The great Indian Wedding Tamasha

The tune of a rather overused and malapropos Yo Yo Honey Singh song floats over the already dusty air, now impregnated with smoke, and set somewhat alight by the gleam of the tube-lights carried by labourers of the tent company. Revellers set the tone for the evening, dancing away without inhibition, till they have had enough whiskey to render themselves incapable of motion, vomiting their way into the ceremony. The band hired for the procession is pathetic, but that is not a problem as long as it keeps churning out one number after another to go with the alcohol. And plays it loud enough to make sure the entire town gets out on their balconies to witness the pandemonium. Or at least manages to draw the people up to their windows, like monkeys staring at some overzealous visitor at a zoo. Traffic is in complete chaos, with people honking their heads off, with little or no effect. In the midst of all such associated melodrama, with the band in front and the generator precariously perched atop a trolley behind him, sits the subdued groom on a ghodi, like a lamb being prepared for slaughter.

Welcome to the great Indian Wedding Tamasha, where no one gives a damn about the nuptials. Where people are more concerned about being regaled after the ceremony than the ceremony itself. Where women gather laden with layers of make-up mostly with the sole purpose of showing off their newly acquired jewellery and other related accessories. With necklaces covering them up to their bosoms, themselves barely visible under the sheer weight of all that gold, and the accompanying sari.  And rending the air heavy with shrill condescending cries at being successful in one such attempt at showing off, with little or no realisation of the fact that it is the fat, and not the gold, that makes them conspicuous.

Where children find themselves completely out of place, running about in the crowd to keep themselves occupied. Or being forced to kowtow to some distant relative whom they had never seen before, only to be smothered with kisses or tight hugs afterwards. And no, men don’t keep their basic instincts aside even for this special occasion, ogling at the ladies with the various layers of make-up, fully aware that someone else is staring at their own wives. Men don’t seem to mind that, instead foster such symbiosis for the mutual benefit of both.

The ceremony itself seems secondary, as if it were subsidiary to more important events like showing off, and dinner. The groom, invisible under that flora attached to his headgear, and the bride, barely so under all that gold and pallu, are hitched to each other. The pundit rants away the hymns dispassionately, like an IT guy doing his job – only for the money. And the free dinner, of course.

And no, none of the in-family antaksharis, to-be sisters-in-law running off with the groom’s footwear, and other such related activities, as depicted in ‘Vivaah’ or ‘Hum aapke hain kaun’, take place during an Indian wedding anymore. Or any of the other ceremonial formalities. After all, alcohol and food is all that matters. The first call for dinner, and everyone assembled, irrespective of age, or the amount of gold laden on them, rush towards the dining area, like victims of a disaster grappling with each other for their share of the relief. Men, women; the elderly, the young, or the children; everybody displays the same primordial barbarism.
And once the battle is won, people come out of the battlefield, bloodied with the chutney, but still wearing a smile and carrying the tray. The tray is almost impossible to see, with all that lies on it. As if all the food is somehow miraculously floating atop the palm of the victor.

Blessings for the couple give way for criticism of the food: how pathetic the food was, how they barely managed to eat anything, even when they are ready to burst as an after effect of that gluttony. And people start sizing up each other, and their financial status, depending on the size of their respective gifts. Gossip mongering ensues. How the groom looked like a buffoon. Or how the bride was not up to the groom’s family’s stature. How the dowry was ever so little. How the function was all a mess, and not worth attending- even when all they did throughout the ceremony was eat, drink, ogle or show off.

Wedding ceremonies no longer concern themselves with rituals and benediction anymore. It is how much you have spent on the function, and how much others have spent in order to come to the function, that matters.

Every “Pup” has his day: Being Captain-Australia

He has been enjoying a phenomenal run of form of late. Opponents are now coming to terms with the fact that he is a difficult enigma to crack. Scoring centuries with disdain, and multiple ones at that, against one and all, he is proving to be a far greater headache and ostensibly the centre of much greater attention in the team meetings of hapless opponents scurrying for cover; disproportionate to the attention he had been previously warranting owing to the otherwise star studded batting line up of the mighty Aussies.

