Nobody said it would be this hard!

The seemingly-endless celebrations and ceremonies of Monu's and Rahul's wedding finally finished. Before the wedding, during our months of preparations our conversations invariably revolved around how we would be exhausted by the time the day of the wedding arrived. But we were not tired during the five-odd days of ceremonies big and small, dancing, continuous बक-बक with extended family all getting together after years, coffee times with siblings at 3 a.m., impromptu singing of Punjabi songs and smiling oh so bloody much that we are now following a no-smiling policy as a sort of retreat for the poor, overworked jaw muscles.
Nah, the wedding was a piece of cake for us. It is the post-wedding scenario that I am having a great deal of trouble with.

Any idiot can face a storm. Picking up the pieces when the storm has passed is more difficult- much, much more difficult- than facing the harsh winds when the storm is raging. To rebuild your life, to start from where you had left off, to get used to your peace, quiet and space is a massive effort.It feels like we were steadily climbing the hill of our daily lives but were interrupted by a thunderstorm that came sweeping in and caught us in its magnificent whirlwind. Now it is gone and we cannot get a grip on how to start and where to start from, once again.

Wedding and marriage is all nice and good when your focus is on the clothes and accessories and dancing. But when you see your little sister in a dazzling ensemble (that blows your mind away every time you look at her because you realize she is a woman, not a girl anymore), sitting with सिन्दूर in her hair- THAT is the moment you understand the enormity of what is happening.

I don't mean this to be sentimental but bloody hell, nobody said it would be this hard. I did not cry when my sister's डोली was sent off. I did not understand why everybody around me was wailing like that. She has been living away from home for seven years and now also, she will be living away from home and returning home to visit just as before.

But then when I returned home I was carrying a strange void- like something in my heart was sinking and that I did not quite understand. The left room, which was my room and later became the D Room was empty now. All her stuff had been packed and sent away. But she was still in the same town. That did not feel right. Not right at all.

Since the wedding ceremonies ended really late- almost at seven a.m. the next morning- Monu and Rahul came home in the afternoon of the day of their reception for the traditional visit by the newly-married couple to the girl's house. So we all sat and chatted and Monu told us how she kicked the little brass pot of rice that your bride on TV serials lightly tips off with her feet. We talked some more and then she got up to leave. But that did not feel right either. She got married but why does she have to go now? Why can she not stay here at our home with Rahul? More sinking feeling.

Monu, Rahul, Sonu and myself were to leave for Delhi the following afternoon and I called Rahul the next morning to check about our tickets that they had booked. We talked briefly and then he asked me if I wanted to talk to Monu. I felt the third brick sinking in my stomach then because I was still in that phase when he would call and I would ask him if he wanted to talk to Monu.

It was during any one of these incidents that I understood why they cry at डोली. Yes, she is gone now. She is her own woman, with her own family.

Earlier, I had only seen a few days of dancing and celebrations and ceremonies whenever I thought of the wedding. Never had I imagined that a small ceremony would change things so drastically. Nobody warned me of how emotionally draining this wedding would be. Nobody warned me that the pain of the blisters from all the dancing in those fancy lady-shoes will be nothing compared to the clenching and unclenching of something inside- maybe the heart or maybe the bloody soul- every time I saw the empty shelf-space where her clothes used to be.

But in time, step by step we will return to life because that is what we do. Adapt to the change and then live with it. That is when I will begin to recall, here the mini-disasters like अखुं unknowingly giving Pandit (my nephew) and myself sleeping pills on the day of the wedding and get back to mocking everything everywhere!

I will still say this though, a little bloody warning beforehand would really have helped! :/

व्याह नू हत्थ लाणा, a few miracles and an announcement

Yesterday we officially kicked-started the wedding celebrations! There was a small कीर्तन as part of the larger function, व्याह नू हत्थ लाणा. In the olden days, the wedding family had to do everything on their own- from cleaning chaffs of गेहूं to then dressing up the bride. Now, there are आटा चक्कीs to deal with the गेहूं and cooks to handle the food. There are fancy salons to dress up the brides and so we don't know what to do except call the आटा चक्की and order MP का आटा, instruct the cooks on the menu for the day and reconfirm appointments at the salon. However, the traditions still continue.

So yesterday, we did the traditional threshing of गेहूं. I mean the married women of the house (this again makes me wonder why Punjabis consider marriage as a contagious disease- a group of married women passing on the germs to the poor bride-to-be). After this, there was another traditional thing- the women (married, again) undoing the braid that the bride-to-be had made her hair into. So Monu's braid was undone. This, we guessed stems from the daily schedule where the bride is dressed up for the wedding only after the housework (including threshing the गेहूं) is finished.

There was also a कीर्तन, during which कमला बुआजी looked like a child who finds out Christmas is happening twice that year, would. Then began a series of traditional Punjabi songs that either bitch about the bride's mother-in-law or bitch about the bride's mother-in-law. In unimaginably creative ways. The poor mother-in-law is compared to everything short of a rat's ass and I cannot help but feel sorry for the poor hag.

So with the wedding officially flagging off the next natural step was to go to the mattresses. The furniture has been pushed in the corners and everywhere in the house, you will find people sleeping on mattresses on the floor. As for चाचा and I, we have shifted to the drawing room (or draa-ing room, as the old man calls it) where we are fed too!





In the short time since the wedding celebrations started, we are experiencing miracles like them Christians talk about. Here is one:



This is the famously-notorious! Mine बापू who has never EVER done anything for himself and is quite used to being waited upon 24X7 by one family member (mine mother) or another (Sonu)(if you are my family, I know you are nodding right now), actually made tea. For 5 people. Everybody had just finished drinking tea but when the opportunity of a lifetime comes your way, you don't refuse it. So out of curiosity, everybody said yes to the offer for tea, much to the surprise of mine बापू. Junior Dadi's warning glares were ignored. Hallelujah!

And in conclusion, I wish to make an announcement to the few folks who are joining us in a few days: BYOC- Bring Your Own Chappals (चप्पलs). See the चप्पल-चोरी takes the form of a continuum- X wears Y's चप्पलs, Y wears Z's, Z wears A's, A wears B's and then B will wear mine and I have to wear mine बापू's size-12, जितेन्दर-style white sandals in my size-barely-5 feet and waddle to the bathroom with mine बापू's warnings of "मेरी sandil गीली मत करना" ringing in my ears. One needs a conducive environment to attend nature's call, people. So please. BYOC.

Fire scare and the usual jhik jhik

Dear folks, it is here. The wedding. Since the past few days, we have been swamped. And we don't know in what. There is just a gazillion things to do. And several disasters to take care of.

The latest arrival is that of mine बापू. He is Junior Dadi's absolute favourite. This video will prove that.



Look at that smile! In fact अन्खुं calls his wife the दरोगा and my Dad the D.I.G. And like all सरकारी अफसर, mine बापू also has all of us running around to ensure he has nothing to complain about. चाची tends to not talk quite a lot in the presence of बापू.

Now let me tell you a little bit about our living arrangements. The first floor of the house has two rooms- the left room, which is where I have spent the 13 years of mine life since we moved into this house and the right room, which has the TV and the dressing table and where Dad stays when he is here. Like I have shared earlier, my original room (the left room) had been converted into the D-room since August this year. The D-room is the दाज room and this is where all the gifts, clothes and other things belonging to the bride have been stored. Upon mine eviction to convert the left room to the D-room, I shifted to the right room. I had a pleasant stay there for a few months. When Dad was to arrive, Junior Dadi became increasingly agitated and anxious over her apple's (i.e. my Dad's) living arrangements and comfort. So she kicked me out of the right room. Because "गजेन्दर आँ जाई पसंद ऐ" (Gajender- my father- likes his space). Thankfully, चाची took pity on me and gave me half of the bed-space in the left room (that is now the D room until the wedding, remember?). I was grateful.

Then the next night, the room began to smell funny. And there was a power cut. Only in our house. So we called our trusted electrician काका मामा, who like us and everybody else we deal with, is quite careless in his work. Now when you are selling बाल्टी मग्गे like चाचा does, this attitude is still acceptable. But when you are an electrician like काका मामा, it is bad news. Also, the reason that काका मामा is काका मामा-he calls चाची, दीदी and चाचा, जीजाजी. ऐसे ही. No reason. And Dear God, काका मामा has the stinkiest pair of feet ever.

So when the room began to smell funny and the power cut happened to be in our house only, we called for काका मामा. But काका मामा was not in town so Chacha's trusted aid, गुरमीत भैया (more about the trusted aid may be found here found a nice गोरखी electrician, Bahadur ji. Bahadur ji fixed stuff to the extent that nothing would catch fire but said that since he really could not figure out काका मामा's चालू (and not in a good way) wiring in the house, he would not be able to totally fix it.

So until the D room becomes the left room again and we have kicked Monu out of here legally, I am out in the balcony. Like this:



If you think about it, my temporary room is pretty neat. It has a great view and an even better audio-field, by which I mean I can be privy to all gossip and bitching without the folks below knowing I am around. Here is how great the view is:



The thing that bothers me though is that when the family came to know that the room almost burnt, the first reaction was "हाय शुक्कर है सामान बच गया". Even when I reminded them that I was in the room too, they gave the uncomfortable laugh and said "ओहो, चलो बच के रहा करो".

