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Old March 24th, 2003, 10:03 AM
Prodigy Prodigy is offline
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Lightbulb Of "Single gals " AND "Double Degree Prospects "

I know I am in deep, cranium-level shit when I find myself agreeing to cook, clean, care, lose weight on the ass, gain it on the breasts, earn a five-figure paycheck, tone down the hair, the laugh, the 'attitude', never abuse (i.e. verbal/ tobacco / alcohol), read management tomes, drape my head on hometown visits (his, naturally), act coy in front of his friends, gratified in front of mine, gush 'intellect' to his corporate colleagues, and homely inanities to his sisters, rear well-read children, love his body hair, balls, bedroom, boardroom, bathroom habits… and to the rest of the world… always appear a genial host, generous lover and genteel wife.

After all, I, a Girl from a Good Indian Family (GGIF), have netted a denizen of that hallowed 'double degree' Indian tribe for marriage, no less! This IIT/IIM (A) super achiever (also exemplary Husband Material) comes loaded with attitude, acclaim and a list of expectations, which I giddily ignore in the first wave of 'pure chemistry', and wallow morosely in during the later phase of 'pure logistics'! And the warning signals are building up slowly, like electrical sparks fizzing on a hot fuse…

When I affectionately call him a “bastard” (Hang on… that's not an abuse… in my immediate social neighborhood words like bastard, b**** and ones that rhyme, semi-rhyme with suck are veritable endearments; not a very venerated trait but what the hell, when in 'abuse arena' do as the slang slayers do!), the Man clams up like a grouchy oyster, throws a cold look, radiates a spine-chilling vibe and orders for the coffee bill (and I haven't even finished my cappuccino). The next hour is spent with me sniveling apologetically to explain, “When I say bastard, I don't mean bastard, really…” (Frigging shit… what do I mean… butterflies and basted butter?) After all, Good Girls especially from Good Brahmin Homes are not supposed to know about, forget say words like the aforesaid one! And yes they also do not smoke, drink, cuss, belch, have wrinkled elbows or wear cheap cotton bras.

I know I am swirling (and swallowing my pride, peace and personality) in a classic, vicious chapter of the Typical Indian Phenomenon. All Indian men (and not just Good Brahmin, Double Degree Boys) who trudge the arranged (and often love) marriage path come backpacking with an amazing Everest of preconceived notions about GGIFs. Of course, we GGIFs play up this image fervently with every 'good catch'... neurotically suppressing stress, stretch marks, squishy breasts, slobby Sunday habits, and prior sexual experience with a virginal, 'wifey' flair.

I mean, which guy has not asked his 'would be' if she has had affairs, and which girl has ever gone beyond: “Oh, it was just a crush, when I was 16.” Okay, so some of the more carefree, cosmopolitan ones like my friend, S would admit, “Look, I never asked you about your past, so leave mine alone.” Hell… she is never going to admit to 'Husband Material' that two months before she met him, she shacked up with delectable Danny from Delhi in the back of a Sumo and drove to Neemrana to spend a proverbial dirty weekend. Pot-smoking, nirvana-seeking M from Laidback Lucknow will never confess that after being 'forced' to say 'yes' to a submarine engineer from Ranchi, she stormed off to Manali (she works in the adventure travel industry) to lose her virginity in a fit of raunchy rebellion, succeeded, and promptly broke off her engagement to the stable, staid, 'seedha' engineer, who after just two meetings had started sending her love letters and asthma-inducing teddy bears (replete with red hearts and ribbons).

Army kid V, who falls in love and into bed faster than Madonna changes her look, warned me 'not to open my lips when he tries to kiss me, to act coy, to say 'no' at least five times before 'doing' the 'upper body' bit (again… in my social neighborhood there are distinct levels of foreplay, interplay and 'all the way', depending on the occasion and state of intoxication.) And there was to be absolutely no mention of drunken party smooches, steamy couplings with past beaus and heart-wrenching romances with all The Wrong Ones. After all, possessiveness is supposed to be a man's prerogative and GGIFs should be prepared to stoically sit through the banter of his boisterous bachelor days, when: “I just could not get enough of that stacked airhostess post the Chennai-Delhi-Mumbai flight.” Also, GGIFs do not know a crotch from a crochet, balls from a bulb, or their own libido's from lasagna.

Needless to say, I am the proverbial cold 'fish' with a lip-zipped libido as he fervently 'checks out my goods' by the cupful and the handful. Images of beau #2 sigh before me even as he prods, pillows and puckers into me… smooching to Silk Route's Dooba Dooba in a rain-railing-all-around car, hands cueing editing tapes and breasts at the same time, skin strawberry red with love bites… a passionate picture best not replayed while I lie prostrate, 'pure' and placid. All I confess to is being kissed against my will in Bangalore on a third-year college trip. After all, most 'Husband Material' men wear blinkers when it comes to their would-be's past… want to be or wanting to believe that they are the first conquerors on virgin territory… if only they knew of the secret explorations and hidden trails that have been undertaken here and there… yes... yes... there…

From sex to the saucepan… the Man also wants to know if I have any culinary experience. Having been in hostels for the better part of 27 years, Tarla Dalal I definitely am not! And all moms of Husband Material men invariably ask their prospective daughters-in-law if they know how to cook, while mentally sizing them up to see if they can keep her 30-year-old baby happy, healthy and slobbery over his hot curry, mixed vegetables and yellow dal ('arhar' -- that's his favourite one as I was promptly informed.)

