the 1.5 hour ride. Not a moment of it felt normal. Everything felt stretched and loud and I would wipe the whole experience if I could but I lived with it and everything reminded me of a time from last year that I wouldn't want to be in. 

It's a loop, I get angry when I reach out and I don't get the response I am expecting, I cut people, I self isolate, I get angry when people reach out and I don't give the response people deserve and then I self-isolate out of hatred to myself. I lose in both scenarios, except in one I drive myself to anger and in the other to insanity. 

I need to whack my uterus out of my body so I can feel like myself but I guess it'll take it's time. How many good fertile years do I even have in me now? 10 at best? Do I have to nurture this rage until then? I'll lose my whole fucking mind. 

Anyway, the bloat and the medicines might kill me before so either way, it's an angry road to hell and I'm running to it. 

I've never had a visceral reaction as bad as I did this evening; my friends sat down and went over in circles, "Kothey, Chicken 65, Rice Beer...and?" And, I burst out crying. 

"I'm really fucking sad, I'm PMSing," I said while being really overwhelmed. Truth be told, I was more upset about no reception and that I'm on my fifth consecutive week without meeting the boy. There is relationship drama, there are arguments and fights, all without the pulp of the relationship. My sister used me as a crux, earlier today, to advance a line of thought with my parents on some parental boundary she is intending to cross. "If she can do it, why can't I?"

Truth is, I've done nothing with nobody. I've just wasted my time, man. 

I was crying because I didn't have it in me to make another decision. My phone managed to catch a bar and I got two images for two different cakes, with a "this" or "that" question. Once again, in the span of 15 minutes, my expertise was solicited, on an issue where I didn't know any better than those asking me. 

"I thought you hated answering these or making these decisions" my friend (who cannot be named) emphasised this earlier today when I said how I'm the go-to person for everyone on food picking during dinners outside. She's always seen through me, even when I try my best to give a hazy version of the truth. Perhaps that's why I love hanging out with her. She sees through me and calls me out. "No..." I kept at it except she reminded me how I told her I hate it even the last time we hung out, which was not too long ago. "I do it so I don't get fed badly and the only thing worse than bad food is being picked for you."

That's why I'm trusted. 

PMS, man, how is it still fucking bothering me so many years into living with it? I feel like my whole life is falling apart minute by minute. A friend quit her job and told me about it today and for the first time in days I felt alive. I came back to life hearing about it from her, how she was wronged, how terribly they treated her and she finally took things in her hands and walked out. The walk of liberation is like music to my ears. I woke up at 7 am today and kept tossing in my bed. Do I need to quit? Do I need to walk out of this thing? Is it my job? Is it him? Is it me? I've been ghosting everyone. I need to see my therapist but I am ghosting her too. Truth be told, she's ghosting me as well. We are all ghosting each other. 

A few days back, the guy and I ghosted each other. In all fairness, we've been having solid issues. If I could put a finger to it, I'd scratch and tell you exactly why. Except, in my PMS addled brain, I keep scratching and the pain keeps increasing. He keeps telling me, "You think the worst about me" and I've heard six different iterations of the same line, which fall between the spectrum of "dopey-cute" description of my batshit behaviour to straight up all caps line of questioning "ARE YOU FUCKING HIGH?", "NO I DO NOT DRINK OR SMOKE YOU KNOW THAT", "Except when you're in Bangkok". He knows me, shit. 

I don't know him. I told him we are penpals but he doesn't do much writing. He doesn't do any remembering either so he's a safe vault for secrets. I have told him about the man who broke my heart over three times and he swears he's never heard of this guy. He doesn't remember my house, nor the street on which I live. He only remembers my wrath and how I think the worst of him. He thinks it's strange that I know nothing about him. Even when I ask him, he doesn't answer and keeps it vague and yet he thinks I'm thinking the worst of him and "it's like you don't know me". It's your job to tell me, but you won't so how would I ever keep up? I feel he hates me. This morning I kept tossing under the fan. Maybe he really dislikes me, there's no other reason why he wouldn't see me. It's a little bit like my ex. You want to keep me around for my benefits because my concept is great but my execution is now something you want to sign up. 

