Tag: Family

Posted in Random Thoughts

Family that sneezes together

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

If you go looking for the meaning of the word “Joint Family”, you will probably find phrases like, a group of blood-related families that live together 🏠, eat together 🥘 and pray together 🙏. But trust me, a joint family is the one that sneezes together 🤧.

India has an abundance of joint families and not nearly big enough houses.

Even if the house is big enough, no one is content to stay in their portion. They must all converge in one or the other rooms and share gossip 🗨️. The fact that they eat together is not enough. They often have stuff 🔨 strewn 🔧 around 🥻 the 👕 house–with so much of borrowing that just one cellophane tape can do several complete circles of the house, visiting every room on its way, before the actual owner goes and buys another 💵, rather than trying to track 🐾 it down.

And then, there are the kids 👧👦. They are everywhere ⛹️, playing in every room 🤸, strewing their stuff ⚽ in everyone’s 🎾 space 🥍with precise division ⚾, so no one feels left out. They run around the floor 🤾 without shoes and jump on every bed 🛏️.

At night, there is no space 🥎 big ⚽ enough 🏐 where 🏓 you 🏀 wouldn’t 🏈 step ⚾ on a toy 🏉 that doesn’t belong to your own child. So one careless nightly trip from bedroom to bathroom can make you owe all the kids in the house a new toy each.

If you are brave enough to piggyback one, there is an entire line waiting for their turn, regardless of the age and weight.

And when one nose runs…

You can’t keep them away from each other. They will find an excuse to break all the rules you set out about quarantine, go meet their sick cousin and kiss him on the cheek to comfort him. And then you will have your hands full with a whole bunch of kids, all down with fever at the same time. All the while, all the elders will be down with fever too, because who can resist kissing a child who is unwell? Especially if he has walked in every room telling everyone he is unwell and sneezing as a proof.

So, if a joint family is really joint, it is the one that sneezes together.

I would know. I live in just such a family who is sneezing together at the moment. And I wouldn’t trade it for all the gold in the world! 😊

Posted in Love

The Face in the Mirror

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

I touch the bedroom mirror groggily, more out of habit than hope. Suddenly, the mirror lights up green with magic, and I can see him. Across the open door of his bathroom, I see him sitting on a couch, reading a book. Which one is it this time—The Edge of Physics? Cosmos? I sigh! But then, I return to my senses and start shouting at him to get his attention. Nothing! Quickly, I turn to my right and grab the placard with my phone number that has been sitting on my bedside table for two months now and turn back to face the mirror again.

All I see is myself reflecting back in the mirror. The connection is already broken. Again…

All I want, all I hope for, all I desire in life has shrunk down into that mirror and that man who doesn’t know I exist.

I really shouldn’t have cooked that dumb cake! Why would anyone want to see their soulmate if they would still have to wait for them anyway? It is so painful to see the man destined to marry me one day go on with his life like I don’t exist.

Cooking a dumb cake on Halloween night is an ancient practice. It was also my last attempt to find my soulmate. With all the potential suitors hiding in the plain sight, it is too difficult to find a male witch now a days. It’s not that we are hiding because people might burn us at stake. It’s just that magic and witches are obsolete. Nobody needs our magical services when weather apps predict weather, daily horoscope apps tell the future, social media finds people, banks hold all the existing treasures, old recordings help commemorate dead people and fertility clinics are go‑to places for begetting children.

Technology has thrown us out of our conventional jobs. Hence, we have reinvented ourselves. Witches now use their superior intellect to secure higher education and obscene amount of salary. But we have to hide the reason for our abnormal level of talent, lest people accuse us of cheating, like sportspersons on drugs.

But because of all the hiding, our chances of meeting another witch are rather dim. Every single male witch I know is already either engaged or married to a prettier witch, while I, being a plain and nerdy scientist, am still single at the age of thirty-five. My family had set me up on dates with several men they know through family connections, but all of them seemed more interested in women with long legs and miniskirts than a woman with brains and an opinion. After I had run through what felt like all the eligible bachelors known to them, my family members stopped badgering me about my non‑existent love life.

But it is becoming difficult to attend family dinners—my brother and cousins bring their spouses and children. You’d think it would be crowded, but my heart never felt so empty before. All I need, if nothing else, is a hope that there is someone for me in the future.

Knowing this, my bestie and flatmate, Bree, keeps throwing around names of eligible bachelors,

“Why don’t you come with me to the party? There is this guy called Hans you would love to meet. He is an engineer.”

“Did you see the hot guy on the fifth floor? He’s a chef!”

“You know, Henry, our new neighbour? He was asking about you—saw you in one of my Facetime pics… Should I tell him you live right next door?”

My first response to all her suggestions is, “Is he a witch?”

I don’t mind marrying a regular guy, but honestly, will a regular guy want to marry a witch? And they will find out soon enough—we may have shunned magic, but magic hasn’t shunned us. We have magic of nature, and it runs in our veins with our blood, making them green. Closer to our heart, we are too green to ignore. We hide it with turtlenecks and dresses with sleeves. The only person outside my family who knows my secret is Bree because I wear tank tops at night.

I’m not ashamed of my colouring. But if a guy sees it, he will take flight. My bestie feels people don’t care anymore but I don’t want the issue to come up later, once I am in too deep.

So, rather than taking a 10 percent chance with a non‑magical person, I resorted to a dumb cake, which was a sure shot in finding a future husband. It is a family tradition that my great‑grandmother had used to meet my great‑grandfather for the first time, just like her mother and grandmother before her.

If a non‑magical woman makes a dumb cake, she dreams about her spouse, but she can’t speak to him. To make the Halloween magic strong enough to make contact at that moment, you require a certain amount of magic yourself—something that witches possess and practice. It felt like a really dumb idea at first but, with nothing to lose, I decided to take the drastic measure.

Well, it wasn’t really drastic, just desperate…

What’s the worst that could happen? Nothing. With no practice in magic whatsoever, there were pretty high chances of me seeing nothing. So, I reminded myself not to put any hopes on a cake even though I was giving it a shot.

On All Hallows eve, when Bree went to the Halloween party in the society’s club house, I cooked the dumb cake. She wanted me to come to meet Henry, but I lied about a headache. She left looking suspicious as if I was hiding a boyfriend in my closet. I wish!

The basic instruction of making a dumb cake is that I must work in complete silence standing on something no one ever stood on before. Well, I am no baking pro, so I asked Alexa for step‑by‑step instructions. As it droned in the background, I worked in complete silence while standing on something no one had ever stood on—my brand new, super‑pricey sofa. As I wobbled in the softness, I was scared I would burn holes in the material. I ground the flour, prepared the batter, shaped the cake, pricked my initials on the top and put it inside my microwave oven. Ideally, it should have been a fireplace instead. But, like witches, fireplaces are obsolete too.

Once the cake was ready, I pulled it out of the oven, trying to balance myself on the sofa. As I continued wobbling, it occurred to me that I could have simply bought a new rug to stand on instead. Stupid me! Then, I took a single bite from the cake, tried to chew it (a painful process) and walked backwards to my room, slid the rest of the cake under my bedding and tried to sleep on the now lumpy bed.

After this whole exercise, a regular girl would dream of her future spouse. She wouldn’t be able to communicate with him though. So, she would still have to wait until this certain person would meet her. Being a witch, my situation could be better. In theory, when I would rise from my bed at midnight, touch the mirror closest to me and chant the magic words, I should seen my future spouse who, of course, would be a male witch. Because who else would want to marry a witch? Then, I would leave a message with him. In theory, at least…

In practice, most witches waking at midnight are so confused that they can barely concentrate on the mirror, let alone remember the magic words to create the highly advanced magic for leaving a message for an unknown entity whose whereabouts are also unknown. With no practice in magic, I knew I was doomed from the moment I started.

