Just Married (The Wedding)

Superman and I are on the Lalbhag train from Chennai to Bangalore. There is a dull confusion in my head if I am heading back home or if am leaving home. The distinction was clear to me till a few months ago. Chennai was home and Bangalore was where I worked. What is it about marriage that turns over your point of reference? My existential angst, as it were, seems to form the perfect backdrop to my post today, as does the steaming cup of water-chai beside me and the nasal calls of vendors selling masala vadai, aloo bonda and tomato soup. (Aside: I just realised that it’s been a good five years since I last travelled in one of these trains. The night journeys and Shatabdi Superfast Express are killing the Indian hog-all train culture.)

We were in Chennai to register our marriage. The process was unceremonious to say the least. A dingy government office, an application form (re-filled by my father after Superman and I spent a week filling and re-filling it), parents for witnesses, a reedy sub-registrar, an hour’s wait…and we were legally pronounced man and wife. The contrast to the real thing (or was this the real thing?) is rather stark.

I had always imagined my wedding to be a morning affair, at the end of which you would eat a big meal and go home; or, if you were my new husband, you would go with me on a honeymoon. The wedding included all of the above, but in addition to a Mehendi/Sangeet gala and three evening receptions. So, we’re talking about a five-day party if you were a good friend or close family, too-many-events-to-attend if you were not so close, a lot of anxious moments if you were the parents and tired legs and aching mouths if you were the bride or the groom.

The day before I left office for a month-long break, a colleague of mine advised me to take it all in, to enjoy each moment and not grudge all the fussing and attention that comes with being the bride. I don’t think I top the list of most co-operative brides, but I do remember having the time of my life. Emotional high drama, wardrobe malfunction, bad hair day (on the wedding day!) sleepless nights, yelling matches, shortage of space-physical and otherwise, photographs, fine clothes, diamonds, music, dance, fun, laughter, hugs, love, chaos. My wedding was a veritable potpourri.

As I observe sundry bits of Indian middle class life on board the Lalbhag, I am reminded of a wedding funny, involving the wedding planner. Now don’t imagine some Band Bhaja Baraat brand of a pretty young thing. We're talking about a 70 something old matron who knows all the obscure do’s and don’ts of performing a Mudaliar wedding. As Reception Part I is winding down, our wedding planner walks up to us and says (I quote in the best possible Tamil-English translation) “Don’t dally too long, you’d do better to be done with it quickly.” I am not sure what you made of that, but I concluded that she was asking us to dispense with the evening quickly and to sleep in early. And this, despite being fully acquainted with the blatant ease with which matrons in almost every Indian home will urge a newly-wed woman to have children at the earliest. All I can say in my defense is that I was terribly tired by that time and could think of nothing other than a good night’s sleep. Needless to say that Superman was more that a little amused by the episode and the incident is fast becoming the stuff of legendary family anecdotes.

We are fast approaching Bangalore Cantonment and Superman is casting me worried looks. The train will stop for only a few minutes and there will be a mad scramble for the door. I will leave you to reminisce about chaotic Indian weddings, old matrons and babies, while we pull out our suitcases and look to find our way out.

Just Married (Colour My World)

As I packed my bags last evening to head back to Bangalore, I noticed that my wardrobe is starting to show signs of brighter hues. The blacks, whites and greys are gradually giving way for blues, greens and even the occasional orange. Superman disapproves of my taste in clothing. Normally quite plain and modest, I have found my clothes rather ideal for the Indian weather and public transport. And, that was exactly what I said when he first suggested that my wardrobe needed to be revamped. Not one to be brushed aside so easily, especially in matters of clothing and style, I was cajoled each weekend - when we would shop for my wedding trousseau - to consider experiments with color and style. (Aside: I must be the only bride whose wedding and honeymoon clothes was closely, and lovingly I may add, supervised by the fiancé)

Here’s a typical Saturday at a store in Bangalore. It’s a beautiful day and we intend to buy a pair of black jeans – the kind that’s versatile and can be worn for almost any occasion. I am in the trial room, with Superman on the other side of the door:

Superman: Does it fit well?
Me: Hmm…it’s ok. I think I should try the next size though. Can you get it for me please.
Superman: Sure, give me a minute.
A few minutes later….
Superman: They don’t have the next size…try these instead. (flinging in a few pairs of jeans)
Me: They are pink, blue and green. I want black.
Superman: Just try them on and let’s see what they look like.
I try on the pink ones as my hopes of owning a new pair of black jeans that evening starts to ebb.
Me: I don’t like them darling. I look plump.
Superman: Let me see!
I gingerly step out, rather embarrassed by the colour of my pants.
Superman: What are you talking about! You look super. I even saw a tee shirt that will look perfect on it!

