YOU WILL REALLY ENJOY READING THIS!
The travails of single South Indian men of conservative upbringing ...This is hilarious... you will laugh all through this if you get it... Subject: "The travails of single South Indian men of conservativeupbringing" OR "Why we don't get any..."Yet another action packed weekend in Mumbai, full of fun, frolic andintrospection. I have learnt many things. For example having money whennone of your friends have any is as good as not having any. And afterspending much time in movie theatres, cafes and restaurants I havegathered 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 ourstatus anytime soon. However there is also cause for joy. We never stood a chance anyway. What loads the dice against virile, gallant, welleducated, good looking, sincere mallus and tams? (Kanadus were onceamong us, but Bangalore has changed all that.) Our futures are shot tohell 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 childremains single till classified advertisements or that maternal uncle inSan Francisco thinks otherwise.Name him "Parthasarathy Venkatachalapthy" and his inherent capability to combat celibacy is obliterated before he could even talk. He will growto be known as Partha. Before he knows, his smart, seductively namednorthy classmates start calling him Paratha. No woman in their rightminds will go anyway near poor Parthasarathy. His investment banking jobdoesn't help either. His employer loves him though. He has no personallife 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 cladmuses 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 30000salary anywhere. Blossom gave up on society when in school theyautomatically enrolled him for Cookery Classes. 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 just namethe poor southern male child and throw him off the balcony. "Yes Appa we have named him Goundamani..." THUD. Life would have been less kinder tohim anyway.If all the women the Upadhyays, Kumars, Pintos and, god forbid, the Sensand Roys in the world have met were distributed amongst the Arunkumars, Vadukuts and Chandramogans we would all be merry casanovas with 3 to 4pretty things at each arm. But alas it is not to be. Of course the southIndian 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 andwear snazzy clothes, but against a braindead dude called Arjun Singhaniahe 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. Anyattempt at spiking hair with gel fails miserably. In an hour I have acrown of greasy, smelly fibrous mush. My night ends there. However the northy just has to scream "Wakaw!!!" and you have to peel the women offhim 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 chaddistrap showing and see through shirt 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 coconut chutney? When poorSenthilnathan opens his tiffin box in the office lunchroom his femalecoworkers just disappear when they see the tamarind rice and poppadums.They 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 polyestershirts ever walk the walk in painted on jeans (that makes a bigimpression) and neon yellow rib hugging t shirts? All I can do is don myworn "comfort fit" jeans and floral shirt. Which is pretty low on theLook 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 baggykhakhi pants and white trainers a la Rajni in "Badshah".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 idealatmosphere for some intimacy and some full throated "WHOSE YOURDADDY!!!" at the 3 in the morning. The mallu guy of course is almostalways 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 rasamor an NRI account in South Indian Bank Ernakulam Branch. Alas as our destiny was determined in one fell swoop by our nomenclature, so willour future be.A nice arranged little love story. But the agony of course does not endthere. 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 onlyon second saturdays..."
The travails of single South Indian men of conservative upbringing ...This is hilarious... you will laugh all through this if you get it... Subject: "The travails of single South Indian men of conservativeupbringing" OR "Why we don't get any..."Yet another action packed weekend in Mumbai, full of fun, frolic andintrospection. I have learnt many things. For example having money whennone of your friends have any is as good as not having any. And afterspending much time in movie theatres, cafes and restaurants I havegathered 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 ourstatus anytime soon. However there is also cause for joy. We never stood a chance anyway. What loads the dice against virile, gallant, welleducated, good looking, sincere mallus and tams? (Kanadus were onceamong us, but Bangalore has changed all that.) Our futures are shot tohell 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 childremains single till classified advertisements or that maternal uncle inSan Francisco thinks otherwise.Name him "Parthasarathy Venkatachalapthy" and his inherent capability to combat celibacy is obliterated before he could even talk. He will growto be known as Partha. Before he knows, his smart, seductively namednorthy classmates start calling him Paratha. No woman in their rightminds will go anyway near poor Parthasarathy. His investment banking jobdoesn't help either. His employer loves him though. He has no personallife 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 cladmuses 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 30000salary anywhere. Blossom gave up on society when in school theyautomatically enrolled him for Cookery Classes. 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 just namethe poor southern male child and throw him off the balcony. "Yes Appa we have named him Goundamani..." THUD. Life would have been less kinder tohim anyway.If all the women the Upadhyays, Kumars, Pintos and, god forbid, the Sensand Roys in the world have met were distributed amongst the Arunkumars, Vadukuts and Chandramogans we would all be merry casanovas with 3 to 4pretty things at each arm. But alas it is not to be. Of course the southIndian 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 andwear snazzy clothes, but against a braindead dude called Arjun Singhaniahe 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. Anyattempt at spiking hair with gel fails miserably. In an hour I have acrown of greasy, smelly fibrous mush. My night ends there. However the northy just has to scream "Wakaw!!!" and you have to peel the women offhim 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 chaddistrap showing and see through shirt 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 coconut chutney? When poorSenthilnathan opens his tiffin box in the office lunchroom his femalecoworkers just disappear when they see the tamarind rice and poppadums.They 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 polyestershirts ever walk the walk in painted on jeans (that makes a bigimpression) and neon yellow rib hugging t shirts? All I can do is don myworn "comfort fit" jeans and floral shirt. Which is pretty low on theLook 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 baggykhakhi pants and white trainers a la Rajni in "Badshah".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 idealatmosphere for some intimacy and some full throated "WHOSE YOURDADDY!!!" at the 3 in the morning. The mallu guy of course is almostalways 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 rasamor an NRI account in South Indian Bank Ernakulam Branch. Alas as our destiny was determined in one fell swoop by our nomenclature, so willour future be.A nice arranged little love story. But the agony of course does not endthere. 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 onlyon second saturdays..."
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