The Indian Wedding

Yes. It happened.

And, how?!

15th July, 2010

Well, I went to Soni's Parlor.

"Ahh.... Jyoti! Getting married, huh?" Soni teases. My sister affirms this with a nod and a grin. The two ladies start to laugh.

"And, Sangeeta? What will you do today?" She asks, brightly. 

"Ummm..."

"Oh, I know! Why don't you get your legs waxed?" She asks, tilting her head. I turn the thought over in my head. 'Why haven't i ever gotten myself waxed in all this time? Sounds like such a good idea....'

Or, atleast, it did. Before i heard the most agonizing scream from the lady sitting in front of me, getting her arms waxed.

'...that's why.'

"I.... think i'll pass." I risk a gaze at the woman who, now, is writhing in pain.

Razor Razor Razor Razor...

16th July, 2010

3:40pm

Today is the "Sangeet" and "Mehendi" (i'd gotten the henna applied two days ago, but that's irrelevant) ceremony, and the Ganesh Puja also happens today, itself. My sister sits in her bandhani sari, while i get myself into my blue lehenga.

I've already dressed myself up at three-forty in the evening, when we receive a call. 

"Hello?" My mother begins. "Where are you?? People are pouring in already!"

They're at the hall. At three-forty. Whereas, they should be there at four.

I turn toward my sister, horrified.

"People have started coming in..." 

"WHAT?!? No way! These are Sindhi* people! they're never on time!" She says, her hair all odds and ends.

"Forget the language, they're INDIANS! Have you ever heard of an INDIAN coming in early in a function?! Most of the post-mature births happen in India!!" I wail.

Without wasting much time, Hema Aunty, our beautician, begins to fret around, trying to get my sisters' make-up on. I sort myself, and try to get my NEW pair of killer-heels on.
"You're wearing that?" Hema aunty asks. I grin at her, a little ignominiously

"Ok..." she says, uncertainly. 

'Best of luck trying to torture your feet..." is implied, but not said.

7:00pm

The Ganesh Puja is over with, and we're back after my sisters' dress-change. I see a few people on the floor, dancing to old, yet up-beat songs.

Time to go nuts.

And that's exactly what i do. I kick my shoes off, and get on the floor. all the people i know are here already. Reena, my sister's best friend(at work), Neema, her best friend (since college), Madhu Bajaj (The kind lady who lives in the opposite building with her delusional son and a bore for a husband), and my cousins. I start off with dancing solo, before moving on to Reena.

At one point, during a song, she goes down on one knee, and gives me her hand, which i kiss, pull her back up, and twirl her around with.

"Not allowed in India." Neema chimes in. I dance to a few punjabi numbers with Neema, and Madhu Aunty (who seems possessed. Really, she's sixty-one, and has danced more than my mum has in a life-time, who's seven years younger). Most of the men/boys present seemed to prefer watching the girls dance in lieu to shaking a leg themselves.

In fact, the only other guy(excluding my "Jija") who comes down to the dance floor is Tejas, my brother-in-laws' best friend.

Who's a great dancer.

You can assume whom i danced with next, right?

11:00pm

My sister and her 'almost-husband' are singing songs to entertain the public, two-thirds of which has gone home.

"Ok, we've made an entire plan about how to steal the shoes of the groom," My cousin, Ameeta, begins. Well, it's a ritual where the sisters of the bride steal the grooms' shoes, and ask for a sum of to return them back.

"We're going to steal the shoes." Natasha says.

'Nice plan, very innovative.'

17th July, 2010

The Haldi rasam of the groom took place today. To all those who don’t know, HALDI is a Hindi word meaning “Indian saffron” or "Turmeric", which is ground with water into a paste, used to give the esteemed a fairer glow. We had rented a bus, (which came two hours late) and went to Malvani, to attend the function. I had the kheer in my hands, which was almost two liters in volume, and was meant to be finished by the groom, who had digestion problems.
Anyway.
When we arrived there, I, as the sister of the bride-to-be, had to start off the first rasam- doing the puja mean t for the groom. The "tikka" was applied, and the sweets were fed, i washed his head with a pink bar of soap, and made him drink the kheer and eat the namkeen.

All the young siblings of the bride did the same, and then, the actualy haldi rasam was carried out.