Before I knew it, we were walking out of the store with pairs of pink and green jeans and tee-shirts to go with them. The blue was fortunately too loose.

For someone who dislikes to shop as much as I do, it was quite surprising that our short but very memorable courtship focused on shopping. I suppose it would have been more natural for me to shop with my sister or girl friends for my clothes. But the run up to the wedding was too short to allow for discrete time on weekends for shopping and romance. And looking back on it, I suppose an argument over a pair of jeans did more for our arranged marriage than a romantic date.

Cut to the past week in Dubai, which is rather synonymous with shopping. My appetite for malls is reaching a critical limit. Superman is however keen for me to visit the Dubai Mall, deemed to be the largest mall in the world. We walk into a store and he insists that I pick up clothes. I stand puzzled in the women’s section. I don’t have an occasion to shop for. I am already married, the honey moon’s over and I have wardrobe full of new clothes. I watch my husband nervously as he picks out a pair of blue pants with practiced ease. He’s been looking for maroon ones, but I guess blue will have to do for now. When he’s done, he looks in my direction only to notice an empty shopping bag. He’s disappointed. The next few hours are spent buying pants, shirts and shoes I don’t need. I sulk and huff through most of it, resisting extreme experiments in couture (read: printed pants).

I guess shopping, as for most other couples, will remain a bone of contention between us for a long time to come. But I hope it’s a move in the positive direction to see brighter clothes in my suitcase. I leave you with a list of items I never thought I would own:

1. Pink jeans
2. Orange three-fourth pants
3. Pink three-fourth pants
4. Pista green chinos
5. Pink ankle length frock…the kind that flares out all the way from the chest
6. A necklace with big, colourful beads
7. Honey comb sun shades

Just Married (Part I)

This morning I woke up confused. I am in a new room and staring down at me are two large vintage posters of Scarface Al Pacino and God Father Marlon Brando. It all comes back to me slowly as my gaze shifts to the lazy-boy and the play station console that dominate the decor of the room and finally to the curly haired man-boy beside me. I am in Dubai, where Superman spent a good part of his childhood. We have been married just over three weeks. A wedding and honey moon later we are content, excited and a few (many?) pounds heavier. This is the last leg of our month-long vacation from work. Next week it will be time to actually begin life. We won’t wake up to wedding chaos or a quaint island in Greece, or the delightful smells wafting from the kitchen here in Dubai, where Arul, the family cook stirs up a storm each day.

As I write this post I am overwhelmed. I realise that I have just lived what maybe the most memorable days of my life. And funnily enough, it’s a feeling I have waited for since the wedding was first fixed. This moment when all of this would finally feel real – not as if it were a movie I was watching. As I shopped and prepped for the wedding, I remember having this strange feeling that I was getting ready for a close friend’s wedding or perhaps a cousin’s…just not my own.

There is a whirlpool of thoughts, memories and experiences that I am eager to freeze in Poriyal Diaries and it’s hard to decide where to begin. There’s the wedding itself, then there’s all this shopping I have done in the last few months that has to make its way into a shop-a-phobic’s blog and of course there’s our trip to Greece and the visit to Dubai. A friend from University once suggested that I chronicle all my wedding experiences in a slim volume. I don’t know if these stories will fascinate enough to be a paid publication. But I think I can risk a few blog posts!

So…friends, family and trespassers to the Poriyal Diaries…lend me your ears, hearts and time if you will!