So, I woke up at midnight (Phone Alarm), and walked to my bedside mirror, touched it and incantated the magic words (Google Notes). For a minute, nothing happened. So, I tried again, and yet again, willing to reach someone, anyone…

I never realised until that moment how much I wanted this whole thing to work; to have a chance at love just once in my life.

Suddenly, the screen lit up with a green light and there he was, standing in front of the mirror, looking dishevelled, like he had just returned from a party. His eyes were wide in surprise, and I think mine must be too. I fidgeted in my old tank top and shorts, knowing they weren’t really appropriate for the first meeting. I should probably have worn something fancier. Also, I should say something so he would know why we were here but before I could recover, the connection broke and the mirror started reflecting me again.

He was gone, taking with him my only chance at love. He probably mistook me for a trick of light, an alcohol‑induced hallucination or a ghost. But I knew I had seen a ghost—one that would haunt me for the rest of my life. After seeing him, knowing he was meant to be mine someday, I would never be able to love another. Because love it was—at first sight.

He wasn’t exactly handsome, but he had an intelligent and likable face—someone you could strike a conversation with on the subway and exchange numbers with, just to stay in contact. He was a little chubby and he wasn’t hiding six‑pack abs under his shirt for sure, but the crow’s feet around his brown eyes showed his love for laughter. There were marks on his nose where his glasses must have rested on his face, and his cheeks and chin had a one‑day stubble. He was real. And now that I had seen him, I could not un‑see him.

Anxious, I touched the mirror, and it lit up again. But he wasn’t there anymore. I wasn’t sure if my voice will go through, but I gave it a try anyway. “Hello! Anyone there? Hellooooo!” But nothing stirred on his side. I tried several times, but with each subsequent try, I felt increasingly more stupid—because every time I said those words, Alexa asked me what I needed, while rephrasing the question in a different way every time.

When I started feeling like an utter moron, I looked in the room, trying to get a clue regarding his whereabouts. He could be anywhere in the world. I realised I was looking inside his bathroom. The door to the next room was open and its lightest yellow wall was eerily like mine. From what I could see through the opening, the wall on the other side was adorned with a huge wooden shelf decorated with cute little things and sections of it were overflowing with books. Beneath it, a couple of comfortable couches sat behind a small coffee table. The room was meant for quite comfort in books and company.

I looked for something that would clue me in regarding his country. The decoration was regular stuff providing no clue. The lighting seemed low and artificial. And he had looked sleepy, so it was probably night where he was too. So, around the same longitude. Good! That left around one billion people to search from!

Running out of ideas, I wrote my phone number on a huge placard in an overly large handwriting and placed it in front of the screen, hoping he would read it when he returns to the mirror. At that moment, the light in the mirror dimmed and started reflecting me again.

After that, I tried many times, but the screen didn’t light up. I had a restless night, leading to a restless day.

The next few days, Bree kept talking about the Halloween party I had missed, bringing up different guys over and over, “You missed a blast, you know. And there was this very handsome guy who was dressed as a vampire. His canine teeth were so real! By the way, are vampires real?”

“You should have seen Henry’s face when he realised you weren’t coming. He didn’t even dance or drink. In fact, he left before the midnight blast. I really wanted to tell him that he could find you next door!”

“The party anchor was pretty brainy, and he seemed interested in beauty with brains too. Do you want me to set up a ‘chance meeting’ with him?”

But I was only half listening, my mind still on the face in the mirror.

For the coming weeks, I kept touching the mirror every now and then but only succeeded a few times. Once, he was touching the mirror too, looking lost, and twice, he was just fixing his tie. Once, he had looked into the screen with an intensity that gave me hope that he was looking at me. And during these few seconds of contact, I was surprised and unprepared, and before I could gather my wits and try sharing my contact number, the connection broke.

And then, a couple of times, I saw him sitting on his couch reading something. He read The Universe in a Nutshell with a smile that wanted me to tell him that it was my favourite book too. Looking closely, his shelf also had The Theory of Everything and loads of other books about science and stars…

They say you can judge a man by the book he reads. A man who seeks quiet comfort in stars and science on a Saturday is a match made in heaven for me. I can see us sharing books one day or sitting on those couches discussing them or even just sitting together over coffee…

The thought of the future comforts me. I just stand there looking at him, willing him to see me, waiting for him to acknowledge that I exist. But I can never make a contact.

When I finally spoke to my mother about it, needing advice for the first time ever since I moved out, I was sure she would be thrilled that I finally found the man I would love for the rest of my life. But all she said was, “Dumb cake? Well, you probably saw a neighbour.”

“What?”

“When the magic isn’t strong enough and you are desperate to see someone, you end up seeing a neighbour. I once saw Mrs. Briggs flossing her teeth; and on another occasion, Father Mathews washing his hands; and once I even saw somebody’s cat swatting at her reflection in the mirror.”

I hung up feeling crushed. Why would my mother not believe me. I had finally fallen in love, and all my mother had to say is that it is not my soulmate but a clueless neighbour! While I was never a people watcher anyway, I am actively avoiding looking around at my neighbours now, afraid I would see him and know that my mother was right.

Once, Bree cornered me, “Henry was asking about you again. At least let me give him your number…”

She has been talking about this guy non-stop for the past few days. I nearly blurt out to go date him herself. But deep down inside, I know I am being unkind and unreasonable because I am itching to go back to the mirror. “I’m not interested.”

“Look, he doesn’t care if you are a witch.”

“And how would you know that?”

“I told him because I know it is the only thing holding you back. He said he didn’t care as long as you would have him.” Well, at least she is looking properly ashamed.

“He will care once he sees me in a V-neck dress. It is not easy to accept the alienness of our colouring.”

“Is that the only reason here? You have been acting a little odd lately—too lost and too quiet. Is there something you are not telling me?”

Not sure how much I can tell her, I decide on a half‑truth, “I’m seeing someone, but it is too early to talk about it.” It is technically true, but my conscience pricks me. It is as much a lie as anything else. But it makes her happy.

“Is he someone from work? When can I meet him? At least show me a picture.”

“As I said, it is too early to talk about it. But once I am ready, I promise you’ll be the first one to know.”

In the coming month, I wouldn’t go out except for work. And when I do go out, I am not paying attention. I just itch to go back to my mirror. Mom and Dad even tried a locator spell, but the locater kept coming back to our building confirming my mother’s theory. Or maybe, their magic is not strong enough too. At least that is what I am rooting for…

Noticing my absent‑mindedness, my manager has reminded me a couple of times that I have to up my game at work. But I am too obsessed to concede defeat. My life had come to a standstill the day I fell in love with that man who still doesn’t know I exist.

It is weekend and I am home yet again, touching the mirror at regular intervals. Bree is out, trying to give me space, thinking I have a boyfriend I am chatting with. Suddenly, she sends me a text, “I just had a really weird chat. Help me make sense.” There is a screenshot of the conversation.

Henry: Hey! We need to speak.

Bestie: For the nth time, she is seeing someone!

Henry: I know. Can you just tell her that, sometimes, I see her in the mirror too?

Mom was right! I had seen my next‑door neighbour! It was all just an accident! He is not my true love or spouse, just a clueless neighbour.

We were not fated to be together…

All my hopes and dreams had been for nothing…

My mind is reeling. I had been holding on that last straw so tightly that now I am drowning with it. Someone is squeezing my chest! It is difficult to breathe…

I need air…

I walk dazedly out of the door and down the building corridor. Tears are blinding me. I can’t see the next door open and slam into someone’s chest.

“Hey, are you alright?” A familiar face gazes at me with concern; his expressions quickly turning into recognition and then delight. “It’s you! Bree just told me where to find you!”

I am both too glad and too sad to find him. While my skin still tingles where I slammed into him, I know it is just stupid, misdirected magic. “Henry…Uh…You are Henry, right? I need to apologize. I had cooked a Halloween cake, you know, to see my future spouse in the mirror…and something went wrong. We are not fated together,” I finish lamely.