The important (see: old) women of both families sat down and applied a bare minimum of haldi on his head, both arms, and feet. I wasn't up for that. Instead, i dipped my hands in the dish full of turmeric, and smeared it generously on  his face, arms, and feet. He groaned in defense, and my cousins rejoiced the shattering of the status quo. 

After a while, i introduced myself to Ginni and Ritu, the cousins of the groom.

We sat and talked at length, where my older cousin Sanjay began flirting with them and my other cousin, Ameeta, began showing off with her "Anglo-American" accent.

Which, strangely, wasn't there just an hour ago.

18th July, 2010

12:30pm

The big day...

."Hurry up! hurry up! We haven't got all day!!" My mum screams her way into the room, only to find me in my choli. She stares at me awkwardly.

"It looks nice," she begins, "But it's raining outside, you'd better wear something else of your lehenga, or it'll get wet."

So, i ended up wearing the petticoat of my mums' sari as a bottom, and a dupatta to cover the top. I covered my head, and ran outside into the car, which took us to the venue of the marriage.

I braced myself. As soon as the car stopped outside of the hall, i hitched up the petticoat, revealed my killer heels to the world, and ran head-long into the hall.

Which was so exquisite, i was dazzled. 

The stage had a canopy made of a gold-colored fabric on it, with assorted red flowers. I gasped. I looked up at the huge chandelier overhead in a daze.

My sister came into the hall shortly after. She was not bedazzled. Instead, she was doubled over with laughter.

Because i looked silly standing in the middle of the hall staring up at a chandelier.

Some people must really get their priorities straight.

1:00 pm

"Oh. God." My sister breathed.

"What?"

"Akshay says he's on this way." Akshay is the groom.

"Wha-ha-hat?!? Why the hell is everyone hell-bent on coming early?!" I turn from the mirror, shocked. If he left at one, he'd reach by two. And he had to be here with his entire family no time before two forty-five in the afternoon.

Nobody from our side could receive them, because nobody was here.

Except me, but there was a slight problem with that.

I was dressed in my baby suit then.

2:50 pm

After I've dressed myself in my teal colored lehenga-choli, I rush forward to see the groom and his family. My mother is ceremoniously inviting him in, while my father is at a sheer loss of words. I stand next to my mum, and peer over at the guests and relatives of the groom. Ginni and Ritu smile sweetly at me, while Tejas flashes me a wry grin. I sneer at him, and advert my gaze. Dattu uncle (father-in-law of the sister) points down at the grooms shoes, and mouths 'Take... and... run...'

And that's exactly what i do. I snatch his shoes, give everyone a wide grin, and run back to my dressing room, where i hide them in my cupboard.

4:40pm

The girl has taken her seven oaths, the boy has taken eight. And, now, the Pundit beckons me to light up the havan**. My mother and all my aunts have already started crying. I roll my eyes at them and look around the audience, only to meet gazes with my best friends, Sugi-Sama and Gemini, and my cousins. The Pundit has the seven virgins come forward and start the process of teasing the bride and groom. I go first, i have to put their heads together, and make them see each other in the tiniest mirror in the history of the most tiniest of mirrors. This is to check if the bride and groom can see. And for doing this, i was awarded with five-thousand rupees.

These are the days when i wish i had a few more older sisters.

7:50pm

The wedding is over with, and my sister has already proceeded to the stage for the reception. My sister is the belle of the ball. She dresses herself in a maroon sari, and has her short hair tied back, and has put he rest up in ringlets, which are fanned delicately around the nape of her neck. 

I'm in the dressing room again. For returning the shoes, i received a ransom of Rs. 7,000, which is quite expensive for just one pair of shoes. I have decked myself up in a beautiful red lehenga-choli, and have let my hair loose, so they flow down my back. My friends come in, and shower me with sweet compliments. 

"No photos on facebook, ok?" I say.

"Are you kidding? It's already on facebook." Gemini says,  and we click a few photographs together.

I leave the dressing room, and walk up to the stage, my killer heels still on my feet. On the stage, i greet all the close family members and friends of the bride and groom, who whisper "You look lovely" in my ear ever two minutes. After all that, i sit myself down next to Tejas and Ginni.

"You look good," Ginni says, smiling at me. 

"Good? She looks awesome!" Tejas chimes in, and I look away from them in embarrassment.

I make matters worse still, Ginni leaves me alone with Tejas.

