Different names, same purpose. A network that can put any alumni database to shame. You mafia fellas with your Omertas, you Opus Dei and your age old fraternities: here is something that is so secret, no one knows how it develops; something so deadly that your movements can be tracked/monitored/reported on a city level basis no matter which country you are in; something so effective that a single Tambram chap can find himself being introduced to someone he suddenly finds is going to be his future better half even before he can say “blitzkrieg”.

The AMN has been recognized as a potent force over many such startling revelations. For example, it almost single-handedly put the marriage-broker / tarakar / panditji community out of business (before the concept of kundali was marketed as being critical and ergo, the astrology mumbo-jumbo made quintessential). The connections are instant, the relationships forged at broadband speed and before you know it, jadagams are flying around.

To illustrate the gravity of the issue I present two sample conversations of the network building process. Compare, contrast and concur.

At an alumni meet, in some snazzy banquet hall, in some snazzy country:

“Hey, hello there. My name’s Harish. Batch of 2007. And I see… (reading name tag) you are… Rohan. Nice to meet ya, Rohan.”

“Hey, nice to meet you too. I’m from the batch of 1999. So how’s Lucknow nowadays?”

“Aah same old. Hostels 14 being built since ages now. But the second lib has come up pretty fast, just behind Manthan.”

“Hostel 14?!! Second Lib?! Manthan?! We had 4 rooms and a toilet. And a promise of a library. I have no clue what you talking about.”

“Umm.. err.. ok. So, how’s work?”

And if its a marketing maniac in an FMCG (for example, yours truly) and an i-Banker in the conversation, the situation above will soon lead to glazed eyes, uncoordinated nodding and expedited consumption of vodka shots.

But then, the AMN is not handicapped by year of passing, relatability or even industry. You just have to belong.

At Srinivasa Perumal temple, any country:

“Oh, namaskaram mami. So nice to meet you. So, enda ooru (which town do you hail from?)”

“Naangal Tanjavur. Neengal? (We are from Tanjore. How about you?)”

“Naangal Tiruvarur pakkatla XYZ kukgramam.” (translation doesn’t matter. The move is already made by now.)

“Ooohhh! How nice to meet our people. Do you know Lalita who lived in the second street next to the temple?”

“She’s my second cousin from my father’s side! How do you know her?”

“Her brother is my co-brother’s brother-in-law. You know, the one who’s called Ambi?”

“Oh, Srini daane! Of course we know them very well. So you have any children?”

“Yes, one son. He just graduated, and is working in Singapore.”

And within five minutes, the conversation has “arranged marriage” written all over it. Notice the subtle endearments, pre-existing relationships and stalker-level detailing of information. And mind you, ladies and gentlemen, I make this up not. I have seen this happen in every single marriage / sashtiaptapoorti / sadabishekam / anniversary function that I have attended. The AMN network goes by this tenet: Everyone knows everyone, or will know within 5 minutes of meeting each other.

While you are reeling under mind-twister relationships (father’s uncle’s second cousin’s daughter) the AMN is already mingling like long lost beer-buddies. And before you know it, there’s an eligible, homely sweet girl living in a street next to you, whom your mom has already met in a Tiruppugazh recital.

The AMN spans cities, nations, even generations. You are never too far, you are never too furtive. They will know, and they will hunt you down.

Beware. Run if you can. While I go visit tamilmatrimony.com and find out if someone’s already posted my profile there.

[I have to credit Pravin for the birth of the term AMN.]

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