Sigh!

Why I wish it were my wedding.

This is a शादी house and these are busy times so I will share everything in points.

Here is why I wish it were my wedding:

Scene#1: Morning. Chachi has been up for a while and is quickly finishing her kitchen chores as she rattles off the tasks each of us must do that day, all which obviously have something or the other to do with Monu's clothes, Monu's this and Monu's that. We are all standing in sloppy-military positions, yawning our heads off and definitely remembering less than 50 per cent of the tasks. Our bride, meanwhile is snoring gently under blanket covers.

Scene#2: Later that morning. There are not enough wedding cards! So at the last minute, we have to order some extra prints. Chachi is frantically making a list of guests who are still to be invited, Chacha is making calls to the printer and reading out the text from the first batch of cards to him and arguing with him about time-constraint. I am revving my scooter's engine to run to the printer's, show him the sample of the card he had originally made and collect the re-prints. Sonu is doing what she does best in crisis-situations- making tea and Soma is standing as usual-in a corner with her mouth hanging open (this is not so much a matter of surprise as a matter of habit for her). Our bride meanwhile is rubbing papaya peels on her face to rejuvenate her skin.

Scene#3: Midday. Our assembly line for folding, slotting cards into envelopes, writing names on the envelopes and putting the wedding cards into plastic sheets has resumed for the second time. Midway through, Chachi and Chacha leave the table to finish some chores. Soma is in school, the lucky brat. Sonu and I are yawning uncontrollably and force our bodies to continue completing the wedding cards even as our minds and bodies scream for our afternoon siestas. Our bride meanwhile is gently snoring in the room.

Scene#4: My room. Which has not been my room since the time we started buying Monu's married-life stuff. You know, बर्तन, पतीले etc. That stands where I used to sleep, i.e. on my bed. I am sitting down to pack everything. Soma is helping. This takes the entire day. Chachi is doing something or the other and we hope Chacha is up to something shaadi-related too. Every so often, our bride breezes into the room to check the progress of the work. I have to admit that she is generous with her praises. For the rest of the time, our bride is having a mixture of oils massaged into her scalp.

Scene#5: Evening. Sonu is making tea for the जमघट that gathers at our house every evening these days. We are all doing this, that and the other. Occasionally, we find something Monu can help us with. However, she is soon called by one बुआ or another with the loving "साड्डे कोल बै, फिर ते व्याह हो जासी या".

So that is why.

Part#2- Incoming Junior Dadi and फूफा

Before I begin this write-up, let me announce that our next post may be an exclusive interview with Rads, the original bride who made this blog happen. She is back in town and if I can get her to talk to me AND IF she is slightly interesting, I will run the interview here. Watch this space.
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Our last post ended with the arrival of Junior Dadi and फूफा. Junior Dadi is actually my बुआ and the oldest of the senior Kakkar siblings. She is 13 years older than चाचा and her husband, our much-loved फूफा likes to tell the story of how चाचा would be roaming around without any pants on, during बुआ's and फूफा's wedding.

Here at home, we often talk about, and miss दादी. She really wanted watch all her grandkids get married and dance in each one of the weddings! This time, when बुआ जी arrived in Dehradun after a very long time, we saw her and the same thought crossed our minds simultaneously- she is exactly like दादी! Protective in her ways, incredibly loving yet at the same time a force to reckon with. Already since her arrival, she has snubbed Sonu and myself at an average rate of 5 times everyday and we are now quieter for it! The thing we love most about her though- she has this incredible tinker-bell laughter that is ridiculously infectious. So she has been re-christened Junior Dadi.

Our फूफा came as the senior-most दामाद of the house and in a family that will ask the Gods to wait if there is a दामाद in the picture at the same moment, THAT is saying something! However, he has been converted into something of a driver these past few days, and is especially almost a personal chauffeur to our younger बुआ.

फूफा is actually an alien term to us siblings because since as long back as we can remember, we call him अच्छु or अन्खुं- a name, we believe was given to him by Ram Bhai.

With the arrival of Junior Dadi and अन्खुं, NOW we are really a शादी house- bustling always, chit chat चटर all the time and Oh-My-God a gazillion gallons of चाय daily.

The शादी phase also means a time of many बेज़तीs and one has to be prepared at all times for sharp comments from any which side. It also means a time for a lot of bloody nagging, especially if you are 26, have three tattoos, have streaks of red in your hair, haven't declared a potential love interest that you can be hitched to AND are overweight. This time, I was prepared.

And then I learnt you can never be prepared enough.

I will provide bullet points for incidents that have happened in the nagging-o-sphere-

1. Junior Dadi insisted that I eat something off of Monu's plate so that I am next to get married. This has reinforced my belief that marriage is, in fact a contagious disease.

2. चाचा has taken to dreaming of a गोला-जेया little man who would be a perfect match for his गोली- जेई भत्रेइयि (भतीजी). So if you spot a गोला-जेया little man during the wedding, do send him my way. :/

3. Monu came running to me the other day and thrust that day's edition of HT City in my hand. The front page featured a picture of Aishwariya Rai in a salwar-kameez and Monu insisted I must get a similar design stitched for the wedding. Apparently, ideas for clothes that will look gorgeous on me come from women who are 8-months pregnant. :/

4. And this is the most interesting and unexpected incident. A few days back, a young man from a जागरण-टोली came to our house to ask for money for an overnight कीर्तन. As is the practice, he had an entire page of fake-ass donations scrawled in the same handwriting ranging from fake-ass rupees 101/- to fake-ass rupees 501/-. The idea is to show to the donor that others before him/her have given so much money and almost shaming him/her to pay the same amount. It did work initially but now everybody knows the trick so the fake-जागरण people only get rupees 11, which I think is not bad at all.
Moving on then, the young man thrusted the notebook in my hand and asked for donation and as part of my rehearsed act, I said to him that he should come back in the evening because "Papa, Mummy are not at home". I was aware of the clear sound of Junior Dadi talking over the phone coming from within the house and the clearer image of अन्खुं dozing on a chair under the sun right behind where the fake-जागरण man stood but I still delivered my lines with perfect innocence.

The fake-जागरण man persisted and said it would not be possible for him to return in the evening so would I give him any money I may have. I said of course, and I was quite pleased that my act was working so well, despite the now-snoring अन्खुं who should have ruined my story. I waddle indoors and waddle out with a crisp tenner and a one-rupee coin in my hand.

That's when the man delivered what I still maintain was an unnecessary line. He says "थोड़े और पैसे दे देते" and I said we won't be able to attend the fake-ass जागरण because it is fake-ass and also because my sister is getting married. To this he said "कोई नहीं, हम आपके लिए भी जय कारा बोलेंगे, आप भी हमारी लाडो हो". Then he asks me if I am पंजाबी and I say yes. He looks up and down and says "हाँ आप पंजाबी लगते भी हो".

OBJECTION YOUR HONOUR, that was uncalled for!! So I curtly put back the ten rupee note in my pocket, hand him the one-rupee coin and waddle back to my kingdom.

See what I meant by you cannot be prepared enough?

Tales of the legendary मासी

All those who have not checked the blog the last week- I say good for you because I did not update it. It was not for lack of things to share, I might add. Quite the opposite really.

So this blog post will be very long indeed and I will have to do it two parts like the final Harry Potter movie.

Let's call Part#1 Mona and the 5-day breeze from Doha. No, that does not sound right. OK let's call Part#1 Part#1.
In Part#1, I will tell you about the 5-day visit of Monu's Arti मासी. Arti मासी is a brilliant पिंडी मुटियार from the by-lanes of प्रेम नगर in Dehradun who went on to SRCC in Delhi and grew from the proverbial pillar to the proverbial post. She now holds a British passport and lives in Doha with her family, where she teaches English to Qatari policemen. Monu and I have grown up listening to tales of this legendary मासी who taught other students while she was still in college and whose wardrobe then consisted of a few खादी कुरते and plain-white सलवार. I did emulate her briefly when I was in class six or seven and though I did sport the खादी कुरते and white सलवार look for a while, I never quite managed to convince my classmates to drop their respective extra tuition and take lessons from me instead. Not even when I promised a chocolate per lesson.

So the legendary मासी is an awe-inspiring figure to say the least, and the best part about her is that while she speaks immaculate, polished English like it were her mother-tongue, she will- at a moment's notice- switch back to the पिंडी मुटियार from the by-lanes of प्रेम नगर and say something incredibly funny in ठेठ पंजाबी, causing the rest of us to breaks into guffaws and causing चाचा to giggle like a school girl.