Earlier today, I saw three kids (aged 7-8), walk on her arms and feet, like crawl on the road and run towards us while there was a power-cut and we were looking to get seated to eat. These kids legitimately frightened us with the Exorcism style movement and no electricity didn't help either. In darkness, shadows appear terrifying than the sense of reality and I think I have been feeling a sense of dread, gloom and sadness because I don't know any better. I know nothing about this man. He doesn't see me nor tells me and when I ask questions he gets mad at me. It's like watching kids walk on their arms. You don't know what's coming and as much as I trust him, I feel the safety net shifting. 

"Do you want this to be serious?"

"I just want us to sleep with each other."

I used to pray at the alter of success, but now I settle for used wet-tissues discarded by others like me. The ones who made it. I'm happy for them, I really am. If the girl who started this page at 15 met herself in the present day, she'd be aghast at the person she's become but we all settle. I had to settle as well. 

I have cribbed, cried, thrown tantrums, fought with the universe, made up, tried to make up and repair this broken relationship I have with fate, and then become hopeless. Sometimes I wonder if this resilience came to me with the second lease of life. Fighting for your life can be a lesson for a life, I suppose that's a success metric nobody can take from me. Covid - 0, Me - 1. 

He should consider himself lucky that he's cute. It's the era of KillaTrav himbos and mine fits snug like a rug in that template. 

It's too cold to do anything except acknowledge how cold it is. Mentally, I'm done with the winter but physically it's only just begun. Each day is worse than the last with physical aches and matters of the heart all rising to bite you together in the ass. I can feel the tart salad aftertaste despite covering it up with fluoride. I need to see a dentist, probably more than I need to see my friends but I've made no effort to see the former. 

What is my plan for the next 10 days? Idk, rotting in bed, reading, gaming, catching up on TV, meeting friends who are in town and definitely trying to find some time to unwind for me, clean my room, to workout strong and find time to help my heart feel at home. It's been displaced, it gets displaced. 

I don't think the marker of being rich is having an Apple ecosystem. Sure, at 15 that was my definition and at 21, I was it-girl. I had an iPad, a MacBook, a video iPod and basically iPhone hadn't come out or something so I was essentially there and it didn't make me feel any different. It's like a face-card but only you buy it which doesn't make it that special at the end of the day. 

Today, I can walk out feeling smug af without an Apply ecosystem. Sometimes when I look at myself, I'm the realised vision I had on a mental mood board for myself at 15, probably here on this page. Never articulated but always aspirational. I seek and I get, not without the hard work and/or the effort but definitely, there's a way towards the will but more than anything, it's not come easy. The road was paved with ten years of effort. I recently shared that ten-year glow-up photograph with a man who has no context to my life. He validated that image with an emoji. If he knew, he'd straight up push for a national award or something. 

Would you ever lose a game to someone you love? Fuck, would you ever lose a game to someone you're into and/or dating? I wouldn't know. I hadn't encountered that situation at the time. Today, if anything, understanding how someone treats you and reacts to you during a game is critical because it gives me an insight into the person that you are. 

On Waterloo Bridge I am trying to think:

This is nothing. you’re high on the charm and the drink.

But the juke-box inside me is playing a song

That says something different. And when was it wrong?

- Wendy Cope

In the last 24 hours, I found myself be at two whole, different dates, both of which were unplanned and completely effortless for both the parties involved.

The only surprising thing in the aforementioned statement is the usage of the word 'date'; which is no longer in circulation in day to day business.

Which is to say, while I've been out quite a few times this year, and didn't think anything about it. In most circumstances, it didn't qualify to be labelled anything at all. Nobody wants to be weighed down heavy with the burden of seeking answers to banal questions and putting labels. Is this a date? Are we on a date?

Then something changed. I'd be lying if I said I know what, but I found myself on the first date of the year last weekend. Followed by the second date of the year (this morning) and the third (this evening).

Incase you're curious, they're all with different people. Yes, I worry about it, about myself.

The date itself should be a regimented activity. M's friend, J in the UK explained her idea to me,
"It should be no longer than 90 minutes if that's your first date and he should definitely get the cheque. He took 90 minutes of your life and nothing will ever get that back."

The clairvoyance she has is worth writing about; clearly, the 90-minute strategy allows you to understand if the date is worth seeing again. J's philosophy is the reason I loosened up slightly about the whole clearing the tab situations on a 'date'. As a rule of thumb, I don't offer to split or take the tab now especially if I sense the other person's wasted my time. You only gain such wisdom after you spend an hour in a queue with friends of friends to get inside a pub in London on a Friday night.

