Monday, July 26, 2010

Catharsis Before A Wedding

I have never been in a fast Porsche on the expressway but life, in the last few days, appears to be in that mode with blurred vision, weightlessness and adrenalin overdose along with ruffled premature grey hair and excessive hair-loss. I am on vacation to attend a wedding.

This morning, I woke up at 4:00 feeling cold and sweating at the same time. As usual, I gathered from the bedside drawer my morning dosage of valzaar, clopilet, atacor, betaloc and other hearty stuff. I had been promised a long day and a memorable night too. Even now, I can feel sweat trickling down my neck and back while thinking about the past few days and also, the days ahead.

It is now 5:30 and I can hear people waking up, sneezing, blowing their nose vigorously or loudly clearing their throats, chest and every air sac. All around me, water closets are getting flushed; the dirty are scrubbing themselves clean as if for the first time; morning ragas on TV and Eminem on the boom-box compete with babies practising asynchronous crying; the old and the young are scrambling for their fair share of morning coffee and other wedding goodies.

How I longed for the calm at an undertaker’s, a requiem or a simple dirge and a sober lot to match my mood and the occasion. But, what I get is the laughter and the noise, the hustling and the bustling, the merry-making and the cacophony, and the entire house in a stressful mess. I have found this silent spot beneath the staircase leading to the terrace. I need catharsis. I need to pour my encrypted thoughts and recollection of recent events into well-sorted bytes.

When did it start? Was it five or ten days back, or two or three weeks back, I am not sure. My parents told me to take leave on that day. My mother gave me a fresh and dry-cleaned set of jubba-mundu (kurta-dhoti in the North, I suppose). I had been to a beauty-salon the previous day for the necessary trimming, cleansing and polishing. I was ready an hour before the visit scheduled at 10:00. Or rather, I tried to be ready while I struggled – to subdue increasing tension and a frequently complaining bladder, to adjust the forever-loosening mundu and to straighten the so-easily crumpled jubba.

My team gathered for the last-minute prayer and discussion of strategy. The final team of eleven consisted of me in the lead role, my parents, a pair of maternal and paternal uncles and aunts, a sibling and a cousin and their respective spouses. The drawing-cum-dining room and the kitchen were well-covered for any offensive or defensive play.

The other party arrived on time at 10:25 and the brief delay of 25 minutes indicated that they are courteous and worthy of respect. To be on the safe side, they had arrived 5 minutes before rahu-kaalam on that Friday (though it is usually applied to the time of departure and not that of arrival).

As they were piling out of an SUV and a Mercedes Benz E class (not commercial vehicles, we noted, but were these borrowed, we wondered), our immediate task was to identify the key person to be marked. By the time they reached the front stairs, our team had figured out that person, their key negotiator – a rather fat middle-aged man, probably an experienced uncle or a friend of the family, exceedingly jovial, busy with introductions and busier eyes taking in the size of the property and depth of the foundation.

Their negotiator asked my maternal uncle, indicating the land and the house with a broad sweep of his hand,

Ithellam nangalude alle?” (“This is ours, isn’t it?” as if he was already part of the family.)

My uncle replied to this frontal attack with an equally ambiguous nod. The negotiator nodded cheerfully and before entering the house, added firmly

Nalla sthalam. Makkalkku flats kettam.” (“Good property. Kids can build flats.”)

As required I had stayed inside the house, in the drawing-cum-dining area, close to the door leading to the kitchen. I was ready to invite the men and the women with a very welcoming smile and namaskaar.

The women sat near the dining area and the men took the front. The girl who had come for the ‘payyan-kaanal’ (‘viewing the prospective groom’) sat along with the men alone on the sofa for two. I sat next to her on the sofa after my paternal uncle indicated to me that I should do so. The girl looked beautiful in a gorgeous sari, with a blouse that seemed to be on the verge of being an off-shoulder top and, I couldn’t believe it, noodle bra straps. She caught me looking and smiled knowingly. I nearly blushed. I loved that confident smile and I fell in love with her.

