February 4th - 10:30 AM
Four cities. Four airlines. Two days. One laptop. One blogger with a net enabled mobile phone trying his hand at on-the-move mobile blogging!
This is a first for me on Indigo Airlines. They do not have an inflight magazine. Things, otherwise, are not so bad at all. The flight is spanking new. (And so is the cabin crew!) The flight is on time.
I like.
I am safely seat-belted in. Nice and snug. Have gained weight since marriage. Dammit!
Jaipur here I come.
p.s. Wife says do not snack between meals.
11:00 AM
Reading Hesse's Siddhartha. Very profound. Not lost though. Yet.
Bought bag of cashewnuts and a Diet Pepsi. Big bag of nuts proves to be mostly nitrogen or whatever other inert gas they use. Nuts are tasty but hardly last me three pages. Drown disappointment in Aspartame.
Burp.
12:00 PM
Looks like, wonder of wonders, I am going to land a full twenty minutes ahead of time! Go Indigo Go!
Man sitting next to me suddenly turns to me and asks me if I know who owns Indigo. (Mentally make note not to look so intelligent in public. But what to do...) I think it is the Wadias before I quickly correct myself. He owns Go of course.
Suddenly thinking of Preity Zinta.
They push around a cart and ask people to throw up all the garbage they would otherwise stuff into the unbearably elasticated pouch in front. Smart way to turn around plane quickly. But will they last in this severe loss-making civil aviation environment, my MBA mind wonders. Stewardess walks by. Are those real, my engineer mind wonders.
12:05 PM
Hello Jaipur!
Jaipur has one of those miniature 3BHK airports that dot the Indian map. Trichy, Coimbatore, Kozhikode... they are all the same. Ten steps from plane to airport. Ten steps from airport to large Bank of Baroda ball hanging outside. (Do they have them at all airports now?)
12:25 PM
My liaison at Jaipur is late. I stand looking around. Usual mix of small-town airport crowd. Disproportional number of firangs though.
Athithi Devo Bhava.
1:00 PM
In an Ambassador after ages. Ok, off to work now. Top secret. Hush hush. Talk to you during lunch.
1:25 PM
Pssst. Awesome roads. Oh yes and a two bedroom apartment rents out for 5000 bucks a month here.
I hate Mumbai. For now.
2:30 PM
The local economy revolves around tourism and day care centers. Nurseries are everywhere. Tiny Tots, Butterflies, Little Flowers, Pesky Pipsqueaks, Cute Champions, Miniature Marwaris. (I made two of them up.)
3:45 PM
I hear good things about Mrs. Scindia. Things are booming under her they say, in a manner of speaking.
I catch a glimpse of the new Rajasthan secretariat. It looks like Work In Progress. Looks pretty good from here. Though I think large domes are passe Mrs. Scindia.
4:15 PM
Nothing communicates Rajasthan like a nice Aloo Mutter Gobi (yes all three) swimming in a salty, gooey, pool of well-masala'd oil. Rip a piece of tandoori roti and leap on a baby potato bobbing by.
I order raitha to soothe belly that is beginning to throb in protest. Reminded of an old trekking trip to inner Maharashtra.
Host orders a Dal Makhani.
Groan.
6:00 PM
Assignment in Jaipur nears completion. At some point I am offered a platter of food to choose from. I politely pick up a potato chip. (Wife please note: ONE chip). Harangued into picking up a piece of moist orange mithai. On a cocktail toothpick. Rajasthani host calls it something, I hear 'horse hooves'.
Yummy.
Trot.
7:30 PM
Back at the airport and mentally unwinding after a hard day's work. My Kingfisher Fun Liner awaits. I have had little time to do any shopping or touristing. Must make up for it in the airport. Is that a local specialty sweetmeat shop I see in a corner of the lounge? Off I go!
Paneer Ghewar, Mawa Kachoris and some Khas Supari. The Gewar looks a little weird. The Mawa thingie looks absolutely death-giving. Supari jars jingle and rattle as I walk.
8:00 PM
Flight delayed. I don't get it though. Why do they think that '... due to delay in arrival of incoming flight...' serve as adequate justification. The Kingfisher people keep announcing the delay for a full twenty minutes.
Bah!
8:10 PM
Phone runs out of battery. Dejectedly shuffle over to a charging point on the wall conveniently placed in a narrow space behind some waiting benches.
Feeling grumpy.
8:50 PM
Finally boarded. Captain apologizes adequately. The 'Flying Models' as Mr. Mallya calls them look understandably uncomfortable in their tight skirts.
Kingfisher does not have an in-flight magazine either. That is not like the liquor baron at all. To scrimp on such minor niceties. But let us hope the catering is good today as it is always with Kingfisher.
9:00 PM
One humus & chickpea sandwich. One. Sandwich. WTF!
9:30 PM
Delhi! Good roads! Nice weather! The efficient Metro! Rampant Corruption! Unsafe for women after dark!
Home!
10:00 PM
Sarson da Saag! Rotis! Paneer Ghewar! (That Gewar is yet another item that tastes oh so much better than it looks. It tastes crumbly and ghee-y and comforting. It looks, on the other hand, like oversized welding residue.)
11:00 PM
Tried to get in-laws to appreciate Return of the King. They like the 'lighting of beacons' bit. But they think the entire green ghost army thing is a little fraud.
I do too.
12:00 PM
Zzz.
February 5th - 5:15 AM
The guard at the airport door warns me to always carry ID WITH PHOTO henceforth.
Delhi Airport is up and buzzing already. I quickly pocket my boarding pass, check in a package for the missus and walk over to grab a cup of coffee. I am weirdly awake for this time of the day.
Delhi Airport is familiar and un-surprising. Like Jet Airways.
6:15 AM
Up, up and away. I collapse into my seat and pull out the ever-dependable Jet In-flight magazine. The usual mix of large colourful photographs bordered with bare minimum text. But, as always, this too is a collector's item. Aren't all Jet mags?
I give up on Hesse and Siddhartha. It wasn't them, it was me. The guy was beginning to get a little whiny. I need something as philosophical but something happier. More... gung-ho...
Pulled out that old Dave Barry I carry in my first-aid pouch. Aah!
6:17 AM
Whatay brilliant sunrise.
7:30 AM
Step off the stairs and onto the tarmac. Ahmedabad, my friend, it has been too long.
New terminal can be seen adjacent to the old one. Standard issue modern airport building, all straight corners and hideous aluminium cladding.
Ahmedabad disgorges luggage quickly. The joy!
7:32 AM
The Jet luggage emerges on the IC belt. And vice-versa. Some raised eyebrows. One miffed frequent flyer.
