Back in the heady days of my youth, 90 lb weaklings didn't waste their time with Charles Atlas; instead they developed alternate skills. These ranged from debating and drama, to strumming their pain with their fingers.
Which is how a small group of yandoogundoos from Loyola, Madras, found ourselves pitting our debating skills against our fair and not-so-lovely Northie brethren at Winterfest, Delhi. There were other events, such as climbing the greased pole or riding a donkey blindfolded, but your correspondent confined himself to writing about them in the daily rag.
“Hardik Singh won the Donkey Derby, thanks to perfect understanding between rider and mount,” was the catchy headline of my piece, to the Sardar’s lasting rage. However the highlight of Winterfest was the beauty contest which has now been scrapped since we live in enlightened times.
Since we were from an all-male Jesuit bastion we felt licensed to letch and while this behavior falls short of today’s PC standards, one can only claim our lack of exposure as an excuse. One would have hoped that technology and the relatively free mingling of the sexes these days at the workplace and academia would have raised the bar. Clearly not, which is what makes the New Year’s Eve molestation incidents on Brigade Road truly baffling. I once laboured under the delusion that South Indian men, SIM, were superior to their counterparts in this respect. We’re worse and we don’t even have Hardik’s excuse, “Yaar, you Southies are wimps because you eat all that idli-sambhar, we lagao maa di dal and rotis.”
The problem, dear Hardik, lies not in our diet but in our attitudes to women. We crave mummy's approval and while we worship her, we are secretly terrified by her. ‘Whenever mummy says,’ was the meek reply, offered by my friend, Balaji, at the tender age of 37, when asked about his matrimonial plans. Vast quantities of celluloid have been squandered on recounting the ongoing saas-bahu saga; so mothers in law (MIL), and their customarily adversarial relationship with the wives they choose for their precious sons seem too obvious a target. Instead, sample Southie style soap opera.
‘Come and have dinner with us — my MIL's in town,’ trilled Sudha. Wonders will never cease, I thought, given her history. If memory served me right, her visits engendered in Sudha the kind of horror so graphically expressed by the good professor in ‘The Mummy Returns’.
“You've kissed and made up, have you?’ I asked. ‘No way, Jose,” she exclaimed. “But I've realised my life is a picnic compared to the paavam (simpleton) who married my husband's brother — she has to live with Chinamma,’ she confided. No, her mother-in-law isn't Sasikala, in case you were wondering.
A traditional MIL sets ground rules for her daughters-in-law to follow ranging from the trivial to the bizarre. No saying Hi over the phone, only hello. The mangalsutra is to be worn at all times, even during or perhaps especially when fulfilling one’s conjugal duties. Fasting once a week, puja thrice a day, visits to select elderly relatives, limited access to television and then only certain types of shows, learning to cook for my son in the manner and style to which he was accustomed before you stole him from me you shameless hussy, you…
My theory, unsupported by medical evidence, is that Indian mothers, deprived of the affection and companionship they seek in their own relationships, focus on developing consideration and a profound awareness of her many grievsances, mercifully without any Oedipal element to the relationship.
Therefore, SIM develop a patient ear for mummy's aches and pains and solicitously indulge hypochondria. They mutate from meekness to molestation mainly because they are unable to figure out that the victim of their unwelcome advances is somebody else’s mom or sister.
Radha Thomas, writer, feels SIM's are wussy, unless they're drunk. ‘They’re like mice but after a couple of drinks they will feel you up if you’re in a crowd,” she grumbles. ‘They use alcohol as an excuse and are brazen about it,’ she added, getting into her stride. Solutions for this deadly cocktail of prudishness, alcohol and hypocrisy range from personal alarms for women to legalizing porn and prostitution.
The NGO, Population Control, conducted a workshop in Mumbai called, “Yaari Dosti” where one half of the group were labeled “Objects” and the other half, “People”. It was quite an eye-opener since the victims were able to feel the pain and humiliation suffered by women who were groped in public. Perhaps our new police chief Praveen Sood could invite them here to sensitise Bangalorean men on this burning issue?
