The lot of the Indian man who aspires to gentlemanly
conduct is a trying one. To begin, he is hindered by his name. Mr.
Muralikrishnan M Vayavelu lacks the brio of Monsieur D’ Argatnan or Don Juan.
We might share garlic recipes, but not the charm- and if truth be told, Mr.
Muralikrishnan is better left to work his finesse on resource scheduling sheets
than sheets of the other kind.
But this blog is not about Mr. Muralikrishnan and his
glorious IIT-ian heritage. This blog is to protest- against the calumny of
capricious circulars, the perfidy of pernicious periodicals, the duplicity of
deleterious dailies.
I refer, of course, to the article in Cosmopolitan-
12 things that women do better than men.
It has been a truth, now universally accepted, that
on a broad, generic level women are better than men. They are nicer, more efficient,
better looking and socially more connected. But no, that is not enough for
Cosmopolitan. It needs to lay out in fussy detail exactly what measures men
fall short on.
It says that there are 12 reasons. It avoids the cosy
familiarity of 10 and the vagueness of 15. It says, with a precision of laser
scalpel created by a Kaizen master in a German robotic facility, that yes, women
are superior and here are the 12 reasons supporting their supremacy.
To this, I say no- a defiant, undaunted – No!
Not till I am standing. Not till I am on my two feet.
Not till-though I have been up for nearly 15 minutes and the urge to slump on
couch is great. I raise this blog as a
revolt against this utter fibbery.
And I state - Men are better than women in 6
different ways. Take that, Cosmopolitan! –(and
may you nurse your wounds with 20 different cocktails to perk up your party ).
In case, I have your attention- here are the 6 ways
we can prove the excellence of the male genus.
1.
Shopping: It may sound counter-intuitive
(the word brings back happy memories of my college days when my logic professor
would say “Sandeep’s got an answer right. Now that’s counter-intuitive
hypothesis” but he would say that with such a big smile that I forgave him for all
the times he said it.)
The other day,
I went shopping for vegetables. It was the middle of a cricket match, but I
went, nevertheless. I had just returned and was watching the critical overs
between tea and drinks- when my wife bustled in- without preamble, I tell you-
and demanded, “How much tomato did you buy?”
You,
intelligent readers, will at once spot the sheer idiocy of the question. There
was the sales slip in the bag- all she’d need to do was to look at it- but no,
I needed to tell her how much tomato I had bought.
I reached out
for the bill and said coolly, “About 2 kgs, dear- why do you ask?”
“We already
have ½ a kg and I wanted ½ a kg more”, she screamed, “and you have bought 2
kgs.”
I looked again
at the buying list that she had prepared and realized the misunderstanding. It
was simple, really. She had asked for 2 kgs. of potato and ½ kg of tomato, and
I had missed the potato and bought 2 kgs of tomato instead. I pointed it out to her- it seemed like an
everyday mix-up, something we could ignore with a light laugh and a smile.
“We can eat a
lot of salads this month”, I suggested.
But she would
not be mollified.
And then we
noticed the bag of tomato. The bottom part of the bag had sagged, something
akin to the jowls of my hung-over uncle, the younger one- (long story, maybe
later) - but only redder. There was no doubt- between the time that I had
bought the tomato and now- most of it had turned to mush.
We could rescue
about ½ kg of tomato. I pointed out the happy coincidence to my wife.
“Well, you
wanted ½ a kg- and that’s what you got”.
Her stare made
me decide that it would be better if I went for a walk and let things cool down
a bit.
When I came
back, I noticed that there was a cow, a goat and a cat scouring the waste bin
near our house. The cow looked up from its rumination and I noticed, by its
distinct bloody red snout- that it had evidently been grazing on the mushy
tomatoes.
I said to
myself, “A woman feeds her family. But a man feeds the world.”
2.
Having a world view: It is indisputable.
Men have a better world view. Let me tell you a brief story of my friend.
He was sitting
at his dining table a few years back and he said, “Russia is going down.”
His wife, an
Eva Braun of her generation- capable of being loved only by Hitler and no one
else- laughed- a pealy, whiny laugh that hassled him not a little, but he kept
his calm. “You are a pretty stupid buffoon”, she said. Rather unkindly, I’d
add- as he could have been called stupid- but would have never answered to
either of the other two descriptions.
Now, what
happened next was, that, one day, as she went for her morning prowl around the
park- she was hit by a truck and died.
My friend bore
her death with fortitude and never allowed a hint of grief to intrude upon his
wan smile.
