The Existential Afterlife of My June Feelings

It’s been ages since I’ve rambled on the internet and (over)shared my feelings. No one asked for them, no one’s waiting with bated breath—I know.

But I can’t help it. I need to get something out of me. My narcissistic side takes its feelings so seriously that it has developed this need to give them an afterlife beyond my inner life. (It is what it is. And why not?)

So here I go. Feelings on feelings themselves. On the significance of insignificant things (like my daily problems). On existential loneliness. On human relationships. On the soul-sucking bits of code that come together as an app called Hinge. And, on kindness. (A lot, right?)

Context first. In the last six weeks, I’ve upended my entire life. If you’d told me six months ago that I’d leave Landour for Mumbai, take a leadership role at a fast-growing startup, and build my dream magazine, I would’ve laughed in disbelief. I worshipped the slow life, enjoying leisure and nature, isolating myself from the darker side of modern capitalism that turns us into always-on, always-producing machines.

As Freud argued in Civilisation and its Discontents, the demands of civilised society often conflict with individual human instincts, leading to widespread discontent. The repression of these instincts, which is necessary for the functioning of society, comes at a psychological cost.

One must see through that farce, peel down the invisible layers, shatter illusions. The more people do this, the more they will realise the futility of how the modern world is constructed.

And then—in what may seem like an extremely stupid move years from now—I just reversed all of it. I walked into exactly the lifestyle I criticised. 

Why did I do it?

I could give you a long-winded answer featuring logical-sounding career moves and personal growth, but the truth is this: I felt like doing it, so I went ahead and did it. It felt like the right thing to do at this stage in life.

These stupid little things called feelings, which the world says one should not take seriously, led me to change my whole world. 

And while these changes—which don’t happen every day—feel so significant in how I experience the world, in what lies ahead, and in the small and big problems I face every day as a result, they also feel insignificant in the larger scheme of things.

I mean, does the fact that water stopped coming out of my water filter this morning, a day after I got the plumbing fixed in my newly rented apartment because the washing machine outlet was not connected to the sewage, really mean anything when a genocide is happening in Gaza? Have I lost my mind?

Forget the world. Even the lives of those closest to me are vastly different from my own.

As I sent WhatsApp voice notes to friends about my Hinge experience being so different in Bombay (more on that later), two of my married friends were going through divorce proceedings.

As I am excited about imbuing my work with meaning, a talented friend—whose abilities I suspect he often doubts—is trying to find a job by gaming the corporate system, speaking their language to get in, even if it involves deception.

As I consciously move to a big city, eager to build a new life, a writer I once edited revealed that he had to move cities out of circumstance—a choice he would not ideally make.

Suffering surrounds me, hidden behind the happy faces I encounter daily. I can’t help but wonder about the secret worlds people inhabit. What don’t I know about their experiences? And without that knowledge, how should I behave when my own existence is the only one I fully understand?

This is why I care deeply about my feelings, even if their intensity may seem disproportionate to the scale of things happening in the wider world.

Caring about my feelings acknowledges an existential reality: we are fundamentally alone in our tiny universes. No one can fully understand another’s subjective experience, shaped by unique perceptions, emotions, and thoughts.

This leads to a paradox: we are alone, yet our lives gain richness and meaning through our connections with others. 

And that’s all the more reason to tell our stories and express our feelings. How else can we confront the dilemmas that have no right answer? How else can we discover that we are not alone in feeling alone? Does it make sense to you? My feelings are asking: do you see what they want to say?

This is a perfect point to segue into what I have been thinking a lot about lately: human relationships. As Yuval Noah Harari has powerfully argued, most things around us are fictions: money, corporations, achievements, and so on. But people? Our family, friends, colleagues, and the strangers we encounter every day? They are real. And I now believe that nothing matters more than how we coexist with one another.

But pause. So much I have to say on this, but for a single man in his thirties—just 30, though—a big part of my thinking about relationships is centred around dating. And on this Wednesday evening at Subko in Bandra, I want to share some weird realisations I’ve had about myself in the last couple of weeks. (If possible, don’t judge.)

Something puzzling is happening with me on dating apps. On Hinge. As a man with borderline-average looks (which is what matters most on these algo-matchmaking bits of code), my baseline assumption is that I’m supposed to create an account, doom scroll like a zombie, get one or two matches in a day or two, and then try to strike up a conversation and be fake-interesting to engage the woman, who likely has too many matches to care. Then, I’m supposed to see if it leads to a date. It’s totally insane, but we’ve become so habituated to it that it’s just normalised.

But only the algo lords know what the hell is happening in Bombay: I just keep getting matches. And it’s not just likes that lead to matches when men like me try way too hard with the first message. Likes are coming from the other end. I will sit, and my phone will buzz: “X has liked you. Match to continue chat.”

