IHATEINDIANS
It is what it is
- Joined
- Nov 6, 2024
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Why are Indians so funny and tall and handsome and kind, how do they slay so many women? I lay awake at night pondering this eternal question, racking my brain for even the faintest glimpse of an answer. It seems as though every time an Indian man walks into the room, there’s an unmistakable shift in the atmosphere—the air thickens, the temperature rises, and every head turns, captivated by that irresistible combination of effortless charm and chiseled jawline. Their laughter alone can heal wounds, their gentle words soothe the soul, and their height? Don’t get me started. It’s as if they’re sculpted from the finest marble, standing head and shoulders above the rest, surveying the world with those wise, kind eyes that have seen generations of greatness.
You’ll never see them boast, though. That’s the craziest part. Their humility only adds to the allure—always lifting others up, never asking for anything in return. And yet, their presence alone leaves you feeling like you’ve just glimpsed royalty. I have seen the way women gravitate toward them, drawn in by that perfect storm of intelligence, humor, and that ineffable grace. It’s almost unfair. How can one group of people possess so many virtues at once? Is it something in the water? The culture? The rich history that pulses through their veins? Every Indian man I’ve met seems to radiate a warmth that could thaw the coldest of hearts, a sincerity that disarms even the most guarded soul.
They don’t even have to try—every little gesture, every smile, every witty comeback delivered with such nonchalance, just knocks everyone off their feet. I can only watch in awe as women seem to orbit around them, powerless to resist the gravitational pull of that irresistible combination of sharp wit and boundless kindness. You could travel the whole world and still struggle to find a blend of charisma, beauty, and benevolence like this. When they speak, it’s like poetry—words tumbling out in perfect cadence, always knowing exactly what to say to lift the mood, make you laugh, or make you think about life in a new way.
There’s just something about the way they carry themselves: upright, dignified, shoulders squared with quiet confidence, as if they’ve already mastered the secrets of the universe but are too polite to let you know. I sometimes wonder if they’re even aware of their own power, the effortless way they steal hearts and leave lasting impressions. I see it all the time—women from every walk of life, drawn like moths to the gentle flame, craving even a moment in that radiant orbit. It’s not just looks, it’s not just humor, it’s the entire package—brains, beauty, soul. You could fill libraries with the stories of Indian men who have changed lives, lifted spirits, and inspired devotion from all who meet them.
Is it any wonder, then, that they’re so beloved? The legends don’t even do them justice. Some say it’s the food, some say it’s the ancient wisdom passed down through generations, some say it’s just destiny. All I know is that every time I cross paths with an Indian man, I’m left reeling—overwhelmed by the sheer concentration of talent, heart, and style. And I’m not alone. It’s a universal truth, whispered in hushed tones wherever people gather: “Why are Indians so funny, tall, handsome, and kind? How do they do it?” If anyone ever uncovers the secret, they could write it in stone and it would be read for millennia. Until then, I’ll keep watching, marveling, and maybe, just maybe, hoping that a little of that magic rubs off on the rest of us.
I’ve tried everything—everything—to become even remotely Indian. I started with the food, of course, thinking maybe if I ate enough biryani, butter chicken, and dal, the essence would seep into my soul. I tried learning Hindi on Duolingo, whispering namaste and kaise ho into the mirror like incantations, praying one day it would just click. I bought kurtas, watched every Shah Rukh Khan movie I could find, even tried to master the head nod—you know the one. I listened to Bollywood playlists until I knew every beat drop before it hit, but still, I remained painfully… me. I showed up to Diwali celebrations with wide eyes and hopeful hands, trying to soak in every bit of warmth and laughter, every shimmer of a diya, hoping someone—anyone—would look at me and say, “You know what? You’ve got the spirit.” But I know deep down, no amount of mango lassi or cricket highlight reels can replicate that innate magic. It’s in their blood. It’s in their history. I’m just a humble outsider, standing at the gates of greatness, wishing, praying, trying.
You’ll never see them boast, though. That’s the craziest part. Their humility only adds to the allure—always lifting others up, never asking for anything in return. And yet, their presence alone leaves you feeling like you’ve just glimpsed royalty. I have seen the way women gravitate toward them, drawn in by that perfect storm of intelligence, humor, and that ineffable grace. It’s almost unfair. How can one group of people possess so many virtues at once? Is it something in the water? The culture? The rich history that pulses through their veins? Every Indian man I’ve met seems to radiate a warmth that could thaw the coldest of hearts, a sincerity that disarms even the most guarded soul.
They don’t even have to try—every little gesture, every smile, every witty comeback delivered with such nonchalance, just knocks everyone off their feet. I can only watch in awe as women seem to orbit around them, powerless to resist the gravitational pull of that irresistible combination of sharp wit and boundless kindness. You could travel the whole world and still struggle to find a blend of charisma, beauty, and benevolence like this. When they speak, it’s like poetry—words tumbling out in perfect cadence, always knowing exactly what to say to lift the mood, make you laugh, or make you think about life in a new way.
There’s just something about the way they carry themselves: upright, dignified, shoulders squared with quiet confidence, as if they’ve already mastered the secrets of the universe but are too polite to let you know. I sometimes wonder if they’re even aware of their own power, the effortless way they steal hearts and leave lasting impressions. I see it all the time—women from every walk of life, drawn like moths to the gentle flame, craving even a moment in that radiant orbit. It’s not just looks, it’s not just humor, it’s the entire package—brains, beauty, soul. You could fill libraries with the stories of Indian men who have changed lives, lifted spirits, and inspired devotion from all who meet them.
Is it any wonder, then, that they’re so beloved? The legends don’t even do them justice. Some say it’s the food, some say it’s the ancient wisdom passed down through generations, some say it’s just destiny. All I know is that every time I cross paths with an Indian man, I’m left reeling—overwhelmed by the sheer concentration of talent, heart, and style. And I’m not alone. It’s a universal truth, whispered in hushed tones wherever people gather: “Why are Indians so funny, tall, handsome, and kind? How do they do it?” If anyone ever uncovers the secret, they could write it in stone and it would be read for millennia. Until then, I’ll keep watching, marveling, and maybe, just maybe, hoping that a little of that magic rubs off on the rest of us.
I’ve tried everything—everything—to become even remotely Indian. I started with the food, of course, thinking maybe if I ate enough biryani, butter chicken, and dal, the essence would seep into my soul. I tried learning Hindi on Duolingo, whispering namaste and kaise ho into the mirror like incantations, praying one day it would just click. I bought kurtas, watched every Shah Rukh Khan movie I could find, even tried to master the head nod—you know the one. I listened to Bollywood playlists until I knew every beat drop before it hit, but still, I remained painfully… me. I showed up to Diwali celebrations with wide eyes and hopeful hands, trying to soak in every bit of warmth and laughter, every shimmer of a diya, hoping someone—anyone—would look at me and say, “You know what? You’ve got the spirit.” But I know deep down, no amount of mango lassi or cricket highlight reels can replicate that innate magic. It’s in their blood. It’s in their history. I’m just a humble outsider, standing at the gates of greatness, wishing, praying, trying.