My maternal uncle and one of her uncles exchanged the jathakam (horoscope or birth-charts). In our society, that is the ‘get-out-of-jail-free’ card. If the match does not work out for other reasons, either party could say that the horoscope did not match and bring the affair to an end without any needless and hurtful explanation. The parents and the kids were further insulated, legally and emotionally, because the negotiation is usually conducted by proxy, that is, by the others.

My aunts brought the refreshments and I served as per custom. As soon as the cups were half-empty, the negotiation started in a more earnest fashion. I paid little attention since my thoughts were elsewhere, or rather, were lingering over that person so tantalizingly close. At one stage, I heard the negotiator ask my father,

“In which clubs do you have membership?”

My father recited the names of three eminent clubs. My parents had taken membership in two of those five months after I was conceived; and the third, when I turned eighteen and the standard of respectability was being raised in our society. The negotiator looked impressed,

“Very good…you know these stupid folk with stupid castes…each generation has a different set of brahmins…stupid I say. But…but I say…but, these club memberships are everlasting like plastic. These are guaranteed, I say. Guarantee about the actual caste – about economic status and also culture, education, company and background…I myself a Platinum in two of these clubs.”

I switched off for a while and when I returned, the negotiator was asking my maternal uncle,

“Boy has gold, right?”

“Yes, he has 100 pavan.” (A pavan is a sovereign, that is, 8 grams.)

The negotiator’s wife made an attack from the back,

“Our neighbour’s son got married last week. Fantastic wedding they held in the best hall in this city. But somehow, the feast was gloomy. Even though the boy came with a kilo of gold. Nothing like proper gold to make people happy, right?”

My paternal aunt then muttered that the boy here, that is me, will not make people gloomy. I did not pay attention to the remaining details regarding that barter but I think it was settled at 1.5 kg. Anyway, I heard the negotiator finishing the deal with,

“These days, gold is the only safe haven, I say. In our times, it was fine if the boy had a government job. But now even governments can’t be trusted. Only gold, I say. Anyway, it is all for the good of these kids. They can sleep well, you know. Or, you know what they can do…I say!”

He chortled with delight on his own joke, nudged his marker (my maternal uncle sitting next to him) in the ribs. It was then around 11:10. The negotiator looked at the rest of his group and we saw them exchange glances signalling that the meeting could be concluded.

“Ok, so that’s it then, right? Tchah, such fools we are…we forgot about these kids. Why don’t you kids go and talk a little?”

I led the way and she followed me to my room. She sat erect in my chair. And I sat on the bed crossing my legs at the ankles. She, like the negotiator, did not believe in beating around the bush.

“I have a green card. Will you be able to come with me?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Do you like cooking?”

“Yes. I can cook Indian very well. And you?” I enquired.

“Only Chinese. Only on weekends. Do you want to have kids?”

“Yes. And you?”

“Two. Hopefully, both organic. No test tube, no Caeserian; but I want my hubby next to me when I deliver. Do you have any pending affairs?”

“No. And you?”

“I don’t think so. Are you a virgin?”

“Yes.” I nearly blurted out “And you?” but I didn’t.

“Good. Did you want a love marriage?”

“Who? Me?”

“I think love is better when arranged well.”

“Me too.”

“Do you have anything to ask?” she offered.

“Do you like movies?”

“Not much. But I liked Kill Bill.” she said.

“Ah!” I sighed with pleasure, quite content.

Well, that was the last day of my peaceful life. Then, we started the process of inviting those close and dear, those near and far, the unknown and the not-yet-dead essential lot.

There was very little time to arrange everything. And the guy’s side had to be really careful. On two or three occasions, the negotiator and his wife made surprise checks with regard to the hall; the final settlement with car, gold and property, all included; the proposed catering agency; the decorations and the menu for the wedding and the reception parties before and after the wedding. With each day, the number of people in the house also increased exponentially.

Whenever she was free, she would call and check up on me. I tried to mask my nervousness and tiredness by thinking of those noodle bra straps.

It’s now 6:30. In four hours, I will be married. This catharsis has helped to soothe my nerves. Maybe, if I get the jitters tonight when I have to carry the glass of milk and the banana to share with her, I might try to record my thoughts once again.


Author’s note: Roughly quoting Andrea Camilleri –“This (blog) is made up…There is no doubt, however, that the (blog) is born of a specific reality.”

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