Coming to my three dates, I found one worth writing multiple hate posts about, while others totally forgettable and then some, the kind who wraps a 3:50 am date with a 4:45 am text 'I had fun'.

Likewise.

I think my only real contribution in this decade insofar as growth is concerned has been going label-less and being okay with it and finally coming back to realizing no, I'm not.

I used to compartmentalize 'dating' vs 'hanging out' vs 'going out' vs 'platonic hanging' vs 'chilling' quite anally until I decided to fuck that shit since everyone was uncomfortable with the usage of the term 'dating'. Where do you start and where do you end?

That is exactly where I stopped labelling this act as going on a 'date'. I dropped 'date' a little over a year ago and it just became the verb, 'I'm going to meet...'

This duration was marred with people questioning me about my previous 'dates' a lot more than ever.
I recall some months ago, I was questioned by the Ice Prince on account of whether I had a scene with a friend, often listed on this page. The scene is another clusterfuck term that weighs heavy but is a close synonym to the dating term. Again, it involves a spectrum from going out innocently a few times to cardio in bed. One doesn't know but at the same time does know that the people involved in such a scene have a mutual understanding of what they want and how they are getting that from one another.

I found it odd that he framed the question that way. I explained that we did go out on dates, but there was no scene at all. If anything, it was a blink-and-you-miss appearance for a hot minute. We had indulged in the physical act of going out for a film, a gig, coffee, drives, etc but that was about the extent of our 'scene'.
I don't know to what extent the Ice Prince was convinced but we can fuck him and his curiosity for the time being.

At this point in my life, my standard response or understanding of courting people (a clinical term that encompasses these wretched labels) was all expressed under one term, 'going out'. It could be long term going or literally an evening long going out. The innocence and the versatility of the statement resonated with me and it became a regular thing. Sure, I use the term 'my date' loosely but it doesn't describe the act of 'dating' them. Dating and date are not mutually exclusive. You can't call someone your partner if you're casually seeing someone but you can call them your date. Confusing for one and all but simple for those who deal with more situationships than 10 seasons of Keeping up with the Kardashians has seen.

Until last night, outside Kumon building, my 'date' had parked his car and we exchanged notes on what brought the two of us to make the 'date' happen.

For him, he found my effort of throwing out of the blue 'do you ever plan to meet me?' endearing. I proceeded to tell him about the circumstances that lead me to take that brash step. I won't get into the details here, but for the most part, it involved day drinking. For the rest, some tales are best unwritten.

"No wonder you just took that initiative. That's why you set this date up!"

I'm certain my ears went red. Nobody, in a long, long time has used the dreaded dating term around me for anything.

The thing is, I should have seen it coming but I did not.
Earlier in the course of the drive, we had talked about his old 'dates' and he told me all about them, some with fondness and some just nonchalantly. I have been discounting myself from the label to make myself believe, I'm not dating and naturally, I did not imagine anyone being the next in line in terms of talking about 'us'.

Again, my double standards have no limit and this is a great example- we went on a drive, stopped for a snack and a cloud of smoke- all of it is a date-ish but years ago when I another person- who chilled with me in his car and we bonded over a warm beverage- was not a date. I think that has to do with how much fun I had with the person, but it doesn't solve my problem.

I think I was a bit queasy with the usage because I wanted to go out as long as I could without using the word, 'on a date' and making things real.

You can always move on faster, than your ex who you're still in love with, if you don't make things real. Everything in life fucks up the minute you make things real and talk about it. I'd much rather keep it bottled than to tell someone, 'hey, I think you're hot and we should go out.'

Instead, I limit my suggestive statement to, "Do you ever idk like want to meet?"

Using the term 'dating' is making things real and if this decade has truly taught us anything it is that we're all always seeking someone/something better than what we have. This is my one true outtake for specimens across Indian males and females seeking one another. You guys might be with your soulmate but are always in a sense of what's better and how far is it. The only people I'm willing to discount from this theory are all Marie Kondo worshippers. Bloody minimalists is the "Dude they're nihilists" of 2019.

I think it's a good space to be when you can loosely use these terms as per your convenience, much like how my double standards and I have been doing. Earlier today, the act of 'going out' ended in a handshake and suffice to say, it didn't qualify as 'date' cause there was nothing date-like about someone who called himself a 'boring kind of person' (yawn) to my face out loud for Pete's sake.