Clarke, always seen and promoted as the natural replacement for Ponting once he decided to hang up his boots, has been a revelation of sorts ever since. He has been quick in establishing a reputation for brave and aggressive captaincy. As Ian Chappel correctly summed it up, “his entertaining approach is based on one premise: trying to win the match from the opening delivery. This should be the aim of all international captains, but sadly it isn’t. Going into the Chennai test with 4 pacers on what is apparently a rank turner, he seems to be backing his instincts, and is ready to own up for any mishap.

A string of centuries after being handed over the captaincy, and a Bradmanesque 2012 extending into 2013, he has come to redefining what leading from the front means. Becoming the first Australian to score a triple century since Matthew Hayden in 2003, he also now holds the record for the highest individual score at the SCG – a majestic 329* against the Indians, against whom he seems to have taken quite a fancy, following that mighty innings up with a double century at Adelaide. His test debut (against the Indians at Bangalore) ought to stand testimony to this, announcing his arrival on the big stage with a calculated and selectively aggressive 151, that drew comparisions with Mark Waugh.

Though the current Australian team seems somewhat short of experience, and is devoid of the many individual star performers that one had come to associate Australian cricket with, the rebuilding process under Clarke has been smoother than elsewhere in the world, say in India, where it has been very difficult and murky to say the least. The team seems one packed unit, backing each other up. Still seems quite formidable: of the last 15 test matches, they have lost only two. For a player who was quite unpopular until a few years back, and whose ascendancy to test captaincy was met with sceptical groans that reverberated throughout Australia, a country known for its fetish with captaincy, where captaincy is the ultimate symbol of manliness; Clarkey presents a case of a boy growing into a man.

The Indian think tank, meanwhile, still seems short of options and ideas when it comes to Clarke, who piled up on his stats against the Indians with yet another century in the first test of the on-going  Border-Gavaskar trophy, even when all others around him seemed clueless against some quality spin bowling. Let’s hope that he is not done yet, that in the next one month, and after that, he has got loads more to offer.

Marriage does seem to have had a ‘lucky charm’ effect on him. Quite an exception there, mate!

A Connected India

As I was going through my summer internship form (the one’s that they hand out at the college to be filled in and sent to the respective company/industry), I was struck with a peculiar thought: what if a friend of mine had decided against helping me out? What if he too, like me, was not well ‘connected’? I, being the son of a Government employee, had no chance of getting an opportunity like that if I were on my own, because no one in my family boasts of ‘contacts’ in high places. And if you are wondering, not many companies visited our campus for recruiting interns, so we were left with no other option than to hunt for contacts, and friends who were better ‘connected’ were helping out the lesser mortals.

Sort of a perpetual quandary for me: finding contacts as and when required. And I believe this to be the case with virtually the whole of the Indian population. Name a situation you are stuck in, and pat comes the obvious solution, contacts: a friend, friend of friend, uncle, chacha, mama, nanaji ke dost ka beta.. You don’t have any? Bah! Humbug!

Need to confirm reservation on the Rajdhani? Find someone in the railway department. What if that means denying someone more deserving? Let him be. After all, it’s his fault that he isn’t ‘connected’ enough. Need to have a driving license? Sure. Chachaji in the RTO will do that. After all, who is to brave the sun and wait in the damned queue to have one’s driving faculties tested when you can do so immersed in the comfort of your sofa?  Poor ordinary citizens! Made to go through all that so that they can be branded fit to drive? Ridiculous. ‘But an untrained driver poses a risk to others, and much so, to himself.’ ‘You really care about all that? SP sahib apne hi aadmi hain. Majal hai kisiki jo mujhe chuu sake!’