A bunch of quiet, sombre looking men in suits stand in a corner. Ties in their pockets. All of them look at their cell-phones and thumb away relentlessly. They look bored/pained/indifferent.
Maybe consultants.
7:45 AM
Quick look-see at the Institute before I run off on work. The city is getting an attitude. Development. Lots of malls and billboards. But still, essentially, a nice sleepy little place.
Notice billboard for a luxury building with its own Jain Temple built in.
8:30 AM
My morning is brilliant. Why you ask? Why this sudden shot of glee? Someone else's misfortune of course. I could not take any snaps, my phone had no space left. But I saw a billboard that blew my mind away. They don't have a website. But I was able to get their address on the net. Click here and understand the source of my mirth.
9:00 AM
Few things are as depressing in life as going to a place you have hajaar memories of but where no-one remembers you any longer. Campus was not exactly a Cheers pub.
My liaison in Ahmedabad will be late. I will roam around further.
9:45 AM
After a brief conversation with some old friends in the Administrative department I walk out to the new campus to have a look.
Too much bare concrete. Brutalist. But still impressive.
When you come to think about it how DO you apply for a job at that Yuranus place? 'I was wondering if you have any openings here in Yur...'
10:15 AM
On the road.
11:00 AM
Disturbing (semantic?) trend I notice in Amdavad that was prevalent in Jaipur as well. People seem to think, and by people I mean owners of restaurants, cafes, banquets halls and such like, that the easiest way to indicate that you are a quality joint it by liberal use of the article 'the'. For instance: 'Crunchy Munchy - THE Restaurant', or 'Ghanesham - THE hangout', and even, 'Miniature Marwaris - THE Creche.'
Weddings all over the place! One wedding car passes by covered in a woven Gujarati-type shroud. Innovative che!
2:30 PM
Gordhan Thaal. THE gujju thaali place. No seriously.
An avalanche of aam ras, dahi vada, gulab jamuns, rotis, puris, aloo shak, kadhi, dal, papdi chaat, nimbu pani, chaas, moong dal sabji, besan something, pickles, chilis... Awww... aww... must... not... pass out... burp...
Outstanding customer service as well. If you are in Amdavad do drop in for a lunch. Great decor, silver crockery and cutlery. All at a hundred bucks a head.
Pin drop silence during lunch. Not one word. More aam ras? YES PLEASE.
Where DO they get mangoes from this time of the year!
3:30 PM
Have a flight to catch in two hours. My assignment in Ahmedabad looking shaky. Dammit.
Lots of CAT coaching places all over the place. Between nurseries in Jaipur and CAT coaching in Ahmedabad there is a burgeoning business.
Spotted a FIITJEE recruiting poster on campus. Those FIITJEE guys are looking at a 2000-crore topline by 2011. Good God!
4:00 PM
Success. Mission accomplished! Now rushing to the airport. No time to talk. All I can say is that another cricket blog is beginning to brew up.
4:15 PM
Rush to campus and pick up luggage. Finally a couple of people who identify their honorable alumnus. I feel nice.
Alas, cannot shop for bumper stickers, if they have any, at the gift shop.
5:15 PM
Just in the nick of time. Managed to get my fave seat as well. The row over the wing next to the emergency exit doors. Unmatched leg room. Where is the gift shop? I need to pick up something for the missus.
At the airport Le Meridien they sell water bottles at MRP.
5:30 PM
Cute babies are a sure crowd puller. And there is one right in front of me as I sit on a chair in the waiting area. A foreigner couple find much mirth in toddling with the cute little thing. And then he pukes all over them and their Lonely Planet and a nice suit jacket.
That conclusively proves that India leaves an indelible mark on all tourists. And an odour.
In my bag nestles a beautiful cell-phone pouch for the missus. Typical gujju work. Mirrors and embroidery and all. She will like it.
6:15 PM
Go Airlines. Clean, uncomplicated. Not bad at all. Corny name though. How do they motivate each other at company meetings? Go, GO, Go! ?
They stick a fragile sticker on my bag without asking. I nod in pleasure.
The legroom made me overlook the lack of magazines and the 'No sir we do not carry any magazines or newspapers at all' response to a fellow passenger.
6:20 PM
One of the crew members was clearly on her first few flights and was terribly nervous. But she did ok though.
And yes I promised to rip off the door and throw it away when the captain said 'Evacuate Evacuate Evacuate'
6:30 PM
I just had a croissant filled with the potato stuffing you normally see in samosas or bad masala dosas. But tasted ok.
Who does the ridiculous drawings on those laminated flight safety flyer in the pouch? Why would people smile serenely as the oxygen levels dropped and the masks fell down? (Perhaps Siddhartha would have...)
(The Indigo flyer actually had a turbanned rajasthani looking man with handlebar moustaches on the flyer instead of the standard woman with shoulder length hair and knee length skirt and high heels. Nice touch!)
I try to read Barry but fall asleep like a baby. I drool just a little bit.
7:20 PM
Looking out of the window over Mumbai at night is awesome. As lights go on and off its like a throbbing organism. Plane rolls this way and then that as it lines up to land. Mumbai, correspondingly, dissappears and reappears in the window.
7:30 PM
Nice neat landing.
Passenger in adjacent seat gers phone call. He speaks very loudly. Soon everyone in the plane understands completely that he is from Rajkot, and he runs a trading company, and he is upset that his order will be delayed and that the guy on the other end was the type who gets a little too close with his own mom.
Luggage came jerking around on the belt in a few minutes and I was out in a flash.
8:00 PM
Cabbie jumped two red light and then got caught. And, having paid his due, he then almost smashed into a Santro side on. Abuse hurtled at him, and a little bit at me.
Crushing traffic on Wadala Bridge. Smoke and pollution everywhere.
It is good to be back!
p.s. Wife loved the pouch!
Showing posts with label Round and About. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Round and About. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Friday, February 02, 2007
Thundering Typhoons and Asteroid Armageddons
Hello all. All good with all of you today? You Mumbaikars voted for your corporators? Very nice.
I've been piqued by a few stories in the media these last few days. One way or the other they have all grabbed my fancy. (Yes yes 'grabbing my fancy'... ha ha... I know... it occurred to me too... ha ha...)
The first one was in the revered Hindu newspaper about Roger Federer's thumping victory over Andy Roddick in the Australian Open. (I understand Federer, who is making up adequately for decades of much maligned Swiss neutrality, also subsequently went on to steamroll all over that Gonzalez fellow.) This story was remarkable not for its reportage but rather for its rather extravagant tone and voice.