However, I recall that the legendary मासी caused Monu and me much grief in our growing years because we could never measure up to her awesome ways. And as I found out during her recent visit, the legendary मासी continues to cause us much grief by her immaculate habits of cleaning everything and putting everything back in place. See, when it is just Monu and me, we do hear a little grumbling now and then from चाची but we are able to comfortably ignore it and go about living like the slobs we are. Now I have noticed that मासीs in general are liked by mothers and चाचीs so it is always trouble to have a मासी around. This time, however we have THE LEGENDARY मासी who cooks, cleans (and not just the kitchen), transfers the left-over food into smaller containers, puts a cling-film over everything, packs Monu's wedding gifts in unbelievably beautiful pink-and-gold wrappings, complete with little golden flowers on top, writes names of people on the wedding-invitation cards (the stickers did not really happen) and goes with चाची to people's homes to give the invitations WHILE AT THE SAME TIME chatting and entertaining everybody with ready replies and really witty comments.

Look at this:



SHE ALSO GOT A CD OF TRADITIONAL पंजाबी songs (including but not limited to मत्थे ते चमकण वाल, लट्ठे दी चादर and बोलियाँ). [THE WRITER WAILS BECAUSE THE WRITER DID NOT THINK OF THIS FIRST AND ALSO BECAUSE THE WRITER CANNOT UNDERSTAND WHY THE WRITER IS REFERRING TO SELF AS 'THE WRITER']

Yeah she makes us look like miserable wretches of the mud.

But boy, did we have a fantastic time in the five days that she was here! YES WE DID INDEED! There was shopping, there were about one year's worth of conversations (mostly gossip) and the best part was that there was about one year's worth of चाचा's leg-pulling to do. I was absolutely delighted about the last bit! See Arti मासी shares a very close bond with her दीदी and I have come to realize that a natural extension of this close-bond is to show affection for दीदी's husband (a.k.a. चाचा) by pulling his leg at every conceivable opportunity. So I do it, Monu does it, Sonu does it, Ram Bhai does it. But when THE LEGENDARY मासी does it, it is totally epic.

It is sad that the legendary मासी had to leave and will in all probability not attend the wedding but we really had a very wedding-like fun time while she was here. When she left, we were all quite heartbroken. By we, I also mean Seema. She did not feel like making रोटीs and was quite convinced we would not feel like eating food after मासी left. It was only with a lot of efforts that we managed to convince her otherwise.

But after that one day of sitting around in gloomy silence, occasionally broken by the "Arti मासी said this..." and "Arti मासी said that...", we geared up for the arrival of Junior दादी-and-फूफा. That is Part#2, which we shall call Part#2.

Meanwhile, here are a few photos from the visit of the legendary मासी:

While she was working...


... the rest of us sat like this...


...or posed like this...


... and like this.



Soma did work but since she does not like her pictures taken and wants to be fairer than she is now, I have devised this excellent method of granting both her wishes.


Who is the fairy Godmother, eh!

PS- If you are wondering what is in the lovely gift packages, कुछ fancy नहीं है, बाल्टी- मग्गे, बर्तन हैं.

Of wedding cards and their envelope-stickers

I am obviously not keeping my promise of the 30-day countdown. But in my defense, the bride and her folks finish work only after midnight, be it shopping or lists and after the customary gossip-session that follows the end-of-work everyday, I cannot bring myself to start writing.

Since the last update, we have been crazy busy. After the wedding invitation-task was completed, we were waiting for चाचा to get the stickers for the envelopes. The stickers were to have the name of each guest we are inviting, the residential address and the golden words "with family" on them.

Obviously, he forgot about the stickers.

So when he was reminded by an understandably hyperventilating चाची about the sample sheet of these stickers about one hour before he had promised to hand them over to her, he sat down with a page torn out of one of our old, school-notebooks, made a list of about 15 of his friends and acquaintances, gave it to one very nice man who adores चाचा for reasons we do not know nor care to find out and who runs a printing business here and came back two hours later with the promised sheet of sample stickers.

Obviously, it was a disaster. For one, there was only Mr. XYZ. No "with Mrs." No "with family". Several names were like this:

Mr. Jaggi
Mr. Pappu
Mr. C.V.
(These were friends of Chacha's whose actual name he did not bother to write)

Obviously, चाची was uncontrollable in her wrath. So starting THAT VERY POINT all of us sat down and began making a list of the invitees, and as a sign of his repentance, चाचा made me type "Mrs. and Mr. XYZ, with family".

Obviously we chatted more than we worked. The task was not one to take 2 days but with every name that was mentioned, there accompanied- on an average- 10 minutes of gossip about the person concerned, including but not limited to mimicking, sarcastic comments, गिल्ले and rarely a good word.

Here are a few photos from one of the days:


One part work...


... and one part gossip!


Yours truly, typing diligently. I have not cropped my face. My mother, who took these pictures probably thought my face was not fit to be included in the frame! [hmmphh]

PS- The girl hiding her face in the pictures is my little sister Soma who has a massive phobia of cameras and like all teenage girls, thinks she is the ugliest duckling around.

Mummy 1 and Papa 1 versus Mummy 2 and Papa 2

So for sometime now, Monu and Rahul have begun referring to each other's parents as Mummy and Papa. So now they have two Mummys and two Papas. When we were in school, if we had two children with the same first name, the said children would be numbered to help simplify the life of the teacher and to complicate the life of the numbered children. I remember in my class, we had a Prerna Sharma 1 and a Prerna Sharma 2, who sometimes fought over certificates, since it could be either's.

So in the case of Monu and Rahul too, with them having two Mummy's and two Papa's each, I have numbered the parents for the sake of convenience. It is simple. The biological folks are numbered 1 and the spouse's folks are numbered 2.

Today is Monu's birthday. The Western habit of midnight-celebrations and phone calls has firmly planted its tentacles in India but the backward folks of the Kakkar family, who are now known as Mummy 1 (Monu's mom a.k.a Chachi) and Papa 1 (Monu's dad a.k.a Chacha) are yet to catch up to this trend. I have mentioned in an earlier post that Papa 1 is known to throw his kids out of home at 10 p.m. when the kids have to board the 11:55 p.m. train because Papa 1 finds it difficult to stay up after 9 p.m. by when he has had a couple. Mummy 1, on the other hand does not imbibe but does wake up at ungodly hours and therefore cannot stay up even moderately late at night either.

Now Mummy 2 and Papa 2 are very cool people. They wake up late, they go to malls in Delhi and they eat an insane amount of non-vegetarian food for people who are Sharma's (Brahmins). We love them. The fact that they wake up late also implies that they sleep late so in our eyes, they are awesomely cool.

Parents often take advantage of the fact that they are the only set their children have. So when we saw that Monu now has an additional set, we tried to take full advantage of this fact by saying "Monu के दूसरे Mummy and Papa तो कब का मान जाते". This has not worked too well in our advantage because Mummy 1 does not care and Papa 1 really could not care any less.

However, I was delighted to see Papa 1 and Mummy 1 squirming a little today when we announced that Mummy 2 and Papa 2 had actually stayed up until midnight to wish Monu bang at 12 a.m. "How wonderful" "How thoughtful" "What considerate people" and so forth we exclaimed, while Mummy 1 shifted uneasily and said she DID stay up till fifteen minutes to 12 and wished Monu so it does count and Papa 1, after staring at each of us in a failed attempt to subdue us with a stern gaze, began staring at the ceiling like he had just spotted the map to a secret Dairy-Land there.

Yes, there is no point to this post. Is there ever, I ask you before I say goodnight?



Now, goodnight.

Day 29- The one where I was harassed by Seema

Dear blog, today, we (a.k.a Chachi, my friend Aastha and I) finished the wedding card invitation folding task. Yay us! The bride is back in town (woot woot!) and she has brought her लेहंगा, the details of which will be shared on one of those days when I have nothing to write about. अब आपसे क्या छुपायें, रोज़ रोज़ इन् परिवार के लोगों से noteworthy हरकतें करवाना थोड़ा मुश्किल हो जाता है. For now, suffice to share that it is purple in colour and is mind bogglingly gorgeous!

In an earlier post, I had mentioned we got a new refrigerator and a new 21-year old girl to help with household chores including cooking. If you read the post (by clicking here) you will notice that I use the adjective "sweet" to describe Seema. Well I don't mean that anymore.

See, in the time since I wrote THAT post and today, she had converted into a sharp-tongued nightmare who has made it her life's goal to harass me. I am now 26 and in my wizened age, I am used to being a certain way, wearing certain kinds of clothes and living in my own set ways. So you can imagine my incredulity when this 21 year old suddenly makes it her mission to "groom me". And to add serious insult to injury, her classroom method is sarcasm!

I first noticed that she was cornering me when during our card-folding task yesterday, she kept calling out snide remarks about how I would be a total let-down for my parents when I get married because I would be a horrible बहु (I swear when she used the word बहु for me, I retched a little bit). But with buaji around, she got little chance to talk.

This morning, I walk down grumpily to the kitchen to fix me some breakfast and boil me some nice coffee and there she is, smiling benevolently at me. I assume she was smiling benevolently because that is what psychos do while planning their kill; the only thing I saw was that mean glint in her eyes. Now, I usually do not engage my surly self in any form of communication before breakfast. Chacha says it is because I take time adjusting to reality after my blissful 14 hours of sleep. So when Seema says "आपको मुझे बहुत कुछ सिखाना है" just like that, out of the blue, I don't ask her what the hell she is talking about. I proceed with frying them eggs and boiling my coffee. But she is undeterred: "आप जब अपने घर जाओगे तो एकदम शर्मिंदा कर दोगे हम लोगों को. अगर कोई बड़ा होता तो आपको सिखाता". It is funny she says that, seeing as not only my parents but my Chachi and Chacha too technically hold that status of "बड़ा" and for a moment she almost corroborated my theory that the "adults" in our family are of no use at all. But more on that some other time.

