A first person foray into the world of online dating

Date number one consists of me meeting up with A at a coffee shop. We had hit it off in the chat-box conversations on Hinge – one of the new apps on the dating block. He's an assistant director, trying to make his mark in Bollywood. We speak of common connections, of on-set anecdotes from movies that straddle the thin line between arty and entertaining. Fittingly, we catch the night show of whatever is playing in the theatres. After the movie, he asks me if I would want to come over for coffee. I decline. "I had a nice time," he says, when he drops me home. So did I, and I tell him so. However, the next day, I text him that I'd rather not meet again. An elusive 'something' was missing.

Online dating solves a few very vital problems in the lives of us urban millennials, chasing the next promotion, better job, bigger apartment. The fuss and frills before asking a person out is cut down to the minimum of a 'like' or 'swipe' followed by a 'match'. Since you can't possibly know if someone's a good person from their profile, you don't quibble about judging them on shallower grounds, whether it's a stellar six-pack, a well-delivered line, or impeccable grammar, semicolons intact.

In a study conducted in England from 2016-17, people between ages 16-24 reported to feeling lonely more often than those in older age groups. Online dating platforms promise to dispel the loneliness, whether it is for one evening, or the rest of your life. The reality, often falls short of expectations, as I experienced during my three-month stint in the world of swipes and likes.

Date number two and I hit it off with sci-fi and fantasy references; the Hinge chat window and then WhatsApp tête-à-tête continues comfortably. We open up about hopes and dreams. Until we meet.

With the shield of the screen no longer between us, we root around for less intimate topics, and hit upon his NGO work and my features writing. We settle on a story I could write for the paper; all romance is lost. I return vaguely disappointed. "You've been journalist-zoned," says my roommate and makes me laugh, as friends are wont to do if they find you brooding about the incongruence between online and offline personas.

Date number three is with a polyamorous poet. Smooth lines and well-placed GIFs comprise our conversation online, witty repartees are exchanged offline, till one day, he vanishes into the ether, just as smoothly as he had slipped into my WhatsApp chats and real life.

Date four is a philanthropist, lives life on his own terms and a considerable amount of it in the mountains. "I wanted to be away from the city hustle," he tells me. I listen with interest. "I'm really glad I met you," he tells me several times over the evening. I smile. I'm glad I gave up a quiet evening with a book for this, I say. After dinner, we walk on the beach for a while. He drops me home in his car, kisses my cheek, bids me goodnight. And never texts or calls again. This is quite common, I am told, when I vent to my friend. 

"You were someone he was glad to meet that night. He may have already started chatting with someone new by the next day." And I realise how problematic it is that we have normalised terms like ghosting (breaking off a relationship by ceasing all communication without warning).

In the brick and mortar world, we go on a date when we like someone, or feel something for them. Online, we go out to see if we will like them. There is freedom in that, just as there is a lack of culpability. There are no questions, no promises. Is that why this generation is the loneliest of them all?