Spill the Veritaserum

I met another Punjabi guy.

Cue the symphony of moans, groans and sighs from those who watched me massacre my heart for two other Punjabi men previously. Not only did these men severely break my heart, they each cost me at least two years of my life. Two years to clean their messes and put back my heart’s broken pieces.

While this might seem dramatic, it really isn’t. There’s something inexplicably captivating about them. They carry a gravitational charm that led to me being completely engrossed with them as soon as I enter their orbit, to the extent of discarding any remnants of self respect I had. In hindsight, it was rather toxic.

But this guy, Punjabi #3 (P3, for short) feels different. Cue another round of moans, groans and chuckles, this time, because this is a deja vu moment, having uttered these exact words about the other two as well.

Perhaps I’m delusional. The circumstances feel different because we have a common enemy —  Mr. Narcissistic Blackhole (NB), aka, ex #2. 

I matched with P3 on Bumble about a year ago and when the match came through, I questioned my choices in men. I even considered going back to therapy to unpack the root of my attraction to this particular race of the male species because despite my previous encounters, I still wanted to go down this Punjabi paved road again, albeit cautiously.

But they say good things — or lessons —  come in threes and in between the choruses of “YOLO” and the spirit of “fuck around and find out”, impulse entered the chat, echoing “What do you have to lose?”. And with that, I mentally prepared myself for the ride, determined not fall into the non-committal trap again.

But this time, it wasn’t a test of mental strength, but one of emotional resilience, forcing me to cut through his charisma and intellect to recognise the facts that were staring in my face – he is not “the one”. Fact is, he didn’t want me. He didn’t want anyone, for that matter.

Or rather, he says he doesn’t want to be with anyone because in doing so, he would be placing his health-related burdens on a partner. But more on that later.

His words didn’t match his actions. He still orchestrated intimate pockets between us, pockets that have since carved itself on the walls of my mind and heart, replaying how easy it was for us to act like a couple, suggesting that it’s all a facade to protect his big, fragile heart from the world and by extension, crippling heartbreak.

He was one of the very few men I gave my number to continue conversing on WhatsApp. 

“What do I save your name as?” I asked. 

“Sexy guy from Ipoh. Hahaha.”

“Well, in that case, you should save mine as ‘cute girl from Kepong’.”

His cheeky flirts matched mine. I liked that.

Between in-depth conversations about life, interspersed with flirty one-liners, this man earned bonus points for not just being an active investor, but being good with money, unlike ex #1 (let’s call him Bedroom Guru (BG), another story for another time).

He noted my interests and happenings of the day, bringing it up in conversation and making this girl feel seen, heard and appreciated. P3 was winning a race he didn’t even sign up for, taking a significant lead over the other two.

We spoke almost every day — not too clingy nor too distant –, but I couldn’t shake off this undercurrent of uncomfortable familiarity. I wondered if it was because he was Punjabi but truthfully, this was disconcerting territory to be in.

P3 was an amalgamation of BG and NB. BG’s introduced me to the realm of sexual expression. He was the one who not only touched me gently and respectfully in all the right places after the fiasco with AK, he also introduced me to the world of sex toys and the power of having an open and imaginative mind in the bedroom.

NB, on the other hand, used to reaffirm his stance of never settling down and yet, said things and acted on the contrary, challenging the “actions speak louder than words” narrative. He was engrossed in his business, and while i found his passion and ambition sexy, it came in the way of the relationship.

I wondered if their similarities were related to their upbringing, most of the time tied very closely to their culture and religion, facilitated by the influence of their nanima (grandmother) in their early childhood. P3 never told me such stories, but I think it’s safe to assume that most have the same early-life blueprint.

Talking to P3 came with a jambalaya of emotions rooted in comfort, occasionally crossing into confusing territory. It barely bothered me, until I learned that he was friends with both BG and NB.

This was perplexing because the app showed he was located in Ipoh, Perak and I assumed that should be far enough to not have any connection with my KL-rooted past. But you know what they say about making assumptions and life was about to “make an ass out of you (him) and me” through a Malaysian history lesson.

I learned that P3 was originally from KL, but moved to Ipoh for its superior quality of life and reasonable cost of living conditions. A fair life decision to make, I thought, considering how turbulent the local and global economy has been.

But upon learning that, I realised that I had inadvertently formed the Gombak Golden Triangle — BG lived and grew up between Kepong and Selayang, NB from Sentul and P3 in Setapak. It was also a reminder that with the Punjabi community, even in the most convoluted ways, all roads lead to Perak. 