PS: Our stay in Dubai just got extended by a day…gleefully delighted :)

Six Yards and More

I am not a shopper. I suppose I am too impatient to be one. I buy on an impulse and like to believe that most of the time I don't have to regret my choices. But weddings don't happen on an impulse and the shopping needs necessarily to be planned...and well ahead of time at that. This will be the one instance when I cannot pass off a fashion disaster with a toss of a head, claiming preference for the off-beat. My sari on the wedding day must be suitably opulent but not gaudy, elegantly subtle but not plain. Needless to say that long hours would be spent debating, arguing and sulking before a choice is finally made.

Fortunately, some decisions are easy. It would have to be a traditional kancheevaram sari at least on the D-day. The regal weave from the small town of Kancheevaram has always been the preferred choice of all brides from my home. The georgettes and chiffons make a dignified exit when it is time for us to be brides.

So, off we went, packed away with snacks and the compulsory flask of water that would sustain us through the two-hour drive from Chennai to Kancheevaram. I had dressed appropriately - a crisp blue salwar kameez with a lovely pair of white sandals. The sari connoisseurs at home have always advised me to be well dressed to a sari store. The service is (perceived to be?) better and the keen store assistants are likely to gauge your preferences more easily if your clothes highlight your tastes. Clearly they were referring to the Nallis, Pothys and Sundaris in singara Chennai which are happy to indulge these women with air conditioned rooms, cushioned seats, polite customer service and the welcome cup of filter coffee after the purchase - all resonant of the emerging (and rather delightful) urban phenomenon called retail stores.

A.S. Babu Sah, where we spent the day looking at over 300 saris turned out to be different. Very different. The store had a blue cloth to cover the entrance, much like the kirana stores we see in every corner of any Indian city. You leave your footwear at the door amidst a mound of shoes, while sending up a prayer that you will find both your shoes at the end of the expedition. Then you walk into a narrow corridor that opens into a massive room that looks much like Ranganathan street. When your eyes adjust to the scene, you realise that people are sitting in little circles and peeking over dozens of saris that are showcased by the store assistant who sits at the head of each circle.

A.S. Babu Sah Store: Trust me the photograph makes it look nicer!

We squeeze past the crowds and manage to find one store assistant who is wrapping up the purchases in his circle. As the group leaves we try and get comfortable in a little circle while the store assistant attends to the bills of his earlier customers. The woman in the adjacent circle gives me an unpleasant look when I request her to move a little. I contain the impulse to exchange sharp words. At that moment, we are but potted plants fighting for space. The store assistant finally makes it back and then proceeds to give us his undivided attention. He is quick to know that we are shopping in bulk – saris not just for the bride but for the family and relatives and relatives of relatives. Stacks after stacks of saris arrive carried in by another assistant. I am fascinated by how efficiently each sari makes its way around the store until she finds a buyer at a circle. We envy the saris that our neighbors managed to bag before we did, inevitably wondering if they got the better store assistant. But the tables turn a few hours later, when we have selected a good number of saris and the circle next to ours is just starting out.

Four hours later we decide to call it a day. The shopping list is still incomplete. But we are tired and our store assistant, by this time informal with us, is starting to show signs of fatigue. I leave my father and sister to attend to the bills and take charge of locating four pairs of shoes. I manage to retrieve all four pairs from under a massive pile. I feel gleeful relief that I will not have to walk barefoot to the car!

It's been a long but successful day. My sari looks stunning and meets approval by my team of shoppers. Questions and thoughts that run in my mind as we drive back:

1. No shopper seems to leave the place empty handed. The store assistants' skills are worth a study.
2. Why are store assistants in sari shops traditionally men? Saris often need to be semi-draped before they are bought and in a society where touching the opposite sex is taboo, it seems rather strange that women assistants have not replaced the men in large numbers.
3. What prompted a Gujarati business man to travel all the way down south to Kancheevaram to set up a sari shop? I understand its roaring business, but why not set up shop closer home?
4. Which leads me to the next question...what would be the average turn-over per day at A.S. Babu Sah?

