A Bengali Man's Guide to a Punjabi Wedding

My good friend D. just got married. Heres wishing the brand new couple all the cookies, biscuits and munchies. The news is that I was fortunate enough to have been able to occupy the much venerated position of awkwardly-dressed-gawking-friend at the ceremony. Also, despite my frugal social skills, I did manage to have a whale of a time. All in all, just the thing what the doctor would order.

Reading of my favourable review of the whole racket, my markedly scant readership must be wishing to be a part of a similar cermony so as to make themselves available for the above mentioned whale of a time. I however feel compelled to warn one and all that it is not all that rosy and pink. The punjabi marriage is one fraught with nuances and if one does not keep one's eye's skinned for them, they tend to hit one's face with the intensity of a voluminous, cold, dead fish bunged by an extremist vegetarian. I have therefore garnered a few salient points which will keep the hapless, boring bengali like me in good stead and well prepared for the exigencies that inevitably ensue during the punjabi marriage.

It is Fun : Punjabi weddings are just like the bengali weddings in most ways. It is full of the normal stuff -- the bewildered bridegroom, the coy bride, incoherent sanskrit mantras, the general confusion and the bad clothes. There however exists a profound difference -- the punjabi wedding, in sharp contradistinction to the bengali wedding, is rip-roaring fun. The individual habituated to the bland bengali wedding is warned in advance -- Please do not expect the moribund, machiavellean mukherjii marriage. Be prepared to have some serious fun and one is urged not to feel too guilty or alarmed about it.

Dancing : There will be dancing -- and certainly not in dollops. There will be dancing in large, generous, kingsize portions. Dancing, for me always has been that activity which involves the vigorous shaking of the head to some obscenely loud Deep Purple number. The head may also be repeatedly banged against an object whose hardness is determined by the degree of inebriation. The variety of dancing in question however, is a totally different glass of lassi. The bhangra is more of a rhythmic flailing of hands and knees to some extremely similar sounding songs. Rhythmic movement on my part however has always been an impossible task. Like left-legged souls are therefore warned to steer clear from these immense dancing arenas lest they be dragged in by some extremely enthusiastic individual and subjected to the ignominy of awkwardly jerking one's legs amidst a collection of smooth, silk-shirted bhangra experts. The next logical question that would naturally spring to the mind of the astute two-left-legged individual would be "Where are these immense dancing arenas ?" So, here is the helpful answer: Be very wary of the carpeted areas. Also, if there is a part of the floor which has multicoloured rectangles which abruptly illuminate themselves at regular intervals, that is the part of the planet which is to be treated with extreme caution. The larger problem however is that the action is not confined to these areas themselves. They are just epicentres. It spreads. Therefore, simply zeroing in on one stationary location is utter foolhardiness. Any standard text book on bhangra avoidance would always suggest one to be dynamic, observant and agile. One is urged to keep a very close eye on the mass movement of the dancers and frequently shift base, pretending to have something rather important to execute at any spot where no dancers are present. Language Tip: For some reason, the bhangra is not danced (nachna) it is poured (dalna). Do not say "Woh bhangra nach raha hai !" (He is dancing the bhangra). Always say "Woh bhangra dal raha hai !" (He is pouring the bhangra). If you are in a position where you are about to say "Mein bhangra nach raha hu." ( I am dancing the bhangra ) and you are as talented as I am in the bhangra department, you might as well go and say it, since you have already embarrassed yourself.

The Horse: Somewhere during the proceedings, a white horse shall make an appearance. Even though one will have been crazed by the surfeit of vegetarian food, one is very very strongly urged not to rub one's hands in glee at the hope of some meat on the table. The horse is not for eating. The poor animal, dressed like Kareena Kapoor will be the beast of burden which shall carry the bridegroom into the land where leaving a wet towel on the bed is punishable by death and drinking binges and good food do not exist. To add insult to injury, all and sundry shall cruelly mock the poor bloke by gleefully dancing ( See above ) in front of the very horse while the victim haplessly observes from atop it. I too in my sadistic nature, threw caution to the wind and showcased a few of my personal steps for the benefit of my friend, but was hastily stopped from displaying any more since I was scaring the poor horse. In review, one is advised not to scare, or eat the horse.

