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This was found on the IIM, Ahmedabad student board..
Yet another action packed weekend in Mumbai, full of fun, frolic and
introspection. I have learnt many things. For example having money when none of
your friends have any is as good as not having any. And after spending much
time in movie theatres, cafes and restaurants I have gathered many insights
into the endless monotony that is the love life of south Indian men. What I
have unearthed is most disheartening. Disheartening because comprehension of
these truths will not change our status anytime soon. However there is also
cause for joy. We never stood a chance anyway. What loads the dice against
virile, gallant, well educated, good looking, sincere mallus and tams? (Kandus
were once among us, but Bangalore has changed all that.)
Our futures are shot to hell as soon as our parents bestow upon us names that
are anything but alluring. I cannot imagine a more foolproof way of making sure
the child remains single till classified advertisements or that maternal uncle
in San Francisco thinks otherwise. Name him "Parthasarathy Venkatachalapthy"
and his inherent capability to combat celibacy is obliterated before he could
even talk. He will grow to be known as Partha. Before he knows, his smart,
seductively named northy classmates start calling him Paratha. No woman in
their right minds will go anyway near poor Parthasarathy. His investment
banking job doesn't help either. His employer loves him though. He has no
personal life you see. By this time the Sanjay Singhs and Bobby Khans from his
class have small businesses of their own and spend 60% of their lives in discos
and pubs. The remaining 40% is spent coochicooing with leather and denim clad
muses in their penthouse flats on Nepean Sea Road. Business is safely in the
hands of the Mallu manager. After all with a name like Blossom Babykutty he
cant use his 30000 salary anywhere. Blossom gave up on society when in school
they automatically enrolled him for Cookery Classes. Along with all the
girls.
Yes my dear reader, nomenclature is the first nail in a coffin of neglect and
hormonal pandemonium. In a kinder world they would just name the poor southern
male child and throw him off the balcony. "Yes appa we have named him
Goundamani..." THUD. Life would have been less kinder to him anyway.
If all the women the Upadhyays, Kumars, Pintos and, god forbid, the Sens and
Roys in the world have met were distributed amongst the Arunkumars, Vadukuts
and Chandramogans we would all be merry casanovas with 3 to 4 pretty things at
each arm. But alas it is not to be. Of course the south Indian women have no
such issues. They have names which are like sweet poetry to the ravenous
northie hormone tanks. Picture this: "Welcome, and this is my family. This is
my daughter Poorni (what a sweet name!!) and my son Ponnalagusamy (er..
hello..).." Cyanide would not be fast enough for poor Samy. Nothing Samy does
will help him. He can pump iron, drive fast cars and wear snazzy clothes, but
against a braindead dude called Arjun Singhania he has as much chance of
getting any as a Benedictine Monk in a Saharan Seminary.
Couple this with the other failures that have plagued our existence. Any
attempt at spiking hair with gel fails miserably. In an hour I have a crown of
greasy, smelly fibrous mush. My night ends there. However the northy just has
to scream "Wakaw!!!" and you have to peel the women off him to let him breathe.
In a disco while we can manage the medium hip shake with neck curls, once the
Bhangra starts pumping we are as fluid as cement and gravel in a mixer. Karan
Kapoor or Jatin Thapar in the low cut jeans with chaddi strap showing and see
through shirt throws his elbows perfectly, the cynosure of all attention. The
women love a man who digs pasta and fondue. But why do they not see the simple
pleasures of curd rice and coconut chutney? When poor Senthilnathan opens his
tiffin box in the office lunch room his female coworkers just dissappear when
they see the tamarind rice and poppadums. The have all rematerialised around
Bobby Singh who has ordered in Pizza and Garlic bread. (And they have the gall
to talk of foreign origin.)
How can a man like me brought up in roomy lungis and oversized polyester shirts
ever walk the walk in painted on jeans (that makes a big impression) and neon
yellow rib hugging t shirts? All I can do is don my worn "comfort fit" jeans
and floral shirt. Which is pretty low on the "Look at me lady" scale, just
above fig leaf skirt and feather headgear a la caveman, and a mite below Khakhi
Shirt over a red t shirt and baggy khakhi pants and white trainers a la Rajni
in "Badsha".
Sociologically too the tam or mallu man is severely sidelined. An average tam
stud stays in a house with, on average, three grandparents, three sets of
uncles and aunts, and over 10 children. Not the ideal atmosphere for some
intimacy and some full throated "WHOSE YOUR DADDY!!!" at the 3 in the morning.
The mallu guy of course is almost always in the gulf working alone on some
onshore oil rig in the desert. Rheumatic elbows me thinks.
Alas dear friends we are not just meant to set the nights on fire. We are just
not built to be "The Ladies Man". The black man has hip hop, the white man has
rock, the southie guy only has idlis and tomato rasam or an NRI account in
South Indian Bank Ernakulam Branch. Alas as our destiny was determined in one
fell swoop by our nomenclature, so will our future be. A nice arranged little
love story. But the agony of course does not end there. On the first night, as
the stud sits on his bed finally within touching distance and whispers his
sweet desires into her delectable ear, she blushes, turns around and whispers
back "But amma has said only on second saturdays..."
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