I try to talk with him without spluttering with mortification, before my mother calls me to the other side of the stage, to receive the guests.

I knew then, that this would be the longest part of the entire day.

10:30pm

After refusing to have picture clicked by many of the guests in the hall of the sister and I, and being sort of dysphoric about the amount of people in the hall, i sit down on a sofa, right in front of the stage. A boy, no more than nineteen, comes forward to serve me some water. I look up at him and, without quite meaning to, give him a wide smile. I've never been this happy before, watching my sister with Akshay, all pink and sparkling and joyous. And i wanted everyone to know just how happy i was.

Which was a mistake, since my father blew up with anger and dismissed the poor fellow rudely.

I walk up to where dinner is being served. My sister and my brother-in-law are seated at the longest table, grinning from ear to ear at each other, and the silver plates in front of them.Though they are dead beat, and don't have an appetite left, and are just a few minutes away from collapsing of exhaustion, they are elated. They are the happiest people in the entire room- happier than i am. Happy with each other.

I ate a few spoonfuls and left.

It was i could do not to cry.

Phew! That was a really long post, right?

* Sindhi is a language spoken in sindh(now in Pakistan) and Kacchh(Gujarat.)

** The Fire around which the bride and groom take nuptial rounds.

Ek "AAM" Ladki ke "AAM" Kisso ki "AAM" Kahaani

"Hockey is India's National Sport.

Cricket is India's religion.

I am an atheist with a strict "no-stick-on-field" policy."

-Anonymous

March is a month that begins with the dreaded board exams, stress, anxiety, electric bills, chewed-up fingernails, "Emotional Atyachaar" mania, and the end of a non-existent winter.

March is a month that ends in relief, payrolls, stressing on marks, farewell parties, convocations, tears, silent promises to stay in touch and, of course, Summer.

Think "Summer".

Think "Yellow". "Think "sunshine".

Think "The Delhi Fashion Week", "Swimsuit season", "New openings at pretti slim", "Price hikes on Sunscreen", "Fat women top-naked on public beaches", "Fat women in tight see-though white kurtis", and "Mindless Ogling".

Think "Dollops of sunscreen", "Summer clearance sales", "Cute guys top-naked on public beaches", "Sweating on the wrong places", "Long drives", "Avoiding public transport", "Avoiding your neighbor", "Avoiding the sun", "Avoiding men who smell like dead rats or kitty-litters", "Excessive deo", "Long working hours", "Sweat-soaked clothes". Think "another excuse to shorten the length of that dress"

Think "Mating season", "holiday migrations", "another dollop of sunscreen", "minimal make-up","sunburns", "aloevera".

And, then think the BAAP of a fruits---

THINK MANGOES!

A summer delight in India during the scorching summer months, they are the only reason people in India still believe that God exists. The coming in of Summer brings with it new items to menus of large urban indian food outlets. "Mango-chaas", "Mango icecream" "Aam ras" "mango milkshakes, mangoes, mangoes, and plenty more mangoes that are sold in every alley, every shop, every busy street of the City that never sleeps. Why, summer is the only season of the year when Mumbaikars look at a glass of "Maazaa" and say, "Know what? I think I'll pass..."

Here I sit, my precious, ripe, juicy, yellow mango in the very palm of my hands. My first bite, first lick, first slurp, and every other first that i left out is finally happening today. Gluttony takes over and I begin to devour my prized mango with animalistic vigor. Call me what you like, but I'm a sucker for mangoes.

I remember the tree outside my aunts appartment which always had ripe alphonsos five days after the Ides of March. Nice, ripe, juicy yellow mangoes always hung on the dainty branches elusively. My brother used to go up the tree and pluck them, and I used to hold the ladder up. He fell on me one day. We never plucked mangoes together after that.
I always hated that bastard...
Oh, well.

This month, I've decided to go to city Z in the Middle East from here for a holiday with my mum and sister. After a lot of negotiation, mum has agreed to travel to Z, which is two hours and 2,560km (approx.) away from Mumbai.
My birth city is the most beautiful, clean, lush, peaceful and excruciatingly BORING city in the entire world.

Yes, no cursing on the highway, no public tantrums, no mooning, no picketing, no harrassment, no NOTHING.