A little read on Malaysian history will tell that the first Punjabi arrived in Malaysia in the 1870s and were primarily Sikhs recruited by the British to serve in the police and paramilitary forces, such as the British North Borneo Armed Constabulary. Early settlers were known for their roles as policemen, security guards, watchmen, and, for some, as labourers or farmers.

In the 1890s, the first Singh Sabhas (Sikh societies) were formed, leading to the establishment of Gurdwaras. Post-retirement, many stayed, creating a permanent community, particularly in cities like Kuala Lumpur, Taiping, Perak and Penang.

Fast forward centuries to today, the Punjabi population has grown significantly, with most communities in Malaysia primarily concentrated in the Klang Valley (Kuala Lumpur and Selangor), Perak and Penang, generally settled in urban areas, with a significant number located in the state of Perak. 

Perak is said to be a major hub, particularly with around 41 Gurdwaras in the state, including in Ipoh, Taiping and Kinta Valley. And now thinking back, I recall BG and NB frequenting Perak to visit friends and family who still reside in the state.

The second I connected the dots, I ran for the hills, allowing the conversation between P3 and I to fizzle out within that week, but life had other plans. We weren’t done with each other.

Fast forward a year later, a Snapchat notification alerted of his birthday in early February. In cute, Kepong girl fashion, I sent him a birthday snap and that rekindled what was once lost.

The vibe was different this time. Perhaps we were different people from a year ago. Or perhaps I was more open this time, especially since the initial “ick”, which I thought came from the fact that he knew the people from my past, was no longer there.

I soon realised that my inability to be around him was due to extremely unhealed traumas of dating NB.

***

I met NB on Tinder in 2017. At that time, I was a rookie reporter working on the news desk but had been seconded to the “Afternoon E-paper”, a segment, I learned after resigning, only reached 100 unique users per month. The job wasn’t just a bore, it came with a side of unwarranted verbal abuse almost every day by the editor.

This “app” was his baby and he wanted to see it through to relive the glory days of the publication. But alas, behind every stubborn boomer project was their inability to understand technology and why this project was a waste of time.

The only good thing about working on this desk was its working hours: 6am to 3pm. It was an added bonus because this timing was perfect for me and NB to spend time with each other.

Being in the sound and light business, he typically went to bed between 6am and 7am, waking up just after I was done with work. He would come over, spend time with me at my apartment and made life a little bit more liveable in the midst of the work chaos. 

Truthfully, he wasn’t supposed to be around long term because I was still reeling from the aftereffects of AK and BG, but I liked that he showed me attention at a time where I felt unseen in various aspects of my life, especially at work. I was planning my exit from the company but opportunities were scarce.

Soon after, a former editor poached me to join a new newsroom he was heading, where I was promised to learn the ropes of business writing. But two weeks into the job, he resigned, leaving me there to fend for myself in a company that merged the management and editorial teams together —  a major red flag for any newsroom that claims to be independent.

I left the job cold turkey with no back up and ended up being unemployed for close to four months. The job market was bad and while I was going for a lot of interviews, I didn’t get any call backs. I drained my savings and had to move out of my apartment and back in with my parents. Thankfully, not long after, I found a tenant to rent the apartment unit, providing the slightest financial relief, but my ego was already bruised.

One faithful November day, a lifestyle publication offered me a job. I instantly accepted the offer, even though my heart was holding out for another job. Life’s cynicism was alive that week because I got a call from the dream job on my first day at the lifestyle newsroom. But there’s a happy ending to this story, more on that later and how this turned out to be my second miraculous encounter.

Through it all, NB was there for me — listening without judgement and encouraging me to better myself to reach my potential. He wasn’t one for compliments but he saw my strengths and chose to encourage me on that front.

The cherry on top: the sex was great. It didn’t start off that way, but over time, we became so comfortable with each other that we had room to experiment and increasingly discover our pleasurable limits – which was almost limitless.

It was the permission to be myself in his company that kept me going back, and what was meant to be a three-month feel-good fling turned into an almost seven-year relationship that eventually ended in us never speaking again. You will see why in a minute.

While many couples were breaking up during the pandemic, we survived, dare I say thrived, in it. We spent a lot of time on FaceTime and there were times where he would sneak through police road blocks put in place to keep us at home, just to steal a kiss – or a backseat quickie, if time permitted. The epitome of romance, or so I thought.

I was convinced we were going to live through this and come out the other side in one piece because he started talking about the future, our future, with ease. We talked about potentially buying property together or, if the opportunity presents itself, migrate to another country.

But the problem was that my family, while they knew who he was, didn’t know we were dating and his family didn’t even know of my existence. It was time to have the hard conversation. I felt anxious, perhaps I was asking for too much. But it needed to be done.