Need to have your passport without having to be harassed in the ubiquitous crowd at the Passport office? Sure. Uncle sambhaal lenge. Just mail him all the relevant documents and all. Don’t have all the documents? Not a problem, Uncle sambhaal lenge anyways. Birth certificate? Death certificate? Accommodation at a Government guest house in Mumbai? Beti ka admission? Bete ke lie naukri? Name it, and thou shalt have it. If you are ‘connected’, of course.

So much for social equality. Social Equality? Pooh! 

Such ‘contacts’ have been connecting India since aeons, and though I myself have been benefitted on this particular occasion (summer internship is a compulsory ingredient of our curriculum, you see), it is pretty sickening a scenario when you realize that someone deserving was left out of an opportunity just because he was not born ‘well’ enough, that he was not well connected. Due process goes for a toss, and a better connected person usurps something that was rightfully yours. Complain about it? “You are welcome. Contacts galore whichever door you knock on.”

Birth matters more than your talent. A well connected India has got a whole new tinge to it. So much for democracy, for social justice, for equality.

P.S. Talking about connected people?? Just consider the case of Shri Rahul Gandhi, Vice President of the INC, and supposedly, PM in waiting, for the simple reason that his mother is the most powerful person in the nation as of now, mightier than the current PM himself. So we are going to have someone as our Prime Minister just because he boasts of having a decorated surname.

The Curious Case of Gautam Gambhir

The axing of Gambhir prior to the highly anticipated and much important home series against the Aussies comes as a rude shock to many. For someone who was anointed the ‘second wall’ of Indian batting, many feel his omission was unceremonious and rather uncalled for.

The classy southpaw, who took forever to cement his place in the Indian Cricket team owing to the batting line up being packed by to-be legends, had come to being one of the mainstays of Indian batting over the past few years. He, along with Virender Sehwag, forged one of the most destructive opening pairs in world cricket, considered at par with Hayden-Gilchrist and Sachin and Sehwag himself. He was also ranked the No.1 test batsman in the ICC rankings, and was also named the test player of the year for 2009. He also boasts of holding the records for scoring 5 centuries in as many test matches, and of having scored most fifties plus runs in 11 consecutive matches, a record that he shares with Sir Viv. His career is also dotted with some memorable innings: his 93 against South Africa in 2011 with a swollen arm, his double century against the Aussies at Delhi, and the epic, match-saving 137 against New Zealand, batting for more than 5 sessions and facing some 430 deliveries.

Of late, however, he has seemed out of sorts. Critics had begun sounding his death knell. His famed technique seemed too fragile. Lack of feet movement, transferring his weight too early on the back foot leading to edging the ball- he has been dismissed caught behind or in the slips way too often. Others sentence him guilty of grappling for the ball unnecessarily and playing away from the body. And the fact that he has not scored a test century in the last 3 years does not really help, the lack of 100’s also reflects in his performance over the past three years: between February 2010 and November 2011, he managed only 704 runs at 29.66, one of the worst averages for openers around the world in the same time frame.

Still, the timing of the decision to sack him seems to baffle many. Over the past few months, though still devoid of centuries, he seemed to be getting back to his old ways: he managed 451 at 41.83 in the home series against the English. Not too bad when compared with a few others in the team who managed to retain their spot.

Was he made the punching bag who was held responsible for the home series loss against the English? Or was his rumoured rift with MS Dhoni the probable cause for his ouster? We’ll never know.

For a player of his calibre, it is a matter of only one or two innings, one good score and the confidence starts seeping in, the feet start moving better, the old flamboyance resurrected. Maybe he can utilize this time to introspect, relegate himself to the domestic circuit for a season or two, and get himself going, as Harbhajan Singh just did. Since one opening slot is now up for grabs, and very limited specialist opening options available for the selectors to pick and choose from, maybe he will be back in the fray sooner than expected, clamour for which has already started. Maybe he will still manage to have the last laugh.

Plight of a confused heart

His hands were fidgety, toying with the pen, turning it about the fingers as if it were a snake slithering around the bars of its enclosure..