My only sources of enterntainment are 1) the frequent number of accidents on the streets right next to the 2)cemetry just a few yards outside of my house.
Well, shit.
But fretting I shalln't do, for throwing expats off an abra is what i shall do if the city gets too boring.
As someone had said, "When the going gets tough, the tough haul people into the sea for the heck of it".

Mangoes, anyone?

My Bill at our Local Pizzeria

This was the bill I received at our local Pizzeria this afternoon:

I think that's just Gods way of saying, "Sangeeta, you damnable creature, the creation of Absolute Evil! 

You have maliciously disregarded the Dieties of the Heavens, for which you shall face our wrath!"

Or maybe just, "Fuck yourself, asshole." 

Well, he does get his revenge: that pizza's going straight to my thighs...

*Sigh*

Stranger things have happened...

People never cease to amuse me.
Humans are the most wondersome and mind-bloggling creatures there ever were. How is it that one will easily believe someone who says that there are more there a billion stars in the sky, and yet question one when they tell them that the paint on a park-bench is wet?
Human nature is odd to the Zenith.
People see no harm in someone with an exorbitant libido, but if a person has a dimished one, conflicts and allegations are thrown around at the asexuality of the esteemed. A Belgian Priest such as Georges Lemaître saying that the Big Bang exists isn't good enough for us. But Newton, Einstein, Hawking, and Friedman saying it made all the difference to the world.
So what is it that makes people choose such odd decisions? Does a mere degree signify that everything a person states is politically or diametrically correct? Or is it power? Or a homogenous mix of both?
Well, i'm not too sure of that, myself.
Taking an example into account, I'd once walked into Dr. Irani's clinic on a wintry morning with a copy of "The Economic Times" under my arm. I was in a Mickey Mouse jersey and blue faded jeans, coughing and wheezing like a dying chimpanzee. Then, i took the paper and started to read, occasionally telling the woman next to me about price hikes and an overall sensex review. Do you know what i learnt?
The Economic Times is quite the accessory for anyone who wants to be taken seriously. You'd bitch and gossip about the receptionist, complain about the coffee, even crack lame jokes about sex, and people would see you as an intellectual "with broader interests".
What? It's the Economic times, for chrissake! You need to be a "learned intellectual" to read AND understand those.
Sames for anything Franz Kafka wrote. This was the conversation between me and a cute guy in the BEST today:

"Um..." he squints at the book in my hand. "Is that a book by --"
"--Franz Kafka? Of course, yes! It's a compilation, actually. The individual novels are rather pricey..." I trail off, and then smile brilliantly.
"Oh!" Cute-Guy smiles. "So, you read the stuff he writes?"

Nope.

"Why, yes! In my opinion," I clear my throat. "The Metamorphosis was a splendid novella... It's such a shame to see people being so critical about it. I think it was immensely entertaining in a rather wise way."
"Wow, you have some enticing views." the smile on his face widens.

I've never read "The Metamorphosis". I don't even know what the fuck it's all about. And i'm pretty sure is a novelette, and not a novella.

"...So, do you find him good enough to read?" He asks, turning his entire body toward me.

Please, I'd rather watch "Glen or Glenda" instead of read the crap he writes...
But, since you're cute, I'm not going to tell you the truth.
I'm going to lie!

"Absolutely!" I widen my eyes at him. "His books are extremely high-IQ, like, so it can stump the layman. But these," I point at my green 'Compilations of the Great Works of Franz Kafka'. "Are mere translations, you know..."

I sure hoped he did, cuz i had no idea what i was getting myself into.

"Oh yeah?" He cocks an eyebrow at me in curiosity. "From what language?"

Fuck.
What language...?!
Ok. Ok. He's from Hungary, so....

"GERMAN! G-German. He's Hungarian. He was born in Prague, which was earlier a part of Austria. But, now, Prague is in Czech Republic." I nod my head intelligently at him, watching him stare in amused ineterest. Suddenly, i find myself cringing at my semi-british accent.
"Whoa! How do you know all of this?" he asks, a reporter in the charming disguise of the Cutest guy to ever sit next to me on a crowded bus.

From skimming the back of the book when you weren't looking?

"Oh, hes a reknown writer. Who wouldn't know?" I cock my head to the right.
"Right. Say, what are you reading right now?"

Fashion catalogues in Cosmo?

"The Novella 'America'."
"Oh?" He asks me to continue, and bends slightly toward me. And now, he's so close, i can practically smell his aftershave.