“You know, with all these plans you have, we’ve got to meet each other’s family right? We can’t just up and leave without them knowing,” I said to him one evening.

“Yes yes, we’ll find time for that. I’ll introduce you to my sister and eventually my mother.”

I was beaming. No one had ever taken me home to their family before. Was this it? Is this the man I would eventually marry and spend the rest of my life with? I truly believed that in my heart of hearts, which is why not long after, I told my parents about him and some friends too. But that’s when things started to unravel.

Mid-pandemic, I caught a bout of long covid, where even walking 10 steps to the kitchen felt like I had run a marathon. To add oil to the health-related fire, I also had to undergo a tonsillectomy and contracted dengue, both times landing me in hospital and leaving me out of commission for weeks.

I went from being a girl who went to the gym four times a week pre-pandemic to one that was sedentary most of my time at home. I was upset, frustrated and more importantly, I was putting on weight to the point where not only did I not fit into my clothes anymore, I didn’t recognise my reflection.

I felt like an unattractive, crippled ball of meat. We didn’t have sex as often, which I equated to my self worth, and constantly put the blame on my unappealing physique. He reassured his attraction to me, but I was too depressed to believe him.

Months went by and he continued to live his life, travelling the country while I rotted in bed, mending my weak, weak lungs. What pushed me over the edge was when he told me that he was flying to London with his friends for a holiday.

We had plans to travel the whole of the UK, even making pit stops to see his relatives and mine. But I physically couldn’t travel and money was scarce, so we put the trip on hold.

And as soon as the opportunity to travel with his friend’s dhol performance collective presented itself, his excitement overrode any plans we had.

I was upset for weeks. It felt selfish because that was supposed to be our plan and I was looking forward to it. I guess I knew deep down he wouldn’t put in the effort to travel with me, not when travelling with his friends was a greater priority.

I expressed this to him and as predicted, he gaslit me into believing that I was overreacting. So, I forced myself to get over it and move on.

Shortly after, I really did forget about it. His uncle was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumour and his devastation at the news was a priority. Not only was his uncle a father figure to him since his own father died a decade ago, most of the doctors they visited refused to operate on him, giving the uncle six months to live.

There as no way to understand how he was feeling. How does one watch their second paternal figure wilt away in front of his eyes? I didn’t know how to be a partner to someone who is actively grieving while keeping to his obligations of caring for his uncle. But I showed up for him any way I could.

If he wanted comfort food, I made it. If he wanted to smoke a joint at 3am, I rolled one and drove to his house, half asleep. If he wanted sex — which was something he wanted almost every day — I obliged. This went on for months and I thought I was being the perfect partner. We were going to get through this.

One day, I experienced severe itchiness and irritation in my vaginal area. Immediately I booked a doctor’s appointment and she recommended a pap spear. My first ever pap smear. It was terrifying going through it alone, but this doctor, Dr Chang, was calm and reassuring.

A week later, I was slapped with a HPV diagnosis – I had one high risk and one low risk strain –, where the growths on my cervix were pre-pre-cancerous. In hindsight, my breakdown in Dr Chang’s office seemed a bit dramatic, but let’s be real — fear tailgates the word “cancer” every time.

Dr Chang explained everything thoroughly and unlike other cancers, this can be circumvented. I just needed to make a few lifestyle changes and keep up with annual checking.

Anxiety crept in when I realised I needed to tell NB about this. I sent him a text, telling him we needed to talk.

“Why do you have to say it like that? Is it serious?” he replied.

“Yes, it is. I’m scared.”

“Ok now you got me anxious and stressed and I cannot do this right now. I’ll talk to you later.”

He never did, so I explained over text what had happened. Immediately, he called.

“Why are you scaring me like this?” he yells.

“Scaring you? I’m the one that’s pre-cancerous. I’m shit scared because I’ll need to get a procedure done and more importantly, you need to know because you’re my sexual partner.”

After that point, I cannot remember what happened. I remember a lot of yelling on his part and a lot of crying on my part. It wasn’t just fear of the cancer developing, but guilt for putting him through this. It took me a while to realise that guilt, especially on my part, was not a normal thing to feel in this situation.

That was how strong his gaslighting game was. I was pre-cancerous and he had made it seem like it was my fault. But what came next was a heartbreaking eye opener.

“So, what does this mean now?” he asked.

“I need to wait a couple of weeks to see if the symptoms subside. Then, in 6 months I will take another test. For you, we’ll need to use condoms to protect you, unless you’re already a carrier, in which case we don’t have to.”

“How do I know if I’m a carrier?”

“You have to get your dick swabbed.”