At this point I must say that I am not a complete dud when it comes to tennis. Few in Abu Dhabi Indian School will forget that unforgettable (duh) match in 1993. It was a keenly contested match between Anthony D'Souza, that terrible server from 9-B, and this handsome, funny, erudite and popular South Indian kid from 9-A.
I was the ball boy.
There was a serve. There was a mis-hit return that imparted too much reverse spin on the ball. The ball bounced in front of an unsuspecting ballboy. He lunged forward. The ball bounced and rebounded backward. Ballboy's torso followed the ball but his feet had given up hope months ago. There was a 'tender just-pubert face smashing into a unrelenting asphalt surface' situation.
I was that ballboy. Sigh. Wince.
But that is beside the point. I draw your attention to this story from the pages of the Hindu dated 26th January 2007. The story title is fiendishly seductive:
'Roger Federer functions in a parallel universe, outplays Roddick'
Now, as mentioned before, I am not a tennis type of guy. I am too delicate for it. But I am sure that tennis has nothing to do with parallel universes, quantum mechanics, Einstein and that sort of thing. Perhaps it is a literary device, I console myself. The news story itself will surely not continue in this fashion. The hyperbole should be momentary no?
So I read on:
‘Trying to solve the Roger Federer puzzle on a tennis court is a bit like trying to master the String Theory in Quantum Physics. The closer you think you are to a solution, the farther you are from it. As a great scientist said, if you think you have understood string theory, you have not understood string theory.’
This guy was persistent with his physics wasn’t he? Or as a great satire blogger, both tall and handsome and a rage with the ladies, once said, ‘I struggle with a freelance writing career and you get paid to write that??!!!’ No matter. One must not take matters of the media too personally. I bit down on the welling pools of sarcasm and read on. A paragraph later:
‘Trying to get too close to the great man can be an experience ranging from anything between the mere unpleasant to the downright fatal.’
This made Roger Federer sound remarkably like an old hostel roommate of mine especially after a nice Mysore Masala Dosa breakfast in the mess on the weekends. I am sure you know people like that too. They are all over the place. Especially in elevators and packed conference rooms.
Onward ho and... bang into another parallel universe analogy:
'The man functions in a parallel universe that is somehow visible to us against all laws of physics. Only, a twisted many-worlds interpretation can help us make some sense of the man's genius and where it has left men's tennis.'
WTF? The article was increasingly beginning to sound like something Stephen Hawking or Carl Sagan would write when fortified with a little LSD.
So in many ways it was a relief when I came to this:
'Stripped of his sense of self-worth, shaking his head in disbelief in a state of near-delirium, Roddick merely went through the motions like a stone-age warrior fighting a jet age soldier.
Sport is often unfair; but it has never been quite as unfair to quite as many as in the Roger Federer era. This is cruelty. But, then, without the cruelty where would the beauty be?
Not one but two paragraphs free of any reference to physics whatsoever. And to top that was an absolutely brilliant soldier-warrior analogy. (And by brilliant I mean in the context "Jaani Dushman was absolutely brilliant".)
And indeed I ask you where WOULD cruelty be without beauty? Or, to give it an alternate perspective, beauty without cruelty? Or, one might further wonder, solidarity without elasticity? Or, coming to think of it, epistemology without viscosity?
And to close was this magnum opus:
'I would call it the Perfect Match. But that is risky. For, this man has it in him to make perfection look that much more perfect the next time around!'
And I would call it the most OTT tennis story I have ever read. But of course I could not, as just a day or two later the same author came up with a take on the final match between Fed and Gonzalez. A gem from that similarly, if less extravagantly, esteemed piece:
'But, modern sport's most celebrated journey towards immortality will resume in the poetic environs of Parisian springtime — with chirpy little birds joining the chorus of adulation from chestnut trees in full bloom — later this year. Around that time, too, Rod Laver and Bjorn Borg (11 titles) will prepare to welcome His Royal Highness to their elite company.
Barring an asteroid Armageddon, by year's end, only one man in the game's pantheon — Pete Sampras, winner of 14 major titles — will be able to look over his shoulder, rather than in front of him, to spot the Swiss summiteer.'
'Blooming Chestnut Trees! Barring Asteroid Armageddons! Spotted Swiss Summiteers!' emoted Captain Haddock desperately trying to come up with lines for a latter day Tintin Reunion Movie which is seriously beginning to sound like a really bad idea.
And to close off a colourful media review this little bit from a BBC story on Shilpa Shetty:
'The 31-year-old was first noticed in 1993 when she starred in a supporting actress role opposite super star Shah Rukh Khan in the hit film Baazigar (Player).
She then went on to play lead roles in films such as Main Khiladi Tu Anari (Me Player, You Buffoon) and Dhadkan (Heartbeat), most of which were moderate successes but never really runaway hits.'
Like most people I am a huge fan of the Beeb and all their websites and things. But seriously. Me Player, You Buffoon. Hehehehehe. I sense much bollywood mirth here. On to you greatbong!
Cheers all.
Sidin.
p.s. The wife says hi!
I've been piqued by a few stories in the media these last few days. One way or the other they have all grabbed my fancy. (Yes yes 'grabbing my fancy'... ha ha... I know... it occurred to me too... ha ha...)
The first one was in the revered Hindu newspaper about Roger Federer's thumping victory over Andy Roddick in the Australian Open. (I understand Federer, who is making up adequately for decades of much maligned Swiss neutrality, also subsequently went on to steamroll all over that Gonzalez fellow.) This story was remarkable not for its reportage but rather for its rather extravagant tone and voice.
At this point I must say that I am not a complete dud when it comes to tennis. Few in Abu Dhabi Indian School will forget that unforgettable (duh) match in 1993. It was a keenly contested match between Anthony D'Souza, that terrible server from 9-B, and this handsome, funny, erudite and popular South Indian kid from 9-A.
I was the ball boy.
There was a serve. There was a mis-hit return that imparted too much reverse spin on the ball. The ball bounced in front of an unsuspecting ballboy. He lunged forward. The ball bounced and rebounded backward. Ballboy's torso followed the ball but his feet had given up hope months ago. There was a 'tender just-pubert face smashing into a unrelenting asphalt surface' situation.
I was that ballboy. Sigh. Wince.
But that is beside the point. I draw your attention to this story from the pages of the Hindu dated 26th January 2007. The story title is fiendishly seductive:
'Roger Federer functions in a parallel universe, outplays Roddick'
Now, as mentioned before, I am not a tennis type of guy. I am too delicate for it. But I am sure that tennis has nothing to do with parallel universes, quantum mechanics, Einstein and that sort of thing. Perhaps it is a literary device, I console myself. The news story itself will surely not continue in this fashion. The hyperbole should be momentary no?
