“The Travails of Single South Indian men of conservative upbringing” or “Why we don’t get any…”
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.
Bu! siness 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 Garl! ic 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 tshirt 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…”
In one last effort here we attractive young men have taken on alter egos which may interest some of you women:
1. Gautam Kumar Raja, will now be known as Joshua Perreira
2. Sidin Sunny Vadukut, henceforth will be known as Dev Chopra
3. Ashwath Venkataraman is now Vijay Desai
4. Sudarshan Ramakrishnan no more, from now he is Barath Sharma
5. Gautam Chandrasekharan will now respond to Alyque Shah
Do mail me any time for a meeting with one of the above. One week notice if Italian or Chinese food is involved, or if the individual is expected to dance
This is not my article – i found it funny so i am posting it here 🙂
Having a bad day?
You occasionally have a really bad day, and you just need to take it out on someone, don’t take it out on someone you know — take it out on – someone you don’t know. I was sitting at my desk when I remembered a phone call I had forgotten to make. I found the number and dialed it.
A man answered, saying, “Hello.”
I politely said, “Could I please speak with Robin Carter?”
Suddenly, the phone was slammed down on me. I couldn’t believe that anyone could be so rude. I realized I had called the wrong number. I tracked down Robin’s correct number and called her. I had accidentally transposed the last two digits of her phone number. After hanging up with her, I decided to call the ‘wrong’ number again.
When the same guy answered the phone, I yelled, “You’re an *******!” and hung up.
I wrote his number down with the word ‘*******’ next to it, and put it in my desk drawer.
Every couple of weeks, when I was paying bills or had a really bad day, I’d call him up and yell, “You’re an *******!” It always cheered me up.
When Caller ID came to our area, I thought my therapeutic ‘*******’ calling would have to stop. So, I called his number and said, “Hi, this is John Smith from the Telephone Company. I’m just calling to see if you’re familiar with the Caller ID program?”
He yelled, “NO!” and slammed the phone down.
I quickly called him back and said, “That’s because you’re an *******!”
One day I was at the store, getting ready to pull into a parking spot.Some guy in a black BMW cut me off and pulled into the spot I had patiently waited for. I hit the horn and yelled that I had been waiting for that spot. The idiot ignored me. I noticed a “For Sale” sign in his car window . . so, I wrote down his number.
A couple of days later, right after calling the first ******* ( I had his number on speed dial), I thought I had better call the BMW *******, too.
I said, “Is this the man with the black BMW for sale?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Can you tell me where I can see it?”
“Yes, I live at 1802 West 34th Street. It’s a yellow house, and the car’s parked right out in front.”
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“My name is Don Hansen,” he said.
“When’s a good time to catch you, Don?”
“I’m home every evening after five.”
“Listen, Don, can I tell you something?”
“Don, you’re an *******.”
Then I hung up, and added his number to my speed dial, too. Now, when I had a problem, I had two assholes to call.
But after several months of calling them, it wasn’t as enjoyable as it used to be. So, I came up with an idea. I called ******* #1.
“You’re an *******!” (But I didn’t hang up.)
“Are you still there?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Stop calling me,” he screamed.
“Make me,” I said.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“My name is Don Hansen.”
“Yeah? Where do you live?”
“*******, I live at 1802 West 34th Street, a yellow house, with my black Beamer parked in front.”
He said, “I’m coming over right now, Don. And you had better start saying your prayers.”
I said, “Yeah, like I’m really scared, *******.”
Then I called ******* #2.
“Hello?” he said.
“Hello, *******,” I said.
He yelled, “If I ever find out who you are…!”
“You’ll what?” I said.
“I’ll kick your ass,” he exclaimed.
I answered, “Well, *******, here’s your chance. I’m coming over right now.”
Then I hung up and immediately called the police, saying that I lived at 1802 West 34th Street, and that I was on my way over there to kill my gay lover.
Then I called Channel 13 News about the gang war going down on West 34th Street.
I quickly got into my car and headed over to 34th street.
When I got there, I saw two assholes beating the crap out of each other in front of six squad cars, a police helicopter, and the channel 13 news crew.
NOW, I feel better – This is “Anger Management” at its very best.