Language Tip: The horse in question is a mare and not a stallion. So do not say "Ghoda aa raha hai" ( The stallion is coming ). Instead, say "Ghodi aa rahi hai" ( The mare is coming ). For some strange unexplained reason, "Ghodi aa raha hai" is also not very well received.

Tags: culture, bengali, punjabi, weddings, bhangra

I reiterate about valentine's day as to what I said about the blighted occasion last year. I am a man of unwavering principles !

A Traumatic Experience

The good news is that I do not have stones in my bladder or kidneys. The bad news is that I had to go through two of those ultrasound-scan thingies to make sure. The memories of the ordeal are still fresh in my mind although it happened yesterday. The stout hearted may opine with scorn at my marked pusillanimity, but one must trust me that this whole business of having one's innards judged by this ultrasound contraption is not one to be anticipated with relish. If one had a wide-ranging bouquet of emotions to pick from before the whole exercise, my personal recommendation would be a single Silent Trepidation.

Most painful procedures (like eating at in Bangalorean restaurants or talking to Hutch customer care) are preceded by a protracted waiting period, which by no means is more wholesome than the subsequent gory proceedings. This rule, regrettably holds true for ultrasonography too. The waiting business however has never fazed me. I have been in queues of different flavours and have (in all modesty) performed rather well in all of them. I had once been in the queue for tickets at a movie theatre, vying for the tickets for a cinematic abomination called Barsaat. Due to my unbridled enthusiasm and my go-getter attitude in the field of movie-ticket procurement, the friendly neighbourhood policeman who had been appointed to keep the peace in the area was forced to draw the conclusion that beaning me with a stout stick was the only way the peace could be kept. He then had proceeded to bean me. Still too, I had managed to get tickets and even did tolerate a quarter of the whole movie. Using this pointless anecdote, I intend to impress upon the reader that when it comes to queues and waiting, I do not cower and I do not quail. The sad truth however is that during the wait for my ultrasonography, I did both in rather generous portions.

Let me put forth the points. The biggest problem in queing for a ultrasonographic scan is the competition. The other members of the waiting party are all expectant mothers, and walking into the waiting room is very much akin a sudden, uninvited appearance at a rather sombre slumber party. As soon as one trickles into the scene, the assembled gaggle unleash a barrage of glowers at one. These glowers then proceed to intensify in malevolence with the passage of time. I am sure that there is some warning on the wall outside which attempts to outline this particular peril to the unknowing man, and I in my customary pig headedness, missed it. If I have would have known that I would be at the receiving end of such persistent looks of disapproval from such a formidable assembly of pregnant women, I would have taken the easier way out by braving those pleasant little kidney stones. It is not that I have not been at the undesirable end of a look of disapproval before. It is an established fact that women hate ugly, balding men and I do fit the ugly, balding profile to a tee. This combination of alopecia and lack of visual appeal on my part has led to many a disapproving glance and I have handled them with aplomb. This phenomenon however was brand new -- whereas one has had to brave one withering look at a time, this was more of a concentrated community effort -- A sort of democratic movement to wither one's soul. I therefore, respecting the popular sentiment, dutifully folded. I started with some quailing and followed it up with some serious cowering.

The above mentioned community driven brow beating exercise however is not the only blood curdling detail to the wait. The second part to it is as weighty as the first, if not heavier. The secret to a respectable standing in the ultrasonography world is the fullness of the bladder. That sadly is true. One might be brimming with sterling qualities, but if one does not happen to have a bladder with the precise degree of fullness, one's name sadly is mud. The path to a full bladder however is not an easy one. The whole process involves the imbibing of indecently huge amounts of water and then gritting one's teeth through the subsequent effects. As an additional test of character, the waiting hall is always adorned with roughly seventeen signs pointing to the numerous restrooms in the vicinty. One must trust me when I say that it is not one of the most enviable situations to be in.