There is a stunned silence at his end while he processes what he heard. When I am sure he would turn around and walk away from my life, he just smiles, “And how would you know that until you give us a chance?”

His eyes are understanding, but they also hold something close to adoration. I’m speechless. “At least, let me take you out on a couple of dates before you reject me?” He smiles and his eyes crinkle the way I love.

He still wants to go out with me, and I have to turn him down, “I’m a witch.”

“I know. Saw your green skin in the mirror the first time. It looks cool on you. Can you turn me into a frog?”

“What? No!” I choke out, horrified that he would think so.

“Good. In that case, are you free for dinner tonight?” He gives me a sunny smile and hope returns to the world.

Author’s note: This story comes from my new short stories collection, The Bracelet and other short stories (available for free on the Free Books page: https://fishinthetrees.home.blog/free-books/)

Picture credits: Photo by Julia on Unsplash

Posted in Random Thoughts

I do: The Indian Way (Part 3)

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Author’s note: Pun intended

If you are intending to go through the madness, I would say, do it thoroughly: Visit the first two parts I do: The Indian Way (Part 1) and I do: The Indian Way (Part 2). It will help you understand the whole song and dance sequence that ensued before we reached this point in an Indian “arranged marriage” where everyone knows everything about the “boy” and the “girl” except the boy and the girl themselves. For the unversed, “arranged marriage” is a complex process to simplify the process of finding a man for every girl and a girl for every man” ((henceforth incorrectly called “the boy” though he is probably in his late twenties or early thirties).

In the previous two posts, we have already covered the first twelve steps of the process.

The boy and the girl are now engaged and are totally unaware of each other, except that their relationship is now official. Infact, if the event wasn’t photographed, you could swap the girl with a cousin and the boy will probably not notice because they met only for 10 minutes, and she was wearing so much make up, he can’t tell her from Lady Gaga. The girl would also not notice swapping the boy because, in all probability, she never saw his face—she was supposed to behave shy and look at her feet all the time.

The family is beside itself with sheer relief that the “whole thing was finally done”—a mistaken belief that is soon broken by the grandmother’s proclamation that they must perform the marriage within three months. “You must not keep a marriage waiting, else something will go wrong!” By ‘something’, she obviously means that the boy will find out about the girl’s motorbiking aspirations and her lack of culinary skills! So, the madness begins afresh.

Step 13: Pandit ji’s approval again

The father, brother and everybody else interested runs to Pandit ji (the priest) and requests him to check the star-chart and decide a date that is within the next three months. 7 times out of 10, there is none. So, they ask him to look more carefully—there has to be something! Rather reluctantly, he then quotes a couple of dates when marriage is possible. The time, for some reason, is always at some ungodly hour of night (or early morning if it is after 3.30 am).

The date is shared with the middleman, who then shares it with the boy’s family. They had been through the same scenario with their own grandmother and had been consulting their own Pandit ji, who had given three totally different dates instead.

To-and-fro ensues between the two parties, both pulling to make sure their own Pandit ji wins. Eventually the boy’s party wins because they are the ladkewala (boy’s party) and cannot be reasoned with.

Author’s note: Unbeknown to the parties, the difference in the number of dates provided to them is due to the availability of the two Pandit jis on the said dates.

You see, the astrological arrangements (which most of us don’t understand) are such that there are only 7-8 auspicious dates every month. Now, you can’t get married in December or January because it is too cold and women have to wear sweaters, unable to show-off the embroidery on their dresses. You can’t get married from April till September because it is too hot and the make-up becomes runny and clothes sweaty. Apparently, there is no water-proof make-up invented yet that can deal with the Indian summer.

So, if a family ever daringly ventures into a marriage in the other inhospitable months, it is forever remembered as a family with bad choices, bad living arrangements, not enough ACs, coolers and water geysers, thoughtless of other people’s inconvenience, supplier of hot drinking water in summers/cold bathing water in winters and, in general, harbinger of bad news. It is a reputation the family is never able to live down and is looked upon suspiciously in all the upcoming marriages in the family.

So, you must get married in Feb, March, October or November. So, there are around 30 suitable marriage dates per year. At least one Pandit ji must preside on the event. Considering that there are millions of marriages every year in India, the competition to book Pandit ji is crazy.

Step 14: The guesthouse owner’s approval

Now the fight for an open venue begins. While the boy’s party is looking for a guest house big enough to house their entire extended family and close friends (150+ guests) for 3-4 days of the various ceremonies. Cramped though they are, all these 150+ people will stay in the same place—inspite of having to share rooms—and not separately at hotels because where is the fun in that?

Rest of the 500+ people are local and will attend the ceremonies directly. The girl’s family is looking for a venue big enough to house the same size of family and close friends for 3-4 days as well. They must also look for a place big enough to allow around 1500 people to mill around, sit, eat and not step on each-other’s shoes. The place must look grand and have good lighting due to the ungodly hours of the marriage.

Unfortunately, many other parties have the same date and hence, such a place is either not available at all or not available on the set dates. So, now they start looking for accommodation for all the five dates from both Pandit jis, never being able find something that fits the date requirements of both parties.

And hence the date with an available marriage venue and guest houses wins. Both Pandit jis give in and agree to the date, even though it wasn’t “half as good as what they had suggested”.

Step 15: The caterer’s, tent supplier’s, flower arranger’s, beautician’s, tailor’s, jeweller’s and other approvals

I will not get into the details of a marriage preparation because I love my audience and would like them to be awake by the time this post ends. So, I would just briefly say that now the entire clan of the girl begins hunting for a halwai (cook), tent-chair-bedding supplier, flower arranger, jeweller, beauty parlour, furniture-maker (for dowry), electric appliance supplier (for dowry), tailor, cars and drivers.

There are many layers of arrangements within each piece. Tempers start running high and quarrels break out at the drop of a pin…or a plate…Someone shouts, someone else shouts back. In the end, someone starts crying (“What did I do wrong to end up with this man?”). While venturing to marry someone, many other marriages are put to test.

Step 16: The groom’s brother-in-law’s approval

The boy has, so far, been sulking in silence. In spite of being promised to marry a certain girl, he hasn’t seen her or talked to her and would be totally lost if he is asked to pick her out of the throng of lehenga-clad girls in his own marriage. So, he approaches his brother-in-law to intercept.

So far, the boy’s brother-in-law has been in the background sulking as well since he was informed but not consulted as much as he would like. It hurts his self-esteem. This is his opportunity to shine. So, he concocts this grand scheme.

His wife (boy’s sister, of course) calls the girl’s family and asks for the girl’s phone number to “get her measurements” for dresses to be gifted. They, of course, know such tactics already along with the evils of bride talking to groom, which can lead to uncomfortable discoveries. So, they give her the measurements they already have ready and let her know that the girl doesn’t own a mobile phone.

The brother-in-law rises up to the challenge. He takes his wife to meet the girl in person and “see how she is faring”. And while the girl’s mother is in the kitchen, they slip her a new mobile phone (with unlimited talk-time and on vibration mode). The girl, naturally, hides it, knowing well from her previous experiences (with various non-existent boyfriends) that any mobile phone will be confiscated immediately upon detection.

The brother-in-law, thus satisfied, gives his blessings to the couple.

Step 17: The groom and bride’s true approval

Exactly five minutes after the brother-in-law leaves, the phone rings.

Then onwards, the boy and girl spend a lot of time hiding on the roof, in the bathroom and inside rajai (superheavy cotton-filled blankets meant for weightlifting), talking to each other. By the third day, they are usually familiar enough to plan the honeymoon spot and make bookings. They are extremely excited, though they haven’t seen each other, at least they can tell each other how to spot them.

“I will be in the fuchsia lehenga.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Magenta colour, you know…”

“ummmm…”

“Dark pink, you dork! And make sure your floral veil has magenta roses to match my lehenga.”

