We the great Indian Male

An indian male is a class within the male species. I dont know whether our evolution has been imcomplete unlike other males spread in geographical width of the globe which brought such distinction to us or is it our rigidness towards change . Other males I don’t know them so intimately as I know myself and the Indian male so cant comment on them.
But an Indian male i am and I know...World around us has grown and evolved and we stuck to various stages of evolution and periods of time like incorrigible leech.
From the prehistoric Ape who skulks around muttering four-letter words into his mobile, to the Dark Age Monster who hasn't stopped abusing and beating his wife as a display of his male superiority.
From the Medieval Knight-in-Shining armor who opens doors for women while keeping his own wife behind a closed door, to the Renaissance Know-it-All, Do-it-All who patronises young lovelies with his Been-There, Done-That professorial vibes.
From the Victorian Bore who preaches in public while his private interests remain so different, to the Decadence. Decadent of whom I need not say more. The current joke on the email circuit is, why are women coming out of the kitchens? Because the leash is too long. Ha,ha, polite laughter, you've come a long way, baby, and all that.
Hiding behind Mumyji's pallu, the Indian male looks at the changing world with some trepidation. Wife? Oh, Wife is Life for Mummyji's boy. Only, he wants to see Mummyji all over again in the Missus. At least, he wants one young lady, hymen-intact, milky-white, dowry-laden, educated-but-not-too-much, working-but-not-ambitious, professionally qualified but not nurse, secretary, typist, for those aren't professional professions, if you know what he means. Wife must also be mistress and concubine for husband, besides doing Karva Chauth and dancing on tables, presentable to his clan of friends but shouldn’t be comfortable with any. Our mummyji’s boy is a confused lot alright.
He never got time to sit back and do some introspection. He is always right and busy... In the state transport buses he's too busy pinching bottoms and coming uncomfortably close to women. In the workplace, when he's not burning up with jealousy (the boss is a "bitch") or having a little ishq with his shapely secretary (no matter that he's been married fifteen years, with three kids of various sizes to show for it), then he's standing near the water cooler smoking a low-level cigarette and making lewd remarks about the Anglo-Indian typist who wears skirts to work.
While future keeps her door open for him to jump in he is still busy clubbing and pubbing, roaring and whoring, sighing and whying, sliming and two-timing, leering and jeering. Wanting his feet to be pressed, his fragile ego to be stroked.
With so many primitive preoccupations, have we even realized that world has changed outside? That people look at us with contempt and refrain from coming close to us. Do we realize almost everyone knows that we stink and it’s of no use pointing at someone else.
There is a different kind and genre of indan men too but that’s beyond the scope of this article.