So as I said, from that time of the morning until she left at the holy hour of 5:30 p.m., Seema followed me around telling me how I will surely cause "them" embarrassment when I go to "my home". Apparently, Seema views one's home as the house of one's spouse's parents where one must slave for all mortal eternity. Furthermore- and this is the truly bizzare bit- apparently Seema is now among my family members who will apparently be embarrassed by my ways.

To save myself the horror of reliving each moment, I will make a brief list of things she said are flawed in me:

1. The red streaks in my hair
2. My tattoos (she offered to scrub these with नींबू to see if they go away)
3. My undignified clothes (the t-shirt must never be longer than the sweatshirt)
4. My clothes (the t-shirt and the sweatshirt must never be worn by girls)
5. The way I talk (apparently, I look people in the eye when I talk)
6. My walk (is too manly; I am not shy enough when I walk)
7. My habit of drinking coffee (Don't ask me, I have no idea)

At this point, I retrieved my trusted i-pod and plugged the blessed earphones to drown her quite unbearable chatter. However, somewhere during the day there came a time just after Barry Manilow's Oh Mandy stopped playing, before Chillar Party's Tai Tai Phish could rescue me that I heard Seema saying how at my age girls should be taking care of at least two children. I am not quite sure if she meant children that said girls of 26 have birthed or just any children.

I am not quite sure how long I can bear this ridiculous behaviour. I mean a crazy family is one thing, but साला अब this too? After the नींबू on my precious tattoo episode, I went wailing to Chachi for comfort but Chachi has firmly said to me that anything that I may have to say to Seema must not be said until after the wedding.

Therefore, i-pod mine dearest, I shall rely on thee to save mine mind from the (un)fair maiden Seema for the coming month.

The 30 day countdown: Assembly Line Woes

I have been away.
(If I wanted to give more explanations, I would have married)


When I started writing about Monu's wedding, I had assumed that my job would be solely to sit in the middle of the storm with my laptop before me and write smart-ass posts about the whole ordeal. Boy (girl, man, woman and child), was I wrong!

These past few days I have been a driver, a wedding-card scanner, a shopping-bags carrier and a wedding-card-folding person (not sure what occupation covers the last). Clearly, this is a bite-size I can barely stuff in my mouth, let alone chew. Today, however was a pleasant change.

Today was fun! We organized a one-hour session today at 4 p.m. just after the ladies of the house have risen from their respective siestas and just before they have their customary evening चाय. By the ladies, I mean of course बुआ, बड़ी मम्मी (Rads' mother) and अपनी चाची.

For two days, I was folding the wedding cards all by myself. Today I wondered why I insist on being such a baboon all the time. I mean here are three perfectly healthy women in my house who love gossip as much as your next three Punjabis and who need a solid reason to convince themselves to step out of home just like your next three Punjabi housewives. So I give them this beautiful little opportunity to gossip during an entirely-justified, nay NECESSARY meeting at our house- folding the wedding cards.

The women arrived promptly and I arranged our seating to fashion an amateur assembly line. I fold the outer card and बुआ folds the inner leaf detailing the wedding function, time and venue. Then बड़ी मम्मी takes the outer cover and places the leaf in it and passes it to चाची who slots the thing in its envelope. By changing the seating a few times (I must add here I was working with a very uncooperative bunch who looked mutinous especially when in switching places, बुआ forgot to carry her cup of चाय and took a sip of चाची की चीनी वाली चाय), I was able to reduce the time taken to fold-slot-and-envelope each card and thereby extract maximum efficiency from the workers.

I was feeling very pleased with myself for having found the perfect way to lessen my burdens and to treat self to a therapeutic session of general bitching. However, I overlooked one detail: While talking animatedly, as Punjabis are wont to do, there is a need for us to constantly fling our arms about wildly to make a point. This of course, creates a hindrance in the work we are supposed to be doing.

So I came up with another ingenious plan: the camera! See, over the years I have noticed that if there are a community of women who are most insecure and camera-shy, it is Pubjabi women. Maybe it is years of being told that they ain't pretty unless they have milky white skins and size four (we like zero but we set realistic impossible-goals) but Punjabi women become berserkly conscious before the camera. My mom, for example claims that there is conspiracy going on somewhere because the only time the video-crew turn the camera towards her during weddings is when she is eating her food.

So I exploit their insecurities as all beauty creams do and station my sister with a camera in her hand over the now-conscious group and they immediately cease their animated hand-gesturing to finish almost half of the wedding invitations.

Peace at the assembly line at last. Here are a few pictures of the moments of mutiny:







The last is a picture of my efficient rule.

Unique Identification

I do not believe that we need the Unique Identification anymore. See, that generation of our Dads and Moms- not very creative. I know at least 20 Sanjays and another 20 Rajivs, and this when I am not a very social person. Back in the day I am told, couples were not as enthusiastic about becoming parents as they seem to be today. There were no "Dummy's Copy of Parenting" or the "Idiot's Guide to Raising a Child". A child was born through the natural stuff that happens when two people get married (or when they have the privacy of a confined space to themselves) and so you dealt with them as they came along. Nobody every stopped to wonder what they would want their child to be like. The only thing that mothers were concerned about was the their offsprings should not appear before Daddy with a running nose. There were no cameras to capture the first time you baby farted or other joyous accomplishments. In fact, being pregnant was almost an embarrassment because like in many other communities, Punjabi couples too will go the extra mile to show to everybody that they are only mildly interested in each-other's existence and in this situation, a swollen belly does throw the proverbial bucket of water on the efforts by proving to everybody that there is a helluva lot more going on. In fact, such was the taboo associated with the word "pregnancy" that they never ever used it. And by THEY I meant the whole damn community. Recently, I was lounging about, flicking channels and progressively sliding lower on my bed, as we are prone to doing in the usual course of lounging about when Mom and Buaji walked into the room with the purposeful yet secretive gait of people who have news to share. They sat on the other side of the bed and cared not that I was watching Community on TV, erupting appreciative grunts at their excellent humour in my half-asleep state. Little did they know that in my seemingly comatose state, I was listening intently to what was unfolding around me. Soon enough buaji leaned closer to my mother and said, "उस्स दी good news है". My mother began to smile and said a few phrases to the tune of "very pleased to hear" et al. The women however were rudely interrupted when I butted in with a "क्या है?". My mother looked at my annoyingly and said "क्या, क्या है?" So I asked her what the good news were and let me tell you, the folks in the Harry Potter books would have said Voldemort a dozen times in the amount that the blessed ladies took to say "pregnant". Of course I burst out laughing and of course I howled and laughed and then some more for days at an end. My mother calmed me down enough to tell me that she had still progressed with time; when her mother and peers used an even funnier phrase to communicate the news of pregnancy. Let us assume that a lovely lady, Ms. A is pregnant. So my grandmother, if she had to tell about this to her friends, she would say "A सान्नू मिठाई खिलाने वाली है". Now what would a poor bloke who genuinely wanted to खिलाओ मिठाई to somebody do? Anyhue, I digress. Back to our topic of parents not caring what they name their children. So this entire generation of Sunil's and Ajay's and Shiv's and Anil's grew up that naturally created a lot of confusion everywhere. Now, however times are a' changing. The young get married and then spend a lot of time and energy in planning a child. Once the child is conceived,the time that is takes to grow in the womb, is spent by its often-annoyingly excited parents in searching for the most remarkable, the most unique and the most wonderful name there ever was. Then they come up with stuff that nobody has ever heard before, from some quack website that claims the names have a mythological connection in an exotic country but in all probability means "a horse's ass" in Turkish. If you think this trend probably started in Hollywood, where exist celeb-kids called Kal-El, Sage Moonblood and Fifi Trixibelle, you are wrong. Before any of them started this fad, I owned a turtle who was not-christened Shit. The fact that my turtle is dead should give you an idea of how long ago this had happened. I have recently had the pleasure of meeting kids who are called Noelle (it weirdly twists my mouth when I try to call out to the baby), Nela and Agastas (you cannot say this name casually, it must always be with some force and that's tiring). Clearly, nobody else is naming their kid these names EVER again, unless they pull a Agastas Jr. in which case the unique identity is still preserved because it is the same bloodline. So you see, with bizzare names such as these, we don't really need any other unique identification systems. I got several such names in my mind too. I think if I ever have a baby, I will call it Sunil or Sita. depending on the gender because nobody from my generation and ahead will ever return to these names again.

अगर दादी और नानी होती...

We finished the श्राद recently, which is essentially a time to remember the dear, departed ones and cook their favourite food because we like to believe that the spirits of our loved ones come down once a year and we want to welcome them in the only way पंजाबीs know: cook food! In practice, the "favourite food" has become rather generic: पूडी, आलू, खीर and राइता but let us face it, who would not like all of these?