So I read on:
‘Trying to solve the Roger Federer puzzle on a tennis court is a bit like trying to master the String Theory in Quantum Physics. The closer you think you are to a solution, the farther you are from it. As a great scientist said, if you think you have understood string theory, you have not understood string theory.’
This guy was persistent with his physics wasn’t he? Or as a great satire blogger, both tall and handsome and a rage with the ladies, once said, ‘I struggle with a freelance writing career and you get paid to write that??!!!’ No matter. One must not take matters of the media too personally. I bit down on the welling pools of sarcasm and read on. A paragraph later:
‘Trying to get too close to the great man can be an experience ranging from anything between the mere unpleasant to the downright fatal.’
This made Roger Federer sound remarkably like an old hostel roommate of mine especially after a nice Mysore Masala Dosa breakfast in the mess on the weekends. I am sure you know people like that too. They are all over the place. Especially in elevators and packed conference rooms.
Onward ho and... bang into another parallel universe analogy:
'The man functions in a parallel universe that is somehow visible to us against all laws of physics. Only, a twisted many-worlds interpretation can help us make some sense of the man's genius and where it has left men's tennis.'
WTF? The article was increasingly beginning to sound like something Stephen Hawking or Carl Sagan would write when fortified with a little LSD.
So in many ways it was a relief when I came to this:
'Stripped of his sense of self-worth, shaking his head in disbelief in a state of near-delirium, Roddick merely went through the motions like a stone-age warrior fighting a jet age soldier.
Sport is often unfair; but it has never been quite as unfair to quite as many as in the Roger Federer era. This is cruelty. But, then, without the cruelty where would the beauty be?
Not one but two paragraphs free of any reference to physics whatsoever. And to top that was an absolutely brilliant soldier-warrior analogy. (And by brilliant I mean in the context "Jaani Dushman was absolutely brilliant".)
And indeed I ask you where WOULD cruelty be without beauty? Or, to give it an alternate perspective, beauty without cruelty? Or, one might further wonder, solidarity without elasticity? Or, coming to think of it, epistemology without viscosity?
And to close was this magnum opus:
'I would call it the Perfect Match. But that is risky. For, this man has it in him to make perfection look that much more perfect the next time around!'
And I would call it the most OTT tennis story I have ever read. But of course I could not, as just a day or two later the same author came up with a take on the final match between Fed and Gonzalez. A gem from that similarly, if less extravagantly, esteemed piece:
'But, modern sport's most celebrated journey towards immortality will resume in the poetic environs of Parisian springtime — with chirpy little birds joining the chorus of adulation from chestnut trees in full bloom — later this year. Around that time, too, Rod Laver and Bjorn Borg (11 titles) will prepare to welcome His Royal Highness to their elite company.
Barring an asteroid Armageddon, by year's end, only one man in the game's pantheon — Pete Sampras, winner of 14 major titles — will be able to look over his shoulder, rather than in front of him, to spot the Swiss summiteer.'
'Blooming Chestnut Trees! Barring Asteroid Armageddons! Spotted Swiss Summiteers!' emoted Captain Haddock desperately trying to come up with lines for a latter day Tintin Reunion Movie which is seriously beginning to sound like a really bad idea.
And to close off a colourful media review this little bit from a BBC story on Shilpa Shetty:
'The 31-year-old was first noticed in 1993 when she starred in a supporting actress role opposite super star Shah Rukh Khan in the hit film Baazigar (Player).
She then went on to play lead roles in films such as Main Khiladi Tu Anari (Me Player, You Buffoon) and Dhadkan (Heartbeat), most of which were moderate successes but never really runaway hits.'
Like most people I am a huge fan of the Beeb and all their websites and things. But seriously. Me Player, You Buffoon. Hehehehehe. I sense much bollywood mirth here. On to you greatbong!
Cheers all.
Sidin.
p.s. The wife says hi!
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Balle Balle in Delhi
This weekend I began to get a hint of why the Delhi natives in Mumbai crib so much. Delhi has big wide roads that seem to never get narrow. They just go on and on in long wide loops of pothole-free cement and tar. And there seem to be no slums anywhere. And I dont mean just in Lutyens Delhi. But anywhere. Where do all the poor live in Delhi?
And every once in a while you drive under one of those Delhi Metro bridges. The Delhi types are poud of their Metro. They speak of it like we Mumbai types speak of our 'resilience'. "It is always clean" they say, "always on time. Very good indeed. It not like your local trains".
Anyways. Why the sudden Delhi-centric banter? Isn't this an exclusively Mumbai blog? Of course not. No such thing. Tut tut. This blog is omnipresent. Universal. All inclusive. Family pack. One blog fits all. So since I spent most of my weekend at the 'Rajdhani' partaking of a simple, quiet and calm North Indian wedding I must share my wondrous experiences with all of you. This blog hides nothing.
Simple, quiet and calm? Hehehe. I jest.
Our brethren up north have an approach to weddings which is entirely alien to the average Mallu. Regular readers will be aware of the mechanics of a mallu wedding. The steps are, on average, as follows:
1. Wake up
2. Marry
3. Lunch
4. Dinner
5. Sleep / pass out
6. Bathe
7. Go to airport
8. Land in Muscat
It is plainly evident that the average mallu is extremely focused when it comes to marriages. No hanging around wasting time for him. No singing and gifting and dancing for our dear Velayudhan or Tommy-mon. He is on leave you see and his arab boss will fire his ass if he comes even fifteen minutes late. "Do honeymoon of yours in Dubai shopping mall meester velayudhahn. Okay? You no like?... then you no job, no visa, no nothing! No tell me Ooty, Mysore OKAY!" is what his arab proprietor-cum-manager will say.
Things are a little different in the cooler climes of Delhi. This was my second non-mallu wedding though. The first was an all-UP affair, Khares and Maheshwaris, that was elaborate but restrained. Also it was in the midst of a Delhi winter and I barely managed to keep vital body functions going by imbibing several bloody marys while staying put next to one of those "fire in a barrel" type things. They leave them around at the venue so that the southies have somewhere to congregate and so that little aggro children can keep themselves occupied by throwing food, furniture and each other into the crackling flames.
This time one of the two concerned parties, the bride, was Punjabi. And we all know what happens when you mix the concept of 'wedding' with the philosophy of 'being punjabi'. It is akin to what happens when in engineerin college suddenly, out of the blue, with little warning, with nary a word of caution, a moderately hot woman signs up for mechanical engineering. All engineers surely remember the wholesale churn that follows.