Now that they are better acquainted and colour-coordinated, there is only the wedding day to dread.

Step 18: Pre-marriage days

A week before the marriage, the house begins filling with relatives who must be escorted from bus stand, railway station and airport. Soon, it is too full, and people are moved to the guest house where they are happy to “adjust” and live in dorm-like arrangements. No one is ready to go to any hotel rooms booked in hopes that someone will be wise enough.

Mehendi ceremony

The festivities begin with Mehendi ceremony (Henna ceremony where all women of the family get mehendi tattoos done) when someone realises that no one remembered to book a Mehendi artist. The brother-in-law shines again with the proposal to arrange one through his “contacts”. The Halwai decides this moment to drop the bomb and announce that he had forgotten more than half the grocery items and got the quantity of the rest wrong, sending the brothers in a flurry of activity around the city, making you feel truly sorry for them.

The bedding supplier is either late or the beddings are either not enough or smelly. The happy bride has put on weight, and someone must go to the tailor to resize her lehenga-top and all the other dresses that she is wearing in the coming days. Meanwhile, some of the hopefuls have lost weight and someone must get their lehenga-top adjusted as well. Meanwhile, the tailor hasn’t come back with the bride’s wardrobe yet, so someone needs to sit in his shop all day to force him to act quickly.

Someone needs to repack the gift-wrapped dresses for the groom, his father, mother, brothers, sisters, brothers-in-law, sisters-in-law, nieces, nephews, cousins, uncles, aunts, grandparents, granduncles and grandaunts because they look just so plain! So, someone needs to get the decoration supplies.

Not to mention that dresses for each occasion need accessories which women have dutifully forgotten at home. The children need diapers of various sizes and do not want to eat what Halwai has to offer. Mothers have started yelling at the top of their lungs as children are ruining their new dresses at the speed of lightening.

The “girl” need to go to the beauty parlour (She has four sessions starting a month before the day, then a week before the day, then three days before the day and the day itself.) Someone needs to drive her to and fro.

The brothers and brothers-in-law are running around, playing chauffeur, food arranger, child-handler, delivery man and escort, while uncles are discussing politics and dowry rates while keeping an eye on the Halwai and helpers.

Tilak ceremony

The next day, the girl’s family (except the girl, her mother and the elderly with knee pain) must go for Tilak ceremony at the guest house where boy’s family has arranged a big party. The same routine is followed with increased giggling, yelling and running around. Mothers are now in hysterics since some of the children are nowhere to be found (hiding in the cupboard, playing hard to get). They are finally found, dusted with firm hands (“You dare hide in a cupboard again and you will pray you were never born!”) and changed in fresh dresses again.

The transport is late, as usual, or less spacious than expected. It is also not clean enough and “would certainly ruin the lehengas” of all the hopefuls travelling to the groom’s guesthouse. So, bride’s brothers are cleaning it while grumbling about useless people and bad arrangements while all women are smugly looking at them while holding up their lehengas as an excuse for not helping. The children are held tightly so they are not left behind. As people board bus, someone suggests a game of Antakshari.

People start singing in non-matching voices. Hard to find the rhythm but it is a perfect opportunity for friends of bride’s brothers. They are now making musical passes at bride’s female cousins. The said cousins are now making passes back at these guys discretely, knowing well that there will be more opportunities where they were going.

The journey goes uneventfully, unless it is long enough for a loo break. If it is long enough, people lose several children on the way to loo. They are often found (after a lot of chaos) hiding in their bus. After they have been “dusted” well by weeping mothers [“You dare step out of my sight and I am going to shut you up in a kothari (a small and dark room, which is forever the bane of all Indian children who are never told or shown where this kothari is, keeping it’s terror alive till they become parents themselves)”], the journey is continued. Depending on the number of loo breaks required in the journey, fathers need to step in to stop their wives from entering full-cry mode (thereby ruining their make up and delaying the journey further).

The boy’s family must not see the confusion though, so as soon as the bus enters the premises, everyone becomes a sea of calm.

Some of the female cousins, decked up in their best finery, begin taking pictures of the groom to send them to the bride on her mobile phone. The brothers of the groom edge closer to them, offering food and drinks and trying to get their attention. But the girls are protected by the unyielding wall of male cousins and their friends who, impressed by their earlier passes, now consider them under their protection. So, the brothers of the groom decide to try again on the coming day when these men will be occupied in arranging the marriage.

Sangeet and Ratjaga ceremonies

The same night after the party has returned home, Sangeet (music) and Ratjaga (staying awake all night) ceremonies take place.

Someone realises there is no dholak (Indian drums) and after half an hour of calling all contacts, they give up. Not that they knew how to play a dholak anyway. Someone tries to sing; others join in the chorus. Half an hour later, someone smuggles in the stereo and starts Bollywood songs and that is the end of awful singing. Everyone gets up and dances while the bride sits quietly wondering if they would remember to beg her to dance at all…

By midnight, everyone is too exhausted but must stay awake all night for Ratjaga. People quietly start disappearing on various premises–important phone calls, children needing to lie down, back pain, head ache, call of nature…

Soon, all but the sturdiest stay awake till the sun rises. Of course, all the friends of the bride’s brothers and her female cousins stay awake looking for an opportunity to pass phone numbers. But the elderly mothers and grandmothers with their penetrating gaze and “weak knees” keep them busy.

The D-day–Haldi and Gaurpuja ceremonies

The day of marriage begins really early with Haldi (Turmeric) ceremony. Earlier, turmeric products were used to beautify the brides all month long but now it is a horror show for the brides who have spent a pretty dime on four rounds of facials, pedicure, manicure and probably body polishing as well. The thought of turmeric recolouring their skin or sticking to their fresh perm can lead to a full-scale panic attack.

But it has to be done, so the mother, aunts and especially all bhabhis are conscious to not touch the face and only apply it on the dress for minimal damage. Once the ceremony is over, the bride quickly runs to the bath to take it all off just in case some of the colour has penetrated the clothes.

Gaurpuja (Goddess worship) is next on the list where the entire family offers pre-declared gifts (including pricey ornaments and dresses) to the now-washed girl. The girl is supposed to be fasting (“supposed” being the operative word here) and she is treated as mother goddess. It is an event full of open weeping and downright crying. Because there will be no more opportunity later. The girl is about to set off to the beauty parlour and when she returns with her bridal make-up on, she is not supposed to cry until the time for Vidai (Send-off). (At Vidai, she is supposed to cry in the earnest, else there will raised eyebrows… But that is a story for another day.)

The gifts are then quickly packed by the stylish bhabhi along with other dowry and under custody of the grandmothers and grandaunts, ready to be driven to the venue with the elderly whho can’t move around anyway so will be “willing to stay-put and be useful”.

Meanwhile all the brothers, uncles and male cousins are either at the wedding venue or driving people around or bringing more flowers for the flower arranger or arranging seating. Grandparents and granduncles are together discussing the wasteful and showy marriages now a days and comparing them with their own simpler times…all the while tasting food and arguing with the food caterer about food quantity or quality.

So, now close to the last leg of the Indian Wedding fiasco, the bride boards her car–driven by a male cousin who has been playing driver all day–and realises she has to take 10 tag-alongs with her. But there isn’t enough space for all of them and they will cramp her style. So, there is a lot of negotiations at the door, a lot of crying and name calling. In the end, the stylish bhabhi saunters in, offering her services to the girls who stay back. The offer is readily accepted by those who see no other hope. The car moves towards beauty parlour with the bride and four others (who will likely cramp her style but she can’t shake them off).

There is anticipation in the air that will only be relieved when the marriage is over and approved by the entire guest list.

To be continued if I survive to write the rest of the process. Considering that it has taken me more than 3 months to finish this post, my hopes are not too high. Let me know if you survive it and dare to know more.

