Yesterday, I was lying under my bed sweating profusely. I normally do this just to avoid my wife. This time, however, I had a more noble reason. I was trying to avoid writing this article. Finally, I gave up and confronted my editor. My exact question was, “Help”? She replied by having security throw me out of the building. But dammit, I have to write something. Also, you dear reader need to pretend to read something.
Recently though, and by recently, I mean five minutes ago, it has been brought to my notice that this column has started becoming too political and too unstable, much like the bridges of Mumbai, so it is best I return to a subject I know best — the infinite failings and frailities of the Indian male. First though, for those of you who are unfamiliar with the beast, let’s get a detailed physical description.
The Indian male was first sighted outside Lokhandwala in Mumbai, Cubbon Park in Bengaluru, and being blissfully unaware of the universe and anyone else in it on the beaches of Anjuna in Goa. His average height is ... er ... this much, and his average weight is ... er ... that much. In some cases, much more than a little bit more than that much.
