Tuesday, February 15, 2005

"The Travails of Single South Indian men of conservative upbringing" or "Why we don't get any..."

Written by a dude from REC Trichy/IIMA named Sidin.
Thot id do my bit 2 make him popular with the ladies....
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

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

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