Disclaimer: No part of this story is fiction, may be a little exaggerated but, in spirit, is accurate. I have seen it happen to most of my cousins. Lately, I played the part of clueless bhabhi in my brother-in-law’s marriage as well as engagement of one of my husband’s cousin and marriage of another, while my daughter was adding to the general crazydom. These experiences made me believe that no matter the religion, we Indians are united in our love for arranged marriages. The experiences also added finer details to the post.

Posted in Blogging, Random Thoughts

New excuses: Marriage(s)

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

The best part about my blog posts is how I come up with innovative excuses for not posting anything. I think half of my planning time (I get around 20 minutes a day to plan and create posts, if any) goes in thinking of excuses for not posting this time and the rest of the time goes in typing it. Like today. My latest excuse is marriages… that is, in plural.

Not mine, of course. I got married nearly 10 years back…Gosh! 10 years!? And have no intention of repeating the experience of an Indian wedding. To know my thoughts about an Indian wedding, you can go through my previous posts (I do: Part 1 and I do: Part 2). To say that part 3 and 4 are still being written says volumes about the amount of time and energy that goes in describing an Indian marriage. For an immersive experience, you can watch the movie Hum Apke Hain Kaun. If you survive till the end, you can tell me what you think of it 🤣

Getting back to the point, everyone around me is suddenly getting married. For 10 years, I had been cocooned in a false sense of safety which was suddenly torn away from me when one of my husband’s cousin got engaged in August. Considering we are Indians, obviously everyone was involved. I played the clueless bhabhi (brother’s wife), and played it well. So, people decided to take it up a notch and another close cousin got engaged, then my own brother-in-law and then one of my older nieces. And since, it is inauspicious (and potentially unsafe) to keep a marriage waiting for more than three months (lest the bride or groom decide to elope–alone, of course), the marriages had to happen soon.

Ramadan is anyway a busy time but with three weddings–one in each weekend after Ramadan (one of them being my brother-in-law’s)–we were cleaning up, shopping, hosting guests, shopping, hosting guests, booking, hosting guests, attending marriage, attending guests, cleaning up, attending guests, cooking, hosting guests… hosting more guests until we couldn’t stand and couldn’t walk. Ultimately, I decided not to visit the third marriage. (I still need to talk to my aunt and apologize for bailing. I hope she forgives me.)

And did I forget to mention, I had to look nice…perfect…immaculate…polished to shiny perfection…

Especially me, because I am the eldest bhabhi of the clan. I had the duty to look like someone who was holding herself together perfectly well while all I wanted to do was whine about having to run up and down the stairs all day. I had to put on face packs while cooking and apply make up while attending guests who were filling the house to seams. I would apply blush on one cheek and go meet someone, apply shadow on half an eye and go help someone, apply lipstick on half a lip and deal with my daughter. And then I would apply mascara. And spread on different spots of my face. Then I would wash it and start over.

Sometimes I think that make up brushes are equipment of modern torture. They can’t beat you anymore so they tell you to apply make up– there are brushes for everything blush, highlighter, powder, liner, eye shadow application, shadow mixing, mascara, eyebrow… And they always poke you in the eye. You apply eye shadow–it throws powder in your eyes. You put on liner–it is more inside the eyes than out. You clean it and put on just mascara and it pokes you in the eye until you drop the brush (on your cheeks, of course) and howl in pain and swear to god’s that you would never do it again. Then you wash your face and do it again!

Not sure if I got the order correct. I never got the order correct so I got a Color Correction (CC) cream to avoid primer, foundation, concealer, highlighter… It didn’t do anything but it made it look like I was trying, so no one commented. My pathetic attempts to make up were lauded as “Well tried!” “Look at you, you have actually put on make up!”

As far as I am concerned, I looked like a pink-faced monkey. Well at least, I wasn’t looking like a silver-faced monkey like nine years back when my sister-in-law tried to do my makeup. That experience was what drove me to do my own makeup. Of course, I could have got a professional help. But I didn’t have the time in the many days of festivities.

So, I just trudged on. I would say, I did well.

Honestly, in retrospect, it wasn’t so bad. I met a lot of nice people I couldn’t recognise (because of make up, of course) but it was nice to see smiling faces and spend time with my sister-in-law who lives far away. We had a housefull of kids and loads of drama going on that it part of every Indian marriage, but it was fun.

Now, I still have laundry to deal with, which is a remnant of the marriages that started three weeks back. So, goodbye for now. I hope I have given an excuse good enough that you will excuse me for not posting for another few days! 🤣🤣🤣

Posted in Random Thoughts

I do: The Indian Way (Part 2)

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Author’s note: Pun intended

Before jumping into this article, I would advise you to visit the original post I do: The Indian Way (Part 1) so that you can understand the beginning of the madness that we Indians lovingly refer to as “arranged marriage”, which is a complex process to simplify the process of finding a man for every girl and a girl for every man (usually 5-10 years older than the girl, henceforth incorrectly termed as the “the boy”). Had the process been in place in England and USA, books like Pride and Prejudice and Little Women 2 would have not existed in the first place.

In the original post, we have already covered the first seven steps of the process.

Step 8: The meeting preparation and the approval of the bhabhi

So far, the stage is all set for the big reveal. The girl (probably in early twenties) and the boy (probably in his thirties) are about to meet for the grand finale. The entire khandan (extended family big enough to fill a football stadium) is either already there or waiting on Zoom and Whatsapp to hear the good news.

The house is in a general state of disarray with cousin’s running around, children crying, father and uncles on phone, grandfather and granduncles pacing around, mothers, grandmothers and aunts cooking and discussing the various scenarios that can possibly unfold–What if one of them is diabetic? Do we have something for them? Do we have green tea? What if they want more dowry? What if they see one of the prettier cousins and choose her instead?

The dining table is creaking under the combined weight of fruits, various types of sweets, pakodas, samosas, namkeens (various salt savories), lemonade, cold drinks and the best possible crockery loaned from concerned neighbours and relatives to serve it in. The kitchen is busy with lunch/dinner preparations high on matar-paneer, daal makkhani, dahi-bade and dhaniya ke aaloo to be served with puris, an assortment of sauces, pickles and fried papad.

A stylish bhabhi (brother’s/cousin’s wife) has draped the girl’s sari so all her curves are visible to lure the boy in while the skin is covered so as not to provoke the boy’s parents. Every bit of the girl’s face is covered with 9 -10 layers of cosmetics, each one smelling of different flowers, making her feel like a walking flower shop with no visible flowers. Her blood pressure is increasing with each make-up application and the friendly advise:

  • Don’t rub your eyes. You’ll smear the mascara.
  • Why didn’t you tell me what shade of Fushia your sari was. Now I got a lipstick three tones lighter!
  • Don’t move your lips. You’ll mess up the lipstick.
  • Don’t eat. You’ll mess up the lipstick.
  • Only drink the cold drink I will set in front of you. It will have a straw.
  • Don’t speak, you’ll mess up the lipstick.
  • Don’t laugh. Indian brides don’t laugh. Besides, it puts wrinkles on the makeup.
  • Don’t sweat, you’ll mess up the makeup.
  • Act shy. Don’t look at anyone straight in the eyes.
  • Don’t ask too many questions.
  • Don’t ask about his girlfriends.
  • Don’t tell him about your boyfriends.
  • If he asks your hobbies, say that you like cooking. Don’t tell him you play football and ride a motorbike.
  • Just stay quiet. We will manage the rest…

By this time, a low growl can be heard starting from the bottom of the girl’s throat, which is bhabhi‘s cue to take her baby for a diaper change. We will not discuss the case she doesn’t take the cue, because this is not an article about mass murder.

The blood pressure is at all-time high when the cousin who was posted at the gate comes running inside and stage-whispers through the door, “They are here!”