Last weekend I was hopping around swanky hotels for both the Sangeet and subsequently the Shaadi. If there is anything the punjabis could give to the rest of the world as a cultural concept, and a concept that one everyone should embrace wholeheartedly, it is that of the 'Sangeet'. It deserves place right up there with the other great punjabi contributions: Paneer Tikka, Sweet Lassi in 4-litre steel glasses, Stuffed Naans, Sardar jokes, Baba Sehgal and Malaika Arora. What can one possibly say about a setup where one's family actively encourages you to get sloshed and dance till the wee hours of the morning? Not to mention the abundance of pretty young things.
See it works like this. The night before the Shaadi (wedding) a few key relatives and several bottles of assorted alcoholic beverages are assembled together in a single hotel room. The bride and groom are then brought into the room, a wanton distraction, and they then proceed to exchange rings (this was one was a Sagai cum Sangeet), smile, sweat profusely, receive gifts, smile, sweat, smile etc. A stream of relatives parade up and down the stage continuously making short snappy conversations and posing for photographs. Since there are hundreds of people who wish to talk to the couple but only limited imported liquor there is normally a rush to climb on stage and be done with things as soon as possible.
There are several challenges for the parties involved: the couple on stage and the casual observer, like your author, off it.
For the bride and groom it is agony to be wished, hugged and blessed and feet-touched by several hundred relatives who are all trying to say something polite and get their photo taken all the while keeping their eyes on the one solitary waiter who is going around with the white wine. (Terrible I tell you. Terrible. On the other hand there are whisky guys everywhere.)
But things are not too much better for the casual observer either. Everyone knows that weddings, apart from being a celebration of the union of two minds and an occassion for people to renew their social bonds, is also an opportunity to eat a lot of fish for free. But as with all good things there is a catch here too. The author observed that there was a subtle but comprehensible pattern to the order in which he was approached by smart looking waiters with platters laden with food. I was able to work out that for each time I was able to corner one of the fried fish waiters I had to wade through two paneer tikka fellows, one cashewnut wallah and 14 million cocktail samosa specialists. Those samosa fellows were everywhere. Standing between me and my crumb fried fish. Rascals.
I am sure those waiters have some sort of a caste system among themselves. The fish and prawns ones are right at the top and they walk around with their chins in the air. Below them, by a fair distance, are the chicken tikka and mutton kebab types. They are good solid middle-order fellows who are always dependable but have none of the airs of the fish and prawn braggards. Then there are the smooth lower middle class paneer types (Though I would suggest you don’t tell a true-blue Punjabi that paneer is anything less than absolute numero uno.) A little proletariat but still a cut above the bottom. If paneer waiters were a suburb of Mumbai they would be Wadala or maybe Khar. But not as hep as Bandra or as 'ahem ahem' as, say, Koliwada. And then right at the bottom you have the cocktail samosa and assorted rolls and deep fried vegetable bearers. It is a sad life they live. The author did not see a single guest as much as cast a kind glance upon the cocktail samosas. I could spy many a cocktail samosa waiter throwing venomous glances at the fish and prawn man flitting by. ("One day you bastard" he seem to say, "I too will carry the calamari." They have simple ambitions those waiters.)
Anyways. Back to the ceremony at hand. Back to the crux of the matter. The pith of the story. The booze.
As young malayali kids who go on to do graduations in engineering some of us have always wondered what life would be like after death. (Note: That is an extremely weird sentence.) If indeed we were to reach heaven what wondrous joys would we partake of? Surely we would want unlimited food, 24-hour mohanlal movies and waiters running around with free booze? And that too booze of all types: beer, rum, whisky, wine, toddy, palm liquor, fermented battery water... any one of the many beverages we have affectionately grown up with. Well a punjabi Sangeet is almost that. Yes my dear friends. Waiters just walk around with glasses of booze. I swear. I saw it with my own two eyes. Hic!
Me and Pastrami, an old dear friend, swooped down on the 'white wine' fellow. Thankfully we were both MBAs, great at math and linear programming and did some quick calculations. Soon we were able to conclude with 98.76% confidence that the 'white wine' fellow walked by a certain freestanding flower pot in the ballroom every ten to twelve minutes. And, lo behold, conveniently intersecting the same spot every fifteen minutes was a shammi kebab fellow . The next hour and a half was supreme bliss. Till they made us dance.
After the food and wine something very essential to the complete punjabi wedding is song and dance. And boy did this one have some. Now if you are one of those people who saw Hum Saath Saath Hai (English Translation: 'We are all seventy-seven') and thought the marriage ceremonies were too fake to be true, you are totally misunderstimating the truth. I actually saw a few dance items that had been choreographed and rehearsed thoroughly by the members of the family. The performances on the dance-floor were energetic, tight and utterly applause worthy. Pastrami, who had had way too much drink by then, was taken aback. He leaned over and whispered in my ear: "These gurlsh are vehry vehry naishe no. Amashing how pfhht grsh jheyzu?"
I agreed completely.
So it was only a matter of time before we were being asked to join the crowd on the dance floor. Pastrami, even with the better part of two bottles of wine and something which he said was a stiff-ish cashewnut roll but could have been a small plastictooth pick holder inside him, was the first to step up to the slightly raised platform. And by 'step up' I mean trip over the edge and almost body slam someone called 'Badi Bua' into the ground. 'Badi Bua' was one of your quintessential punjabi aunties and Pastrami bounced off at a tangent. Buaji continued dancing to 'Chandigarh Kare Aashiqui' as if nothing had happened to her. I stepped in to help Pastrami at which point they began to play Bin Tere Sanam. I was powerless to stop my feet. I did a mean jig to that one. And to every song after that.
I woke up at the guest house fresh the next morning with a horrible 'white wine' hang over in my head and a cashewnut roll in my pocket. I was promptly told to freshen up quickly for the haldi ceremony. This is where the groom is stripped down and then coated from head to toe in a layer of haldi or turmeric paste. He is then deep fried in virgin groundnut oil. Ha ha. I jest! In our case the haldi paste was merely patted onto the groom's face and then he washes it off. Apparently the haldi paste has a cleansing effect on your body and soul. It drives away all dirt and impurity from your skin and constitution leaving behind hygiene, purity and yellow stains on your clothes that last for most of your post-married life.
I quickly took a car home to wash up and change for the wedding ceremony in the evening.
By evening we were all back at another hotel for the 'pheras' or wedding ceremony. As my dear friends sat besides the ceremonial fire moments away from forging an eternal bond of togetherness my heart filled with a certain emotional and melancholic feeling as Pastrami had just found out that there was no non-veg for dinner. But all was not lost. There was white wine and lots of it. Om Swaha!
