Column

“You remember what Halle Berry’s character said in the movie, Perfect Stranger? Stroke a man’s ****, you get him for the night. Stroke a man’s ego, you get him for life. That’s your problem darling; you have to learn how to stroke a man’s ego.” I stirred from my half-asleep tiramisu tuck-in at Trattoria to blink at my friend as he summed up nearly a decade of relationship hits and misses with a two-liner from a Hollywood cheese fest.

Aah the male ego! The proverbial pink elephant in the room that every woman must learn to tend to without ever acknowledging its ridiculousness. While the existence of the male ego is a universal phenomenon, its specific cultural manifestations are quite mind-boggling.

So while for the Delhi guy it’s his .5 calibre Model 500 Smith & Wesson or how many politicos he’s knows like the back of his hand, for the Bangalore IT guy it’s the number of overseas assignments he has bagged. The Calcutta guy still likes to carry the intellectual chip on his shoulder like a badge of honour while all hicktowners secretly have a Bollywood hangover and love to brag about their real/imaginary encounters with starlets n’ wannashines.

Closer home, for Mumbai guys I think the bank balance is the numero uno. Nothing makes his chest swell more than recounting the kill he’s made in the stock market just before it crashed or the obscene 7-figure bonus he netted on the 10 deals he’s closed this year. Evading the ‘system’ comes a close second. While the Delhi guy works the world of regulation and law enforcement as an insider, the Mumbai male prides himself on being a bit of an outsider who has managed to outwit it through bribes or legal skulduggery, be it scamming FSI or snagging licences and permits.

I was chatting with an old guy friend of mine about this creature called the Male Ego and he said that, call it old-fashioned or Freudian, the male ego stems from innate insecurity. Insecurity?? Considering that all said and done, socially, culturally and historically men are still on top what in heaven’s name are they insecure about I ask? But then, what do you think accounts for those outsized SUVs and Hummers (especially on the dingy Bombay roads), the bulky phones and PDAs, the yachts, the private jets? It’s all about the size. The more insecure men get about their Goldmember, the more they turn into Madonna’s Materials Boys. And when they have nothing to show in size, it comes out physically either through sport (actual or spectator) or in its most ineffective form through violence. What a calmer place the world would be if only all men were happier with what they were born with. Viagra for world peace, anyone?
And what are the women doing during all this posturing and preening? Sitting back and smiling quietly while the men show off their trophy wives, trophy cars, trophy moolah and trophy rolodex, knowing that when push comes to shove everything hinges on our answer to the one crucial question, “Am I the best you’ve ever had?”

And therefore the real key to nailing the guy is that old adage, different strokes for…

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