Step 9: The joint approval of khandan and neighbours

All the noise stops suddenly. Even the children who had been throwing a tantrum a second back suck in a breath and wait with abated breath as the boy’s party approaches the gates. Father, uncles, grandfather and granduncles wipe their brows and run towards the gates to greet the party at the gates and smile with hands folded in “Namaste”. After this, their hands are forever folded in their laps as they stand around obediently taking orders from the in-laws.

As the boy’s party along with the middleman is ushered in, the mother, aunts, grandmother and grandaunts greet them indoors and show them where to sit. The stylish bhabhi, together with a party of well-trained cousins, brings in water and beverages. Someone quietly clicks the picture of “the boy” and posts it on family group on Whatsapp for the rest of the relatives to approve. The bride, who is also part of the group, looks at the picture and is petrified, for the said “boy” is at least 7-8 years older than the picture shared by the middleman.

The parents seem unaffected. They probably expected the situation and have already decided to fill the receding hairline with extra zeroes in his salary. The boy is now the new animal in the zoo, inspected by the girl’s younger giggly cousins and accosted by the younger children of the house who want to climb on his back, try on his glasses and check if he knows how to give a piggy-back ride. One of them has already pulled out his uber expensive pen from his shirt pocket while he is trying to explain to another child why he cannot play on his iPhone.

And he is bearing it all with gritted teeth and a smile that shows he would rather be at office drinking horrible coffee. His parents are trying to pick children off him one by one on the pretext of asking their names before the boy runs out shrieking bloody murder (He too has been through a grooming experience mirroring the bride, except the makeup part, but we will not talk about that. It is not his story).

The neighbours are now beginning to show up under various pretext following the trail of the variety of food fragrances, knowing well exactly what it could mean. They all express curiosity that goes beyond the girl’s parents and ask questions missed during the earlier interrogation, including growth opportunities in the boy’s line of job, frequency of salary hikes and where they see themselves in 10-years time (hopefully, in Canada). Once the khandan and neighbours have expressed their satisfaction at the responses they have received, a cousin is sent to “bring the girl in”.

Step 10: The big reveal and boy’s and girl’s approval…sort of…

Now that everybody else in the known universe has agreed to the match, the girl “is brought into the room” by the aforementioned bhabhi. The boy is more interested in the bhabhi who is curvaceous and confident. He is looking at her with an interest but when he realises all eyes are on him, he moves his eyes towards the girl (because he is supposed to). The girl is a bundle of nerves and shivering as she “is settled” in front of the boy so that he cannot touch her. He is scared witless and trying to act confident but his parents beat him to it–they begin talking to the girl, who keeps her answers monosyllabic, as instructed by bhabhi to keep the make-up intact. His parents assume it to be shyness. The girl’s parents assume it to be nerves. Only the bhabhi really knows as she places the cold drink with straw strategically in front of the girl.

The discussion is generally about education and interests, which is mostly loads of lies.

Then someone suggests that the boy and girl should be left alone to talk! And everyone moves out of the room. Everyone, except the said bhabhi and the bhaiya (elder brother/cousin) standing close enough to the door to eavesdrop and remain faintly in sight so that the boy doesn’t gets any ideas.

Now, the sudden retreat of the people leaves the girl and the boy conscious and tongue-tied and it take a couple of minutes to gather their wits, another couple of minutes to get through the basic introductions and they are still discussing education when everybody decides to return to their posts in the room. And someone mentions lunch/dinner.

Immediately, the girl is whisked away to her previous hideout since obviously she can’t eat without ruining her make-up.

During the lunch/dinner, the bhabhi in girl’s room is dropping hints about how a well-paid boy with medium looks is the best proposition because he is more willing to keep the girl happy and has the means to fulfil her dreams. (What those dreams are is never discussed since it could be riding a motorbike to the highest mountain pass in Leh-Ladakh.)

The girl, having no opportunity for a real conversation with the boy, relies totally on her family’s opinion. Already overwhelmed with all the attention and performance pressure in front of the entire family and neighbours, she nods her head with exhaustion. Right at that moment, the bhabhi relays the news to the mother, who is overheard by the grandmother, who calls her husband aside and reiterates it to him, who instructs the girl’s father. The girl’s mother, meanwhile, congratulates the girl for her perfect choice and hugs her, and the girl’s fate is sealed.

Someone sends a message on Whatsapp and everybody expresses their opinion of how rushed things were but how happy they were that everything came out so well.

Step 11: The boy’s party’s approval

The girl’s father immediately starts dropping hints about their willingness in front of the boy’s family. The boy’s family is already prepared for engagement ceremony. But they still state that they need time to think this over (because they really can’t show that they came prepared for the ceremony and lose their bargaining power). They go to the middleman’s house after the lunch/dinner while the girl’s family is chewing their nails.

On the way, they talk to the boy about the virtues of marrying in a well-to-do family and praise the girl for being homely and shy; and that living on outside food is bad for health; and that it is high time he is married so he has someone who can cook a proper meal for him wherever he lives. The boy, having no opportunity for a real conversation with the girl, relies totally on his family’s opinion. He is dealing with similar family pressure where his own khandan is waiting on Whatsapp for the good news, nods his head (he still doesn’t know about the football and motorbike).

The boy’s family take another couple of hours until the girl’s party calls them to ask for their verdict again. They reply in a long-suffering tone that they are okay with the match and would need to prepare for the ceremony. They sit around doing nothing on the pretext of preparing for the “roka ceremony“, second guessing if they had been too rash or whether they should have delayed a bit longer. They make a move to leave the middleman’s home at least an hour later than promised.

Step 12: The approval of the girl’ side of the world

The boy’s party reaches the girl’s the house famously late, where the entire house is crazier than before and, yet, stands to attention at their arrival. Suddenly, hands are being wrung, the boy is crushed under the hugs of all of girl’s male cousins (including those who had been earlier waiting on Whatsapp). The female cousins are looking down from the roof or waiting at the threshold giggling and whispering and adding to the general conundrum. The boy’s own cousins are back in his city, so he is alone to deal with the attention.

The house is filled to gills with people, ready to burst at seams. Cousins are pouring in and pouring out (for arrangements). A photographer, arranged to create proof of the ceremony, is busily arranging lights. A bunch of cousins are busily spreading chandani (white silky cloth) on hired beddings across the floor to arrange enough sitting space for all the invited (and uninvited) gentry. People keep getting in each other’s way apologizing with smiles, and trying not to get irritated with the way sweat drips from their forehead because no number of hired fans is enough to kill the heat generated by breathing of so many people.

The boy’s party produces a basket of fruits and a large box of sweets arranged on the way to the venue.

The girl is being prepared again by the same bhabhi along with the instructions along the same lines–don’t eat, don’t drink, don’t speak, don’t breathe… The girl has given in and is not growling anymore, so the bhabhi shows her exactly how to eat baby-sized bites without smearing her lipstick and drinking with a straw (because she had smeared her lipstick the last time). The heat is making the make-up runny and the women in the house are suggesting all the possible ways to make it steady…none of which is possible anymore since the make-up is already done.

Someone comments that they should have hired a bridal artist rather than a novice, at which the bhabhi helpfully reminds them that they are free to bring one in if they think so which effectively shuts everyone up. The girl’s hair is done in elegant curls and has more make-up than she had earlier that day and she shivers at the woman she sees in the mirror. But everyone is telling how wonderful she looks and she trusts them because that is all she can do. The girl is then “taken” (you would think she can’t walk on her own) to the room where everyone is sitting.

The boy’s eyes zeroes down on the bhabhi (wearing a magenta sari that shows all her curves and plenty of skin) holding the shivering girl (shivering from nerves being close to nervous breakdown). Then again, he realises the photographer is shooting his reaction and slides his eyes to look at the girl. The girl “is sat” next to the boy this time (where he can touch her if he dares to take on an entire family of feral brothers). The girl sits as delicately as possibly for the fear of causing a tear in her silk sari. The boy’s party think of it as shyness. The girl’s party thinks of it as nerves. Only the bhabhi knows the truth as she carefully arranges the pallu of the girl’s sari.

