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Dear Future Wife

Dear future wife,

​I am 32, so mathematically, not a lot of future is left. You have a short window to find me and approach. Hope to see you soon. I have stopped looking around as I firmly believe that the best way to be found is to remain completely still.

​Please know that my appraisal-less job requires absolutely all of my time. I hope you are looking for a man whose idea of a thrilling evening is lying half-dead on the couch, brain dead from the work, entirely unaware of his own existence. Your weekends could be spent watching an egg on limbs ambling around the house, muttering about constitutional facts while remaining ignorant of the basic facts of life—like the need for rest, food, or a break.

​If you are lucky (or terribly unlucky), you can spot me roaming around in Sector 21. Look for the bald guy with untucked shirt, jeans, and slippers. (Ha! I believe you can find someone better. My condolences otherwise..) He will have a vaguely philosophical and heavily exhausted look, trying to hide the burning, sleep-deprived anger in his eyes. 

​I currently live with six plants, but I am dangerously close to adopting pet baby chicks. I am yet to figure out the logistics of raising poultry while working office hours (which unapologetically bleed into eating hours, and sleeping hours, and praying hours, and all other hours that God hath made, and even those that were crafted by the devil); but a man needs hobbies. If a chick and a duck were good enough for Joey, they are good enough for me.

Oh, yes! ​When we argue, know that I will be speaking mostly in statements borrowed from dead scholars or really old ones (Have you even read Bhikhu Parekh?!). I have no memory to boast of, so fights will be you screaming at a person who wants to eat (is really sorry for everything (because he cannot remember), but have you forgotten that Natural's Tender Coconut in the freezer?). More importantly, know that I will fall asleep sometime during the pause in the argument. I will wake up with zero memory. You'll need to remind me that I am supposed to hate you, because I will forget that as well. 

​I cannot offer spontaneous weekend getaways. There will be some alarmingly impulsive plans (sorry!). I can, however, offer brooding, soulful serenades (on those days when the sasta Rafi inside rises), and quiet company for long walks. And by long, I mean a 10-kilometer walk. Honestly, it would be much shorter for you to just walk away right now. I get why you've hidden for so long! 

​The clock is ticking, and the reading pile for my thesis is not getting smaller. Please find me before the mid-life crisis fully takes hold of me and I impulsively buy a Scrambler that I have absolutely no business riding.

​Best,

s

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