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.
This male sets himself apart from his European, African, and American counterparts in many different ways. For one thing, he is far more comfortable emanating bodily sounds. He uses his body like an instrument and creates organic sounds from different orifices, especially in public places. Very often, he has no idea about the said escaped sound, until it is brought to his notice, either usually by a foreign national or an ex-girlfriend, who is on her way to Vipassana, after years of tolerating this unequal music.
The Indian male also, often doesn’t seem to understand the difference between his outside voice and inside voice. Unlike his international counterparts, the Indian male is louder in public social settings, and relatively quiet and in a self-induced comatose state in his home.
This whole formula gets even more amplified when he’s on mobile phone in a public place, here the decibel level can quite easily mirror or even surpass Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan’s if he were to sing in a phone booth. (Authors note: although so far there is no verified documented evidence in existence of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan singing in a telephone booth). (Author’s note about the author’s note: As this writer has been stripped of the rank of author, the author’s note should read just as ‘The Note’). (Note about the Note: We have just been notified by Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan’s estate that he is by no means to be mentioned again here.)
Now, let’s look at the Indian male’s thought processes. He spends around 95% of his time thinking about himself. The other 5% is spent asking himself why he’s not thinking about himself. He has an unnatural attachment to his mother and generally puts his family third after both his IPL and EPL teams.
Okay, the editor has just told me because of global warming, I must stop here. Basically, we’re running out of paper. But, please be sure to follow the second part of this column, a fortnight from now. It’s on the sexual nature of the Indian male, and though this will be answered in less than two sentences, I’m told its worth the wait.
The writer has dedicated his life to Communism. Though only on weekends.
