No men’s land

Where have all the men gone? As the dating pool dwindles and love and romance disappear from men’s agendas, scores of single women are finding it difficult to find Mr Right or even Mr Right Now.
Sona Bahadur analyses the malaise

I LOVE MEN. I REALLY DO. BUT 2008 was annus horribilis in my love life. I met and dated a series of dysfunctional man-boys which resulted in some less than stellar moments that chipped away at my sense of romantic justice.

The blind date set up with Mr Creative Director by a well meaning friend on a bad hair day turned out to be an exercise in mental hair tearing. He told me I was special (read lucky) because he had decided to spend the evening with me when he could be collecting an Abby and spoke ad infinitum about his many achievements. When I declined his offer to go over to his house later in the a.m., he proceeded to sing Wooden Heart to me over the phone. Sleep deprived, I decided to end this Mumbai Presley’s emotional atyachar.

Mr Model Boy began promisingly by taking me to the swankiest place in town and ordering foie gras and single malts galore. Then he jolted me out of my reverie by promptly agreeing when I offered to pick up my part of the tab. On the way home, he freaked me out by guessing (accurately) what brand and shade of lipstick I was wearing. That was the deal breaker.

Mr Screenwriter insisted we had a special connection. Mustard keen on our romance, he sent me mushy messages every two hours till I sent one back. At this point he declared he was ‘too messed’ up to continue dating. Ah, the thrill of the chase.

Male bashing is not my thing. But the dating debacles of the past year have caused me to hibernate and contemplate the oft-tortured state of modern romance. Why are so many women who are attractive, smart and funny having a problem finding Mr Right or even Mr Right Now? Look around and you’ll find scores of single beauties — Bollywood queen bee Rani Mukerji is no exception — who walk around with giant pukhraj rocks on their pointers. The growing popularity of chick lit with disgruntled protagonists — Ally, Carrie and Bridget have spawned an abundant GenNext—strengthens the view that dateable men are fast acquiring the mythic status of extra terrestrials.

So where have all the men gone? Those who are fun, sexy, smart, not always self-obsessed, and straight. Tarot card readers insist my singlehood is my karmic debt for having broken two male hearts in my previous incarnation. But horror stories from my single women friends establish that mine is not an isolated case. The malaise is endemic. An article published in The Independent informs me that speed-dating is running out of men in bars and clubs in England. All around me, men are choosing to end relationships with women ‘for no reason.’ Laura Nolan, writing on the subject, says most guys today view any relationship they can’t get out of at the ping of a text message with genuine unease. Evidently, deep-seated insecurities underlie their ‘near romantic/emotional shutdown beyond the 24/48 hour period’.

Why are men insecure? The answer lies partly in biology, explains an online feature. Since there will always be many times more sperm than eggs and consequently sperm (males) must always compete for access of those rare eggs. ‘From the greenest of algae to the most blue-blooded of aristocrats, men’s restless state hints at an endless race in which males pursue and females decide who they will pick.’ This supposedly makes them insecure.

Economics is exacerbating this inherent vulnerability. A new survey in Australia reveals that financial issues play a crucial role in men’s fear of commitment. ‘Those with little money said they would have nothing to offer a partner, have self-esteem issues and withdraw from the dating pool.’ Come to think of it, the recession probably isn’t helping anyone’s love life anywhere on the planet.Adding to the sense of doom is a recent piece of research which suggests that males of all species are becoming more female. According to a report published by the charity CHEMTrust, chemicals identified as ‘endocrine disrupters’ and referred to as ‘gender benders,’ are feminising males of every class of vertebrates from fish, hamsters and roaches to eagles, polar bears and humans.

So what’s the solution? Giving up men is not an option. Turning into a Samantha-like nympho from Sex and the City who claims it’s the age for women to do what men have always done to them seems just as unlikely. Where romance is concerned, some of us just never get used to the absence of it and live in the eternal hope of finding true love. Our tribe hangs on to romantic ideals like Don Quixote, revels in the old-school schmaltz of Casablanca and Roman Holiday, and like Bridget, won’t settle for anything ‘less than butterflies’.

Science extends hope by promising the Viagra equivalent of romance soon. Larry Young, a researcher from the Yerkes National Primate Research Center at Emory University in Atlanta, reportedly claims that when he placed a female prairie vole with a male and infused her brain with oxytocin, a hormone involved in labour, nursing and social bonding, it caused her to quickly bond with that male. Made hopeful by the altered behavior of the cute rodents, young Internet entrepreneurs are already marketing products such as Enhanced Liquid Trust, a cologne like mixture of oxytocin and pheromones designed to boost the dating and relationship area of humans.

