Cerebral Ramblings

I will confess, the being referred to in the title above has often been a subject of discussion on my blog — and this is evidence of my fascination with the Godaya and its habits and customs, purely on the basis of scientific observation. Just to clarify, I use the word Godaya, loosely. Within the context of my dramatic ranting, the term means an uncultured boy who is highly socially inept particularly with women and, almost always, he – baffling as it may seem to him – is the cause of much nuisance to members of the fairer sex, as he approaches them with his tactless and brusque forwardness.

Having encountered many members of this sect in my life, although naturally repulsed I have always been infinitely curious as to what it is that goes on in the mind of the Godaya that causes him to behave like such a floundering buffoon. And having thus gotten acquainted with a couple of them of the Delhi variety recently, as opposed to exercising the usual rebuff of disgust on the poor impotent things, I decided instead with patience to draw them out through a social experiment (a tale for another day) in order to gauge the mind of the Godaya. I’ve discovered I tend to experience pity and love for deformed creatures, in both animal and human form, and so I have to concede that I felt some of this for these fellows during my experiment as they are quite monstrously deformed in the social sense.

And so here is my thesis after my study, in the form of pseudo-autobiographical prose. It is of an average Godaya based on stories of several. I have made this delivery quite coherent for the benefit of the interested reader whose eyes brighten at the prospect of delving into the mind of these social rejects, but let that not fool you into assuming the habitual language of the Godaya is at all so. In no way with this piece do I condone Goday behaviour but this is merely an attempt to see the world through his eyes, to psychologize his condition.
Furthermore, shouldn’t I make a habit of blogging in legal language like this? It makes me sound so fucking cool.

I am an uncultured man. Or so is the claim of the women I have approached and been rejected by; that is to say, all of them. I am nearing 25 years of age and have completed my bachelor’s degree in marketing or commerce or accounts or something that’ll guarantee me a desk job though I have not the slightest genuine interest in the subject. I have had very little contact with women throughout my adolescence and teenage life, and everywhere I go now, I have my brothers with me – my best friends – most from school, who share completely my sentiments and interests.

What, then, are my interests?

Well, dear reader, I will tell you, but do not judge me harshly. For like one has an interest in the arts or an interest in the sciences, my interest too, is a valid one as it strikes a chord so deep in me that it consumes my time and thought almost whole. The movies and music I listen to revolve around this central interest, and books? Well I do not read them, unless they have pictures, and that too preferably of something captivating to my senses such as motorbikes or buxom ladies. 

But I digress. My only genuine interest is to find true love, and oh how I have searched, reader! Do not think me stupid, no, I have a brain and it works well I will add – for how else can I construct such daring and bold plans to so often engage the object(s) of my affection? I am a gentle man and a hopeless romantic, and of course, I believe in love at first sight and the unbearable pang of heartache – for I have experienced both, too many times to count till now. 

What sort of woman sweetens my every daydream, you ask? Well I want a wife, a good and loyal one who will love me to the end – that is all. And I will love her forever, bring treasures to her feet, and keep her forever sheltered under my affectionate and manly arm. Why is finding true love in a woman my central interest in life? It is because I have long felt the ache of aloneness, plaguing me in my sleep, in my wake — I have longed to hold a woman in my arms ever since I watched that beautiful Tamil movie about the two lovers dancing in perfect choreography atop a green hill. Oh how I long to be on a green hill, reader, with my hair fluttering in the wind, and a fair and slim young girl in a white shalwar kameez blushing gratefully before my prowess. 

I am certain that movie was based on real life. And as sure as I am that I am made of flesh and bone and feel in this way – I also have certainty in the possibility that my soulmate, my kindred spirit, is out there somewhere, waiting, anticipating – like me – the green hill episode manifested in her real life. It will be magical when it happens – I will see her on the street in the middle of traffic, her shawl dancing in the breeze, our eyes will meet and sparks will fly and we will know instantly and all else but us two will fade to the background. I do not ponder much on what I will do when I should find such a queen – there is nothing to ponder, there will only be eternal bliss. Nothing brings me greater joy than being in love, the excitement, the pounding of my heart on seeing her, the tumult her voice and gesture puts me into for hours a day – and like in the stuff of my favourite movie – one can fall in love anywhere, with anyone, at any time. For example, I fell in love on the bus the other day, with the face of a fair maiden, her lashes were dusky, her skin alabaster – the emotion coursing through my veins was sweet. I had to approach her. Perhaps she would recognize in me the goodness and love that I would grant her forever, the devotion I was prepared to give her. At this point, dear reader, is where I often flounder. 