On trips home, the nearest I had ever gone to a kitchen was to forage for besan to apply to my face. My parents had in vain entreated me to learn some 'housekeeping-homemaking-husband happy' skills. After a month of my mom's badgering, I signed up for a Mrs. Khanna's cookery class and learned all about exotic soufflés and English soups (we students were doled out teensy-weensy bits of our hour-long endeavours to taste, while the rest was horded up for the Khanna clans daily feasts). Even as a single student/working woman, and consequently a media industry maverick, food or the lack of it is never an issue. At home, the maid obliges by going so far as to even peel my eggs, while I wallow in bed. Weekends mean survival on bread, butter and Maggi noodles, the staple diet of an entire tribe of hard-working hard-partying gals in metros. So when he pops the all-important question: “Do you know how to make chappatis?” I know I really 'knead' help on this one… Who the hell has time to make chappatis when chilled beer had sufficed so far? “No,” I rattled, “But I can learn; and I do know how to make English soups and soufflés…” The last I hear is that he has instructed his married sister to live with us after marriage so that she can 'train' me to cook according to his taste. I growl and yelp long distance to my mom: “Mom, What am I getting into…?” My Homely Indian Mom assures me that learning to cook is as easy as baking a pie (now that I know!) And Man persists in letting me know that he expects warm, freshly cooked, healthy, high-fibre, nutritious meals (apart from my five-figure paycheck, of course!)

Next take the question of career. He sees no 'value' in what I do, badgers me about my career graph, my potential, my savings, my sanity… OK, so what if my resume looks like a frigging construction site, I don't need him to dig around it. GGIFs are but naturally professionally qualified (which I am), and should hold stable jobs (read: dead end). All his pals seem to have wives/girlfriends/mistresses who, to my mind, are shagging their bosses, if not acting like one in their high-tech startups. I glibly highlight my television stint as one glamorous roll in the arc lights, (leading him to believe that I am on a bra-sharing basis with the Malaikas, Sophiyas and Arundhatis.)

As an ex-PR person, I trump up the corporate strategy, media relations and image management jazz. In reality, all I (and every other PR professional) did was plug press releases, curse my clients and nurse migraines over blatantly plagiarised presentations. Oh yes, I also write… and am promptly given unasked-for feedback by him, “I think your feature lacks in-depth information”. Every time he grills me about my 'future career plans' I shrivel into a defensive little ball of throat-clenching explanations, promising to redo my resume, to look for that killer job, yes… yes… to “add value, exploit my potential, become a good resource (and not a rolling stone -- in plain management speak), to network, apply here, there, everywhere. Of course, god forbid, if I happen to get pregnant while surfing up the career ladder, I will have to take a break. “Yes, Yes, whatever you say,” I meekly and myopically agree.

Like I said, I know I am in deep, cranium-level shit! So why don't I tell him to take a hike? Why should I tie the knot (and my own noose) with this tight assed Typical Indian Man? What about my fantasy orgies with rugged bikers, sensitive musicians, droopy-eyed authors and hard muscled stray hikers? Am I over the hill at 27? Will my breasts need helium support in two years? Will I die a rocking old spinster? Won't I be better off than my best friend who married for love and little else (she had an abortion last year as could not afford a baby)? Will Silk Route still be music to my ears when I am shagging my married boss at 35, single and blissfully sex starved? What if my biker/musician/author/hiker never comes along? Or comes along and leaves me the nympho for some highflying nymph? Hell, I can fake innocence, learn to cook, drape my head, clean, care, lose weight on the ass, gain it on the breasts, earn a five-figure paycheck, tone down the hair, the laugh and the 'attitude', never abuse (i.e. verbal / tobacco / alcohol), read management tomes, drape my head on hometown (his, naturally) visits, act coy in front of his friends, gratified in front of mine, gush 'intellect' to his corporate colleagues, and homely inanities to his sisters, bring up well read children, love his body hair, balls, bedroom, boardroom, bathroom habits… and to the rest of the world… always appear a genial host, generous lover and genteel wife! Why… you ask? Because inspite of the blinkers, bullying, badgering, and blanket of body hair, I realize I am in love with this Typical Indian Man!
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  #2  
Old March 24th, 2003, 10:07 AM
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GpeL GpeL is offline
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L----------->BGC
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  #3  
Old March 24th, 2003, 10:42 AM
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YedaAnna YedaAnna is offline
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Loved it dude
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Old March 24th, 2003, 11:00 AM
nydood nydood is offline
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Thumbs down

Yes Yeda, nice article, but I read this article on another site.
Prodigy, pilfering is not appreciated on this site

You should atleast give the credit to the original author (tell the author that you are posting this article) and post a link. Or if you are the author of that article, do inform us about it.

Here is the link of that article.
http://www.sulekha.com/articledesc.asp?cid=301513
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Old March 24th, 2003, 11:36 AM
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JaiSpeaks JaiSpeaks is offline
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Dood , Its high time u have an Avtaar , WOT SAY?
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Old March 24th, 2003, 11:55 AM
nydood nydood is offline
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Quote:
Originally posted by JaiSpeaks
Dood , Its high time u have an Avtaar , WOT SAY?
Jai pai... I was thinking of having the world cup as an avataar if we won. But unfortunately ....
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Old March 24th, 2003, 12:19 PM
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echarcha echarcha is offline
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Please dont paste

other site's articles without giving due credit via URL.
I dont want to invite any copyright hassles.
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