Travails of South Indian Men
India
"The Travails of Single South Indian men of
conservative upbringing"
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? (Kadus 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 can’t 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 Ponna lagusamy (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 gal l 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, th ree 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..."
India's pride, and our good wishes are with
you.
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