There isn't just one Bridget Jones. There are at least a gazillion (that's many more zeros than a trillion million). And I have met a lot of them. In fact, I am living with one of them right now -- myself! I am a Bridget-clone. And much before Dolly, we existed in huge numbers. It just took Bridget Jones's Diary to make us a legitimate section of society. We are the Singletons, ie of indeterminate age, not married and definitely not apologising for it.

Why? Because all roads lead to Man Trouble. And all men are trouble. Yes, even the sweet guy you started seeing when you were 14. The one everyone thought you should marry. But you were not so sure. While he dreamt about the handmaiden wife, the two kids, a perfect suburban existence, you thought prison. Which is when you made a desperate bid to flee and ended up in Bombay. Your faithful boyfriend actually encouraged it: "Go, it will be good for you. Have your last fling with singlehood." And he had the gall to laugh! But he was secure that you could not stray. Well, we all know what happened to the best laid plans of men and mice. The hot-looking guy in your Bombay office actually noticed you. He complimented your freshness: "Bombay girls look so jaded, you my darling are like a fresh strawberry." What happened next? Mr Fiancee could not be dumped because you knew that soon your charms would fade for Mr Wonderful, then the insurance policy comes handy. But till then you had to lead a double life and weave aweb of deceit. And inevitably, just as you were going out of town with the new boyfriend, the old one would land up surprise!!!

Or, what about the fatal attraction to the long-haired creative (often actor) type? The worst trouble. He'd woo you with poetry, flowers and glib tongue. You were his soul mate, his cosmic twin. Until, you said: "This open relationship, where you see other women and I sit at home, is not what I want." That's the end of the road for you as he started to open his pick-up lines with: "My girlfriend doesn't understand me." Men.

But Bombay's biggest hazard were the Navy boys in their starched white uniforms. It is true about what they say: Men in uniform -- ummmm. And like peacocks they would preen on their phut phuttis knowing they could get the pick of the litter. Which is why they'd sample the entire smorgasbord.And that's how I met all the other Bridgets. Soul sisters. We women stuck together and in a working women's hostel where you were per force under one roof, we would bitch together. Every night we would sit up at the Witching Hour, drinking chai or, when we had the money, rum (never neat, we used to stick our glasses out of the window and drink it on raindrops), and stir up a potent brew of intrigue. From how to hook the guy to how to handle him and even how to dump him.

Once, seven of us, launched a military-scale operation to get a girlfriend the guy she fell for. One wrote the letters, the other her dialogues as she spoke to him from the pay phone in hostel, the third was her fashion consultant and so went the task list. Today, they are married but the poor guy still doesn't know that he never stood a chance.

We were also each others' eyes. Let a hostel boyfriend be spotted with another girl a report was immediately filed, from the site. And those poor girls who had actually found the right guy, they were the most active participants of this witches brew. They needed a chaos-fix to right their perfect lives.

And finally, in times of sorrow, we helped each other turn the tide. With a cathartic end-of-relationship ritual. We would make a large drawing of the one part of the offending-ex that was truly offending -- hands, toes, nose -- colour it bad, and tear it into tiny pieces. The ultimate Singleton survival ceremony.Nonita Kalra is the features editor, The Indian Express