YOU KNOW WHAT THEY CALL PRETTY GIRLS IN CHENNAI?

Tourists.

Seriously, it’s just not fair. I was in Bangalore last week, and the sheer volume of passably pretty, quite pretty, and oh-my-god women struck my staunch Chennai spirit as unfair. Here we are, a bunch of decent, unpretentious guys just looking to, well, look, but alas! There is no one to look at! Maybe it’s the fact that I studied in a school reserved only for males, and consequently never had the chance to meet any pretty women. That’s what most people (read women who have illusions of prettiness or are feminists for some creepy reason) would argue. However, in the course of the several culturals I participated in, I never did notice anyone who managed to fit the above bill.

But Bangalore! I was on Brigade road, on my own, as my sister had deserted me to go earn her living, and being bored, I watched people. As usual, I was lounging around, sniggering at ye olde “dudes” wearing funky, get this, DUPATTAS around their necks, and others wearing aviators at eight in the evening. I spot the occasional artsy desi boy being intellectual and teaching a firangi chick how to eat methi paratha. Probably a prelude to teaching her the positions in the kama sutra. I spot a Sardar guy, big as a house, strolling around in a baby pink turban, perfectly offsetting his skintight black tee and jeans. Oh, and aviators. And then, all of a sudden, the women! They spring up from nowhere and begin strutting their stuff. I am innocent Chennai boy. It startled me. So many hot women in one place at the same time! In Chennai, you can go for weeks without seeing a pretty girl. I’m talking pretty, not hot, just pretty. Hot? Forget it. Once a year, at the most. Of course, I’m talking about my own age group here, 17-20. I know plenty of very hot women over the age of 21. But my age? Nada.

Anyway, the next day, I’m in Garuda mall, this monstrous place somewhere off brigade road. They’re having some mall celebrations kind of thing, so there’s an oddly misshapen stage in the atrium with the traditional annoying MCs trying to be funny and failing. I walk around, and, as usual, gravitate towards the food. I buy a sub, which sticks to the roof of my mouth, and watch people. Once more, a surfeit of pretty women. I spot a couple (actually, the entire food court is covered in couples) where both the guy and girl are on their phones, ignoring each other. Classic. Another couple, the guy talks nonstop, and the girl gazes disinterestedly towards the digitally connected couple. I spot a congress of sardarjis plotting to kill Sonia Gandhi. I see that the price of lime juice is 40 bucks, and leave immediately, my sensibilities offended.

I head towards the rest room, but am foiled by cleaning crews on two floors. Finally, back on the grond floor and now in a slight hurry, I run into a guy. I apologise, then do a double take. The boy was wearing boxers. And a formal shirt. And a tie. I gasp, turn around, and there are five others dressed weirdly. The pee very nearly froze. I thought I had wandered in on a gay orgy and ended up looking nervously over my shoulder the entire time I was in the restroom. I escape back into the crowded atrium, when suddenly the speakers begin blaring “eye of the tiger” and the aforementioned gay guys start coming onto the stage. (no, not coming like that, you pervert). Turns out the oddly shaped stage was in fact a ramp. Ah well. So, I figure that explains things, and wander away to the coffee shop outside, where I find a nerdy guy with a supercilious expression singing “country roads”, and people asking him to sing ‘leaving on a jet plane’. I wonder why everyone in the city seems overtly sentimental, and wander back into the mall. And just in time to witness the most unfair thing I have ever seen. Another fashion show. This time around, girls. No, wait, amazons. Like Wonder Woman? Yeah. I watch the whole thing like the deprived Loyolite that I am. And after it’s done, I begin to walk away in search of a bookstore. That’s when I hear it. The MC says “and that, people, was the team from Mount Carmel college”. They were college students!! You should see the girls in my college! Lets just say my college has males and non-males. Then you will begin to comprehend how grossly unfair this world is. Aargh.

Ah well. C’est la vie.

Just wanted to rant.

Have a nice day.

WHY I'M BETTER THAN CARLOS LINNAEUS

Carlos Linnaeus wrote the 'Classification of Species'. He invented taxonomy. He was a bleedin' chemist, for Christ's sake. He missed out on all the humour of life studying the spineless creatures of the earth and giving them strange names like Rana Hexadactyla. (Which, incidentally, is the name he gave to the common frog)

So, here's my own classification of species. You may find yourself in here. If you don't, please don't be offended. Notify me, and I'll do the needful (i.e., spit in your face and tell you to get a life)

The following will certainly hurt public sentiment. Please feel free to be hurt.

