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Love life of South Indian Men

 
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this is hilarious, you will laugh all through this.

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? (Kanadus 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. Business is safely in
the hands of the Mallu manager.

After all with a name like Blossom Babykutty he can't 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 lunchroom his female
coworkers 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 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 "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 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..."
 
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Hilarious - Specially the ending line. Did you write this yourself or is it a fwded mail/taken from some website?
 
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stereotype, rubbish, rubbish, rubbish and oh did I mention rubbish?, but very funny!
 
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Originally posted by Sameer Jamal:
this is hilarious, you will laugh all through this.

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.



BWAHAHAHAHA!
 
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Once I got forwarded joke and was really funny so instead of forwarding i just showed to my next desk colleague. Joke was really hillarious but he says "How the hell you read (pronounce) that name?". It was sent by my friend, Shanmuganathan Venkatpathy.
 
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CHECK this out:

A Czech goes to the optician who shows him a card with the letters
CZWXNQSTACZ

"Can you read this?" the optician asks.

"Read it?" the Czech replies, "I even know the guy."



 
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Stuart Ash
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Talking about names, I recall one more:

An American guy is supposed to have said, "It's no wonder America is getting a bad name everywhere when three of our top leaders are called dick, bush and colon."

 
Stephen Boston
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Sameer Jamal
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Originally posted by Stuart Ash:
Talking about names, I recall one more:

An American guy is supposed to have said, "It's no wonder America is getting a bad name everywhere when three of our top leaders are called dick, bush and colon."



 
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