It was later
found out that the truck had veered off course and hit the woman because the
axle was faulty. They had asked for spare parts- but this was a Russian truck
and the factory that made those axles, was having a strike-and hence, they
could not change the axles.
It proved my
friend’s point, of course- about the interconnectedness of things and the
advantage of having a world view.
My friend has
remained a bachelor throughout- and now the heads the Communist wing of his
community.
3.
Sports: It is a cliché- a man’s love for
sports and a woman’s steadfast refusal to understand it. But my point goes
deeper than that.
It was the
summer of 1987. This was the Cricket World Cup that we deserved to win. Gavaskar
hit a century against the New Zealanders- textbook batting- but a totally
different textbook than what he had been reading all his life. It was, as if, a
bunch of bhajan singing aunts had turned into a band of tap dancing cockatoos,
but only more improbable.
But the world
cup had not started well for us. We had lost to Australia in our first match.
It was then
that my friend Pranesh discovered his yellow lockerboy underwear. It was the
one that he had on, the day India won against Pakistan (B & H Cup’85) and
in Sharjah- 1986. He wore that straight through for all the matches in the
world cup and we were winning again.
Point to note-
it had been years since he had bought the undergarment and he had not stinted
on his daily bread-or daily meat- in the meantime- and therefore, these briefs
were tight. Plus, they did look like they had once been the picnic ground for a
family of recently deceased rats (who’d have died of old age)- and smelt the
kind of odour that you get when you are wandering around a basement searching
for a lost ball and end up picking up a disease that not only kills you but
also wipes out the whole city in days- and stars Dustin Hoffman in the remake
version.
His girlfriends-
regrettably- he had none- so I use the term loosely to refer to the women who’d
deign to come close enough to talk to him- began to prefer the benefits of long
distance communication through telephone and letter post. In the common room,
we, as sympathetic friends, began to give him ample space to sit and enjoy the
cricket in peace- in recognition of his selfless sacrifice (the tightness of
the briefs did threaten a permanent impotency).
Coming back to
the game, Gavaskar was on 45 when Pranesh felt the urgent need of the “runs”.
It had started slowly but had now intensified into an uncontrollable urge to
poop. However, the toilets were at least 100 metres away and there was no way
that Pranesh would be able to see the match while sitting on the pot. Like all
men, Pranesh had grasped instinctively that if he left his seat, even for one
instance, Gavaskar would lose his wicket. Gavaskar’s only century in one-day
internationals, that too, in a world cup- therefore- depended if not entirely,
but to a large extent, on Pranesh clenching his bottom and suffering his,
regrettably, not so silent torment.
It was tragic. Chatfield
would bowl, Gavaskar would wind up and hit a four- and Pranesh would be there,
suffering a torment, both physical and psychological. For remember, he knew
that not only was he running the risk of
a fusillade of feculence in his underpants at any moment, he was also acutely
aware that such an action would invariably lead him to be branded “Pranesh the
pooper” or “Potty Pranesh” or any number of such coarse names.
But it was
Gavaskar’s century- he had no choice.
The inevitable
happened. Bracewell bowled- a slightly overpitched delivery, marginally, I may
say. On any other day, Gavaskar would have on driven it for a respectable
single. But this was another day- after all, Chetan Sharma had taken a
hat-trick, to the universal surprise of all. In a trice, the left leg went
forward, almost to the pitch of the ball but not completely, the hands came
down in a powerful arc and the ball sailed over the boundary lines, high into
the stand. Bracewell had not even completed his follow through. The stadium
erupted in a roar.
Unfortunately,
there was a roar at the other end too- and we turned around to see Pranesh
clutching his pants and running towards the bathroom, at a fairly respectable
pace, given the enormous bulge in his bottoms.
The aftermath
of the tragedy was short and brutal. The underpants were found to be
irrecoverable. So were his pants, which
had been badly affected by the violence of the eruption. We decided that the
only honourable end was to burn them- and we did that and mourned their passing
that evening before dinner. No one was sadder than Pranesh the potty pants
(this was the sobriquet that finally stuck with him) but we felt that his
underpants and pants had done their bit.
The Indian team
however failed to keep their end of the bargain. In the next game, Gavaskar was
out, bowled by Philip Defreitas for 4 and though Azhar and Kapil Dev flayed
around for a bit, the match was lost and so was the world cup.
Tell me, one
instance of such selflessness in the cause of sports from the female gender and
I will take back my assertion that a man may develop a liking for his wife,
some sentimental attachment with his car, maybe a tolerance for his children, but
it is only with sports that you will see- pure, unadulterated love.