The smorgasbord of options offered by social networking sites offers virtual comfort. Facebook’s SpeedDate service apprises me of all the new men I might be interested in — Maskeddoc, Googlix, Rawstock, Yogisalsa. While I’m unlikely to meet any of these exciting individuals, I’m seriously considering going back to Cappadocia to be with my Turkish tour guide, the only guy I truly liked and connected with in recent times.

If all else fails, there’s always writing. I could seek catharsis in a magnum opus titled Rage of the Romantics. Or take a meta-romance approach. Like one of those Kinsey research assistants, my fictional alter ego would sift through tales of love, sex, dating, marriage, perversion, longing, sexual dysfunction and death to find answers. And so, my search for signs of romantic life in the universe continues. Who knows, I might strike lucky on the moon. The lack of gravitational pull on its cratered Emmental surface could miraculously reverse the inevitable thud implied in the expression ‘fall in love’.
Float in love. Hell, yes.

Send me no flowers

Romance is just not her thing, says Shirin Mehta

Valentine’s Day arrived a few months after I got married. And, with it, an enormous bouquet of flowers from my romantically disposed spouse. Was I thrilled? Oh no! The flowers made me sad, the mood depressed and I made my hubby swear he would never send me flowers ever again. And, regretting it, he never did!

Romance is just not my thing. Put me in a garden full of blossoms and I am thrilled. Show me some gorgeous potted wonders and I feel my emotions soar. But, send me flowers only if you wish to see me blue. Blooms cut from their stems make me bleed like someone had severed a small part of my heart. Romantic gestures and memorabilia refuse to make my spirits rise, knees go weak or heart thump with joy.

I remember the day my husband proposed to me. It was all so perfect! The house (where I eventually live my married life) was bare but pretty, the music was soft, the mood intimate, when he went down on one knee, whipped a long-stemmed rose out of thin air and popped the question. The answer was a thumping yes but I wonder what happened to that proposal-rose. No, I did not preserve it in an album of memories or keep it secretly in my favourite book. It just fell away like other romantic objects in my life.

In fact, I do not possess a book of memories. Floral tributes from boyfriends, love letters from steadies, poems from college friends and cards through the ages, have all been relegated to the, dare I say it, litter ranks. Don’t get me wrong! I appreciated them all, every one of them is still etched in my memory, but do I need to save the romantic memorabilia, did I even ask for it? No!

Were I a Juliet, I would have appreciated no grand romantic gestures from my Romeo. Definitely not ones that provoked death itself. Had I lived in the days of wandering troubadours singing of love to their ladies, I would have preferred a happier topic. I certainly do not prescribe to the dropping of lace handkerchiefs by ladies to attract their beaus, the gentle art of swooning or for that matter the acquired gesture of calling forth tears at whim. These, in my opinion, are not the gentle faces of romance but rather just means to a willful end. And as for candlelight dinners, I would rather see the gourmet fare on my plate – every time!

Knot of love

Does romance leave you behind at the altar or hold you even tighter in the embrace of marriage? Sitanshi Talati-Parikh traces the transition

It’s astonishing how deeply romantic it is to tie the knot, slip on the sparkly on your ring finger, walk down the aisle with a swishy fountain of lace behind you, or take a turn at the wedding mandap with dramatic chants sung against the sacred leaping flames. At every moment, you are shivering with anticipation, thinking of that spectacular wedding night that awaits you on a bed of roses. From the moment you drag your weary stiletto-ridden feet home after ‘receiving’ your many guests, you’re ready to crash. Literally. In a fun, wine-laced conversation at a recent bachelorette party, we did a show of hands to see how many people actually consummated their marriage on their wedding nights. The handful who did put up their hands, I’m dead sure, were all cock and bull stories, no pun intended. I mean who in their right mind actually does it on the wedding night?! One chica claimed – ‘You must – I mean, just for the heck of it – you have to! It’s your wedding night, after all!’

And that’s exactly how marriages begin. And romance begins to lose its edge. You do things because you have to, not because it’s always fun or scintillating. So what happens to the calls late into the night when you curl your toes under the covers with glee, the little pecks of promise, the anticipation of meeting soon, the entwined fingers and the burning look of intensity in the eyes that sends your spine and neck tingling with sensation? They are replaced by the harried look of multitasking chores, the absent-minded, disoriented air, the brow furrowed with concentration, the distracted monosyllabic answers at the breakfast table over coffee, toast and wireless BlackBerry compote, the intense concentration of a person who has his ambitious head turned skywards straight at the stars. I remind him it could get lonely at the top.