The mother-in-law remarks how lucky her son is to have bagged her, while also reminding her that her son was her best bet and that matches are made in heavens. She then produces a heavily embroided sari she had already bought in her own city but wrapped in a wrapping sheet to hide the fact that they had come prepared. She also presents a gold ring (that she had carried in her purse for three years in the hope of getting her son married) and the said box of sweets. The other women in the boy’s family who had come with the party present cash envelops (or if they were also prepared–silver ornaments).

Each action is followed by the photographer’s blinding flash and clicks of photos on various mobile phones. Someone is live streaming the event on the Whatsapp group.

The girl’s father does similar stuff for the boy, presenting clothes, a ring and sweets. The considerably larger family on the girl’s side ensures that by the time the ceremony is done, the boy is considerably richer than what he came in with. And this is only the beginning of a lifelong supply of goodies, as long as the girl is happy with him.

Note that the girl and boy had no real opportunity to talk yet. They are playing blind. By the time they realise their mistake, it will be too late, and they will live erringly happy ever after!

To be continued if I see people showing interest in the rest of the process. Let me know if you survive it and dare to know more.

Disclaimer: No part of this story is fiction, may be a little exaggerated but, in spirit, accurate. I have seen it happen to most of my cousins, even played the giggly cousin part quite a few times. I have been the internal messenger, salad arranger, dahi (yogurt) whisker, chutney (sauce) maker and the uninvited cousin in several such events. Not all these events come to an agreeable ending, and sometimes the boy and the girl might have to go through several such experiences before the said roka ceremony, but each one is just as crazy.

Posted in Life and After

The Maze

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Author’s note: This is my second attempt at a “first-line story” to break what we all know as a writer’s block. The first line of the story was suggested by GP. I hope I did it justice. 🙂

She wandered aimlessly through the maze, wondering what the surprise was when she emerged.

Her father was holding her hand, of course, afraid that she too will run ahead of him like her brother did. She was constantly barraging her father with questions he had no answer to—how did he know where to turn and which door to take, and how would they find their way back when they have found her brother.

When, and not if…her faith was absolute—nothing untoward could befall her seventeen-year-old brother. He was her hero—fearless, invicible and undestructible.

The maze seemed to be going on forever as they went door after door looking for him. She was sure he would have reached the prize by now and must be waiting for them with the trophy in his hand; or may be it would be a really big teddy, like the one she saw the other day when her brother had taken her to the market. The thought perked her up and she quickened her pace, pushing the doors open before her father could stop her.

She felt her brother before she saw him. The smell of his favourite deodorant and the familiar sound of his favourite love song album filled the room that, she suddenly realised, was his bedroom. The sense of dread filled her heart and her gut told her to close the door before… But, like every time before that, she couldn’t stop herself.

Her brother’s body hung from the ceiling fan—tongue lolling, eyes popped out…

She was screaming until her husband shook her out of the ‘nightmare’ and held her against his heart as he had done for countless nights in the past eight years and her parents did for many more years before that. She sobbed until she drifted into an uneasy sleep, hoping against hope for a dreamless night.

And to think that her brother died believing that no one loved him…

Photo by MontyLov on Unsplash

Posted in Nature

My Neighbour: The Fearful

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Kara was sitting on the water tank on the roof with the lost look on his face, that I have become accustomed to, ever since his latest batch of eggs hatched. This time I decided to ask, “Hey, what’s with the long face?”

For the few seconds he took, I thought he wouldn’t reply at all. When he did, there was a sigh in his voice, “I’m worried about the youngest one.”

“What happened? Did he fall off the nest?” That would explain his worried face. But he shook his head, “No, he is careful and obedient–just the child any parents would ask for. I just think, he’s not getting the right role model.”

I thought if the number of times I had thought the same about my baby, “Don’t be silly! You and your wife are dedicated parents and a loving couple. How could you not be a good role model?” He hesitated and I could see he was considering whether to just take off without answering. “Yeah! But our voices are…rather different from him. He tries to imitate us but fails…it leaves him frustrated and sad.”

Out of everything I had expected, thus wasn’t in the list. I was confused, “I think I’m mising something here. How could your voice be different from your child’s? Is it because he is still young and his voice unbroken? You can tell him it is just a matter of time…”

A pregnant silence ensued before he answered the question, sounding hesitant and repentant, as if he was sorry for having talked at all. “It isn’t that. His voice is…shrill…Ever heard of a cuckoo? They often break one of the crow’s eggs and leave their own egg behind. There was a cuckoo in our area when our eggs came about…”

That must have been difficult, to suspect having raised the child of their baby’s murderer, “So, you suspect your youngest is the cuckoo’s baby?”

Resigned, he admitted, “We know he is. Knew it from the first day. Both I and wife saw the broken egg below the tree, but what could have we done? Thrown him out of the nest, out of our lives, like his own parents did? Let him die without experiencing love?

We thought we are doing the right thing by taking him in. But now, we are worried if we are the right role models. All the kids laugh at him at his inability for crow-speak, when he coos in the weird cuckoo voice. We try to rationalise it in front of him, but I think he is beginning to understand that he is different and it hurts him.” He was speaking more to himself than me. “We have been arguing over whether to tell him the truth. The wife is afraid the truth will hurt him deep. She’s afraid to lose him.

But I feel he is already hurting too much–the constant failure to become what he clearly isn’t, to conform with family, to accept himself with all the differences–is proving to be too much for him. I want to tell him the truth before we lose him altogether.”

“But you haven’t. Why?”

When he answered, tears bubbled up in his eyes, “What if he decides that he doesn’t want us anymore? I’m afraid to lose him…”

Posted in Life and After, Love

The Day of Reunions

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Author’s note: The story doesn’t intend to disrespect anyone based on their parentage. It just speaks of a person who has been raised in the society that gives more credit to birth than ability.

Karna is a central character in Mahabharata, the longest and most revered epic in Sanskrit. He is the illegitimate son of the Sun God and Princess Kunti. He faces too many caste-based prejudices because he is raised by a low-caste Charioteer. Visit Wikipedia to know more about him. This story is set in the morning of the longest day of his life–when he joins the greatest war of ancient history.

Karna was fuming after his conversation with the Sun God–his real father. His entire life was a lie.

For nearly seventy years, he had believed he was the son of a lowly Charioteer. He had struggled with casteism for every privilege reserved for higher castes: education, power and rightful recognition as the world’s best warrior. But the world had jeered at him, declining him a single chance to show his true mettle, simply because he wasn’t born in a Kshatriya family. If it wasn’t for Prince Duryodhan who made him the king of Angadesh, he would be scrubbing horses and sleeping in stables.

And today, when Prince Duryodhan has given him the chance to lead his army in the greatest of all wars against his illegitimate cousins–the Pandavas, the war that may finally give him the recognition he had always craved for…

He had arrived at the river to pray to the Sun God as usual, and there he was, standing in all his glory, to tell him that he was a Prince, a Kshatriya, a demi-god…

And a bastard!

He couldn’t remember how many times in his life had he wished to have the royal blood, so that he could be an equal of his best friend. Now he did–as the eldest son of Rajmata Kunti, born while she was still unmarried. She still has a brood of five similar sons, the Pandavas, ‘blessings’ from five gods after her marriage to the impotent King Pandu. Her husband had approved of them. He, on the other hand, was born before marriage and she had cast him away in the river.

He had never hated Arjun so much before–his arch-enemy was now his step-brother. She had kept him and the other four sons, raised them as kind princes and capable warriors who were respected and loved by all, while he lived his life as Duryodhan’s lapdog. He might be a king, but his subjects clearly didn’t approve.