4.
Cooking: This is not something I lightly
asseverate. Women, may be doing it everyday. It is even possible that the man’s
role so far has been curtailed to boiling eggs, not spilling the coffee and
changing the gas cylinder.
But I stand by
my assertion- men are still better.
Let me explain.
If you have been following the stories of Sherlock Holmes, you would know that
the acme of detectives- the Lestrades, the Gregsons- was Holmes himself- the
“consulting detective”.
In the BBC
series- Sherlock- you find in the tense moments, beside the pool, where Watson
and Holmes are in immediate peril of being shot to pieces, the villain is
Moriarty- the “consulting criminal”- again, the capstone of the criminal world.
A few days
back, I was invited to a friend’s place in Kolkata. My friend is a Bengali and
I went prepared for a delicious 5 course arterio-sclerotic dinner. The food was
wonderful, course upon course of the tastiest dishes imaginable- but the
standout was the mutton curry that his wife was preparing when we reached their
house.
It was a sight.
Remember it was summer at Kolkata, 43 degrees if not more. The fire on the
stove burned bright and my friend’s wife, normally a vision of calm allure, was
bent over the pressure cooker, frantically stirring the frying pieces of mutton
with a ladle that almost came up to her arms.
My friend, who
had evidently bathed and smelt of fresh talcum powder and perfume- and was
wearing a white cotton panjabi-kurta, of a nawabian finery and delicacy, paused
at the gate of air conditioned drawing room- where he had been ensconced for
some time.
The kitchen
door was some distance away. He paused and smelt the air.
“You need to
put some more cinnamon,” he said.
Believe me,
when I tell you- that I would not be able to tell something like this from that
distance. There was the smell of mutton frying, the smell of garam masala
blending into the lovely fragrance of curry. But to identify one element out of
all that- that was genius.
My friend
withdrew into the cool confines of his room. But I stood outside while I
considered him. He stood alone (actually he was reclining on the settee, but
you get my drift).
Here was the
acme of the world of cuisine- the master of brewing, broiling, browning,
frying, grilling, heating, roasting, simmering, sizzling, steaming, steeping,
stewing, toasting- the pinnacle of the profession-the “consultant cook”.
5.
House Work: I can hear dozens of female
voices in angry demurral. Actually, I can hear my wife trying to teach
multiplication tables to my son for the past half hour, which sounds pretty
similar.
But it is the
truth. We are better at housework, at least, in the things that matter.
Years ago, when
I was a young lad and my friend, who was also a young lad himself, went to a
party and came back after a night out with a few friends, having had a few
convivial drinks. It was a cold freezing Delhi winter and between this and
that, and the drinks- we had plain forgotten to eat.
It was 2 am.
The wind,
mistaking us for people in an Alistair Maclean thriller set in icy Arctic, was
as sharp as a carving knife through a soufflé- and the chill bit us with a
vehemence that would make a Doberman Pinscher look like a blasé nibbler.
And we were
hungry.
We were hungry
as starving Russian peasants who are forever looking at the possibilities of
making grandma dinner- and we struggled along the streets of Delhi in vain for
food, any food- even a small little cart of fried rubbish that would surely
make us sick the next day- but would give us enough to survive the night. But it
was in vain.
It was nearly
an hour and half when we gave up our bootless quest and decided to return to
the hostel.
We had just
shuffled into our rooms and collapsed on our beds when my friend jumped up with
a startled cry.
“There is an
animal on my bed- something horrible, soft, and squishy and terrible”, he
screamed as he grabbed at the light switch.
This made me
jump up too and for some moments we were both tottering around the room till we
saw what it was that had made my friend jump in the first place.
It was the
remnant of a Subway sandwich.
It came back to
me. Three days back, one of our more munificent colleagues had bought us a sandwich
and here was the half eaten remnant of it- placed by providence to save us from
starvation.
We fell on it
like wolves on a prime-time National Geographic show and soon every crumb of
bread on the torn Subway cover was gone. The half sandwich had provided some
succour- but not enough. We were busy trying to chew on the scraps of paper for
any odd-ends of the sandwich when we were both imbued with the happy thought
that there could be sustenance in other rooms too.
And so we went,
rather like adventurers of yore, on a mission to find food. And even though we
encountered minor imprecations- and some sleepy bodies too heavy to move, this
did not deter us-for we unearthed a rich harvest of about 6 packs (half eaten)
of crisps, one apple that had been barely nibbled upon, a couple of biscuits
with just a smidgen of fungi on it (we decided that if we could have mushrooms,
why not this?- which made excellent logic on that day) and another half-eaten
sandwich that was at least a day fresher than the one we had before.
