Hallew pliss all my frandships pipples, laddies and jants, i am thinking it so that it is time for some lofftering reliefs, so it is here. you have it off, pliss…
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 her 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 canât use his Rs. 30,000 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 kind 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 (erâ¦ 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 lunchroom his female co-workers just disappear when they see the tamarind rice and poppadums. The have all re-materialised 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 Khaki Shirt over a red t-shirt and baggy khaki 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, and 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 oilrig 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, but 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…”
– Badrinath K S (Well, what did you expect?)