There are three types of men women should be careful about – men who play the guitar, men who sing, and men who write.
But unfortunately, these are exactly the kind of men around whom women let their guard down. I know because I belong to the third category, which is the least powerful of the three categories.
A guitarist can sit under a tree, tune the guitar badly for ten minutes, strum three chords, look into the distance, and immediately a girl will walk in and say, “You play so well.”
A singer can go on stage, hold the mic, close his eyes, tilt his head slightly as if the whole world has conspired against him, and by the time he reaches the second stanza, some girl in the audience will whisper to the one nearby, “He has depth.”
Of all the three kinds of chick-magnets, we writers are the least effective.
First we have to write. Then we have to hope the girl reads, and then hope that she understands. Then we have to hope she realises it is about her.
And most important, he has to hope she does not show it to her friends and say, “See what that good-for-nothing has written about me.”
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On 4th July we had a party in our house, and we had friends over. Rhea’s classmates from IIHM Aurangabad, and their parents had come home.
I had borrowed a party speaker which came with a mike, and we tried out some karaoke. Two of the friends, Ravi Shankar and Ramesh Vijayakumar sang brilliantly.
As they belted one song after the other, I was reminded of how when in college I used to hate guys like them. It re-opened an old wound because Ravi and Ramesh were exactly the kind of boys who walked away with all the girls.
This was not the small jealousy. It is definitely not the kind of jealousy you feel when you decide to share a chicken biryani, and the next guy ends up getting a much fleshier piece of chicken.
This is deep jealousy. The kind that sits inside you and says, “Look at him. He goes to the same college, eats in the same canteen, has the same optional subjects, and yet has an unfair advantage that God has given him.”
My hatred for “good singing males” started when I was studying BA Economics in The American College in Madurai.
Our college had an annual cultural festival called Acacia, which was supposed to be a celebration of talent, youth, creativity, friendship, music, and all that nonsense.
For ordinary untalented boys like me, Acacia was an annual public reminder that life is unfair.
Because for two or three days, boys with talent came out from everywhere, and swayed the girls their way. And most notorious among them were the guitarists and singers.
Till the previous week, you would have seen the same chap standing near the tea shop, wearing faded jeans, scratching his head, and asking someone, “Machan, do you have a rupee…got to buy a smoke.”
Suddenly during Acacia, the same fellow would climb on stage, hold a mic, and become Bryan Adams.
Sometimes before starting the song, these singers would say, “This song is dedicated to someone special,” and then smile randomly into the crowd.
If you have seen enough of life, “someone special” is one of the biggest scams in romance. If you can’t name them out, they aren’t special.
The singer won’t take any name…he will just say ‘someone special’ and immediately twenty girls in the audience will think it is them.
One girl will think, “He means me because only last week he borrowed my pen.”
Another girl will think, “Maybe he means me because we made eye contact near the chapel last evening.”
A third girl will think, “It is definitely me…because his friend likes my friend.”
Just because a man can sing about love does not mean he understands love. I myself have known singers who can sing Dolly Parton’s “I will always love you” and then not reply to your letter which was wrapped around a Dairy Milk chocolate.
If you are from the 90s, you will know that Dairy Milk was the ultimate gift for the ‘one you love.’
I remember standing among the crowd during Acacia and thinking, “What is this nonsense? Even I have feelings…doesn’t that count for anything?”
Guitar boys are even worse…because at least the singer had to sing. The guitar boys only have to hold the guitar correctly.
That itself was enough, to get the heart of the girls pounding. I don’t blame them…if any girl sees a man with one foot slightly raised, a guitar resting on his thigh, hair falling on his forehead, and fingers moving over the strings…she is bound to fall head over heels in love.
If he knew how to strum “Hotel California,” 100 girls knocked down. And if he knew “Summer of ’69,” let’s make that 200 girls.
God forbid he could sing in three different languages…he could become what I would call a Multinational Romantic Corporation.
That is the power of props – they can get very powerful based on where they are used.
For instance, when in college, give a man a pressure cooker, and girls will say “Yikees!” and walk away. Once out of college, they would want the same man to be able to handle the pressure cooker.
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Then there are writers…men like me. We are the least glamorous of the dangerous men out there.
A guitarist has his instrument, a singer has his voice, and a writer has his notebook….well, let’s correct that…a rough notebook.
There is nothing visually attractive about a boy sitting with a pen and looking into the sky trying to figure out the next word or sentence. No girl has ever looked at a man holding a Reynolds pen and said, “My God, what a man!”
But writers have one dangerous advantage – we tackle girls one at a time.
A guitarist can be on stage and 100s of girls will be listening to his performance at the same time. A singer can dedicate the same “someone special” song to all the girls standing below the stage.
But we writers, write for one girl at a time. Because 100s of girls don’t come together below a stage and read together. You read alone…so in your mind, it is just the two of us.
That’s why we are dangerous…we may not attract instantly, but we enter slowly.
A guitarist enters like breaking news on NDTV, a singer enters like a jingle on FM radio and we writers enter your life like how fungus takes over during the rainy season. Once in, we are difficult to budge.
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But I think I know why girls love artists. The guitarist looks like he has pain in his soul, a singer sounds like he has ache in his heart, a writer writes like his fingers are hurting from holding a Rs 10 pen.
And girls, who are full of emotions and sensitivity, and most importantly poor romantic judgment, look at these boys and think, “He is different from the rest.”
The girls are wrong because we artists are no different. We are just better at presentation.
A normal boy may hurt a girl and say sorry badly. Or sometimes, not even say it. But an artistic boy may hurt you and then write a poem about how hurting you hurt him more.
See the problem? You may be emotionally hurt but he has the vocabulary to make himself the victim.
This is why I say never fully trust men who can convert emotion into performance.
As a writer, I must confess something…we are the most dangerous of the lot. Definitely not innocent.
We writers observe too much. We may not remember our wives’ birthdays but we remember things we should not remember.
The way you smiled, the way you looked away, the way you said “nothing” when clearly something was wrong, the way you wanted to flirt, but were feeling shy.
Let me simplify – knowing a writer is like living with CCTV that also exaggerates.
I am definitely not saying that all writers are manipulators. I am only saying don’t give them full marks immediately …because these men know how to create the mood.
A simple boy will say, “I like you” but a writer will say, “Some people enter your life quietly, like the first rain on a summer afternoon.”
But if you still have to choose one, I suggest you go for the writer.
What’s life without a bit of drama thrown in.
Choose a writer…not because he is safer, but because years later, when both of you are older, heavier, and tired, he may still sit down one night and write about how lucky he was that you chose him over the guitarist and the singer.
And if he is a decent writer, he will make it sound like humour. Just like how I do.