Orkut, and the Loafer

Kr!sh, the man commonly known as Krexclamationsh on this blog, has resurfaced in my neighbourhood of this vast virtual sea via a scrap on Orkut and a funny post on the intricacies of interpreting profiles of females on said networking website. (Man, I am hittin' those 100-word sentences today!) The post, and subsequent prodding by Krplingsh himself, move me to vent on the subject of the men on Orkut. What follows may not be news to the MoFS reading this blog (be they "I" or not to Kr!sh), but it is my fervent wish that Interested Members of the Supposedly Less Fair Sex will read with an eye out for pointers on What Not To Do.

(OK, my "Read More" button thingy seems to not work for multiple cuts in the post. So the following three paragraphs serve as an overview of what is to come... Once you click the "Read More" button, everything will be in its right place, so no worries.)

(In which I describe the Loafer - Genus: Very Possibly Homo Species: Certainly NOT Sapiens)


Orkut is awesome: an old-friend locator device with a built-in time sink, just the thing for the immense wasteland of Sunday afternoon. It is populated almost exclusively by Indians and Brazilians, but the two sets do not intersect much, and therein lies its drawback. The relatively secluded environment, free from foreign (in all senses of the word) scrutiny, emboldens the slimiest of the slime of Desi loafers to rise to the surface and operate with impunity.

Loafer. Now that's a long-forgotten word in my vocabulary! For a long time I made the mistake of thinking that this species of the male human is confined to its native habitat: street-corners in urban India. I was disabused of this comforting notion quickly enough - upon my move to Singapore at the age of 14, the only other person from India in my secondary school there turned out to be a loafer of the first order, even though it took upwards of nine years for the full extent of his loaferdom to reveal itself.

I need hardly tell my sizzlin' sistahs*: beware the loafer. I have had the opportunity to experience almost the entire life-cycle of one specimen, so allow me to enlighten you. Step One is, as Krexclamationsh aptly observes, the request for "fraansip, pls". (The loafer is a poor grammarian and speller. He is usually a poor almost-everything.) Never respond.

If you do, the loafer moves into the second stage of operation: making conversation. This is a critical time that will serve to cloud your judgement about the loafer for years to come, because the conversation will actually be mildly interesting. Loafers often have a deep, if bizarre, interest which makes for good conversation. Note: this interest will in no way be a useful one, which serves to distinguish the loafer from the geek (a highly desirable type of male). The loafer I knew was very "into" Michael Jackson. (I know, I know, it should have tipped me off, but in my defence, this happened in the mid-90s when the whole wacko pedophile thing was new.) Ah, my loafer and I, we had long conversations about the "meaning" of Michael Jackson's music and dance.

Stage Three is when the shark music from Jaws begins to play in the background. After making conversation for about a nanosecond (relative to what's about to happen next), the loafer will, out of nowhere, spring The Confession on you. "I love you, Wendelin!" he will declare, if your name happens to be mine. Non-Indian readers of this blog, please note: this is not as weird as you're thinking, given our cultural context. But it's pretty freakin' bizarre anyway.

This is the stage when you, the hapless girl, will find the exit and take it, because let's face it, the "friendship" isn't worth saving or anything. But to the loafer, your relationship doesn't end until at least eight years after this, not even if you get married somewhere along the way. Out of nowhere, the loafer will send you emails ("Tell me now if you love me or not! If yes, let's get married right away. If not, fuck off!" - true story), haunt your blog and generally make a pain of himself. At this point, the only therapy proven to work is to completely ignore his antics - which is what you should be doing right from the start and that's the moral of this story.

*phrase originally by Juice, who makes up the most delish ones all the time.


Now, why do I say that the "secluded environment" of Orkut is what allows loafers to thrive? (Warning: this section turned into something unfunny and vent-y, I don't know how.)


You see, globalisation and exposure to the world at large has reached the loafer, too. Out in the world where other people can see him, people who will judge based not on a closed, Indian context but a progressive and international one, the loafer turns shy and hides his weirdness away.

In India (in my time and my city, at least), if you spotted a loafer you crossed to the other side of the road and kept walking without making eye-contact, all through the whistles and the catcalls. Some of my more daring friends spat at them from the other side of the road, but these girls were quickly labelled fast pieces of baggage by our parents... and ultimately the loafers were only encouraged. This is the environment the loafer thrives in: an environment of people who have lived in the same culture (even if they don't subscribe to it)... people who accept the loafer as an annoying fact of life and move on.

In the world of open scrutiny by outsiders, he would be ridiculed by flabbergasted folks. That's like a blast of cold air into the warm, humid armpit of cultural condonement occupied by loafers. Not suitable for thriving. This is why you'll never see one of them anywhere but in an Indian context.


And finally we come to the site at hand: Orkut. The annoying male scum that infest its waters are easily recognisable as loafers at first glance, and a closer inspection reveals three subspecies.

1. The Slacker
The Slacker's profile will give you almost no information other than his favourite method of getting jiggy. Occasionally, his profile photo will be obscene, but mostly he just can't be bothered to upload anything. He will scrap you with "Hi" (just that) every few hours for a couple of days, and then move on to the next kill if you don't respond. Or else he will simply try to add you as a friend (in spite of your prominent warning to all jackasses to STAY AWAY), repeatedly, even after you reject his invitation. But he melts away after a few tries. This is the least bothersome type of loafer on Orkut.

2. The Arrogant Berk
A. Berk's scrapping methods use a bastardised version of reverse psychology, following a pattern of condescension, insult and prodding. Here's an example:
Scrap No. 1

Hy lovely whts up?

Scrap No. 2

hi dear u didnt accept my friendship request. accept my request or not as i see 4m here u look very sweet, but cant saywhat type of gal u r. i mark u full 100 marks for ur sweet face,but only 4 face. bye tired of sending u request . being sweet makes u feel proud & not to merge with me. anyway this is my last scrap 4 u. ur proud attitude doesnt matches mine,so bye and forever,.this face will go awy with the dust, what will remain is good and loving persons 4ever

Scrap No. 3

I am waiting...

Scrap No. 4

Hy where r u?

3. Creepy Old Man
This guy's intentions may not be as black as both the above versions... but what the hell do I know, right, because how come it's never an older woman who scraps you randomly? The Creepy Old Man's profile prominently advertises him as being married, and may well feature an honest photograph, bald spot and all. This, however, in no way dampens his enthusiasm to set up connections with young female Orkutters regardless of their relationship status. This guy believes almost as fervently as the Arrogant Berk that he is God's answer to said young female Orkutter's prayers. He fancies himself an irresistible conversationalist, and is almost appealingly naive in his decidedly internet-of-the-late-90s attitude of "I want to make more friends!", but in reality he's just another dirty old man, creepy as they come.

What hope, then, for non-scummy males who are interested in finding women on Orkut?

You want the truth? None, really, if the women are anything like me. Come on, my sizzlin' sistahs, let's take a quick poll: how many of you would be interested in a scrap by a random guy, no matter how polite it may be? Honestly, these days I wouldn't trust strangers on the internet an inch if I was in the dating pool (good, parent-approved desi matrimonial sites are the exception).

Or maybe I'm just an intolerably smug old fogey who didn't practice what she now preaches, huh? I'll shut up now.