When one has survived the waiting period, the actual process might begin. The actual act is rather benign compared to the hellish aura which precedes it -- It involves the plonking of cold jelly and some severe prodding of various parts of the anatomy with a cold metallic thingy, on the part of a sombre gentleman. The problem with the above mentioned prodding is that the prodder is not really interested in what he is prodding at. The merry individual absentmindedly gives one a poke or two at regular intervals, while gazing into a screen which throws up strange fuzzy images. I do not blame the poor man. If I was in his place, I too would not have liked to look at me. I too would pretend to be interested in the soap opera on that malfunctioning television. The only problem however, was that I was not in his place. I sadly (as I have been all my life), was in my place. Occupying the status of the irritating commercial break which interrupts the airing of a rather gripping hazy fog is not exactly one of the most desirable situations one hopes for. When the credits for the hazy fog (equally hazy), finally started showing, the couch potato turned to me and said in a voice full of scorn -- "Your bladder is not full enough. Please come again tomorrow when you are aptly prepared !" Although tears were in order, I gave the man a stoic, wan smile and walked away. I just had been subjected to yet another new form of rejection.

Tags: ultrasonography, humour

A Bad Poem ( with Hyperlinks! )

For some time now this blog has been quiet.
This bad poem ( hopefully ) will set it right.

"Has Bald Monkey had it ?" they say.
"No more verbal diarrohea coming this way ?"

Something's amiss -- they can surely tell.
"For days now he hasn't fought over the GPL !!"

"We know for real. The man is wasting away...
He has reloaded Slashdot only thrice today.."

They think that tis' a brain failure thats taken me aback.
The truth is more serious -- It's like a DoS attack !!

In some strange web my source code is ensnared.
All my quicksorts are going O(n²) !

It is strange. It does not make sense.
My kobject has an unexplained reference.

I however have with me the healing power of caffeine !
A few sleepless nights and back I'll be, where I have been.

Tags: humour, Linux, geekdom, bad poetry

The Bar Episode aka Thats a First !

The Legends of Rock in Koramangala is the bar I afflict on Fridays or Saturdays. The watering hole dishes out loud, tasty, retro-rock with unfailing sincerity. Also, if one can wave and holler vigorously enough, one might even coax those merry souls to dish out a few drinks. This post however, is not about those things and neither is it about the fact that despite my repeated requests, the DJ has simply refused to play Janis Joplin. It is about things uncannier.

In circles wide and narrow, I have been known for the paucity of beans, but sang-froid I am known for. Unfazed is the state in which people would find me generally. I however will not unship falsehoods unto the unaware world. What happened yesterday did leave me with the Puzzled Gape. There have been episodes when I have got outside a whole plate of chicken tikka before the whisky could even say hello to the soda. I have, many a time, polished off the whole fried pomfret ere the cola could exchange common courtesies with the rum. These things regrettably do happen and I, to a large extent, condone it. What did happen, however cannot be condoned.

So there I was with M., assiduously unwinding, trying to shake off the lethargy of a slothful week, watching Black Sabbath on the large plasma screen, who armed with an uncharacteristically young Ozzy Osbourne were belting out Paranoid. In the meanwhile, after a lot gesticulating, M. had managed to engage the flitting attention of the waiter and proceeded to order masala peanuts and a pitcher of beer. All was right, correct and pretty with the world.

Then, it happened -- The waiter arrived with the masala peanuts. Follow me very closely here. Only the masala peanuts ! The beer was not be seen anywhere in the vicinity ! I have guzzled kegs of beer in patient waiting for masala peanuts, but this particular situation was unprecedented. It was the reversal of a complete world order. One needs the peanuts with the beer, not the beer with the peanuts. I was all masala peanuts and no beer ! I have had my share of trying experiences, and during those trying experiences, I might have faltered and I might have lost it, but the world around me always has remained rock-steady. This time however, I could see the whole world gently spinning before my eyes. This singular, conspicious lack of beer with such an abundance of masala peanuts really got me. It was Unexplicable. It was Unprecendented. There was nothing else to do. I proceeded with the Puzzled Gape.

Tags: drinking, Bangalore, Koramangala, humour, The Legends of Rock

Final Episodes

D. is getting married. Somewhere in the first week of February. I am not aware of the exact date. D. never was very good with exact dates. The man possesses the dubious tendency of communicating approximate dates. He once did that with the arrival time of his flight and as a result, drove my habitually nervous father to report him as a missing person to the police. The details are not relevant. For that fact, the astute reader will also discern that this post and this whole blog in general is not exactly dripping relevance. At the end of the day however, hardly anything drips it. The point is that those details are not relevant to this irrelevant post. The bigger point is that D. is getting married.