That’s not all. Women in Bombay are also… talking? They initiate conversations and reply instantly? They follow up?

Let me be clear: I am not dissing women. It’s just all of us being weirdos on the apps. I’m simply narrating my common experience of these broken conversations, which has apparently changed for me in the new city. And I don’t understand why.

Good for me, I guess?

At first, this increased attention was exciting. More matches would mean more conversations, which would mean a whole new world of possibilities.

But this unfamiliar territory revealed something else: as these matches have started coming at this frequency, and now I have so many open chats to respond to, I don’t feel like talking to anyone. Because while earlier this process felt off due to a lack of choice, now it feels off because of too much choice. What are we really doing here? And why?

I mean… part of the reason I sound so jaded is that I went on one date that didn’t go well. I am not into bitching about bad dates on the internet, but if you have ever been on one where right in the middle both people know they should just go their separate ways ASAP but are still kind of stuck together for some reason, that’s what happened to me. Thanks, Hinge.

As more matches keep coming in, I find myself less and less inclined to engage.

The even weirder part is that just the act of getting likes is inducing this super odd feeling. It’s not about wanting to actually connect with these matches or go out with them. It’s more about the fleeting validation that comes from knowing someone—anyone—found you attractive enough to swipe right. (It might be a potentially mindless right swipe, but whatever.)

It’s like a momentary ego boost, a quick dopamine hit that confirms there’s something desirable about you, even if it’s just based on a superficial first impression. And somehow, that’s enough. That tiny dose of attention and approval feels good, even if it doesn’t lead anywhere meaningful.

I hate to admit it, but maybe the apps are fulfilling a need I didn’t even know I had: the need for external validation by the opposite sex. And now that I’m getting it in doses I’ve never experienced before, it’s messing with my head. I thought I was above seeking validation from strangers on the internet, but apparently not. (Sigh.)

It’s a strange realisation, to see how easily we can be influenced by these little digital gestures of approval. They tap into some deep-seated human desire to feel wanted, to feel attractive.  Even if it’s all just a game.

And then the spiral continues, and I wonder: who really wants to date like this and go on these soul-sucking dates through these soul-sucking apps?

Whoever it might be, it’s not me.

What many of us secretly want—or at least what I want—is to fall stupidly, recklessly in love. To be a character of a Jane Austen novel. To experience that all-consuming passion, even if it means accepting the inevitable pain (read heartbreak) that comes with it. 

And this is yet another dilemma: why would you want to voluntary sign up for pain in your life because heartbreak really sucks — it’s messy and devastating and it can leave you feeling like a shell of yourself. But in a twisted way, it’s also a testament to the depth of your feelings, to the fact that you cared so much, you dared to love so fully. And that’s any day better than whatever is happening on these apps. 

This is the thing about feelings. They defy all logic. Can’t help it. 

All of this brings me to my last point. Increasingly, among all the virtuous things a ‘good’ human would aspire to, kindness has become my North Star. When you are stuck in a situation and don’t know what to do, the morally right thing is to just be kind. Simple. It’s not that hard. 

It really matters. Hear from the always amazing George Saunders: 

So here’s something I know to be true, although it’s a little corny, and I don’t quite know what to do with it:

What I regret most in my life are failures of kindness.

Those moments when another human being was there, in front of me, suffering, and I responded . . . sensibly. Reservedly. Mildly.

Or, to look at it from the other end of the telescope: Who, in your life, do you remember most fondly, with the most undeniable feelings of warmth?

Those who were kindest to you, I bet.

It’s a little facile, maybe, and certainly hard to implement, but I’d say, as a goal in life, you could do worse than: Try to be kinder.

…

Do all the other things, the ambitious things — travel, get rich, get famous, innovate, lead, fall in love, make and lose fortunes, swim naked in wild jungle rivers (after first having it tested for monkey poop) – but as you do, to the extent that you can, err in the direction of kindness. Do those things that incline you toward the big questions, and avoid the things that would reduce you and make you trivial. 

The words spoke to me so deeply that I am most likely getting this framed and putting it on my wall.

And it’s not just about being kind to the world, but a reminder to be kind to ourselves, too. This is something I keep reminding myself in the pages of my diary.

I don’t want to get into the details of the creative anxiety I am dealing with at the moment (it’s normal, and there’s no point sharing it until I create the thing I have set out to create), but living with it is not always easy. 

So just sharing one bit I wrote as an act of self-therapy on the day I announced The Plank, the magazine I am now building:

“If you ever feel broken, remember: you took action. To make a small change. To make things (slightly) better. It takes courage to follow your conviction and trust your creative instincts. So be proud of yourself. 

But… never let this make you feel any inflated sense of self-importance. Never. That’s the trap. You are doing this because you want to do it—there is no moral imperative.”

That’s a note to self: Work very hard. But don’t forget to be kind to yourself.