eros stirred

Most of my friends are married. And those who remain, seem to be in a dashed hurry to do so. Infrequently, I hear faint strains of the question being posed to me. I try to smile and answer as politely as I was taught in pre-school a long, long time ago. But I am not averse to the idea. Nor do I aggressively advocate the same. But some things are best left to greater things. It's just that I feel I am still rather immature. There are a lot of things that I want to do more. Besides, there is also the small problem of finding a candidate. Preferably, willing.

I was at a day long shoot yesterday. One of my clients is a big fashion (sic) house. And hence I spend considerable amount of time at photo shoots all over the country. Most of them involve beautiful women. All of them are attractive, approachable with varying levels of intelligence. The chances of making something happen with anyone is remote. Especially by someone like me who is fidgety, insecure and has a day old fuzz. Also I am clueless about the kind of language to employ that facilitates consummation (of any kind). Not to mention, that I am allergic to, if I may, a peculiar kind of silliness, accompanied by snortish giggles, that the female of the species use to continue insipid conversation. Overall, my demeanour is the complete converse of what is known popularly, as a chick magnet.

Hence, it is safe to assume my love affairs are shortish and often leave a lot of things unsaid. I prefer to communicate my very, intense feelings with watery eyes, faint mumbles and subtle, shuffling movements of my feet. The latter I hear is a very potent and promising technique practiced by migratory birds around the world. In season, of course.

It happened yesterday as well. I was shooting with the winners of the Miss India contest. Four of the most beautiful women in the country (or so they say). And it took me all of seventeen seconds to decide who is that I love. I played up to my affection, knowing fully well that nothing is to happen. Alternating between being sweet, a listener, intelligent and talented at the same time. Mild, pathetic attempts at that. She looked interested. Though to be fair she looked interested in everyone who was having a conversation with her. But she was truly delightful and I was really attracted. The shoot ended soon after. And as she walked out with her Mum she waved goodbye and was out of my life. Probably forever.

The best part of all of this is that I envisioned the end even before I left home. The "i-will-think- of- the- worst- case- scenario- then- it- will- not- happen- to- me" theory, I have come to see doesn't hold true for me. I don't even know whether this is Murphy's fault. Or Freud's for that matter. But I do know that this is the story of my life.

And in a strange way I like it. The romantic notion that we will never meet again. Or perhaps the feeling that we will. In another time and place where talking is easier and no professional ethics are under the scanner. Or intentions. Where the laughter is not polite, but free. And where watery eyes are better heard.

In another time and place.

Peanuts by Schulz has a delightful take on love. With Charlie Brown under a tree. Life is easier with a comic book, no?