Got this as a Fwd....cud not stop laughing at the authors amazing sense of humor........
This article is posted by an IIM A Student...It's really funny andaptly called "The Travails of Single South Indian Men of ConservativeUpbringing" a k a "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 moneywhen none of your friends have any is as good as not having any. Andafter spending much time in movie theatres, cafes and restaurants Ihave gathered many insights into the endless monotony that is the lovelife of south Indian men.
What I have unearthed is most disheartening.Disheartening because comprehension of these truths will not changeour status anytime soon. However there is also cause for joy. We neverstood a chance anyway.What loads the dice against virile, gallant, well educated, goodlooking, sincere degas, malls and tams?Our futures are shot to hell as soon as our parents bestow upon usnames that are anything but alluring. I cannot imagine a morefoolproof way of making sure the soothe male child remains singletill classified advertisements or that maternal uncle in San Franciscothinks otherwise.Name him "Parthasarathy Venkatachalapthy" and his inherent capabilityto combat celibacy is obliterated before he could even talk. He willgrow to be known as Partha. Before he knows, his smart, seductivelynamed northy classmates start calling him Paratha. No woman in theirright minds will go anyway near poor Parthasarathy. His investmentbanking job doesn't help either. His employer loves him though. He hasno personal life you see.By this time the Sanjay Singhs and Bobby Khans from his class havesmall businesses of their own and spend 60% of their lives in discosand pubs.The remaining 40% is spent coochicooing with leather and denim cladmuses in their penthouse flats on Nepean Sea Road. Business is safelyin the hands of the Mallu manager. After all with a name like BlossomBabykutty he can't use his Rs 30,000 salary anywhere. Blossom gave upon society when in school they automatically enrolled him for CookeryClasses. Along with all the girls...Yes my dear reader, nomenclature is the first nail in a coffin ofneglect and hormonal pandemonium.
In a kinder world they would justname the poor southern male child and throw him off the balcony. "Yesappa we have named him Goundamani..." THUD. Life would have been lesskinder to him anyway.If all the women the Upadhyays, Kumars, Pintos and, god forbid, theSens and Roys in the world have met were distributed amongst theArunkumars, Vadukuts and Chandramogans we would all be merry casanovaswith 3 to 4 pretty things at each arm. But alas it is not to be. Ofcourse the south Indian women have no such issues. They have nameswhich are like sweet poetry to the ravenous northie hormone tanks.Picture this: "Welcome, and this is my family. This is my daughterPoorni (what a sweet name!!) and my son Ponnalagusamy (er..hello..).."Cyanide would not be fast enough for poor Samy. Nothing Samy does willhelp him. He can pump iron, drive fast cars and wear snazzy clothes,but against a braindead dude called Arjun Singhania he has as muchchance 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 Ihave a crown of greasy, smelly fibrous mush. My night ends there.However the northy just has to scream "Wakaw!!!" and you have to peelthe women off him to let him breathe. In a disco while we can managethe medium hip shake with neck curls, once the Bhangra starts pumpingwe are as fluid as cement and gravel in a mixer. Karan Kapoor or JatinThapar in the low cut jeans with chaddi strap showing and see throughshirt throws his elbows perfectly, thecynosure 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 coconutchutney? When poor Senthilnathan opens his tiffin box in the officelunch room his female coworkers just dissappear when they see thetamarind rice and poppadums. They have all rematerialised around BobbySingh who has ordered in Pizza and Garlic bread. (And they have thegall to talk of foreign origin.)
How can a man like me brought up in roomy lungis and oversizedpolyester shirts ever walk the walk in painted on jeans (that makes abig impression) and neon yellow rib hugging t shirts? All I can do isdon my worn "comfort fit" jeans and floral shirt. Which is pretty lowon the "Look at me lady" scale, just above fig leaf skirt and featherheadgear a la caveman, and a mite below Khakhi Shirt over a red tshirt and baggy khakhi pants and white trainers a la Rajnikanth in"Badsha".
Sociologically too the tam or mallu man is severely sidelined. Anaverage tam stud stays in a house with, on average, threegrandparents, 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 courseis almost always in the gulf working alone on some onshore oil rig inthe desert. Rheumatic elbows me thinks.
Alas dear friends we are not just meant to set the nights on fire. Weare 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 tomatorasam 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 futures be.And of course in the case of a nice arranged little love story, theagony does not end there. On the first night, as the stud sits on hisbed finally within touching distance and whispers his sweet desiresinto her delectable ear, she blushes, turns around and she whispersback"But amma has said only on second saturdays..."