Which reminds me of a joke. I am sure you are aware that pundits normally make several jokes in Sanskrit as the marriage goes on. Sometimes they translate the jokes into Hindi and speak it out for the benefit of all the people assembled. And my joke is this: how should one laugh at these wedding mantra type jokes? Swahahahahahaha...
Anyways. Compared to the Sangeet the wedding is a much more serious and sober affair. Except for the stealing of the shoes bit. Apparently custom has it that after the wedding the bride's family members steal the groom's shoes. The shoes are only returned on the payment of a token amount of money. And by token I mean something in the range of twenty-one thousand rupees. Yes enough money to buy a small 100cc bike, a decently big flat screen TV and 3 questions in parliament. I kid not dear friends. Apparently, one oldish uncle told me later, the idea is to prevent the groom from running away after the wedding. Apparently that sort of thing was prevalent in ancient days.
By this point you must be wondering two very important things: one, why did not grooms in ancient days run away bare foot, and two, why hadn't we started drinking yet? Valid questions both of them. Patience my friend, patience. The shoe issue had built up into a little play-acted controversy till a jolly aunty intervened and the groom got his shoes back at the nominal price of fifteen thousand rupees. I joked to one of the punjabi aunties there: "At my wedding I am just going to paint shoes onto my feet." She thought for a moment and said: "We will cut off your feet then." She did not look like she was joking at all. I promptly retired to the alcohol kiosk glumly.
The rest of the wedding was as you would have at any post-wedding reception of any religion, society and culture. There was a huge hall full of people wining and dining merilly while soft sensuous music played in the background including 'Jhalak Dhikla Aaja' seven memorable times. The lucky couple were perched on a stage where they kept smiling for the cameras and kept getting gifts in small thick envelopes. Wonder what they could be in them envelopes? Hmm...
The food was delicious, drink was good and the night was slowly sinking into unremarkability when Pastrami decided we had to do something to inject a little life into the night. Something easy to do yet involving. Quick yet satisfying.
Tequila shots. (What did you think?)
Three shots each later the night was getting much better. We ran back from the hotel bar just in time to see the 'Vidayi'. This is the ritual where the couple is sent off by the bride's family amidst a pall of gloom and tears. After all their daughter was leaving them forever. Their little girl was stepping out from the safe haven of her parents' wing into the mad and fearsome world of family and responsibility. She was now a woman. A married one. As they stepped into the car that lay outside bedecked in flowers several of the women broke out into sobs. They dabbed their eyes with the tips of their sarees. Pastrami, a person who is easily driven into emotion, looked grimly as the car started and sped away.
Of course as the groom lived in Calcutta and it would have been imprudent for them to ride in a Honda City covered in flowers all the way to Budhadeb-land they merely went out of the gate, drove around the hotel and then drove back in through a gate in the back. Which makes the entire melodrama in the previous paragraph look stupid. The couple soon settled into room 1428. (Factual correctness has always been this blog's motto.)
Anyone who has seen mallu movies across the ages will agree that the first night sequence, also known in mallu land as 'the best part of a family movie and the part just before the stove blows up', involves much heavy breathing, electric touches, bodies gently moving towards each other followed by a sweeping camera shot ending in a close-up of the jasmine flowers on the bed. Here much of that were applicable except that instead of jasmine flowers you had two dozen cousins and several other assorted relatives spread out on the bed. Apparently this is a tradition the bengali's call 'kaalratri' where the couple is prevented from sleeping all night by a continous stream of visitors and relatives. But that is only for the first night. The nights after that they only have one of the more senior women aunts or grandmothers who stay in each time.
No no no no. I jest again!
Due to an early flight early the next morning I had to leave my friends after a decent hour and quickly speed back home happy and satisfied. I had just seen a rather complete north indian wedding. It was indeed much more louder and much more fun than the typical mallu christian weddings I have been to. I loved the dancing, the eating, the good cheer and the white wine. The spirit is really quite infectious.
But our Chicken 65 is much better.
And every once in a while you drive under one of those Delhi Metro bridges. The Delhi types are poud of their Metro. They speak of it like we Mumbai types speak of our 'resilience'. "It is always clean" they say, "always on time. Very good indeed. It not like your local trains".
Anyways. Why the sudden Delhi-centric banter? Isn't this an exclusively Mumbai blog? Of course not. No such thing. Tut tut. This blog is omnipresent. Universal. All inclusive. Family pack. One blog fits all. So since I spent most of my weekend at the 'Rajdhani' partaking of a simple, quiet and calm North Indian wedding I must share my wondrous experiences with all of you. This blog hides nothing.
Simple, quiet and calm? Hehehe. I jest.
Our brethren up north have an approach to weddings which is entirely alien to the average Mallu. Regular readers will be aware of the mechanics of a mallu wedding. The steps are, on average, as follows:
1. Wake up
2. Marry
3. Lunch
4. Dinner
5. Sleep / pass out
6. Bathe
7. Go to airport
8. Land in Muscat
It is plainly evident that the average mallu is extremely focused when it comes to marriages. No hanging around wasting time for him. No singing and gifting and dancing for our dear Velayudhan or Tommy-mon. He is on leave you see and his arab boss will fire his ass if he comes even fifteen minutes late. "Do honeymoon of yours in Dubai shopping mall meester velayudhahn. Okay? You no like?... then you no job, no visa, no nothing! No tell me Ooty, Mysore OKAY!" is what his arab proprietor-cum-manager will say.
Things are a little different in the cooler climes of Delhi. This was my second non-mallu wedding though. The first was an all-UP affair, Khares and Maheshwaris, that was elaborate but restrained. Also it was in the midst of a Delhi winter and I barely managed to keep vital body functions going by imbibing several bloody marys while staying put next to one of those "fire in a barrel" type things. They leave them around at the venue so that the southies have somewhere to congregate and so that little aggro children can keep themselves occupied by throwing food, furniture and each other into the crackling flames.
This time one of the two concerned parties, the bride, was Punjabi. And we all know what happens when you mix the concept of 'wedding' with the philosophy of 'being punjabi'. It is akin to what happens when in engineerin college suddenly, out of the blue, with little warning, with nary a word of caution, a moderately hot woman signs up for mechanical engineering. All engineers surely remember the wholesale churn that follows.
Last weekend I was hopping around swanky hotels for both the Sangeet and subsequently the Shaadi. If there is anything the punjabis could give to the rest of the world as a cultural concept, and a concept that one everyone should embrace wholeheartedly, it is that of the 'Sangeet'. It deserves place right up there with the other great punjabi contributions: Paneer Tikka, Sweet Lassi in 4-litre steel glasses, Stuffed Naans, Sardar jokes, Baba Sehgal and Malaika Arora. What can one possibly say about a setup where one's family actively encourages you to get sloshed and dance till the wee hours of the morning? Not to mention the abundance of pretty young things.