That's a really nice smell...

"Yes, its first chapter is 'The Stoker'. It was his greatest piece work even before being included in 'America'."
"Say, what's it all about?"

...Uh?

"The story begins as a sixteen-year-old boy named Karl Rossmann arrives at the New York harbor on a slow-moving ship. We are told that Karl has been sent to America "because a servant girl had seduced him and got herself with child by him." As he's about to come ashore, he remembers that he has left his umbrella. He asks a young man with whom he had been briefly acquainted during his voyage to watch over his trunk as he runs to get his umbrella, and the boy---"
"---Is the Stoker?"

No.

"Yes." I nod.
"Wow," He says. "You've read alot."

What?! Dooood, that's, like, only the first two pages of the entire deep-shit novel! For all your cuteness, not so much with the listening.

"Yes, it's quite long. And stretched."
"Like a rubberband?" He grins, and i burst into peals of laughter.

Your sense of humor sucks. It's a good thing you're cute.

"Like a rubberband." I stare up at him, and he moves closer.
"Well," his voice grows throaty. "What else has he written? Something," He curls a lock of my hair. "Interesting?"

Yeah. His will.

I shift away, nervously. "Th-the Castle?"

Wh-which is b-b-boring!!

"Mmmm..." he stops twirling my hair, but shifts in closer again.

Please don't ask me what it's about. Please, don't. Please don't. Please, Please, Please----

"---What's it all about?"

Fuck.

"Politics..." ....I hope?
"Sorry, my Stop's here. G'bye!" he smiles at me as he gets up to leave.
"Bye!" Phew!

So, after all this adult brainstorming session, too, i do not know how and why people decide that one persons opinion is more superior to the other. People believe all that they are told, but they question the most obvious of facts.
Why that's the case, i'll never know. Because this world is a haven of mad people. After all, stranger things have happened...

How to take care of Kids the Sangeeta Way OR ...Why the sh*t is there a BABY on my couch?!

*NOTE*: To all those parents who love their children, do NOT follow the regimen provided.

Illumination engulfs me as I begin to open my eyes to the agonizing world of misery and self-deception. A constant sound gurgles disconcertingly in my mind as I stir in bed. I gather all my strength to shuffle around for the blasted alarm. God, the sound is unnerving! When I find it –which is after an eternity of groping and profanities (courtesy of me)–I pick it up gently and throw it on the floor. Mom’s going to kill me for breaking this one… I close my eyes and drift away to a more alluring world of pink skies and chocolate bunnies. When I finally am positive that I’ll not a get a wink of sleep now, I haul myself off my bed, unsteady and bleary-eyed, and walk slowly toward the bathroom.
“Toothbrush… my… toothbrush… Where the… is my toothbrush?!” I scratch my chin, half-crazed with sleep and anger. Cabinet after cabinet, I use my coarse vocabulary to its zenith, looking hastily for the device of human creation that kept me from having the certain cavities my mother would put her will on to happen. While on my hurried quest for the pink, chewed-up toothbrush, my eyes landed on the mirror. I looked like a trailer-trash mom with eyes dripping off Kohl. I shuddered at the sight of me. Reminds me of that “TALKING TURLEEN” doll with the rollers, cigarette and a c-section scar.
Seriously, a c-section scar?
Yes, I was kinky enough to actually undress dolls and check out what they looked like. Even if they were NOT mine...
Washing off the kohl from the rims of my eyes, I continue my quest for the abducted toothbrush. A series of swear words slip casually off my tongue, and my hands moved diligently on the islet of spits-villas and faucet-waterfalls. I turned over each box of tissues, medicines, and miscellaneous, but the occasional swearing continued to flow. Sighing a bit, I finally took a finger, added a dollop of toothpaste (Mint! Yummy!) and cleaned my teeth. I then resorted to flossing my teeth and fetching my towel for a quick shower.
After dressing up, I walk into the Drawing Room, pick up the Daily, and resort to dropping down on the couch and reading it, like I always do.

"Be careful. There's a baby on the couch..." My mother says.

Ahh... my sweet, innocent, delusional mother. I make The Face at her, the one i usually make at people just before i prove them wrong. I shuffle around on the couch.

"OYE!" I yelp and jump off the couch, almost running away from the puddle of animal matter.