I am inarticulate in my wordings and outward action. My intention is all love and goodness – but when it comes out, the consequences rendered are disastrous. After the verbal expulsion of my feelings – the alabaster damsel on the 154 to Bamba looked at me with contempt, called me an unsavoury name, and moved away from me. I was rejected yet again, and although quite used to it by now, the desperation for a mate only grew stronger. 

I have heard of other men beyond my peer group who have succeeded in procuring a loving partner and so, sometimes, I attempt to mimic habits in them that I suppose should have played a part in their conquests. Women like to be flattered, is what I have heard from most, and they like attention and to be loved. Then why, dear reader, do all my honest endeavors fail on such a grand scale? 

I have tried ‘hi, sweetie’ and a charming smile; I have tried other variations of that, substituting ‘sweetie’ with ‘beauty’ or ‘darling’; on special quests, I have written detailed letters or sent long explanatory texts, full of only compliment and goodwill; I have even tried the beautiful triplet phrase ‘I love you’ — how women can respond to these words negatively I still cannot fathom — I have tried all mediums – public spaces, the internet, even phone-calls. Such directness and plainness works well with all others in my life – with my mother, my sisters, my bosom friends. Why then am I made a fool when these same words are spoken to ladies who have captured my heart? Not yet dissuaded, I have attempted to look more desirable to them – to wear the jeans, the shoes, the sunglasses, that great male celebrities wear in magazines, the very same celebrities these women swoon over, to acquire the same swagger that they possess — but no amount of exertion has ended in success! I have been nothing but good and sweet – never uttering a slur or rude word, even on rejection. But much to my despair, I am often classed with perverts. Pervert? No, not I, I am not such a scoundrel. Although I do of course, like any man, desire to kiss and hold a woman inasmuch as interact emotionally, I would only do so if we were deeply and irrevocably in love, if she were my inseparable soulmate. Is it my fault that I so easily fall in love and so easily find a woman suitable to be my inseperable soulmate and thus wish to have her both emotionally and physically? I’m sure you can see, good reader, the innocence in my intentions.  

One dashing lady who scorned my ardent advances, exclaimed, as though this were the most sensible argument in the world: You don’t even know me! — I knew her well enough, I had known her four and a half days, she was new in my accounts tuition class, she was of a good nature, of a pleasant face and a smile that made my heart flutter, slim waisted and often smiling: what, tell me, was not to fall in love with? I do not understand these women. They wish their men to be more romantic and spontaneous – and when I attempt to indulge them in these requests, by expressing my love for them, albeit within four days of knowing them – they seem completely appalled. What difference would it be, if I had waited another year? I would still have loved her deeply, except with the addition of knowing more useless details about her, such as what books she reads or what her ambitions in life are. Seeing the obvious infallible logic in this, why would I postpone any longer the expression of my love? This conundrum puzzles and vexes me so. Why does she demand that one must inexcusably ‘get to know her’ as a precursor to any possibility of falling in love? Cruel nymph! How long would that take? Weeks and months of effort! Life is too short to spend time on getting to know, when one can simply assess the goodness in another in five minutes and love them for it eternally! 

Perhaps it is I who is the problem. Do not think I am so vain as to never have considered this. Often it has passed my mind: perhaps I am hideous, I am truly ugly on the inside and cannot see it myself, perhaps I am destined to be forever alone. These thoughts have racked my nights and my days sometimes, often after being attacked by a vicious rejection from yet another lovable yet relentless woman. I am a bundle of insecurities on the inside, unsure of myself – but no, no, I must keep steady, I must continue, one day I will find true love, if not in my envisioned romantic dramatic scene on traffic laden streets – then, at least, on Facebook. Starting with a poke.