Can we all ban handshakes when we all go out? Please?
We're a month short of 2020 and even clients hug you if you've done semi-decent job. Contrary to what the Beatles said, nobody wants to hold your hand. Not unless it's caressing you while you're making out. Which is something you don't do when you're on a date? I mean, isn't the whole point of distinguishing a date from the act of 'going out' the very essence of these two sides of the same coin?

You do what people on dates do, you grab a fucking drink or two, have a meal and look exceptionally nice and if you're lucky the guy/girl on the other side has some put some effort, enough to resemble a blind Sunday school teacher and that is worth working around that label.

I'm going to hell, aren't I?

On a side note, I accidentally gave a 2:38 am missed call to the 'date' from last night while trying to see the exact message I sent out to type on this post so now you'll find me moving cities and changing identities as a whole. 

"I'm hormonal and sick and fat and want to quit my job right this minute."
"Let's get a drink?"

I get done sending these texts to BoDa, Gurugram's answer to grumpy Yoda, and keep my phone down as soon as I hear my name being called from two directions. Can I Whatsapp images instead of emailing them? Can I also upload the same graphic meant for a cell phone screen to upload in 1x1 square frame on five different Instagram handles our workplace is running?

Why the fuck not.

BoDa calls me back in under four minutes, a delay from his standard under-two-minute rule of receiving texts that he deems to not address in the written word.

"...listen, the other day I had this girl over...someone I'd been texting and you know it was fine, okay. We're chilling at my place, she's got a drink, she gets up and puts some music on and comes and sits close to me. Next, she whispers in my ear, Do you want to dain-se? and I ask her "What?"

"Wait a minute, what did she say?"

"She said dain-se. Do you want to dain-se? I even asked her again but she said the same thing. I gave her the benefit of doubt. Do you think I've high standards? Is that the reason I can't date?"

At this point, I'd heard my name being called thrice from three different directions. BoDa, that bastard, has more dates in a month despite the arm candies he lands up with from time to time. Naturally, I ignore all the rest of them at work calling my name out and get up from my chair. This was getting interesting. BoDa's radar at an all-time low meant my priorities to this conversation had to be re-arranged.

"WHY DID YOU HAVE TO CALL HER OVER? WHY ARE YOU DOWN TO OUR LEVEL? DATING IS FUCKING HARD AND YOU RUINED YOUR SHOT AT THAT. YOU KNOW WHAT DO I HAVE TO MAKE DO WITH? MOPING ABOUT THAT MAN WITH DISPROPORTIONATE CALVES AND BODY. Look, there's nothi--hello? Hello?"

Motherfucking reception.

What is it about single people and their invisible yardstick of obnoxious, tight-assed standard that always remains far too high for other hot singles in the area to match? Is it the obvious stick up their arse that prevents them from taking a shine on others? Is it because they're floating in the ether to look down upon mortals who make themselves vulnerable around others? Is it because they would much rather prefer dying of loneliness than being with someone who can't pronounce dance?

The case has been going on for far too long.

Strangely enough, I've been looked at purposefully by people as someone who has things to say. By default, anyone who is single has things to say. I can pitch multiple pieces as to why I'm a great fit at this.

Been single for a little over 26 years and counting, I can count the number of heartbreaks I've had caused by men on a single hand. However, the number of heartbreaks caused by me in my own head (including mispronunciation of words, bad grammar, bad punctuation, no punctuation, bad breath, disproportionate calves to body ratio, belief in astrological rings, lisp, bad hair, no hair, grey hair, girlfriend, wife, bad human are some of the examples) is a little too high and the list, far too long.

A couple of nights ago, I was bantering with an acquaintance who I had the pleasure of matching with on a dating app about two years ago. We found each other at several Delhi do's and ultimately stopped feigning ignorance after I vomitted one too many times at his place during a house party he was kind enough to host to ring in a friend's big thirtieth birthday. The guy is every bit loony and delightful, a charmer and a total keeper. Last week, he shared a screenshot with me. This girl made a plan with him, to call it off fifteen minutes later and in the next fifteen block him out. This girl apparently only dates academics or oncologists.

newsflash- he's neither.

That was her selling point to him. "Hey, I can maybe date you despite you not being at my level."