I can't believe it. She was right. There IS a baby on the couch.

"B-but... But...."

How can she be right?! I made The Face! This is wrong!! This is so goddamn wrong!!
I want a lawyer.
~:~
"It's moving." I say to my mum.
"It's a girl, sweetheart," she says, her almond eyes glittering with motherly joy and affection.
Now, usually, when most girls see such an expression -the one my mum had on her face -they widen their eyes in disbelief and begin to shower all possible attention on the foreign baby, treating them as their own.
Instead of doing what most girls would do, I simply cock my left eyebrow at my mum and, giving her the most disturbingly grim expression, i resort to conquering the knowledge the Daily has to provide to me.
Now, i have nothing against babies -nothing at all! It's just... i haven't the slightest clue of what to do with them.
Babies are like boys; first, you don't know how to kiss them, and, when you figure THAT out, you don't know what the hell to do with your hands.
The baby stirs -on MY couch, sleeping on MY pillow, drooling over MY blanket -and yawns lazily.
Life is so unfair, its not even funny.
Soon, she wakes up and, goggle-eyed, she stares up at me.
I'm not very good with Kids, boys notwithstanding. Let me give you a step-by-step guide to taking care of kids my way.

HOW  TO TAKE CARE OF KIDS THE SANGEETA WAY

STEP 1: THE BABY WAKES UP

• Baby opens eyes: Ahh... another day... OF TORTURING, CRYING AND NAPPY-CHANGING!! ~~A little bit bit of pee on the sofa, topped with fresh baby drool. Just how i like it.
• Baby stares at Sangeeta, and Sangeeta stares at baby: A Divine discovery.

STEP 2: EX POST FACTO OF WHEN THE BABY WAKES UP

• Baby's state of mind and Body

Body: Smiles at Sangeeta
Mind: Not Applicable

• Sangeetas state of body and mind

Body: Stares at baby like a freaking lunatic
Mind: "...uh?!"

STEP 3: EX POST FACTO OF ALL THE WEIRD GOGGLE-EYED SMILING

• Baby

Body: Pulls toes with hands and laughes (I don't blame him...)
Mind: N/A

• Sangeeta

Body: Perspiration, nervousness, temporary aphasia, horror, more perspiration and acute nausea.
Mind: "Why is it so #$!&ing HOT in here?! Where are we, in ASIA?!
...Oh wait...
#$!&...

STEP 4: BABY CRIES

• Baby

Body: *Horrifying shrieking similar to that of when a colossally large woman with six-inch heels steps on ones foot. Seriously, either ban overstuffed people, high-heeled shoes, or the combo of the two. It's murder, i tell you!*
Mind: Food! Food! Food! Goo-goo-gaa-gaa! OR N/A

• Sangeeta

Body: Perspiration, nervousness, temporary aphasia, horror, more perspiration,acute nausea, and surreal calm.
Mind: AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!! MAKE IT STOP! MAKE IT STOP! IT'S LIKE THE WRATH OF SATAN!!  IT'S... IT'S LIKE VALENTINE'S DAY ALL OVER AGAIN!!

Why did i have to think of that?! C'mon, there's a BABY in the room....

So, you see, i could never be worse with a child. Believe me, if you were to ever leave a new-born within fifty yards of me, he's sure to develope atleast one type of psychological disorder. SO, if you hate you're kid, send him to India! He'll be taken care of well.... Really well...(Cue satanic laughter followed by a strange hacking noise and awkward spluttering.)

And, of course, there is a baby on my couch "Because my mother said so".
Mom, I'm not fourteen anymore.
That was ages ago.
Seriously, parents have to come up with better lines...

A note to the Idiot who drank my last Cuppa Joe

Since I knew I'd be too drained to type this down, I just took a picture of it while it was still hung on the bulletin board. Click to enlarge...

This is why I should never be allowed to go more than 27 hours without coffee.

I hate to burst the Indian Bubble.

Indians are very schizoidal. We have a knack from coming up with an array of neologisms, half of which are merely words that have a condemned pronunciation.
And that's not it.
We also conveniently MAKE up the spellings of the words we pronounce differently. Sic today, i have sought to officially calling it BUBBLEBURSTIN' Day, where i shall cast aforth light on the various words most of us make up without having the slightest clue of it.