At the end of श्राद, we have a small ritual where we light 15 दियाs (little lamps made of mud) and put them at various places in the house. The idea is that once the days of श्राद end, the souls of our loved ones will return to their abode and the दियाs are placed outside the doors, along the walls and the last one (or maybe the first one) on a tap to light the way for the soul to leave. The tap is probably so they can have a drink of water before they depart.



I don't know what I think of the custom. I like the idea that there is a time when we remember our loved ones. I have been thinking about both my grandmothers frequently, this past weeks and I wonder if maybe there is some truth in the tradition and maybe our loved ones do return briefly to be with us. But then again, maybe it is purely psychological.

On that day of the दियाs-ritual, I remembered दादी with a surprisingly strong intensity. After sunrise that day, we started the ritual. Now I am filling the दियाs with mustard oil, and now I am bringing out the cotton lights. The cotton lights are also soaked in mustard oil and placed in the दियाs, to be lit later. Ever since दादी passed away a few years back, we have buying cotton lights from the market but I remember her clearly: sitting on her chair before the TV in the evenings, on her bed at nights, on the चारपाई outside to be under the sun during the winters and at any of the other numerous spots she had all over the house during other times of the day. And all the time, she would be rolling cotton into these lights or into little balls with protruding ends, also to be used for the same purpose. She had a teeny-tiny steel कटोरी, in which she put some water and some milk and dipped her fingers into the कटोरी to roll the cotton into either shape. She used plenty of the cotton lights herself during her daily पूजाs and always ensured that the stock of these lights was always maintained in the houses of all her children.

I missed her when I saw the pack of machine-made cotton lights, some fifty in number and I did not like them one bit. I liked the packet of little ball-shaped variants of the cotton lights even less, since their protruding ends had been painted red and they seemed artificial and a poor replacement of the ones that दादी made. I suddenly wanted दादी's cotton lights and I suddenly wanted to see her familiar face and form in her faded सलवार-कमीज़ sitting in one of her old spots, a चुन्नी covering her head. I wanted to hear her ranting against one of the पंडित at the दरगाह and just for one more time, I wanted to see her dial my father's number and put him in place for not calling her that day.

The next day, we were sitting around and talking about frying मलाई for dinner (it tastes excellent with रोटी, and I highly recommend), which in my house is not a rare discussion. In fact it happens every other day. Interestingly, while all of us absolutely love eating fried मलाई, nobody wants to be the one asking for it because then s/he will be at the receiving end of many a jibes from ungrateful family members who after hogging unhealthy amounts of the stuff, will say things like "बहुत स्वाद आ रहा है आजकल!" and "तू तो dieting करने वाली थी?"

In fact, चाचा is known to hog large amounts of मलाई with many परांठाs every time my Dad is in town because as the most feared man in all Kakkar-dom, my father's demands for food are never turned down and so his little brother uses the opportunity to relish the otherwise out-of-reach goodies. We now know that during dinners with Dad, when he suddenly starts prodding his brother and asking if he wants another परांठा and asks it repeatedly and in this urgent manner, it is him (चाचा) who actually wants another the परांठा. Sure enough, when he has prodded Dad enough and extracted a "yes" from my old man (no admirable feat, Dad is always game for another helping of anything lardy), he will turn to us and say with an attempt at indifference that fools nobody, "भईया और मेरे लिए एक एक परांठा और". Poor bloke, to resort to such conniving for a परांठा!

But on the day after the दिया-ritual, during our मलाई-conversation, I remembered a single scene and very vaguely, at that. I clearly remembered a little kitchen though I could not recall the house that it must have been a part of. I remembered my नानी in that kitchen, frying मलाई for me. I remembered a window that looked out into a busy street of Kathmandu, Nepal where नानी lived then, but the window and the bustling street could very well just be something that my romantic mind added to the memory for the sake of details. But I distinctly remember the white मलाई bubbling happily on the stove as it fried and then turning the faintest shades of red/pink as नानी added some red chilly powder to it.

I don't know what is it about this particular memory; that little flash of नानी that reminds me of her every time. I was very young then should not have any recollection of it. Later when she moved to Rishikesh, I have spent more time with her but nothing stands out so starkly as that one image in the kitchen in Kathamndu does.

I think the one thing I miss most about my नानी and my दादी was their blind, unquestioning and unwavering love. At all times. No matter what you did or did not do. No matter what you had grown up from or what you were growing up to be.

I also wonder at their similarly unquestioning and unwavering beliefs in customs and though I know I do not agree with most of them, I do envy their pure and simple trust in things told to them. Critics to this sentiment will argue that the women did not think for themselves or that they blindly followed rituals but I also know that while it may be not the most worldly thing to do, this belief that they had was a product of their lifelong habit of never seeing bad in people. They truly believed like none of us ever can, and for that purity of hearts too, I miss them.

While my siblings and I will not carry forward most of the rituals that our ancestors have followed so religiously, I hope that we will take up some of the seemingly trivial things that our loved ones did, just so that we can connect with them every now and then. For my part, I will make the cotton lights that we will use for the almost-here दिवाली like दादी did. I will also stack them like दादी did, in the homes of all her children. I hope that Rads will make लोबिया का परांठा on Diwali and that Ramu will sit down with a गनियार का लड्डू soaked in a glass of cold milk- something that beats the फिरंगी version of cookies-in-milk, hands down. I hope that Sonu makes the हट्टी drawings for the दिवाली पूजा and that Monu, who is getting married soon, will light up this house and her new house with as many दियाs as she can.

Of a new refrigerator, a new help and new clothes

This blog makes me sick. Literally. See, being a naturally good listener and having been naturally blessed with an enormous mouth, I have always had problem with that category of information we call "secret". And the trouble with this blog is that it is a perfect platform to rat on every poor family member who cannot keep a secret but expects me to keep it.
Really! I do sometimes question the family system.

Anyhue, there are swirls of gossip happening all around and I am perpetually bent over clutching my stomach and popping Pudin Hara like they were THOSE pills because I MUST KEEP THESE SECRETS and I do want to blurt them all out here! Oh the agony!

But I am comforted by the belief that the secrets will reveal themselves, as they always do when they are secrets of Punjabis. In fact, had Dan Brown chosen to set his Da vinci Code among us folks, it would have been quite an epic fail. Can you imagine a secret preserved over hundreds of years here, in a Punjabi community? Hilarious, the notion!

So back to what we were discussing earlier. There are many plans happening but I cannot talk about these either because they would spoil the celebrations and will leave me with nothing to write about, when the actual wedding happens.

For the sake of posting something I will tell you of three shiny new developments.
The first, is an almost-new, second-hand refrigerator that Chachi procured from one of Buaji's tenants who recently moved out of the latter's house. As the guests start arriving, it will be useful. For now, Chacha is on cloud 9 because he has his own dairy-storage refrigerator and in his own room too! What joy!

We also have a sweet 21-year old girl who helps with the household chores and stays at home all day and she is shiny new development #2. Sonu has already found a way to wrap Seema Didi around her little finger. "Seema Didi, आप कितनी अच्छी चाय बनाते हैं. मैंने मम्मी को कल बताया था. बोहोत ही अच्छी. अपनी हाथ की चाय पीने का मन ही नहीं करता." And lo behold! There is a steaming cup of चाय for Sonu delivered in bed. Crafty little lass! But otherwise, Seema seems well-entertained with our antics and is most eager to meet the entire madhouse that is our family when they arrive for the wedding. Call it a premonition but something tells me she won't be so happy when they are here and somebody or the other is demanding चाय every fifteen minutes. See Sonu's habit is nothing that does not run like a disease in the family.

Development #3! Shiny clothes, new clothes, पटियाला सलवार in beautiful prints and mesmerizing कुर्ती to go with it, sarees to be dyed and glamorized with glittering गोटा borders, visits and some more to the tailor's and continuous chit chat over the phone between our bride and her mother about this blouse and that design, this कुर्ती and that dupatta is all very festive!

The reason I mentioned these three seemingly small developments here is because they have, in a strange way made me realize that the wedding is here and I will have another sister married, soon. It is a warm, fuzzy and freakishly scary feeling all at the same time that automatically brings a smile to the face and a glint to the eye. Not the teary kind of glint, though not for lack of trying. After all, I will be expected to cry at the बिदाई and I have no idea how I am going to do that. Having already pulled the "turn away so that everybody thinks you are crying but are too proud to show your tears" trick at Radha's बिदाई, I am quite in the proverbial soup. I could do the same again except that with four more wretched siblings in tow looking to getting hitched, somebody's bound to notice the absence of tears in my arid eyes sooner or later.

Suggestions on this front are welcome. And no, thinking about Himesh Reshamiya movies does not work. :/

Live from Field!

I am reporting live from the field of action where the pace of things has increased considerably since when I left, which is no surprise considering it is now just a little under two and half months to the wedding.

Shopping is on at full-swing, just as the tailors’ machines are. Chachi has hired a sweet young lady to look after the household chores full-time so that she can now do the running around at any time without worrying about our enormous appetites and incessant demand for food, which is a serious rodha when you have a wedding to organize.