The number of times he had jeered at Pandavas because of their many fathers…it all came back to him. Now, he was one of them. What would his best friend think of him now? Will he still let him lead his army?

As he finished his daily prayers, he could see Kunti at a distance, hesitating from approaching him. He gave the customary bow and waited for her to speak.

“How are you, Son?” She had always addressed him as “Son”. But today, he could understand the true meaning of the word.

“My lady, how can I serve you today?”

“I came to see my son today.”

He could see her steeling herself for the onslaught. He had no pity for her. “There is none here. You should perhaps look a little further in the Pandavas’ camp.”

Undeterred, she continued, “I’ve come to see my first-born, the son of the Sun God, born with the fiery temper of his father–who will be the next King of Hastinapur (Delhi).”

“Hastinapur belongs to the true descendants of King Shantanu. It is not up to a woman to give it away to those who have the blood of several unknown men”, he dealt a low blow.

She stood strong though, “The true descendant of Shantanu do not deserve to be kings. They are vain and self-serving. They do not know justice and their subjects are mere means to fulfill their ends. They keep vile company that advises them to destroy their people and businesses. Their best men are hog-tied by oath to serve the king, incapable of stopping injustice, and they stand by watching women being raped in public.”

“And am I not one of the vile company? As far as I remember, I am Duryodhan’s best friend.”

“You are, but Pandavas–your brothers–are capable administrators and advisors. They had given 26 years of their lives to make Hastinapur a land of opportunity–converting arid lands to fertile farms, and dense forests infested by demons into fruit orchards. They had invited farmers, tradesmen and craftsmen from different kingdoms with a promise of a peaceful and luxurios life–a promise they had fullfilled as long as they ruled. They can do it again, with you on the throne.”

“Ah! Bribing me into changing sides. So that I won’t kill your precious sons…”

“I am not afraid of my sons dying. They are Kshatriyas–born to fight. They have lived a long life. A death in the battle field will only bring them further glory. It is you that I am afraid for. Will you be able to look yourself in the mirror, knowing that you killed able and just kings who were the best chance their subjects had? Knowing they were your younger brothers?”

“You speak as if you know me, as if you care for me…you let me deal with seventy years of humiliation. You knew who I was, and yet, you let your sons disrespect me by calling me a ‘Charioteer’s son’. You never spoke up for me, and yet, you dare to call me ‘Son’? You bribe me with throne and family, respect and metarnal love, and expect me to forget that all this has been denied to me for seventy years?”

“Son…disowning you was a mistake. But I was only fourteen and scared of society. I wanted to own you up later when I saw you at the Royal games fifty years back.”

“Then, why didn’t you?”

“Arjun had called you a Charioteer’s son, but you had held your head up. In return, Duryodhan had called Arjun a “Bastard”. The look of disgrace you gave Arjun at that moment…I realised that it was better for you to never share the fate of being my son.”

Illustrated by Ammpryt ART

Posted in Random Thoughts

Calling a Man in

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Author’s note: My father and husband refrain from calling a man in to do ‘simple stuff’. Here is an accurate description of the scene that ensues when they ‘get at it’. This excerpt from Three Men in a Boat by Jerome K. Jerome, written in 1889, has really nailed it.

You never saw such a commotion up and down a house, in all your life, as when my Uncle Podger undertook to do a job. A picture would have come home from the frame- maker’s, and be standing in the dining-room, waiting to be put up; and Aunt Podger would ask what was to be done with it, and Uncle Podger would say:

“Oh, you leave that to ME. Don’t you, any of you, worry yourselves about that.
I’LL do all that.”

And then he would take off his coat, and begin. He would send the girl out for sixpen’orth of nails, and then one of the boys after her to tell her what size to get; and, from that, he would gradually work down, and start the whole house.

“Now you go and get me my hammer, Will,” he would shout; “and you bring me the rule, Tom; and I shall want the step-ladder, and I had better have a kitchen-chair, too; and, Jim! you run round to Mr. Goggles, and tell him, `Pa’s kind regards, and hopes his leg’s better; and will he lend him his spirit-level?’ And don’t you go, Maria, because I shall want somebody to hold me the light; and when the girl comes back, she must go out again for a bit of picture-cord; and Tom! – where’s Tom? – Tom, you come here; I shall want you to hand me up the picture.”

And then he would lift up the picture, and drop it, and it would come out of the frame, and he would try to save the glass, and cut himself; and then he would spring round the room, looking for his handkerchief. He could not find his handkerchief, because it was in the pocket of the coat he had taken off, and he did not know where he had put the coat, and all the house had to leave off looking for his tools, and start looking for his coat; while he would dance round and hinder them.

“Doesn’t anybody in the whole house know where my coat is? I never came across such a set in all my life – upon my word I didn’t. Six of you! – and you can’t find a coat that I put down not five minutes ago! Well, of all the – “Then he’d get up, and find that he had been sitting on it, and would call out: “Oh, you can give it up! I’ve found it myself now. Might just as well ask the cat to find anything as expect you people to find it.”

And, when half an hour had been spent in tying up his finger, and a new glass had been got, and the tools, and the ladder, and the chair, and the candle had been brought, he would have another go, the whole family, including the girl and the charwoman, standing round in a semi-circle, ready to help. Two people would have to hold the chair, and a third would help him up on it, and hold him there, and a fourth would hand him a nail, and a fifth would pass him up the hammer, and he would take hold of the nail, and drop it.

“There!” he would say, in an injured tone, “now the nail’s gone.”

And we would all have to go down on our knees and grovel for it, while he would stand on the chair, and grunt, and want to know if he was to be kept there all the evening.

The nail would be found at last, but by that time he would have lost the hammer. “Where’s the hammer? What did I do with the hammer? Great heavens! Seven of you, gaping round there, and you don’t know what I did with the hammer!”

We would find the hammer for him, and then he would have lost sight of the mark he had made on the wall, where the nail was to go in, and each of us had to get up on the chair, beside him, and see if we could find it; and we would each discover it in a different place, and he would call us all fools, one after another, and tell us to get down. And he would take the rule, and re-measure, and find that he wanted half thirty-one and three-eighths inches from the corner, and would try to do it in his head, and go mad. And we would all try to do it in our heads, and all arrive at different results, and sneer at one another. And in the general row, the original number would be forgotten, and Uncle Podger would have to measure it again.

He would use a bit of string this time, and at the critical moment, when the old fool was leaning over the chair at an angle of forty-five, and trying to reach a point three inches beyond what was possible for him to reach, the string would slip, and down he would slide on to the piano, a really fine musical effect being produced by the suddenness with which his head and body struck all the notes at the same time.

And Aunt Maria would say that she would not allow the children to stand round and hear such language.

At last, Uncle Podger would get the spot fixed again, and put the point of the nail on it with his left hand, and take the hammer in his right hand. And, with the first blow, he would smash his thumb, and drop the hammer, with a yell, on somebody’s toes.

Aunt Maria would mildly observe that, next time Uncle Podger was going to hammer a nail into the wall, she hoped he’d let her know in time, so that she could make arrangements to go and spend a week with her mother while it was being done.

“Oh! you women, you make such a fuss over everything,” Uncle Podger would reply, picking himself up. “Why, I LIKE doing a little job of this sort.”

And then he would have another try, and, at the second blow, the nail would go clean through the plaster, and half the hammer after it, and Uncle Podger be precipitated against the wall with force nearly sufficient to flatten his nose. Then we had to find the rule and the string again, and a new hole was made; and, about midnight, the picture would be up – very crooked and insecure, the wall for yards round looking as if it had been smoothed down with a rake, and everybody dead beat and wretched – except Uncle Podger.

“There you are,” he would say, stepping heavily off the chair on to the charwoman’s corns, and surveying the mess he had made with evident pride. “Why, some people would have had a man in to do a little thing like that!”