See it works like this. The night before the Shaadi (wedding) a few key relatives and several bottles of assorted alcoholic beverages are assembled together in a single hotel room. The bride and groom are then brought into the room, a wanton distraction, and they then proceed to exchange rings (this was one was a Sagai cum Sangeet), smile, sweat profusely, receive gifts, smile, sweat, smile etc. A stream of relatives parade up and down the stage continuously making short snappy conversations and posing for photographs. Since there are hundreds of people who wish to talk to the couple but only limited imported liquor there is normally a rush to climb on stage and be done with things as soon as possible.
There are several challenges for the parties involved: the couple on stage and the casual observer, like your author, off it.
For the bride and groom it is agony to be wished, hugged and blessed and feet-touched by several hundred relatives who are all trying to say something polite and get their photo taken all the while keeping their eyes on the one solitary waiter who is going around with the white wine. (Terrible I tell you. Terrible. On the other hand there are whisky guys everywhere.)
But things are not too much better for the casual observer either. Everyone knows that weddings, apart from being a celebration of the union of two minds and an occassion for people to renew their social bonds, is also an opportunity to eat a lot of fish for free. But as with all good things there is a catch here too. The author observed that there was a subtle but comprehensible pattern to the order in which he was approached by smart looking waiters with platters laden with food. I was able to work out that for each time I was able to corner one of the fried fish waiters I had to wade through two paneer tikka fellows, one cashewnut wallah and 14 million cocktail samosa specialists. Those samosa fellows were everywhere. Standing between me and my crumb fried fish. Rascals.
I am sure those waiters have some sort of a caste system among themselves. The fish and prawns ones are right at the top and they walk around with their chins in the air. Below them, by a fair distance, are the chicken tikka and mutton kebab types. They are good solid middle-order fellows who are always dependable but have none of the airs of the fish and prawn braggards. Then there are the smooth lower middle class paneer types (Though I would suggest you don’t tell a true-blue Punjabi that paneer is anything less than absolute numero uno.) A little proletariat but still a cut above the bottom. If paneer waiters were a suburb of Mumbai they would be Wadala or maybe Khar. But not as hep as Bandra or as 'ahem ahem' as, say, Koliwada. And then right at the bottom you have the cocktail samosa and assorted rolls and deep fried vegetable bearers. It is a sad life they live. The author did not see a single guest as much as cast a kind glance upon the cocktail samosas. I could spy many a cocktail samosa waiter throwing venomous glances at the fish and prawn man flitting by. ("One day you bastard" he seem to say, "I too will carry the calamari." They have simple ambitions those waiters.)
Anyways. Back to the ceremony at hand. Back to the crux of the matter. The pith of the story. The booze.
As young malayali kids who go on to do graduations in engineering some of us have always wondered what life would be like after death. (Note: That is an extremely weird sentence.) If indeed we were to reach heaven what wondrous joys would we partake of? Surely we would want unlimited food, 24-hour mohanlal movies and waiters running around with free booze? And that too booze of all types: beer, rum, whisky, wine, toddy, palm liquor, fermented battery water... any one of the many beverages we have affectionately grown up with. Well a punjabi Sangeet is almost that. Yes my dear friends. Waiters just walk around with glasses of booze. I swear. I saw it with my own two eyes. Hic!
Me and Pastrami, an old dear friend, swooped down on the 'white wine' fellow. Thankfully we were both MBAs, great at math and linear programming and did some quick calculations. Soon we were able to conclude with 98.76% confidence that the 'white wine' fellow walked by a certain freestanding flower pot in the ballroom every ten to twelve minutes. And, lo behold, conveniently intersecting the same spot every fifteen minutes was a shammi kebab fellow . The next hour and a half was supreme bliss. Till they made us dance.
After the food and wine something very essential to the complete punjabi wedding is song and dance. And boy did this one have some. Now if you are one of those people who saw Hum Saath Saath Hai (English Translation: 'We are all seventy-seven') and thought the marriage ceremonies were too fake to be true, you are totally misunderstimating the truth. I actually saw a few dance items that had been choreographed and rehearsed thoroughly by the members of the family. The performances on the dance-floor were energetic, tight and utterly applause worthy. Pastrami, who had had way too much drink by then, was taken aback. He leaned over and whispered in my ear: "These gurlsh are vehry vehry naishe no. Amashing how pfhht grsh jheyzu?"
I agreed completely.
So it was only a matter of time before we were being asked to join the crowd on the dance floor. Pastrami, even with the better part of two bottles of wine and something which he said was a stiff-ish cashewnut roll but could have been a small plastictooth pick holder inside him, was the first to step up to the slightly raised platform. And by 'step up' I mean trip over the edge and almost body slam someone called 'Badi Bua' into the ground. 'Badi Bua' was one of your quintessential punjabi aunties and Pastrami bounced off at a tangent. Buaji continued dancing to 'Chandigarh Kare Aashiqui' as if nothing had happened to her. I stepped in to help Pastrami at which point they began to play Bin Tere Sanam. I was powerless to stop my feet. I did a mean jig to that one. And to every song after that.
I woke up at the guest house fresh the next morning with a horrible 'white wine' hang over in my head and a cashewnut roll in my pocket. I was promptly told to freshen up quickly for the haldi ceremony. This is where the groom is stripped down and then coated from head to toe in a layer of haldi or turmeric paste. He is then deep fried in virgin groundnut oil. Ha ha. I jest! In our case the haldi paste was merely patted onto the groom's face and then he washes it off. Apparently the haldi paste has a cleansing effect on your body and soul. It drives away all dirt and impurity from your skin and constitution leaving behind hygiene, purity and yellow stains on your clothes that last for most of your post-married life.
I quickly took a car home to wash up and change for the wedding ceremony in the evening.
By evening we were all back at another hotel for the 'pheras' or wedding ceremony. As my dear friends sat besides the ceremonial fire moments away from forging an eternal bond of togetherness my heart filled with a certain emotional and melancholic feeling as Pastrami had just found out that there was no non-veg for dinner. But all was not lost. There was white wine and lots of it. Om Swaha!
Which reminds me of a joke. I am sure you are aware that pundits normally make several jokes in Sanskrit as the marriage goes on. Sometimes they translate the jokes into Hindi and speak it out for the benefit of all the people assembled. And my joke is this: how should one laugh at these wedding mantra type jokes? Swahahahahahaha...