I don't know the man very well and I definitely don't know the woman but man, you can't throw your weight around like this if you're in the wrong side of 20s in Delhi.

What used to be my standard to go out is now just a filter of the past. Is he an asshole? Okay fine, don't mind. Is he a sexual predator? Okay, I do mind.

What my committed friends don't get is that the market is dry. There's nobody left. The good ones are taken. The idiots are taken. Bad breath holders are also taken.

The ones who are left are all those of us who overthink. Who waste time on details. Those who unmatch the minute someone says "Hey!" because no matter how single and lonely I get, no great dating story begins with a bloody "hey".

The only "hey" that works in this world is for fucking horses. "Hey" by default is not for human consumption.

 If you skip past the bloody hey, it's not as if the battle is won. The standards continue to torment.

If he/she's needier than you- which is to say- shows the need to be with you, your own snooty self will dump his/her ass because how dare someone show vulnerability to you when you're praying to all agnostic gods together to hide your vulnerable, lonely ass infront of everyone you know at the restaurant, including the server who's now seen you come in with eight different men in the last quarter of this year.

That monologue has been me for the last one month. Minus a few details here and there, but it's true.

I can't get myself to date people who like me. I can't get myself to date people who don't like. I can't get myself to date people who can't type properly. I can't get myself to date those who can type (because the ones who can write put together an exquisite heartbreak- like no other).

What I'm trying to say in this convoluted, verbose, giant piece of turd like writing is that there's no hope for those of us who read this and can identify with the shit I have said.

If you don't identify with this, consider yourself saved and visit a church/temple to celebrate the same.

As for the rest of us, I'm going to hope for men to rain in every hallelujah I say.

It's not raining cats and dogs. It's definitely raining inappropriate men. Hallelujah.

Years ago, on the morning of a Math exam, I'd picked a fight with my mom. Maybe, it's my mother who picked the fight.

Your guess is as good as mine.

It probably had to do with food. I am convinced there would be no other reason.
By food, I mean forcing milk down my throat. The terrible association I have with school begins with milk. Being forced to chug a glass every morning. A large, steel tumbler, filled till the brim. The taste of milk reminds me of the drudgery that school was.

My grandmother tried making it better by adding tea leaves, and sugar (definitely, a lot more than I needed). This deception often lead to crying, and progressed to throwing fits of anger towards my years as an angst-y teenagers.

Which angst-y teenager began their day drinking milk? Not the kind who'd listen to Nirvana and feel oh, so smug.

I digress, but I vaguely remember this episode. I must have been 7-8 years old. Why I assume this age is because after that, I never quite understood math.

Morning of the math exam; rage of fit over milk. Before stepping out, my mother's last words to me -

"Have a bad day."

I recall, I aced that exam.

Since then, I insisted that my mother wish me a "bad day" before every exam I knew I was going to fail.

Over time, I think it stopped working because despite our best efforts to pass, I continued to fail those exams. In this time, I forgot about this "bad day" episode, rather the details of it.

Years later, instant re-collection happened.

I'm in the office. Inspired by the pep talk of a 21 year old intern on how I should confront and call out the bullshit, I make up my mind to do the same with someone I'd been seeing briefly.

I took the plunge. A few minutes in, his sincerity turned to shamelessness. I called the bullshit out again. In response, I was told -

"Have a good day."

"I will. Thanks."

And so, I did. I had a day I deserved.
No amount of disgust in both those wishes could stop me from having a great fucking day, on both the occasions.

“Are we over Cold yet?”

Unexpected text lit up my phone screen and made me vomit just a little bit in my stomach. My infatuation towards Cold (a name just as apt as his response to most of my advances) was taking a toll on all my friends and family. The fact is, Cold and I have been having a bit of a hot-cold time ourselves in the last couple of months. For a fortnight now, I had been really thinking of shaking things up and moving forward. There was nothing more left to pursue in this push and pull for me. I have been emotionally drained, after having invested in a slab of stone for what seemed like eternity.

“Why, do you have someone to distract me?”

“What happened to *****?”

I was half hoping for the individual to answer in, "Yeah man, met someone great at this party last night and I really think you should meet him."

Instead, I was evading a conversation that would be headlined as something like this- Serial dater gets conned into snogging by a professional PUA

"Yeah well, he was a pick up artist so nothing is happening there."

"What, how do you know? :O"

I asked the said person to reconvene after dinner so I could fill her in.