“Oh. Do I need to?”

“No, not necessary, unless you have other sexual partners.”

There was a long silence before he blurted, “So, how long till you can have sex again?”

I was stunned. “I think about two weeks.”

“Oh okay. Well, then take care of yourself and I’ll see you in two weeks.”

Again, I was stunned. Was he really going to disappear for two weeks? Did he not hear me say pre-cancerous? And more importantly, did he not care?

But all my anger flew out the window the day his uncle died not long after. His devastation led him to send me a text to “let me go” because, in his words, “I will not be the same person anymore”.

“I appreciate you thinking about me, but perhaps, let me decide on whether I want to stay by your side or leave,” I said. I was not about to leave a grieving man, at least not without trying.

I consoled him the best I could, showing up when he called. The months after were a blur because he went from being a gaslighter to someone who didn’t even acknowledge he had a girlfriend, or my entire existence. 

I barely saw him after that and being the stubborn woman that I am, made every excuse to see him. He loved my bacon and egg sandwiches, so I stocked up on bacon in case he ever came around. I even tried to entice him with sandwiches I made for myself, which worked occasionally.

I made sure that I kept rolled joints, just in case he called and wanted to smoke. Instead, he called to pick them up to smoke with his friends. The only time he came to see me was to have sex when I worked from home. And because of that, I tried to work from home more, just in case.

I didn’t want to give up just yet. I tried to set up a date for us, but he didn’t show up. I tried making his favourite food and packed it for him to take home, and he did just that, leaving me with a peck on my cheek and a “I have to go, lots of work to do.”

Occasionally, he would express how stressed he was and would ask for me to blow him under his office desk while he worked. I stupidly obliged, thinking it was our way of reconnecting.

That was when it hit me: we were happy during the pandemic because he had nothing else to do. His work was his life, and when everything came to a halt, he had nothing to focus on, except me. I thought I was a priority when in reality, I was a filler. My heart shattered, and so did my rose-tinted glasses.

A few weeks later, I wished him a happy anniversary and instead of a sweet message in reply, he said “I don’t understand why you bother keeping track of days like this. It’s just a normal day, get over it.”

It was six years of us being together, the longest I’ve ever been in a relationship. It wasn’t a normal day for me and he refused to acknowledge it. My heart shattered again.

The day I knew it was over was when we were doing the deed and I didn’t feel the connection. He touched me in all the same places, almost like a routine. He knew all the moves I liked, but focused on his pleasure instead.

And while he was stood behind my bent over body with my face planted on the pillow, I let myself cry. I’ve cried during sex one other time with him — one night where we both were feeling particularly emotional after a heart-to-heart — but this is the first time I felt my heart breaking more and more with each thrust.

I could feel him on my skin, but not in my heart. And deep down, I knew we would never go back to the way it used to be. He stopped listening to my body and only wanted to pleasure himself. And I was his human sex doll.

I showered five times after he left. Not only did I feel absolutely filthy, I felt used. No amount of shampoo, tears and body wash could wash away the shame of letting a man do that to me. A man who once loved me so gently and so deeply. Or perhaps, deceptively so.

I never wanted him to touch me ever again. As a woman with high libido, this was the ultimate rejection, a tell tale sign that this was the end of him and I.

In the coming weeks, one by one things started to become clear. I realised that we were hardly sober when we were together. Even when my lungs were struggling to breathe, I willed it to be able to take in the inhalation of a joint, just so that I would have an excuse to see him again.

The desperation was laughable, but then again, this was the desperation of a girl that missed being seen in a world that looked past her.

I had turned into a suppressed “tradwife” without the ring, home, kids and respect. I cried every night before finally believing I had endured enough. I started fighting back and that was the beginning of the end. 

In a few months, the day after my birthday, I broke up with him. Not only did he forget it was my birthday, I was stuck in bed thanks to a long covid attack. Instead of being empathetic, he said I should have been thankful it was not anything worse.

The day I sealed the coffin of our relationship was a couple of days after I sealed my dad’s at his funeral. He was to accompany me to pick up dad’s car from a workshop, but instead of setting a time and date, kept procrastinating and one day, yelled at me for nagging, harassing and stressing him out.

“All you needed to do was tell me you couldn’t do it and I would have asked someone else,” I said.

“I said I will do it and I will do it when I can!” he yelled.

“Yes, but when is that? I need to plan and tell the workshop.”

“I can’t tell you now, I have too much work stress to manage. I can’t deal with your stress.”

“Then, it’s okay. I’ll go get it myself.”

For some reason, this line triggered him and he launched himself into a full blown angry rant. I tried talking calmly to deescalate the situation, but he cut the call mid conversation. Something snapped in me, and I was done with him for good.