Loose Thoughts on Getting Hitched

Ever since it first came out, over three years ago, I had mocked at the advertisement campaign for the Platinum Day of Love. A couple in an arranged marriage suddenly find love when the crowd at the railway station separates them for a few seconds.  The advert struck me as being clawingly sweet at best and utter nonsense at worst. Arranged marriages are practical. It’s your parents who have a love affair with another set of parents and the four well meaning individuals get you hitched with a man you barely know. A series of meetings, hugs, smiles and rituals later you are married. After that you wing it and figure a way to make it work.

Little did I know that my rather smug take on arranged marriages would back fire one day and I would be writing this post after meeting the man who I hope will be the love of my life. I have known Super Man (that’s what he will be called for the rest of this post and all future posts involving him) for exactly 29 days, 12 hours and 2 minutes (of course am kidding...we met about a month ago). Our first meeting involved so many people that my father had to actually book an Innova to transport the whole lot of us. And, that was only my side of the party. I was quickly told that I wouldn’t get three months to make up my mind as I remember negotiating with my father when the groom hunt started and no, the wedding cannot happen in December, it must happen right away, in March. My father is simply too tired and hopes to finally hang up his boots on the wedding scene, which has lasted an excruciating 6 years - the time it has taken him to marry off the two of us sisters.

Last week we attended a party where I got chatting with an old Parsi lady. Dapper in a chiffon salwar kameez, I was fascinated by her ability to not only make conversation with me but also keep pace with the information I exchanged about my work, life and interests, which are no doubt quite different from her own. Having been introduced as Super Man’s fiancé, the conversation naturally veered around to the wedding. Unknowingly perhaps, the lady let out a sigh of disbelief when I told her that I agreed to the match within a week of meeting him and that I had known him for less than a month. But she was hardly the first person who reacted this way. Somehow, all the friends and family that have been let into the ‘good news’ have been uniformly surprised. It has made me truly reflect on the perception that people seem to have about me. What were there expecting, I wonder, a torrid love affair with a completely inappropriate man? Maybe it has to do with the fact that I am at heart an incorrigible romantic. The kind that will read Wuthering Heights over and over and wish for the passionate Heathcliff to walk into my life. Or maybe I give off the air of being footloose? Or maybe everyone is simply looking for an appropriate reaction. I mean, let’s face it. “I am getting married” needs necessarily to evoke something better than “I am having a sandwich”.

I look around me at the life I have built in the last six years that I have spent by myself. Fortunately, I have moved a lot. Each year it’s been a new place and a new set of friends. I have travelled light, at least physically. This move will be different. I won’t grudge buying nice furniture instead of the make-dos and hand-me-downs that have made it possible for me to pick up and leave each time.

My final thoughts are on the day I made up my mind. I had spent a lot of time thinking through the precious week I had. The long conversations, pre-occupied moments and sleepless nights didn’t quite build up to the decision in the way that I expected it would. An hour before I was to decide, I was just as confused as when I started out. But I remember opening the door to him that evening when he had come to pick me up for a date. And I think it was that precise moment when it felt right. Clawingly sweet? Utter nonsense? Platinum day of love? I can feel my face pull into a grimace as I write. I suppose the incorrigible romantic in me is alive and kicking... 

Cooking up a (pudhina-omelette) storm

I have come to realise that the nicest things I whip up in my little kitchen are impulsive improvisations. This morning I made myself a phudina falvoured omelette and I am feeling quite proud about the way it tasted. It took me all of 10 minutes to put together and left me with that feeling of goodness after a nice meal. Here's how I made it. Let me know if any of you actually try it out!

What you need: (serves 1 hungry girl)
1 egg
Fresh pudhina (mint)
Half an onion, chopped
One tamato, chopped
One red chilli
Three pods of garlic
Salt and Pepper

How you make it:
The first step is to make the pudhina chutney: Lightly saute the chopped onion, tomato, chilli and garlic pods. Add in the cleaned pudhina leaves right at the end and saute that for not more than 10 seconds. You leave it any longer, it'll turn bitter. Run the mix through a blender so you have a smooth paste.

Tip: You can make the chutney and store it in your fridge for upto a week. The fresh mint tastes divine with almost anything: bread, rice, chapathi...

The second step is the omelette itself. Beat up the egg with salt and pepper. When you have a nice frothy consistency, throw in a teaspoon of the pudhina. Cook the egg in a sausepan as you would normally do to make an omelette. I like to fold in the omlet when its still runny, so the ends get stuck. This way the omelette's crispy on the outside and soft and fluffy inside.