I tell you, it
was the saving of us.
On that cold,
freezing Delhi winter we sat down and thanked the considerate nature of all
those who had not, in the name of housework, thrown out these essential items
of nutrition and had saved them for such a day.
I ask you, dear
reader, to give me one instance where a woman’s so called housework has saved
lives. For we cannot be measured on the just the sum total of our achievements-
it is on the difference that we make to the lives of others that ultimately decides
our final eminence. And in this, we men do make a mark, as my next point will
prove.
Finally, the 6th
thing that men do better-
6.
Environmental Sensitivity: There was
once a time when a colleague of mine- a man, of course, wandered into a lecture
on sustenance and environmental sensitivity. He had meandered into the room
because they had a pot of coffee on the table and some of that stuff that comes
on toothpicks and features lettuce and bits of meat- for he adored those
things- but he sat down and listened to the talk on what was being done to the
environment.
He was aghast.
He had always been a peace loving fellow and had not realized that he had been,
inadvertently, slaying Mother Nature. It used to pain him to kill mosquitoes,
so you can imagine that he was mortified by his flagrant actions that had led
to the depredation of the natural world. It opened his eyes- he would, nay- he
must reform. And as a sign of his desire for such amelioration, he would don
green. It would be a symbol of his resolve to do his best for the macrocosm.
Like all men,
he believed in instant activity and so he went out and bought the greenest
pajamas that money could buy- or what was available at the going rate in
Chowringee footpath.
He woke up the
next morning with the firmness of doing something for the environment- and
hence he did not notice that the speech he had heard the day before had already
wrought vital changes in him.
It was when he
looked down at his hands and feet during breakfast that he noticed the strange transformation
that was going on.
He was slowly
turning green.
It came to him
in bits- at first, it was his fingers- and then his toes, and finally his arms
and legs that took on a distinct verdant hue.
A few days
later he noticed green splotches around his body, some on the stomach, a few on
the cheeks, bits of it under his chin.
Another day, as
he got up from his bed where he had sat butt-naked (don’t ask me why) he
noticed green impressions on his bed and realized, upon closer inspection in
the hallway mirror that his bums had grown green too.
It was as if
environmental sensitivity had seeped into his soul and was driving him to a
beryl tinge!
He mentioned
this to his girlfriend, who- with the typically insensitivity of her gender-
scoffed at his idea and made some disparaging comments about cheap clothes
losing colour- which was completely beside the point.
For a few days,
he became a local celebrity. He would don his green pajamas, which he now
dubbed as his environmental uniform and would demonstrate to all who were
interested, the steady greening of a man who is aware of his sustainability and
environmental responsibilities. And truly, it was a remarkable metamorphosis. Like
King Midas who changed everything he touched into gold- everything this man
touched turned green.
His white
shirts, after the first soaking, turned into a rich green. Soon it was the turn
of the socks, then the trousers and the various undergarments. They all had a
distinct viridian chroma- it was as if his entire wardrobe was transforming
along with him.
It was not long
after that disaster struck. One day whilst ironing his environmental uniforms,
he got distracted by Sachin Tendulkar’s batting on TV and he burnt his pajamas.
The damage was
irreparable. With much trepidation, he got rid of the dresses, but he knew in
his heart, that without his trusty dress, his super green powers would go.
It would be
nice to say that nothing of that sort happened, but the truth is that sans them
he steadily lost his superpowers and it was not long before he was back to the
sort of dull grey pallour, that was his complexion.
His encounter
with the world of the chartreuse was fleeting but it was wonderful while it
lasted. It was this sentiment that he was expressing to his girlfriend, one
fine evening, for probably the twentieth time- when she turned to him savagely
and said, “Oh, those green pajamas must have been shedding colour” and stormed
away.
My friend was
nonplussed. He had not expected such a reaction. He was, however, a wise man
and understood that his girlfriend, however accommodating- was still of the
female gender and they have been notorious in not understanding anything about
the environment. He forgave her and
became a nicer, sweeter human being.
The cause of
the natural world did not leave him and he eventually became the head of sustainability
and environmental safety of a large corporation. He even has his private jet
that he uses in his frequent soirees across the world.
His brief
period of blazing aquamarine remains a mystery to this day. A man turning green
due to environment sensitivity- match that, women of the world!
I conclude-
those who have had the patience to go through these points would undoubtedly
agree with me that there are some things in which we men, stand alone.
Women, I have
noticed, generally stand a few feet away.