1. Mallus:

The bane of the human race. They multiple like… well, Mallus, and aim at taking over the world through extensive copulation and the consequent spreading of their genes. (Henceforward referred to as ‘GENEocide’) Distinguishing features include tendency towards coconut oil, migration towards hapless arab countries, mispronunciation of the vowels of the English language and an inclination to speak very very fast. Acquisition of large quantities of wealth through aforementioned aents, ungils, chetas and chechis in the Gelf, and income generated through ownership of large coconut orchards and plantations are the main obsessions of this breed. They are subdivided into two categories:

a) White malls: this breed spreads itself across the world, passing itself off as a genuine member of the race that it infiltrates, due to its flexible skin colour and racial characteristics.

b) Black malls: Highly intelligent owners of Parotta shops and teashops in various cities around the world.

2. Goltis:

This breed is known for its repeated offences against the human eye, indulging in the worst combination of colours known to mankind. Apart from this, they are pretty decent, despite having a language that sounds barbaric, and food that requires an iron stomach for processing. They are ever Reddy and also possess large amounts of money, but not nearly as much as the Mallus.

3. Bongs:

Too intelligent for their own good. End up inhibiting progress and imbibing alcoholic substances. Generally broke all the time, and talk loudly and vociferously, giving the impression that they have the customary roshgulla permanently lodged in their mouths.

4. Northies

Applies to anyone who lives north of the Cooum. They pretend that Hindi is the only language in the world, call everyone south of Bombay “madrasis” and generally have negative IQs. They have never been known to learn any other language, despite living in other parts of the world for large parts of their lives. They are uniformly loud and obnoxious.

5. Maadus:

Abbreviation of the Marvadi. They hoard wealth like the Mallus, wear worse clothes than the Goltis and spit paan out of their swanky Mercs. Also known as “Seths” they are primarily moneylenders and businessmen. They originate in Gujarat, but are found wherever there are people in financial distress. They infest the sowcarpet area in Chennai, and their children are known for their firm grasp of marvaadi insults.

JUST SO YOU KNOW..

One wonders, doesn't one?

 

I've decided to try a little free-association writing. For the uninitiated and plain stupid, that means writing without thinking, simply allowing the pen to move across paper, and eventually words will come, words that have been hidden in your subconscious. You may argue that almost all my work would then fall under this category, but hey, who cares. I am sheer genius, so it matters not.

 

So, anyway, I've decided to be randomer than usual, and cloak this randomness in a mantle of superiority and artsiness. If you don't understand, it's simply because your intellect does not match mine. A classic case of the Emperor's new clothes.

 

Speaking of that, I went for this play a while back. It was the last performance in the Metroplus theater festival and looking at the reviews for the previous plays, I was expecting something spectacular. But the emperor foiled me. It was a play where a man discovers his wife is being unfaithful to him, and takes the suit that her lover leaves behind and makes her pretend that it is their honoured guest. Bizarre, to say the least, without including several scenes where the husband in question has a bath, and then oils his upper body in time to a rising tempo. It made no sense whatsoever, and later I discover that it had overtones of apartheid and suppression. The fact that much of the play was in Gujarati or something may have added to the confusion. Why they expect a Chennai audience to understand Gujarati I have no idea. But then, Bloody North Indians! (He he! I shall come to this later)

 

Anyway, here's the crux. We walk out, extremely disappointed, and find a board outside the theatre, half of it for positive, and the other half for negative feedback. The positive side had maybe five comments, most of them guardedly saying "good!" but actually meaning "I'll understand it after looking it up on Wiki, but until then, lets appear intellectual!” The negative side, on the other hand, was absolutely covered. People were writing over each other’s comments, deploring the moronity of the play. I was proud of Chennai that day. So many honest people! 

 

 

And next to the board stood a girl, a few years younger than me, handing out the markers to people to allow them to relive their irritation for having wasted a hundred bucks and two hours in the theatre. (Of course, a few young couples were looking pretty satisfied, as the place was pitch dark the whole time. Young people these days… Humph!) So my friend Neil and I ask the girl, did you like the play? And she says, “ no, I didn’t have the opportunity to watch it, but if I had, I’m sure I would have loved it!” So we tell her “ Uh-huh. Trust us, it was pathetic” She gives us this LOOK, and says “ Oh I’m sure I would have enjoyed it. I like abstract plays”  And all I could think of were the emperor’s new clothes.

 

Coming back to North Indians. I have recently begun discriminating against everyone. I classify and discriminate. It’s nothing serious. I do it to pass the time. It’s fun. You should try it sometime. So, if I happen to call you a bloody oily mallu, or a red underwear-sporting Bong, or a Blaedy uncivilized Panjaabi, it’s not personal.

 

Have a nice day.