His eyes possessed a vacant stare, unblinking, staring up at the ceiling, which was ignominiously teeming with cobwebs and a plethora of spiders crawling around, inverted, hunting in their traps with disdain, mating, fighting with a rather ogrish lizards as regards the ownership of a dead fly. But he was oblivious to such actualities, and seemed to be staring into the infinite, which supposedly held answers for him..

She had a subliminal effect on him, and he had known this for a fact that when in her presence, she seemed to exercise complete control over him. He felt powerless, overwhelmed by her presence. Rather, so as to speak, she owned him. His body melted. His heard capitulated. He, who had been alien to the aura of love, now found himself engulfed and gasping in its overpowering presence. He had no idea when he took a fancy for her. He never knew how to swim, but was still insistent on nose-diving into the deep waters, his covetous heart yearning for hers.

True, they had been friends for a pretty long time now. But it was only recently that he had come to terms with the fact that she meant much more to him, had established herself in an inextricable part of his heart. The nagging, persisting thought of the girl in the back of his mind..

He couldn’t entangle himself from its clutches, his brain showed symptoms of imploding..

Besotted, and almost always preoccupied in her thoughts, he had grown indifferent to the reality. Reality which contained in itself the probability that she might not reciprocate, that she never thought of him as anything more than a run-of-the-mill friend, that she fancied someone else..

Acknowledging these possibilities made his heart cringe..

His gaze had now dropped down to his right foot, with its intricate pattern of veins mapping out throughout in a leaf-like pattern, as if symbolising her presence in his life..

His bottom slid down the chair, and the rickety piece of wood creaked under the unexpected shift in mass, and he was thrown into his actual surroundings.

If only he could have an insight into her heart..

In the name of honor

Social diktats, religious fatwas or any such instruction for that matter that attempt to curb an individual’s natural right to life, should not have any place in a country like ours that brags about being the largest democracy in the world. But as is the case with many other malaises afflicting our nation, these not only make their present felt but affect us in ways unacceptable.

The system of Khaps is a perfect illustration of how deeply ingrained such malaises are in the realm of our everyday life. Boasting about social acceptance and reeking of a perverted mentality, a bunch of old patriarchally  inclined fools gather to ponder on ‘Moral Issues’ and issue dictatorial ordinances. This completely negates the essence of a democratic setup. As if their unconstitutional existence alone is not sufficient, they also mandate social boycott of those who refuse to toe their line.

Why in the name of Lord can two consenting adults not marry? As per the law, any two consenting adults can marry each other. But, in the name of protecting their clans from getting polluted and upholding their so called honour, people deciding to marry of their own volition are treated as castoffs, driven away or simply murdered in cold blood, their bodies badly mutilated and heads twisted at impossible angles.  Often, the positions that the Khap members take tend to border on the ridiculous. Somehow, Chow mein  is responsible for the spurt in the number of rape cases across the country. Or, that mobile phones are responsible for the increase in social contact between men and women, and by banning the use of mobile phones by women will somehow miraculously help in reducing the cases of rape. Might as well seize the phones of men in such a scenario, for there will be no one to talk to.

Similar is the saga of religious clerics and grand muftis issuing fatwas against seemingly innocuous activities, like a group of girls who decide to form their own band. Reason: Their religion does not permit such activities. Even outrageous is the fact that a section of the public, who took offence to the girls’ musical faculties, started hurling abuses at them and issuing threats flagrantly on various social media. The unabashed way in which the perpetrators go about their business provides a more than obvious insight into the basis of their assumed impunity: cordial relations with the powers-that-be. And sometimes, a political nincompoop with an archaic mind set comes out to validate such balderdash- apparently, rapes have got more to do with the length of a skirt than the lust of a lurking monster, and hence such ‘inappropriate clothing’ should be done away with.

Liberty is an insurmountable requisite for life, and no one should have the authority to overrule this fundamental tenet. For liberty is not a right that can be denied, it is a way of life.