As I plan another vacation, in memory of the bygone days of wooing, to give me a brief glimpse into the young lovers we once were, I placate myself with the thought of a new destination that allows one to forget the responsibilities of life and focus on the simple pleasures. Like enjoying each other’s company in the companionable silence of golden sands and crashing waves. He slides his hand into mine; we flash back in time. At that moment I sense that romance never left us; we left it because of our preoccupations. The young boy’s romance has matured into a man’s love – deeper and subtler. Instead of wallowing in a time warp, I realise the romance didn’t die. It just changed, adapted, grew. The candyfloss tinted glasses fell off. I wouldn’t want it any other way.

A philippic in defence of Valentine’s Day

Supriya Nair writes in appreciation of the spirit of love’s special day

I grow increasingly fond of Valentine’s Day as I age. In days past I mewled and puked in protest of the cretinous acquisition fetishes surrounding everything from dates to pink fluffy teddy bears that the day seemed specially created for. The infantilisation of young women of my age and station, the ungovernable commercialism surrounding its celebration, the heightened sexism and ageism — I could go on.

But it feels irrelevant to the spirit of the festival. To live in a world where people can die for marrying into the inappropriate community, where they are disowned for loving someone of a different caste, where they can be arrested for loving someone of the ‘wrong’ sex, where women are required to prize their social selves over the individual to an extent where they can be coerced into marriages of convenience for the sake of their families, and to complain about a day set aside to expressly celebrate the quickening of the heart and spring’s effect on the cherry trees and so on seems like too much of a burden to bear. To live in a city where greeting card shops have been forcibly shuttered, and couples rudely interrupted by the protectors of the state in their semi-public displays of affection in parks and on beaches, and feel no sympathy for their plight, is beyond me. It’s unfortunate but true, that for all our freedoms, we live in a world where love is not all you need. It’s hard to complain, beyond a point, when St. Valentine isn’t even to blame. Hallmark is. Glenn Medeiros’ music label is. Insensitive adolescents are.

I’d like to celebrate the sordid surreality of real dreams, and the shivery-burning air of mid-February. The confident but not cocky expression of appreciation. The sincerity of emotion. The language of love. And above all things, the gentle mischief and the humility of an anonymous declaration. A Valentine is no longer special because Caesar’s going to hack your head off after you dared to marry. It’s special because it’s unexpected, and so feels all the more real. It’s giving doubly by ensuring that you receive nothing in return. It’s an investment, I feel, in a better world than the one in which we live.

The Art of Getting

Luxe is where the heart is. The road to Romanceville is paved with designer wishes and limited-edition intentions, opines material girl Nisha Jhangiani

Giving is overrated; I believe in the joy of receiving. But please, none of those ‘wilt soon die soon after’ elaborate floral arrangements, or the ‘add stubborn fat on cellulite infused bottom’ liqueur chocolates. Give me stuff I can hoard – hurriedly scribbled notes that compliment my painstakingly blow-dried locks (mushy, borrowed poems and sickly sweet supermarket cards are a no-no). A couriered package of Gucci sunglasses from an overseas business jaunt. Printed signature menus on luxe stationary at a specially organised candlelit dinner at my favourite restaurant (inscribe a spontaneous message on the champagne cork. I’d like that).

Raise this bar by all means. I’m as thrilled as the next girl to be gifted a Chanel 2.55 we discovered while surfing websites together. Make an impromptu visit to their store, choose a metallic navy hue and present me with my gift-wrapped goodie (bows and all) and you’ve notched up the brownie points big time.

I’m happy to plan the holiday destinations and fax you all the information. I’ll even give you choices to suit the budget: Alibaug, Udaipur, Bali, Monaco. Your job? Just book the couple spa massages with the rose baths, order our regular television series DVDs to be stacked in advance and plan a serenaded waltz for us on our suite terrace.

Sure, I appreciate that men think gadgets and consider cell phones the ultimate gift to give. But when you push your practical gene to get me a BlackBerry just so that I can respond immediately to your often inane emails, that’s when you push the romantic envelope as well.

I admit I’m still a sucker for the rushed ‘Love you’s’ (who isn’t) or the off-tune songs hummed to me in the middle of the night. I’ll also happily snuggle in for a marathon movie session of the films we’ve wanted to watch together.

But I won’t deny the absolute truth; I will forever treasure the romance of a ‘Patek Philippe rose gold Twenty-4’ birthday surprise. And when you move work and home base closer to mine, to make my visits more convenient – now that’s when you’re really talking my love language!

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