• Presumptious (Obsolete!): Today, this word is officially known as presumptuous, the pronunciation being presump-choo-us. This word is a hybrid from the verb 'presume', which, in Latin, is Janus-faced in a way the it not only means "to suppose", but also, "to take liberties". An anecdote about Sir James M. Barrie aptly illustrates; One day, he opened the door on a reporter he didn't want to see.
"Mr, Barrie, i presume," the reporter says.

"Yes!" The, usually calm, Mr. Barrie snapped back and slammed the door shut.
• Prophesize (sic): The word is prophesy(the last syllable pronounced as sigh) and the noun is prophecy(the last syllable being pronounced as see).
• Portentious: The word is portentuous, which comes from the noun portent (strange signs or omens)
• Unctious: Though this word is found on Webster's Second and Third, this word doesn't exist. The word is actually unctuous, again, the choo sound quite audible. It means to be oily in a suave, insincere manner. The words unctuous, annoint, and ointment come from the same Latin verb.
• Unequivocably(which, by the way, is Unequivocally Wrong!: The word is unequivocally,meaning without any qualifications, absolutely, clearly, and unambiguously.
• Undoubtably(again, undoubtedly wrong.): This word, without any doubt, is undoubtedly, and not undoubtably. Both this and the former words have common mistakes.

So, that's all for today!

P.S. I wrote all this not because i am a purist, but merely because i am preoccupied with the purity of a language and its protection from the use of foreign or altered forms.
P.P.S. I do not know if that was tautology, or a juxtapose. I'd appreciate if someone could help me with that.

Weddings, In-Laws, and Politics, Oh My!

One of the main reasons most bachelors and spinsters dread the entire alliance of marriage is the in-laws. According to Merriam Webster’s Dictionary and Thesaurus, an “In-law” is “a relative via wedlock”. According to Sangeeta, an “In-Law” is “a fucking idiot with no sense of fashion who is just hell-bent upon making you look fat and ugly on your wedding day and, then, stealing all your jewelry and passing them off as their own”. In-laws are people who are ‘all “the” talk and no “the” do’, meaning, they are people who blow things way out of proportion, and then buy things from the Camel market while saying they are branded. Most in-laws have an uncanny habit of wanting to act like they are ravishing their D-I-L, while all the time they are merely being penny pinchers and being complete assholes to the same. But, In India, we do not dread just the In-Laws. We dread much else...

India is, indeed, a strange country. In every other country, marriages are categorized in five simple steps:

1. Boy and Girl meet.
2. Boy likes Girl.
3. Girl likes Boy.
4. They get married.
5. They live happily ever after.

For us Indians, of course, the steps are... welll, longer:

1. Boy and Girl meet.
2. Boy likes Girl.
3. Girl likes Boy.
4. Girl’s family must like Boy.
5. Boy’s family must like Girl.
6. Girl’s family must like Boy’s family.
7. Boy’s family must like Girl’s family.
8. A thousand rituals and political mudslinging later, Boy and Girl get engaged.
9. After another thousand rituals, they FINALLY get married.
10. Then, they live in a house together where they spend the rest of their sorry lives eating pizza from the carton and fighting for the remote all day.

This pretty much sums up a typical Indian marriage. Today, I went to my sister’s In-Laws’ place.
Why? Because I have no life. And because my sister is ill, but whatever…
The rendezvous was supposed to last an hour, us discussing the timing, the venue and apparels that would be involved in the marriage. Our heated debate lasted four hours, over which we discussed politics, the weather, how nice Aloe Vera is for the skin and how wonderful it would be if we could all just get along. There WAS no mention of the marriage in the entire tryst with the dreaded “In-Laws”. That’s just how marriages in India are: We always sought to do one thing, but instead end up doing another. It’s very common in India for a girl to fall in love with a boy, and get so attached to his family, that she ends up eloping with his brother.

“Mrs. Khanna, have you heard? Lara’s daughter ran away with the groom’s brother!”


“Oh, that’s nothing! Have you seen the amount of jewelry they ran with? Only worth a million rupees! How’s my diamond encrusted crown? Could give the Queen a run for her money, couldn’t I?”

Yeah. Sure you could.
You see, I have nothing against marriages – Nothing at all! It’s just the PEOPLE getting married that put me up in the spot. Really, why buy the album, when you can download plenty bloody albums for free? No commitment, no issues, no hassle, and they would never flirt with your best friend to make you jealous.
Trust me.
So, I was in a fix when I heard that Mother and I shall go meet the beloved parents of my brother-in-law who –in completely UNrelated news – looks like a seven-month pregnant Dick Dastardly.