It is Monu’s wedding and she wants her clothes to be perfect. Every stitch, every design, every outfit, very colour must be absolutely flawless. The lehenga and the suits are brought out every day and are shown to anybody foolish enough to venture into the house. There are lengthy and often repetitive discussions of how the dupatta should be contrast and must be sent back because it is not heavy enough yet and a thousand such complaints every day. It is Monu’s wedding and when I say “she” afterwards, I am not talking about Monu but our little devil Sonu.

The bride’s lehenga is not done yet and there are considerable gaps in her wedding trousseau but Sonu has been diligently working on her wedding wardrobe since before the rishta was fixed. I exaggerate not; there are outfits starting from when Sonu will board the train to Dehradun from Delhi right up to the one she will wear after she has finished crying at Monu’s bidai. In between, there are clearly marked outfits for after she wakes up but before she gets ready for a function, one for the function and even outfits for after the function when everybody gathers around to gossip and bitch. The last outfit is separate from the night suit.

When I was in Ranchi, Mom and I once started looking up her “loot”. Every Punjabi woman has a stack of sarees, suit-pieces, stitched suits and accessories stashed somewhere and these are over and above her regular wardrobe, including her regular party wear. The stash is accessible to daughters, sisters and anybody else the owner of the stash deems fit. So I was going through my mom’s stash and I found a nice, glittery pink and gold suit-piece that made me go “ooooh”. So I picked it up and lo-behold my wedding woes were wondrously resolved.

But when I reached Doon and proudly displayed the suit-piece to Chachi and Sonu, the latter started shrieking inaudibly because her pitch was so shrill that she had gone ultrasonic (ok I picked that one up from Friends). Turns out, the texture of the piece is similar to one of her outfits for the wedding. And the colour too. Let me elaborate. By similar she means “in the family of pink”. Her’s is magenta and mine is not quite magenta and not quite pink. So somewhere in between, but still miles from magenta. And then I broke the news that I intended to get the piece stitched in the Nehru-coat style that is “very in” these days and I now admit this was a bad bad move because it led to some very audible wailing. See Sonu’s suit is also in the same style and I suspect she tried to patent the design.

The episode was extremely distressing and I fear such madness will only increase in frequency over the coming months. Adieu, sanity. :/

Lesser-known Pubjabi phrases

Now I had not intended to update the blog this week and this post is yet another example of how I never follow through my plans. Anyhue, the world probably knows our words "खोता" and "वेला". Then, with our Punjabi and Jaat boys running all over north India in their bling-bling cars and their ढिंगचक music; not to mention that God-awful song (not really, I quite love it), the words "Amplifier" and "Woofer" too have become universally-known Punjabi words.

But besides that, Punjabi is a fascinating language that is inherently so offensive that you do not really wonder about the sarcasm of Punjabis when you know more of it. Here compilation of some lesser known and absurd Punjabi phrases and quotes:

1. रब्बे दी धुन्नी : Literally, the Navel of God. I know!!! You would ever say that, right? Except that Punjabis do. The phrase is used to describe a location or address that is very difficult to reach; a remote location.
Example: मैं उस्सा कद्दों मिलां, उस दा घार ते रब्बे दी धुन्नी विच है!
Or एथे रब्बे दी धुन्नी विच network कित्थों आसी!

2. चूल्हे दी छाई: Literally, residue ash from the stove. It used to convey a sentiment similar to one relayed by the English phrases "nonsense" or "what rot" or "bullshit"
Example:
Me: मैं कल से exercise शुरू करुँगी.
Chacha: चूल्हे दी छाई!

Note: The phrase चूल्हे दी छाई! is often also used as "छाई चूल्हे दी!" to the same effect.

Example:
Chacha: मैं कल सुबह आठ बजे उठ जाऊंगा
Me: छाई चूल्हे दी!


3. मैदे दी फूसी: Literally, the fart after eating something made of refined (rice) flour. Unbelievable, right? This phrase is used for the act of bragging.

Example: मैदे दी फूसियाँ ना मारो, कुछ कम् करो.

Or उस्सा इक्क कम् दित्ता मैं, अद्धा घंटा मैदे दी फूसियाँ मारदा रहा ते कम् वी नहीं कर के दित्ता.

4. Finally, there is a Punjabi phrase that I am quite fond of:

फिट पैड़े दी अकल गयी
मंज वेच के खोती लेई
दुध पीने तो गया
लित्त चानी पेयी

The word फिट means curdled milk and पैडा means a useless kinda guy. So when translated, this phrase means:

A useless man lost his mind
And sold his buffalo (मंज) to buy a mule (खोती)
So he lost out on the milk that he would get to drink from the buffalo
And instead, had to clean the mule's shit (लित्त) all day for naught.

There is a final phrase that I have been trying to trace the literal meaning of. It is difficult to type as well. त्रटी चोर is used for a person who is unfair or dishonest but I do not know yet, what the word त्रटी means. Buaji does not know, chacha does not know, my dad does not know and the other buaji also does not know. This phrase was used frequently by Dadi and I shall post what it means as soon as I find out.

An extremely self-obsessed post

I often crib about how this blog is very limited in terms of scope of the subject. So tonight I figured let me change that and not write about weddings. Actually this post could also be about wedding among other things. See, writing about our social customs and way of living and making fun of it, is all well and good but all this while what I have really been trying to do is find out why. Why do we live the way we do? Why do we follow this path of school-college-job-marriage-kids-and-some-more? And I do not mean to accept answers like that is how it is or because we need somebody to make our lives meaningful. Something real. Something with sense. Something that will make me go "Oh, like that. Hmmm". :\ The only way I have lived my life is outside of the systems and the fed-up parent says every now and then that I need to pull up my socks, face life as it really is and jump into the fray. This is when I ask, "But why?" And I don't understand the reasons given to me. Why do you work, for instance? To do things that you like to do. Well, how do you decide what it is that you like when you are holding a degree in something that you have spent considerably money obtaining, and in which you enrolled because you happened to have the marks for it. Maybe you thought you wanted to become somebody but how do you decide it? If you are brought up being told that once you cross a certain age, you do inevitably get married, where is your choice in the matter save for maybe the choice of who you marry? If you are brought up in a certain environment where you are exposed to things of comfort to the extent that your dependency on them makes it impossible for you to explore a lifestyle without these comforts, what choice of a lifestyle do you really have? But constantly questioning everything without a clue to the answer has its cons too. Invariably you end up questioning yourself. So maybe I am not supposed to do anything big and great that I often dream I will do. Maybe I am meant to keep looking for answers. Hell maybe I am not a third of the substance and talent that I imagine I have. Maybe it is all a farce and without the focus and faith in the way we live in this society and world, the few genuine talents that I may have will be flushed down some useless path or another. Who knows. Who is to say. But the thing is, I look around me and I see people who were in the same state of confusion have figured it all out. Almost. They are on their way to defining or have already defined who they are. Some have made their own paths to do what they are truly passionate about while others have exchanged passion for a nice, fat paycheck but it all boils down to the fact that they believe in something. I find myself still stuck at that same place as I was as a teenager where I am still trying to see some sense in the world. Not good! Anyhue, the world will reveal itself to me when it will. In the meantime, I have an announcement to make. In two weeks, I return to Dehradun at the heart of the wedding venue to report live from the field, so as to speak. I shall give all updates about the shopping, decorations, preparations, discussions and so forth in the final trimester before the wedding. So until then, I shall take a breather and not blog until the next week. Unless of course I get really bored and then the only thing left to do is sit and write. Until the next time then! :)

Oh thou beautiful, perfect bride!

"I just saw the most beautiful, perfect girl!" she announced as she waddled into our house. "She" being one of our neighbour aunties. See I am in Ranchi now and here they still have the concept of community living so aunties of the neighbourhood who- in Dehradun- are obsolete, extinct species, get together every evening and mostly gossip. I am usually against stereotyping but in this I am afraid all they really DO is gossip.

This particular aunty is now on the look out for a suitable bride for her precious engineering-degree-onto-corporate-job son. You know, the usual story. It was in this context that she was talking about the beautiful, perfect girl. I thought I'd clarify just so you do not start getting fancy ideas in your head. We are too conservative a people to even think of homosexuality.

So back to the point, the aunty continued talking about that girl, who she would have liked very much to be the girl of her son's dreams. Her eyes had that faraway look as she talked about the girl's hair and skin and eyes and teeth and mole on her cheek and I was just about to shout "By Holy God, STOP!!!" when by Holy God, she did! "But there is one problem with her", she said softly eyes looking despairingly into my mother's who was then forced to put down her precious piece of Sunrise rusk that I had carried several-a-kilo from Dehradun.

What is the problem you will ask me? I am ashamed to say it. But give me a moment and I will get over it.

So the weather's been really great, eh?

...........

...........

...........

Yep I've gotten over it. So, as we were. The reason that the waddling aunty deemed this beautiful girl unfit to be her son's wife is motion sickness. You read me. Let me say it again so you know you read correctly, though I realize you can just go back to the previous line again to confirm. But here it is: M-O-T-I-O-N S-I-C-K-N-E-S-S

Turns out our aunty met the beautiful girl at a park here. A large number of men and women had gathered at the park that day to visit a temple that is located on the outskirts of the town. So they were to pile into buses from this park and head to the temple and our aunty, spotting this beautiful girl thought it to be God's will that she sits next to the girl. So what if she had to push a few considerably older women in her quest? Maybe that was God's will too.