When I flew to Thailand in September, I carried along a book instead of my staple magazine. Been on my reading list for long, Dave Besseling's Laid In India was perfect in my mind, for a breezy beach read and it ended up being everything I didn't anticipate for it to be. The book is an observational telling of Sid Malhotra (name changed, naturally), who claims to be India's number 1 pick up artist (PUA). I was expecting a list of tricks up the sleeve of the pick up artist and read more on the author's personal pick up stories and what became of them, a la fiction. Instead, missing on the AI sheet information cost me a bit. I read 3/4 of the book and promised myself to return to it before the year ends. That book deserved my bedroom way more than the carry forward hotel room reading.

The book did return, albeit in a manner I did not anticipate. My view to remembering it was IIT gate through a haze of fog. SDA market never fails to make less than an impression. My beau, arm in arm, a yummy 30 something who was more into me than I've ever been into anyone, including Cold.

Let me just take a minute and address this man. He was a total 10/10. The kind I never swipe right to, and least of all go out with. I settle for an easy 7 because they put in some effort in the conversation, they're usually funny/cocky and make up for the perfect 10 by being witty, if not perfectly alright to take that forward to date 2.

However, this man, ***** was everything I'm not used to. He was an easy six feet something, toothpaste advertisement smile and outfit straight out of Karl's notebook on how to be effortlessly chic for a date. When I complimented him on the same, he just brushed his shoulder and said,

"I like to be comfortable. This was really comfortable. I didn't quite put it together."

The man could tell me he's Charles Sobhraj's cousin and I would buy it off his perfectly symmetrical face. This is why, ladies and gentlemen, I skip the 10 and head towards the 6 and the 7. They don't have this effect on anyone. His stubble was well maintained and saying anything more would mean an awkward family conversation in 48 hours.

If Nicolas Simoes and Milind Soman ever get to make a baby, that man would grow up and look like my date from the evening. Yes.

Blame me, for I couldn't resist the company of ***** and all his lies that he conveyed staring deep in my eyes.

We had met for the first time after a brief conversation. Yet the entire evening in his company had been poetic in every verse of time. Minus a few misplaced rhyme schemes (more on this, later), this man seemed to be hitting every note right and placing every punctuation just as delicately as he had wrapped his arms around me.

Wait, what?

First dates are either awkward or cocky and hilarious. Never the one to have had a cosy evening with intertwined arms (let's say you're my mother and you're reading this- stop right here) that ends with heavy petting in public sight.

What the actual fuck happened?

Believe me when I say this, it had the making of this man not getting a response from me but within 20 minutes of brief interaction, I parted with my number pretty willingly. That's standard now, since you can block them later. I didn't realize that in 2017, this is still referred to as "closing interaction-1".

We spoke briefly on the phone, for what was half an hour. It was like how a conversation with an old friend rolls, very comfortable, nothing out of place yet every bit intimate. "Closing interaction-2" check.

"I think sex is a very serious thing. I'd like to think of myself in a pensive relationship before I can get out there and sleep with someone." to "You know Amour? The manager cornered me when I left the ladies washroom after a quickie. He knew what we were upto. It was so thrilling!"

Not sure, if that was the re-telling of a pick up artist or my very serious, mature and hot af date.

To be honest, there are times you let your thinking capacity die despite it working overtime. That evening was one of those from the calendar. While I was very sure about something being off, my head couldn't pin point to what exactly. It especially stopped working after we hit "escalation ladder of kino-closing" me into this man's arms. That's as much juice you're going to get from this year end drama.

It was in that moment, I cursed myself while staring into the abyss and thought, I wish I had finished that book. This man is just as smooth as that pick up artist I read about.



"So while I was telling Anid about him, I said that all his transitions were seamless. He was so confident and so smooth, it didn't seem out of place. Not inappropriate and certainly not forced."

"Yeah, just goes on to prove that you're as human as anyone and no matter how hard you try, you can't resist."

"No, it doesn't. It could have ended up in the washroom like the Amour tell tale but that didn't happen because I wasn't human enough." something I could only think of and not muster the courage to say, as I realized the person I was speaking to, is also a pick up artist.

"Wait a minute, you have the same MO. Are you...?"

"Haha what do you think I was doing all this while. You're a tough nut to crack."

Shit.

The said friend didn't manage to nail me down for a bunch of logistical and other reasons, including wanting to have me as a friend.