“When my dad died, so did his temper and the anxious turbulence of this household. This house used to be filled with yelling and now, we’re learning to live with the peace. I will never let that kind of temper and anxiety enter my household ever again. We are done. Don’t talk to me ever again.”

He replied something to try and make me feel like I was the one overreacting, but I knew better this time than to fall into that trap. I think he presumed this was just like our other fights, but this time I meant business and never contacted him again.

Two and a half years after breaking up, I still get “I miss you” messages from him and while I’ve been tempted to try and rekindle a friendship, he always brings up our sex life.

One day I asked him why he was so fixated on that, and this is what he said:

“We still have nobody permanent yet, and we have lost time. The height of our sex life was so high that when it dropped to zero, it was difficult to cope. Don’t wanna sound like sex maniac but you turned me into someone who loves sex. And plus, I felt like I lost my best friend and so, it was very bad for me.”

Even after two years, he still only regarded me as a valuable being for giving him the best sex of his life and that is a nauseatingly heartbreaking truth to face.

This is just the tip of the iceberg of the many atrocities this man has put me through. But the most atrocious was keeping me locked in, merely to have a means for constant sex for almost seven years.

I wouldn’t consider NB my enemy, but he made enemies in everyone who loves me, and that is a lot of people.

***

But back to P3, I didn’t truly understand when people say that the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Not until P3 told me stories of why he had a falling out with NB. I didn’t feel alone, knowing there was someone out there who saw NB for what he really was.

In those moments, P3 validated all that I felt and I was ready to let go. Any residual anger and hurt flitted away and a sense of calm finally encompassed my body. I finally relaxed.

I couldn’t tell whether it was just P3’s presence or if I finally came to terms with my decisions with NB, but regardless, I finally felt like I could be unapologetically me again. And so I wondered if this time, P3 and I would work out.

We shared similar values, especially when it came to physical health. He cheered me on whenever I hit a new personal best at the gym, and I encouraged him as well on days he needed the motivation to drag himself for a workout.

And since starting my strength training journey a year and a half ago, I find men who take care of themselves attractive. And P3 was very sexy in my eyes.

There were days he let slip his inner softie, describing scenarios of how he wanted to tuck me into bed and cuddle the sadness out of me. It was unusual to see a man indulge in pampering like this, let alone see myself bring down my walls enough to let him pamper me.

But there was one thing the three of them had in common – they believed they didn’t deserve to be loved. And what makes it scarier is that they are very easy to love.

And therein lies my problem. Because not long after that, something shifted.

P3 believes that due to a physical health issue he has to tackle on a regular basis, no woman should be obliged to care for him when it triggers. However, while this may seem like a noble act, underneath it all is most likely a man who is deserving of this kind of love and more, but refuses to receive it.

And right on cue, he suffered an inflammation attack. With a 200km gap between us, there was no way for me to be there for him physically. I texted, called and even sent voice notes trying to get through to him, to show him that I was going to be by his side, but the message never seemed to penetrate the stubborn walls he built.

There is no point giving a man an apple when he doesn’t feel like eating an apple. And thus, there is no point loving a man who doesn’t want to be loved.

More importantly, there’s no point showing up for a grieving person who doesn’t want company. And while P3 didn’t experience a death, he was grieving the decline of his health, which, at times, can be more complex to face than death itself.

NB taught me that, inadvertently showing me the importance of finding the right partner, because not only will they need to love you at your best, but at your worst as well. And more often than not, it is revealed through grief in different shapes and sizes.

P3 was fighting demons that only he can fight. And while I was ready to stand by him through it all, it seemed futile to do so, especially since he didn’t just lock the doors to his heart on me, but the windows too.

Does P3 deserve to go through his grief alone? Not at all, but he needs to believe it too.

Does P3 deserve love and care while navigating his complex physical condition? Yes, but it’s not for me to impose it on him. 

So the next question is, would it mean that I have a saviour complex if I believe I could be the one to get through to him, showing him how a little care — and perhaps, love — can go a long way? Most definitely.

And despite knowing this, I’ve found myself wanting to cancel my other Bumble dates to spend time with him. I’ve found myself checking my phone over and over again, just in case I had missed a message from him.

I was trapped in the cycle again, but this time, I’m armed with the lessons of my past. The blueprint is right there, so are the neon-rimmed arrow signboards, telling me where to go and what to do. All I need to do, is to walk away.

And today, against every fibre of my being, I did.

I guess it is true: good things — or in this case, lessons — come in threes. And I’ve finally broken the Singh cycle.