“How about we keep the wedding from ten-thirty to twelve and the reception from one to five?” Sister’s father-in-law says. Sure, uncle –if that’s humanly possible. Yes, and then, there is this other thing; Indian marriages are slow. Slow? That’s like saying, “Hitler was a tad aggressive.”

There’s a lot to an Indian wedding. Firstly, we start with the HALDI rasam, where the groom is made to sit on a stool with white shorts and a white shirt. To all those who don’t know, HALDI is a Hindi word meaning “Indian saffron” or "Turmeric", which is ground with water into a paste, used to give the esteemed a fairer glow. In the HALDI rasam, loads of fat women with no dressing sense and cleavages that could hold the Everest sing songs in death-defying tones similar to that of a desiccated gorilla dying at the gates of hell. In the midst of this crass cacophony, the sisters of the bride sought to tear the shirt of the groom from his body and then smear the paste on his torso. If that’s not bad enough, the mother of the bride gets to pull the groom by the nose and bring him to the staging of the marriage.
Then, the bride is to be dressed up. Now –and its customary –the weight of the bride must always be a quarter of the weight of her dressing gowns and her jewelry put together. Meaning, if she can walk, she isn’t completely dressed. And if she can't, she’s pure evil. Why, and the mudslinging after that? Goodness, it’s so freaky; I don’t even need to be funny about it.

WHEN THE BRIDE ISN’T ABLE TO WALK:

“Arre, you saw Rajesh’s bride? Practically dripping gold and diamonds, no?”


“Of course she is. What do you expect from such [a rude Hindi word for OSTENTACIOUS] people? Bloody Ramgharias*!”

AND, WHEN SHE IS:

“Oh, my GOD! Rajesh’s bride is WALKING TO THE MANDAPAM**!”


“Such disgrace! Such disregard to our Hindu customs! Those fucking Ramgharias don’t deserve to live!! Even Lohars*, Jatts* and Rajputs* would give all they can to their only daughter! Rascals!"

If that’s not pudifying enough, the make-up palette comprises of the most hideous of colors in history of the most hideous of colors! The only two things an Indian bride can possibly look like is either a prostitute, or a forlorn fool who walked into the streets of Abu Dhabi in the month of Ramadan. It’s like the stylist has been plotting sweet revenge against the poor bride all his life!

“How’s the bride?” asks the stylist from hell.



“So hideous, I think my eyeballs have started to bleed!” The assistant says.



“I know she is, but…” he thinks for a moment. “I STILL think she could look worse…"

Nobody can be more humiliated in one night than the Indian bride and groom are on their wedding day. That’s why it felt so bad to be sitting in front of the In-Laws (read: Aliens from Pluto) and discussing the wedding.
Why? ‘Cuz I’d have to be the sorry soul who escorts (read: carries) the bride to the Mandapam. In other words, my back is going for a TOSS.

I hate weddings…

P.S. *- These are Sects and Tribes in the Sikh religion.
**- The wedding venue.

On Crows, Parrots and the Day of Love

"Happy Valentine's Day!!!"

Yeah, yeah. Shut the fuck up.

My day begins quite ordinarily; too mundane, to be precise. I just get off the bed, brush my teeth, eat my breakfast, and checked out my cell. 

  "Hie! I'm getting myself a new book from Landmark and i'm gonna watch , too i'm so happy!"

And happy fuckin'-tines's day to you, too, Ice-Kitten.

I walk toward the window. A beautiful tropical parrot sat directly opposite me. How glossy are her feathers... The red beak was, as though, embossed in the scenic loveliness of the neighborhood trees...

"Seeing a parrot in suburban Mumbai is lucky!" I smile to myself. Luck, and on Valentine's Day? God must love me! (^_^)
I grin ear to ear~~~~

~~~~Until a crow comes along.

"What a deceitful creature! It's making such a racket... huh? Wait. W-wait! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! GET OFF OF THAT PARROT! Let her fluff her wings and fly to the other side of the tree...."

She did just as i said.
She FLUFFED her beautiful emerald wings....

....and got gang-raped by four ugly crows.

Yes. My luck.