"The number one rule of pick up game is, you fuck off right after. There's no contact to be established and I obviously didn't want that to happen between us."

Suck my dick, everyone whoever said "dick is everything. Chemistry, nothing".

It was after this conversation last night that I learned a few things about myself including, and not limited to-

1) I'm just as gullible as the newbie who just joined work at 22 is lucky enough to have never experienced a "heartbreak".
2) Pick up artists exist in 2017 regardless of Tinder being a commonplace to find love or lust and anything in between.
3) Your friends could be "negging", "peacocking", "kino-closing" women/men right under your nose and you'd have no idea. I also suggest looking these terms up.
4) When they say, "you've no game" they don't necessarily mean board game or online game. They mean the Game by Neil Strauss.
5) My brain works 9/10 times. The 1 time it didn't work, I felt just as foolish as Khurana at the end of Khosla ka Ghosla.

While I'd love to clinically describe the making of a pick up artist, the Game, the signs that you're being played successfully by a pick up artist etc, I don't want to give you ideas to try this out. I've been told it makes people feel good but if you're anything like me, you'd feel like shit at the end knowing you're a temporary mark up in a game, and nothing more.

As for my hot date, grapes might totally be sour but the man could do with learning about conjunctions. His perfect teeth won't take him very far in the Delhi circuit.

Meanwhile, if you're into dating, or are a single woman/man lurking around and stumbled upon this piece, I highly recommend doing some reading on the pick up artists, on the terms listed above and definitely reading a book or two on it. I've re-read my copy of Laid in India cover to cover, twice since, and possibly read every possible link on the internet on the subject. While my resistance to believe that, "This CAN'T happen to me" remains just as strong as it did when I was in Thailand, I would like for you to be adequately prepared before you meet one or more of these people out there.

They might have no ill intentions but I am not the one who likes being played. That said, I'd like to leave my date from last night a little more than the lingering fragrance of No. 5 on him. An impression of my knucles on his face, perhaps. 

"Tinder has ruined this generation", piped Xenia as she changed her car gear. She says that with empathy, knowing very well that it's all that I am doing in the eternal pursuit of finding a distraction worthy enough to blend in comfortably with my hobbies.

We're on a road that I've possibly never seen, and sure as hell never been sober while traveling on it, that she insists on calling "home".

"Ghar aa gaye yaar ab to", she says and switches her hand from the gear to her phone and turns off the GPS. "I know the way from here". I'd be lying if I said I had any idea where we were at. Apparently, it was just off Khan Market.

I am tempted to ask her, how's she so clairvoyant about life, things and certainly the direction in which that car (and our lives) are headed but I focus on the road and try to think if I've been there before.

"How did you meet him?"

She's on her way to meet the man she's dating. It's been five months since they first got together, a quickie after a family dinner that resulted into this. Truth be told, she timed the stint for no longer than a month.

It's a little after 6 pm and she's been kind enough to offer to me to drop home. Strike that, I requested her to drop me midway. I could do with a familiar face and some conversation, my cooling off period from a wild weekend that involved meeting over hundred odd people.

Xenia went to an acquaintance's house party with one of her party friends. Party friends are the kind of people you take with you to parties because they're fun as hell and know how to have a great time, In the people Pyramid, they are the opposite of awkward friends who you chill with on a Saturday night in the guise of playing Scrabble.

He happened to be there and knew a few odd people, exactly like Xenia. Both of them had nobody in common, yet they caught each other's eye. They talked for fifteen minutes, exchanged numbers and got around talking on the phone later. He tried meeting her for date but she was a bit too skeptical about seeing a guy who she had no idea about.

"He showed up for fifteen minutes and..."

"The rest as they say is history?"

"Exactly."

Got me thinking, when was the last time I saw anyone for the first time who I didn't meet off Tinder. Easy enough, it was last night and I harassed him to play Taboo with us. Poor guy, he looked traumatized each time it was his turn to go and perform. By the end of the evening, I could tell he's never showing up as a plus one with anyone for atleast a week.

To make matters worse, I got his name wrong for most part of the evening.

I don't seem to understand why we as a collective generation in this city are sucking at making an impression. This includes me, probably on top of the list. I can blame myself for being out of practice, for resigning myself to meeting the same people (when I do) at a familiar space and never venturing out of it. I'm an old soul and I've made peace with this amount of fun. I don't need more to have a rockingggg timeeeee!