Serve the omelette with lightly toasted bread and a cup of hot chocolate.

Bon appetit!

Reality Check?

Like most children of the 90s, I grew up on a healthy diet of Bolywood cinema. When it comes to melodrama, nobody does it quite like us. Estranged sons dying in mothers’ laps, long distance lovers united after 30 years, fish mongers turning into bomb disposal experts so they can play with fate, pet animals coming to the rescue of damsels in distress because heroes turn villains by cheating on their wives...really, few things amaze me these days as far as Indian television goes. But last evening was different.

It was a regular weekday evening. My roommate (let’s call her T) and I were having a cold meal as we mindlessly switched between the evening news and Junior Master Chef. As to why we faithfully watch a cookery show involving 10 year olds each evening is anyone’s guess. I suppose we are fascinated by these children who talk texture and flavour, while we barely get past making a somewhat passable meal of rice, poriyal and curds. But I digress. At some point T switches to Colors which broadcasts Bigg Boss on prime time. We laugh over the concept of the reality show, while graciously acknowledging that it takes a fair amount of resilience to be holed up in a house that looks more like a high end furniture store, with a bunch of conniving roommates who have all day to plot your exit from the show. That house is nothing short of a devil’s workshop.

I don’t follow the show, so I am not sure as to why the scene changed from the house-that-looks-like-a-furniture-store to this little hut with only three people in it. But let’s cut them some slack and move on with what happens next. There is a knock on the door and the three inmates-one lady and two men get ready to welcome a new person into their ‘home’.  Standing at door is this small woman very obviously a victim of dwarfism.  But somehow, what was obvious to me despite my drifting attention span was not clear to the three inmates. They greet her with much enthusiasm, except that it’s the kind of excitement that most of us show when a little child enters the room. The lady proceeds to give the new inmate a hug, pecks her on the cheek and chatters away in baby-talk, all the while believing that it is indeed a child. The group soon finds out that the ‘child’ is in fact 19 years old and holds a record in the Guinness Book for being the smallest 19-year-old in the world. After understanding that the lady has a health condition which has resulted in her short stature, one would expect that the three inmates would treat her as an adult must be treated. Not on this show! The lady picks up the ‘child’, continues to baby-talk as she shows her around the house. Mid-way through this drama, the lady breaks down in a wave of sympathy for the ‘child’.

By this time I am very uncomfortable. But for some strange reason, we continue watching, flabbergasted. Perhaps this is exactly what Aristotle referred to as the cathartic effect of drama. But that was Greek tragedy. This is trash that goes under the garb of reality TV. 

Many years ago I had the chance to work on a video about differently-abled people. I was an undergraduate student at that point and it was something of a coming-of-age experience for me to interact with people who live with pride and dignity despite their disability and fight each day to be included in every aspect of life. During the assignment I spoke to an inspiring young man who was suffering from cerebral palsy. He was studying to be lawyer and dreamt of eventually impacting India’s disability legislation. Over a casual chat, he spoke to me about why he did not approve of Mani Rathnam’s Anjali, which was quite a land mark movie in its time. He found the movie unacceptable because the protagonist, who suffers from a mental disability, is portrayed as a rather good looking child, like any other ‘normal’ baby, whereas in reality a child with Anjali’s condition would indeed look very different. “It made me feel like we are ugly...so ugly that we cannot be accepted for what we are, the way we look.” His statement bothers me till today. I wonder what he would have to say about Bigg Boss. Is this real enough? Perhaps so real as to strip off of all sense and sensibility that one exercises while dealing with people, disabled or otherwise. Actually, I hope he didn’t get to see this episode of Bigg Boss. He would have realised that amidst TRP ratings, starlets who want their 15 minutes and the janatha that watches on, his dream of being included and accepted is a distant one.

Thankfully the commercials come on, breaking the spell. “Change the channel T, this is weirding me out.” After a moment’s pause, she changes back to Junior Master Chef. We watch on, quietly letting Bigg Boss and its star cast slip out of our minds.