Alas, as the journey started, our aunty looked on with much concern as the pretty girl turned several and rather unflattering shades of green and purple. She lay, slumped across the window, mumbling 'motion sickness' when our aunty asked her what was wrong.

Now the wise thing to do would have been to let the poor girl be. But not our aunty. No sir, this was FAR TOO IMPORTANT A MATTER TO GIVE UP ON THE GROUNDS OF NAUSEA. So throughout the short-ish bus ride as the girl continued to moan and clutch sometimes her heart and sometimes her stomach, our aunty asked her if she had the same problem in a car? Affirmative.

In all buses? More moaning.

In the train? Affirmative.

On scooter? Faint nodding.

In an airplane? Here the girl mumbled something that our aunty understood to mean she had not yet travelled by air but given things as they were, she would not be surprised if she did indeed throw up on board an airplane.

So the end of this conversation also ended- and yet again- the dream of our aunty seeing her son finally wed. Back to present. As she moped and began munching on these nice ginger biscuits that I have recently discovered and hate to share, I looked at her incredulously and shrieked, complete with finger-pointing and other exaggerated gestures, "You rejected a girl because SHE HAS MOTION SICKESS? HOW ABOUT KEEPING SOME HAJMOLA HANDY?????" Of course, in my rage I forgot that our aunty has not yet asked her son if he wants to marry at all or if he has a girlfriend and to ask if the girl she had set her sights on wanted to marry at all, was engaged to somebody else or had a boyfriend.

Now the episode reminded me of another similar conversation that I had heard many years back when a young man turned down the proposal from the girl's family because he thought her body proportions suggested that down the line, she would put on weight. That's right! He predicted she would bloat in the coming years after birthing his spawn and so he turned her down! The nerve!

Now I am no fool. I know that while most of you nodded your heads and said "that's right" when you read my case against marriage, most of you are still secretly planning your wedding and eyeing that guy or girl you think will be your partner in breaking all of the bleak realities you see around you and instead, building the illusion of perfect marriage with you. You useless, brainless bunch of dreamers, you.

[Composes self]

I am, of course, always happy for whatever decision you make with your life. Just thought I would share that you must add "not complain of motion sickness" to your list of DON'Ts when you are being weighed as a prospective bride/groom.

My case against marriage

I have never been a believer in marriage and even less so in the grand wedding that happens before the onslaught of your life-long torture. But everytime somebody would ask me why is it that I do not believe in the great institution, I would fumble and say "well it does not make sense", which obviously did NOT make sense to the other person who then thought I was just trying to be cool in rejecting marriage.

There are a few obvious reasons- living with another person for the rest of the days and thereby subjecting self to the unexciting ways of not just one's own family but that of the spouse's too. Take for example the sibling I cannot write about. I see this sibling's partner struggle with numerous phone calls from my family and everybody only ever wants to know if my sibling has talked to the partner about the relative on the other end of the phone. Of course the sibling has (not)! With a family of 20,000-odd members and growing, what else does the poor bloke have to talk about? But somehow these very valid reasons fail to strike a chord with the listener(s), who will quote the marriages of everybody around and make them appear (much like the women on beauty-cream advertisements) flawless and happy. When we all know the truth , right!! Another argument that I do not understand is one where the older folks insist on marriage so that one has a companion in the old age. Clearly, there are a few rather prominent flaws in this argument, which I shall list for you here:

1. The spouse does not come with the guarantee that s/he will linger for all that time

2. The spouse does not come with the guarantee that her/his company will be entertaining and especially entertaining right up to the point of the proverbial kicking the bucket

3. Companionship in the old age will obviously mean companionship throughout one's adult years, which seems quite a hefty price to pay just so you have somebody to grumble about arthritis and the rotten younger generations with

4. Dogs are good company too. Or cats for that matter. And you don't have to get them when you are a young adult in order for them to stick around when you are old and feeble. In fact, even if you did get them when you are a young adult, they won't stick around until you are old and feeble.

But try as I may, I cannot bring the other person to see reason in my points. So I have come up with the most stunning, flawless ACE in my case against marriage.

I call it THE REASON to not marry.

Tiffin boxes. Yep! Remember those wretched 12+ years of school when you would wake up at unholy morning hours to get ready for school, including BATHE? Dear God the horror! Now push the soul-numbing torture of your daily, early morning odysseys in the background and focus instead on the person, who in your memory was the harbinger of the daily disaster- Mom! So you now know that the poor woman (or man if you are from one of those really fantastic equal-opportunity families you see on TV) got up about half an hour before you did to pack lunch (tiffin), and simultaneously wake you and other children she may have had the misfortune of bearing/raising, shove them into bathrooms in turns and later get them to gulp down milk and a piece of toast and then stuff the tiffins in their respective bags and race them to the bus stop.

Now the one thing I know is that when most people think of marriage, they think of the wedding- those deceptive few days of bling and kaching and dressing up and dancing. But what then? Skip a few years down the road... yeah just right there when your child (good heavens!) is old enough to go to school. Can you see yourself waking up to the alarm ringing not-so-gently at 5 or 6 a.m. and then going to the kitchen to cook and then pack lunch for your offspring? Dear reader, this is exactly what you are getting yourself into.

And you know you will have to do this for more than twelve years unless you choose to have your kid drop out of school and become a hippie. Now if you see your present life of partying late into the night, drinking without a care, getting up only when you know you cannot absolutely snooze another minute on your damn alarm clock and living the way one should live- i.e. in the most selfish manner- and compare this with the life you will end up having in a few years from now when all traces of selfish will be drowned in the incessant bawling of your little one, I do believe we have arrived at a moot point.

Fancy a marriage, anyone?

I rest my case.

Whoa! All the attention!

In our family hierarchy, I am the go-to person for all communication between, and information about the older members of the family and my siblings. I think this has happened because the siblings are all away from home, settled in jobs and lives while I am still at home seemingly doing nothing (has anybody read this blog!?!?). So the siblings are able to know what is up at home and the parents are able to extract information about their kids, through yours truly.

Now this is not a role you would be happy to play. And the reason why you would not be happy to play this role is coz it stems from the belief of others that you have nothing worthwhile to do. I think that is the reason why Chacha and I bond so well- we are- in a way and in his words- 'the Bangladeshis of the family'- no offence intended to the country. But like Bangladesh, we are the people in our family who are not expected to do anything great and are left alone to carry on with whatever it is we do. Back in the day, Dadi would sit out under the sun during winters. She had a चारपाई placed in the verandah where she would sit with her ball of cotton and a tiny कटोरी of milk and make जोत all day. From her vantage point, she could see the front gate and anybody who came to visit her. I remember this one morning when she was expecting her oldest child, Rads' and SP's dad. A little while later, Chacha came back from the temple on his Kinetic Honda. Dadi squinted her eyes and said animatedly "मेरा पुत्तर आ गया", thinking it was Rads' dad. But a moment later she saw Chacha walking in and said "ना ऐ ते जगमोहन है" dismissively and went back to her जोत! Poor bloke followed dadi all day exclaiming "मैं वी ते त्वाडा पुत्तर आं"! See what I mean?

My folks and other family members usually leave me alone except the standard morning-call where we exchange pleasantries and hang up in a matter of a few seconds. However ever since I left from Doon to visit the siblings in Delhi and in Mumbai, I have been flooded with highly uncharacteristic lengthy phone calls from immediate and extended family. They want to know what the siblings have been up to, what their respective spouses have been up to, what did he say, what did she say in response, when did they come back from work, what did they say about the relative who is calling, did the spouse like the gift sent from Doon and on and on and on... you get the idea.

In the usual course, the older Kakkars call their kids and the kids' spouses directly. Now, I have been entrusted the responsibility of calling the parents when I am with my brother/sister and his/her better/worse half to facilitate a conversation. This puts me, as you can imagine in a very awkward position because nobody wants to talk to the oldies, let alone after slogging at work for more hours than is humanly possible. So I am quite between the devil and the deep sea because making that call would put me in the line of fire from one end and NOT making the call will put me in the same line from the other end. And as if this was not enough, I am now being flooded with calls from the mausis and the buas asking me to talk about them with the people who have magnanimously agreed to marry my demented siblings.

Let me tell you, this is the last time I am holidaying in a place that houses any relative of mine. :/

By popular demand: Some More Chacha

Now it seems to me that the faint trickle of readers I had managed to bring to my excellent blog shut up if I write about anything and anybody else. And though I am not very happy about it, I will treat you, reader as the king/queen and dive back to the topic that you all seem to enjoy so much: Chacha. But you should know this is at the expense of my Chachi and I. See by the time Friday arrives and I still don't have anything to write about, I start tailing Chacha around, everywhere he goes. He is such a भंडार of weird that by the end of the day I have a nice juicy story to upload here. But tailing Chacha is not a task for the faint-hearted my friends. So anybody who reads this and laughs, I will say to you Marlon Brando style "Some day, and that day may never come, I'll call upon you to do a service for me".