Can I blame Tinder? Maybe.
Do I blame other people. For sure.

There's no space, opportunity or the safety to make these impressions and be at the receiving end of it. Call me a hypochondriac and blame me for pointing my finger out but even if I want to be at the receiving end of this, I'm too terrified to step out and do it. Earlier today, a bunch of us were at this upmarket hotel, attending an upmarket sundowner bazaar of sorts. I had a Bratwurst to tend to while the rest of the girls were down with a drink and a smoke. We had huddled in a corner when one of us looked up at a man who had passed us.

"He groped me" she looked shell shocked.

"Did you see it?" she asked us all. Only one of us had, and that took close to 45 seconds for any one of us to come down to a reaction. Rage.

We were all too stunned to react, to move and to challenge him to asking why or how dare he walk into her space and do that.

At some point, the guy had the nerve to return back to the spot. This time, she confronted him. He had mud all over his face and on his clothes. Xenia speculated, "He's drunk out of his mind", almost as if it's an excuse to let him be. To be honest, I'd have said the same if I hadn't lived this horror with her.

The girl who had been groped wasn't going to step back. She asked him why he did what he did, after calling him out from a distance. He calmly walked to us, started talking, as if we are old friends with the man. Asked us if the bazaar was going to be on tomorrow as well.

"Can you please leave us alone. You're in our space.", Xenia and another friend added assertively.

He continued to stay.

By this time, the girl who had been groped repeated the same and added, "We'll have to call the security".

Unfazed.

In a gathering of over thousands of Delhi and expat elite, this man had the nerve to grope a friend, overstay his welcome when five of us had huddled together right in the center of things, a lawn, with complete security.

I was quiet all throughout. Too stunned to react, almost as if I relived what went down with me a year ago in a supposed friend's car. While this was on, I saw a guard walk by and rushed to him. By the time I alerted him to the situation, the culprit lost his last nerve and ran in the crowd to blend with them and escaped us all.

This, ladies and gentlemen, happened a few hours ago today. Xenia was driving me because I thought it's safe to get the hell out of the place with someone I know, to as far as I can go, without allowing myself to share a space with an unknown man. That's Delhi for you. That's Delhi for me.



I stay in what qualifies as a highbrow neighbourhood with the best of market, pubs, lounges etc just a few meters away. If I truly want, I just need to step out. Dressed well, in clear make up and dewy skin, all I need to bring is my face, to make a long lasting impression. One Green Apple Shisha and a few beers in, I can clack my heels around and eye fuck men who probably can't differentiate between "your" and "you're". They'll be just as receptive and we can possibly exchange numbers and take this forward.

However, there's a reason my standards don't allow me to succumb to drawing the attention of men who use multiple exclamations as a substitute to a question mark. There's a reason my pickup line (100% original) continues to be, "Would you like to punctuate me?"

I digress, but I am a pissant when it comes to men and more often than not, my patience doesn't allow me to go out of my way and allow someone to make an impression. More often than not, it's their demeanour which gets to me. This man could have approached us politely for a conversation, instead, brushing and feeling up a friend's arse is hardly the way to go about it. While I understand, a misplaced punctuation in a post party text is all it takes to get my head out of the person's text window (that's what she said?), this behaviour is not how you take things forward with anyone.

What I'm badly trying to explain is that, as a city, Delhi has failed to give me spots to meet anyone IRL and take things forward organically. The apps that are there can only serve a limited purpose, if you're in for a quickie and have balls the size of King Solomon to allow a stranger to do you and you do back. I admit, I'm a prude. I like things the old fashioned way, where you do meet the person in a setting unfamiliar and both of you are just as out of character as the orange flavoured vodka you're offered. There are things to talk about, there's stuff to look out for.

However, the city we are at offers nothing. It doesn't offer opportunities, it doesn't offer safe space and sure as hell, doesn't offer men who you can trust.

Everytime I am in half a mind to meet a guy off a dating app, my friends closely vet and bring to a no. Their judgement, as harsh as it maybe, keeps things relatively safe.

However, to what extent?

Does one stop stepping out altogether? Grow old in the eternal hope that someone bumps into you while you're buying groceries at the nearest General Store and hopefully doesn't brush their hand up your ass and punctuates their text properly?

I'm onto you.