A few days ago a friend commented on one of my blog-posts, saying that it seemed to him as though I had hit a purple patch with writing! A dazzling compliment, although I sincerely doubt my worthiness of it, what with the annoyingly juvenile approach towards most of my subjects, the whiny-ness and the rather knotty manner of my writing, I thank him for his kindness. It’s true, last week saw a sudden spate of short posts covering a range of issues that was becoming too irksome for endurance and I needed to get the load off my chest. You can find the posts below.
My point is, I go through these fleeting phases of eventfulness before its time again to plunge into the horizontalness of everyday existence and I feel a dire need, an almost incontrollable push to record these events, scribble these happenings down and share them with everybody. That’s what spurs me to shoot off post after post. It’s a need. It’s addictive, and I don’t have problems writing them down in between work. It’s an old habit.
This one though, concerns a slightly different issue but an equally nudging one;
Like some of my more recent posts, this concerns an admission and yes there is no shame in this one either. It’s just another crumb of truth and I suffer little indignity in declaring that I have been single forever, yes, that I have been for merely one date, maybe two thus far. I only remember one of them as being a textbook ‘date’ as the other was conveniently christened a ‘meet-up’ (not by me). At 25 I have never had a girlfriend and neither have I been in any sort of relationship. So there!
My equation with singlehood can be best expressed as a love-hate one. I love it and hate it and sometimes both at the same time! Akin to most things that constitute my life, both are twisted with each other, mixed so inextricably that I sometimes find it difficult to evaluate if I am better off singled or mingled. My mother attributes it to my dressing sense, left to her she'd make sure I go to bed every night in a Tuxedo and wear a Sherwani at home on holidays. My little sister thinks I am too aloof and often proodish and dad thankfully never comments on such things.
Over these years many of my well meaning friends, and I say so without the slightest uncertainty or suspicion of their benevolence and well meaning-ness, have taken the trouble and attempted to hook me up with someone or the other they knew. Now to be very honest here I have never exactly seen the Devil in this. Never, really!
I mean, if you are someone, apparently, so thoroughly incapable of finding a woman for himself that his friends finally decide to take charge of things, it’s supposed to be a nice thing, right? Why then does this spoon-feeding tweak, twirl, poke and prod my conscience?
Something about it doesn’t feel right, something I can’t put a finger on…but I’ll try nonetheless.
Although, I have the audacity in claiming that my charms, if any, are perfectly functional and no matter how feeble and ineffective they may have proven on women over these years, even so much as an answered SMS or a returned smile is a tiny personal triumph. Call it what you may, I am content with it. Even though, clearly inadequate, it is what I can do with what I have been given and I hope to get better eventually.
Introducing two people with the deliberate intention of getting them to date each other is beyond embarrassing and I refuse to endorse the ‘last resort’ theory.
So, with no offence at all to anybody, I am not in favor of being hooked to someone with the purpose of getting hitched.
Even though I don’t know what it is, I have my own game going.