There is an aura of finality around the whole occasion. D. was the last standing symbol for an era gone by. An era of dirty socks, frustration with the system, drinking binges, aimless wandering, amusing boredom, undying faith in the power of kulfi-falooda, laughing with the rain, late night football matches, the unending search for the perfect tandoori chicken, and possibilities. Those days will now be finally packed and unceremoniously consigned to the recesses of a few rebukes from G. and the dusty corners of some rarely narrated anectodes.

Henceforth, D. and I will probably meet once every few years and update each other of the disappointments which inevitably accompany the arrival of the desired. Apart from that, D. will follow his determined path and I mine. Such is time.

Tags: nostalgia, India, falooda

The Cellphone Dilemma

The sad news the grapevine unships is that cell phones are not what the doctor ordered for the general sharpening of the brain. Fellow humans have had an inkling for some time now, but now it is nearly official ! So, this is the gist of the hot stuff -- Cell phones tend to fuddle up that grey stuff. Post-cell-phone-conversation, the addled victim does not remember large parts of the conversation. That does not bother me. It generally happens to me very frequently when I am talking G., irrespective of cellphones. What bothers me however, is that one of the additional side-effects is that one cannot find one's way to the refrigerator and the munchies. That is rather alarming I am afraid.

Leaving my petty concerns aside, let us delve into the greater implications. These pathbreaking discoveries might ultimately answer a few burning questions. I finally have a semblance of an explanation for the density of the fellow human being attempting to navigate his car with two legs while his right hand holds the phone and his left gesticulates, explaining the finer points of his repartee. I now realise that it is not his fault. It sadly is a condition. The cellphone has pickled the poor man's upper quarters. As his condition aggravates, he will be seen doing the same on a motorcycle. Cellphone-cuckoo fills a human with the conviction that it is physically possible for a wall, a car, a motorcycle rider and a cellphone user to exist at the same point of space at the same point of time. He eventually will put his conviction to test.

The problem is that the moment you have put the cellphone to your ear, you are doomed. You have instantly started hurtling down a recursive abyss of stupidity. What else otherwise could explain Shahrukh Khan and Kareena Kapoor endorsing Airtel, and yet, the general populace is still offering them their custom and the shop is roping in the doubloons like there is no tomorrow. I was always rather puzzled by this widespread bad taste. Now I know. It is those cell phones at work.

It might also shed some light on the odious match fixing scandal which had made a blotched appearance some time back. Ajay Jadeja would make numerous calls to a particular fan of his ( from his cellphone of course ) during cricket matches. The reason he would do so was that he did not want this fan to call his cellphone and disturb him. The poor fellow was also oblivious of the fact that this fan of his, was quite the captain of the cricket betting industry. We all mistook his yarn and disallowed him for all the boy scout camps. None suspected the cellphone-cuckoo. Had these precious findings been available then, Ajay Jadeja would probably be the captain of the cricket team by now. A promising career beaned by a bulky cellphone I would say. ( Cellphones were bulky at that time. )

My erudite friend AK. however, has had the facts under his wings for some time now. He had chanced upon the knowledge that cellphones spout death rays like there is no tomorrow rather early in his life. Pre-enlightenment, he would sport his nifty nokia in a waist holster. Rather hip. Then somebody unleashed the sad tidings unto him that those death rays just did not soup up the brains, they are equally effective on other parts of the anatomy too. As is the fact with nearly all men, he did value his waist and adjoining areas like no other. He promptly moved his cellphone to the breast pocket of his shirt. The problem now is proximity to the heart. I did flash him the news that a phone in the shirt pocket is not wholesome for the aortas and the tricuspid valves too, and he came back with a nonchalant que sera sera. He is a shining example of a man who puts his waist before his heart I presume. I however, in my benevolent nature, worry for the man a bit. As he has made a priority to keep his waist ready for action, I am concerned that his heart might just fail in action.

Tags: cellphones, driving, observations