So there is this side to Chacha that almost everybody knows about- he is a bit of borderline paranoid. Did I say a bit? Na-ah. Make that a lot of borderline paranoid. Like he heard of a case of robbery in a house far far away from where we live one time many years back and the next day, we had all these cool CCTV cameras around the house. The only things we ever caught on camera was a limelight-hungry cat who would sit on our wall and mew at the lens for hours and a couple of couples trying to take advantage of the dark and of the private space that the dead-end outside our house provides. So instead of warding off thieves as he imagined he would do, the man of our house would spend his evenings shooing away cats and hormone-driven teens.

And you should really see him driving a two-wheeler. It is all the entertainment you will ever need in this life. At turns, he will not only blink the indicator about 15 minutes in advance so that the traffic behind him keeps guessing if it is this turn or the next or the one after that until they assume it has been left blinking by error, but he also keeps flailing his arm much like a drunk bird flapping its wing. Ironically, he also refuses to wear a helmet even after being in an accident or two but there his obsession with his hair takes precedence over his paranoia.

So when Chacha began to read of dairy farmers adding urea to milk, he could not just sit and do nothing. He hunted the neighbourhood for a dairy, found one and ever since then he personally goes to get milk from this establishment everyday. Now over the years- and a lot of our relative and friends will tell you this- this pure, creamy, beautiful buffalo milk has become a source of pride for Chacha. We don't get any milk product from any shop. Paneer, curd, ghee everything is made from the precious milk that he gets.

I mentioned at the beginning that you enjoy the posts on Chacha at the expense of Chachi and I. See while boiling the milk every morning, Chacha stands guard to ensure that it does not boil over. Oh yes, he will waste electricity, he will waste water and with almost no effort he wastes and incredible amount of time but he will NEVER waste any milk. There are days, however when he is compelled to leave his dearest task to go to office for something or the other and expects his way-better half Chachi to obsess over the milk in his absence. Now Chachi is not one to obsess so as she goes about her daily chores, the milk obviously boils over and then the poor woman has to clean every bit of the stove to ensure that no traces of her heinous crime remain.

Such is the old man's obsession that guests are told and re-told about the marvellous discovery of Chacha's and a thousand other residents in the vicinity and here I can call in Rads' husband Vicky to vouch. About one year back I was coming back to Dehradun with Rads and Vicky and told my brother-in-law that he must praise the dairy products if he wanted to get into Chacha's good books. And sure enough, halfway through dinner Chacha started his all-too familiar conversation with the words "Vicky आपको पनीर कैसा लगा?" Then before my eyes he began to literally swell with pride as a prepared Vicky began to sing his well-rehearsed praises. Later that night, when everybody returned home and we were cleaning up, Chacha smiled with a faraway look and said "सोणा मुंडा है विवेक".

So though these observations of mine may seem fruitless and you may think that they serve only as writing material for a crap blog, the above episode will show they actually help bond the family stronger!

Why I will call buaji on Daler Mahendi's birthday

I hate birthdays. The gifts are never good and the early-morning phone calls are frankly too many. I also hate birthdays of my kin because there are no gifts and the early-morning phone calls are still too many. What on Earth are you talking about, you may ask.

I am talking about this unexplained habit of Punjabis to not only wish the birthday boy/girl on his/her day but to also wish his/her father and mother, children, spouse, uncle and nephew, aunt and niece, friend and siblings... you get the idea. I am especially blessed because I had to love my chachi-chacha as much as I love my parents. So on the birthdays of my Dad, Mom, brother, Chachi, Chacha, their daughters and the children's spouses, I am flooded with phone calls.

And mind you, a true Punjabi will consider it bad karma to not make the above phone calls on every birthday. Now while I have accepted that I am doomed to Punjabi hell for all eternity where I will probably have to receive and make phone calls on Daler Mehendi's birthday too, my family members refuse to come over to the dark side and feel deep karmic satisfaction on waking me up at 6 in the morning on everybody's birthday.

You must be wondering about the logic of 6 a.m. calls and if you did not then, well you are now so I will tell you. This habit has lingered in my two buas since those days when BSNL had low STD calling up to 6 or 7 a.m. and to make use of cheap calling rates, the buas would invariably call us at 6 a.m. ALWAYS. See for them, 6 a.m. is well into morning. They have bathed and prayed and had their morning chai and मट्ठी and are ready to take on the world. 6 a.m. for the rest of us is that unholy time when you are expected to rise from under the soft and warm covers and rise from over the snuggly pillow, AND shine brighter than the bleak sunlight and shine through the depressing vacuum in the pit of the stomach that one tends to associate with early morning.

Which is why I hate my birthday and your birthday and everybody's birthday.

A few days back I was told through our highly unreliable channel of grapevine that one of my buajis is very unhappy with me and does not wish to talk to me.
Reader Alert!
The Kakkar and extended family grapevine use a highly complex code that translated this message into the following order by buaji:

Shweta must visit me today and spend not less than half an hour listening- with pretend or real interest about what is- as youngsters would say- "up with me these days".

So I reach buaji's house the same evening and am greeted with the incredibly out-of-tune singing of a few Sikh gentlemen on ETV Punjabi's Bhajan Hour.

Besides the depressing vacuum in the pit of the stomach that one associates with early morning, there is another nasty sensation- that of a sort of shrinking of the heart and inward pulling of the veins of the ears that one tends to associate with any form of devotional singing on TV, and that one especially tends to associate with the audio-visual unpleasantness of three or four elderly Sikh gentlemen wearing identical navy-blue turbans and sitting before musical instruments of choice, singing gurbaani or the shabad kirtan. It is downright depressing and when one thinks of the ETV Punjabi's devotional program, one instantly thinks of the English dementors that suck all happiness out of the soul.

So in the backdrop of this excruciating noise, I greet buaji and ask her how she has been. Within the next few minutes I am hit by two unpleasant realizations: one, I forgot to wish her for her daughter-in-law's birthday recently, which explained the grapevine code. But I would get over this. I would ask her to talk about her son and daughter-in-law in Australia and she would calm down and forgive me. But it was the second realization that hit me harder than the monotonous pitch of the shabad kirtan: I had chosen a Thursday to visit her.

Thursdays are bad. And not just because you cannot eat eggs that day. And not just because you cannot cut nails on the one day that you seem to remember to cut them. Thursdays are kirtan days at the Dargarh- a religious order that my buaji and other family members go overboard in following. Buaji is part of the कीर्तन मंडली there that meets on Thursdays at the temple, gossips a lot, sings devotional songs a little, eats fried food a lot and then calls it a day. The members of the कीर्तन मंडली reach their respective homes and thereafter spend the evening calling each other and gossiping about members of the मंडली among themselves. Well among all of them except the member who is being talked about, of course.

As anticipated, I crossed the first hurdle of forgetting to wish her on her daughter-in-law's birthday easily. I used an antidote that was made of a large portion of questions about little details of her son and family's lives and a small portion of giving information about her brother, i.e. my father who is gruff on the phone and so with who, buaji does not get to talk too frequently. It worked like magic and all traces of displeasure were gone in a few instances.

Now if you are wondering if there is a point to this story, here it is. I mean in the next few paragraphs. THE SECOND REALIZATION. कीर्तन मंडली and Thursday कीर्तनs. My Buaji likes to keep a healthy stack of ten-rupee notes in her wallet and over the years this stack has become quite obese. The कीर्तन मंडली also offers what we call अरदास, which is the process of offering 10, 50, 100, 500 or 1000 but mostly 10 unless you are in really deep shit but we digress now so I will end the sentence and tell you the money is offered as bribe to have the Gods grant the wish that the devotee makes.

On that day, buaji was given responsibility of the collected अरदास money and I saw with dismay as she extracted her wallet from her purse and retrieved a 100 rupee note from it. And then another one.

I will put in the 200 and take 10s for this amount from the अरदास bag, she announced, untying the knots atop the bag. Now the answer to why this announcement by buaji caused me dismay lies in the fact that the women at the कीर्तन मंडली always seem to have really greasy hands and so when her phone rang for the customary gossip post-कीर्तन, she handed me the bag and began her chat as I started the tedious work of taking out one ten rupee note at a time, unfolding and un-scrunching it. Maybe it was the background music from the Bhajan Hour on ETV Punjabi or maybe it was the weird smell of oil from the bag of greasy notes but after the 7th note or so, I fell into a kind of daze. Somewhere in between buaji hung up the phone but never got back to the most boring job on the planet where I was sure I was a temporary substitute. Eventually I finished piling the stack of notes for her, which the blessed woman made me count thrice before putting into her wallet (how she fit the notes in her overstuffed wallet has since been listed as one of the unexplained mysteries of life).

In the process of the above stuffing, she found a 500 rupee note in her wallet. So she took it out and looked at it, deep in thought while the Sikhs on TV continued their monotonous melodies. Then she thought some more and finally said- "change ते किन्नी वी हो, काम आ जांदी है. इक्क कम् कर, पंज सौ दी change कड्ड दे.

I am never again NOT calling buaji on everybody's birthday. Including Daler Mahendi's.