Dear reader,
Coffee or tea? ☕️🍵 Which one is your preference?
And, more importantly—what does your favourite cup say about you?
I am asking this very serious question after having a cup of tea from our hostel mess hall.
To be frank, it was very not-so-good tea. 😂
But then, at least some of us are lucky enough to enjoy an evening tea with some “tea.” 👀
You know what I mean. The kind that comes with stories, gossip, laughter, and a little “Did you hear what happened?” 😌☕️
Anyway, today’s discussion was: What’s your type?
I mean, in a man.
Oh, this is a women’s hostel. Please note that, if you were not smart enough to understand that from my “tea” wordplay. No misogyny and no cultural confirmation here.
Go girlies! 💅🏻
So, what’s your type?
One said Michele Morrone.
(Lord, I understand.)
Another said Sidharth Malhotra.
(Too cute. According to me.)
Yash.
(After KGF? Hmmmmmmm. Y.e.s.)
Dhanush.
Arjun Rampal.
This and that.
And then came the lists.
And lists.
And lists.
Imagine a group of women talking over one another—one voice rising above the other, nobody actually waiting for their turn, everyone suddenly becoming an expert in the extremely important field of Ideal Man Studies.
A perfect little Greek chorus. (Not so perfect).
“Rich.”
“At least rich in heart.”
“Not a mama’s boy.”
“He should have a yacht.”
“Doctor.”
“No way. A ceo. CEO.”
“Not from Bangalore.”
“Maybe a Tamil Iyer.” (For the love of curd rice..)
“A mafia.”
(So filmy. Girl, get a brain.)
“Bookish type.”
“Possessive.”
(Good Lord!!)
“Maybe a Bengali. You know, kurthi-and-specs type.”
“Someone with whom movies can be discussed.”
“Someone who doesn’t hate Taylor Swift.”
……
The list went on.
And on.
And somewhere between the yacht, the mafia, the Tamil Iyer, the Bengali in kurthi and specs, and the man who apparently must have a working knowledge of Taylor Swift—
I realised something.
I don't have a type.
No.
Let me rephrase that.
I realised that I didn't know what my type was.
And somehow, that felt much more interesting. So, after listening to all those specifications, I started thinking.
What is my type?
And perhaps I finally have an answer.
I don't think I want an intellectual who quotes Dostoevsky at breakfast and makes me feel like I am sitting for an entrance examination every time we talk.
But I don't want a fool either.
I don't need a man who knows the answer to every question. I just want one who is curious enough to keep asking questions.
I don't need someone filthy rich.
But I don't want someone who has given up on life either.
Maybe somewhere in between.
A man who is ambitious.
Not necessarily ambitious enough to own five companies, a yacht and a helicopter.
Just ambitious enough to have something he cares about. Something he wants to build. Something that makes him get up in the morning and say, I want to be better at this.
And kindness.
Definitely kindness.
Not the dramatic kind that needs an audience.
The quiet kind.
The kind that makes him speak respectfully to the waiter when nobody important is watching.
The kind that doesn't make him feel smaller when he succeeds.
The kind that lets him disagree with someone without humiliating them.
And perhaps most importantly—
someone who understands that I am a person.
An individual.
Not a possession.
Not someone's property just because I happen to love him.
I want to be able to have my own books, my own work, my own friends, my own strange little interests—and still come home to him.
I want him to understand that loving someone doesn't mean swallowing them whole.
It means giving them room to breathe.
So, yes.
If I forget where I put my spectacles for the fifth time that day, I don't want someone getting irritated and asking how a grown woman can possibly lose the same pair of glasses every single day.
I want someone who will sigh, look around the room and say,
“Again?”
And then help me find them.
Because apparently this is now a recurring family emergency.
I want someone who can sit beside me while I am completely lost inside a novel.
Not interrupt me every five minutes.
Not ask, “What are you reading?”
Not complain that I am ignoring him.
Just look at me for a second, smile because I am happy, and go back to whatever he was doing.
I think that would be enough.
Maybe I don't need diamonds.
Maybe I'd rather have a flower.
A little flower he picked from the roadside because it looked pretty and, for some inexplicable reason, made him think of me.
Something completely unnecessary.
Something completely ordinary.
Something that says,
I saw this and thought of you.
And perhaps that is what I want most.
Someone who notices.
Someone who notices when I am quiet.
When I am excited.
When I am pretending not to be upset.
When I have started talking too quickly because I am nervous.
When I am happy because I found a really good book.
When I am tired but still insisting, “No, no, I'm fine.”
Someone who knows me without trying to own me.
Someone who loves me without trying to change me into his idea of the perfect woman.
And someone who understands that sometimes I will want to dress up beautifully and sometimes I will spend an entire Sunday in an oversized T-shirt with my hair looking like it has personally declared war on civilization.
Both versions are still me.
So maybe I do have a type.
Not Michele Morrone.
Not Sidharth Malhotra.
Not Yash.
Not Dhanush.
Not the imaginary billionaire-mafia-doctor-Tamil-Iyer-Bengali-bookworm hybrid my hostel friends were trying to manufacture.
Just...
A kind man.
An ambitious man.
A respectful man.
A man who has his own life and lets me have mine.
A man who can laugh with me.
A man who doesn't make love feel like a cage.
A man who sees me as an equal and thinks, There you are. My person.
And honestly?
That sounds much harder to find than a six-pack.
So, dear reader—
perhaps I was wrong.
Maybe I do have a type.
I just don't know what he looks like.
Yet.
So..dear reader if you know a guy with above qualifications...please let me know.
Perhaps , till then I will scream *INTERNALLY * when Mr . Darcy looks at Elizabeth Bennet or Rhysand smiles..
( And if you don't understand those references… sigh. We clearly have some reading to do.)
Comments
Post a Comment