Anyways. Compared to the Sangeet the wedding is a much more serious and sober affair. Except for the stealing of the shoes bit. Apparently custom has it that after the wedding the bride's family members steal the groom's shoes. The shoes are only returned on the payment of a token amount of money. And by token I mean something in the range of twenty-one thousand rupees. Yes enough money to buy a small 100cc bike, a decently big flat screen TV and 3 questions in parliament. I kid not dear friends. Apparently, one oldish uncle told me later, the idea is to prevent the groom from running away after the wedding. Apparently that sort of thing was prevalent in ancient days.
By this point you must be wondering two very important things: one, why did not grooms in ancient days run away bare foot, and two, why hadn't we started drinking yet? Valid questions both of them. Patience my friend, patience. The shoe issue had built up into a little play-acted controversy till a jolly aunty intervened and the groom got his shoes back at the nominal price of fifteen thousand rupees. I joked to one of the punjabi aunties there: "At my wedding I am just going to paint shoes onto my feet." She thought for a moment and said: "We will cut off your feet then." She did not look like she was joking at all. I promptly retired to the alcohol kiosk glumly.
The rest of the wedding was as you would have at any post-wedding reception of any religion, society and culture. There was a huge hall full of people wining and dining merilly while soft sensuous music played in the background including 'Jhalak Dhikla Aaja' seven memorable times. The lucky couple were perched on a stage where they kept smiling for the cameras and kept getting gifts in small thick envelopes. Wonder what they could be in them envelopes? Hmm...
The food was delicious, drink was good and the night was slowly sinking into unremarkability when Pastrami decided we had to do something to inject a little life into the night. Something easy to do yet involving. Quick yet satisfying.
Tequila shots. (What did you think?)
Three shots each later the night was getting much better. We ran back from the hotel bar just in time to see the 'Vidayi'. This is the ritual where the couple is sent off by the bride's family amidst a pall of gloom and tears. After all their daughter was leaving them forever. Their little girl was stepping out from the safe haven of her parents' wing into the mad and fearsome world of family and responsibility. She was now a woman. A married one. As they stepped into the car that lay outside bedecked in flowers several of the women broke out into sobs. They dabbed their eyes with the tips of their sarees. Pastrami, a person who is easily driven into emotion, looked grimly as the car started and sped away.
Of course as the groom lived in Calcutta and it would have been imprudent for them to ride in a Honda City covered in flowers all the way to Budhadeb-land they merely went out of the gate, drove around the hotel and then drove back in through a gate in the back. Which makes the entire melodrama in the previous paragraph look stupid. The couple soon settled into room 1428. (Factual correctness has always been this blog's motto.)
Anyone who has seen mallu movies across the ages will agree that the first night sequence, also known in mallu land as 'the best part of a family movie and the part just before the stove blows up', involves much heavy breathing, electric touches, bodies gently moving towards each other followed by a sweeping camera shot ending in a close-up of the jasmine flowers on the bed. Here much of that were applicable except that instead of jasmine flowers you had two dozen cousins and several other assorted relatives spread out on the bed. Apparently this is a tradition the bengali's call 'kaalratri' where the couple is prevented from sleeping all night by a continous stream of visitors and relatives. But that is only for the first night. The nights after that they only have one of the more senior women aunts or grandmothers who stay in each time.
No no no no. I jest again!
Due to an early flight early the next morning I had to leave my friends after a decent hour and quickly speed back home happy and satisfied. I had just seen a rather complete north indian wedding. It was indeed much more louder and much more fun than the typical mallu christian weddings I have been to. I loved the dancing, the eating, the good cheer and the white wine. The spirit is really quite infectious.
But our Chicken 65 is much better.
Monday, April 24, 2006
Wedding Ding Ding
(Beware: Long and self-indulgent)
Aloha brothers and sisters and all you hot women out there! I welcome you from the lush green shores, clear blue waters and highly anti-incumbent political scenario of my wonderful home state of Kerala. It drizzles for a few hours everyday but not enough to cool the nights. I still wake up in the morning leaving a ‘portly man’-shaped sweat stain on my bed. The silence on the blog is because of a cousin’s wedding which has kept all of us here up all day and night for the last one week.
Few people know of mallu weddings. At least not remotely as well as they know of Tam Brahm, Punju, Bong or any one of the other more glamorous wedding processes from around the country. Tam Brahms have their breaking pappadums on the head, the highly comical Kashi Yatra and making the bride sit on her father’s lap thingies. (Or maybe maternal uncle’s lap.). Bongs carry the bride around the ceremonial fire. Punjus are the Texans of India. They do everything bigger, better and fluffier.
Mallu Christian weddings however are simple uncomplicated affairs. They last for half a day at most and the entire sequence of events is designed to culminate in a steaming rich and flavorful lunch served with great care and attention to detail. The meal is truly the cynosure of all eyes and opinions during the wedding.
A few months ago I had the great fortune of attending my first full blown North Indian Wedding. If I remember correctly the bride and groom were both from UP but I do not remember what communities. One may have been Bania. But it had all the elements of a big opulent ‘northie’ wedding. The baraat went from Delhi to Chandigarh, stopping every few kilometers so that the children could pee under trees while the band could play a few Bollywood essentials. Some of the boys smoked behind the buses.
The venue was covered with yards and yards of shiny cloth in reds and pinks with shiny golden tassels. I was dressed, for the occasion, in a smooth new upmarket branded suit. It was, however, woefully inadequate against reams of silk and gold threaded sherwanis and the like.
It was well into a chilly winter and there were little gas fired heaters placed all around the huge grass lawn. Around each heater were circles of plastic chairs where well-fed aunties in almost-bursting silk blouses (clichéd but true) and salwar suits sat and gossiped while their children ran around upsetting glasses of juice and flower pots. I walked around overawed by the whole spectacle for some time.
The couple was presented with gifts, mostly in thick little envelopes. One of the photographers, apparently a CNN-IBN employee specially drafted for the occasion, told me that the couple made enough with those envelopes to have a very decent honeymoon. Once in a while some of the relatives did things like lifting the groom so the bride could not garland him which I found a little bizarre at first. But then I have not yet seen Hum Aapke Hai Kaun which is supposed to be a must watch for northie wedding novices.
All the while the brother of the groom walked around with a thick wad of notes. Crisp pink thousand-rupee ones that he kept handing out every few minutes.
Waiters in rather smart jackets went around with platters of paneer, chicken and prawn. The booze was being served in trolleys. You asked the man for a drink, any drink, and he quickly made it for you and even wrapped a little paper napkin around each glass. After three hours of ‘screwdriver’ drinking I gave up. I was told he was still pushing around the trolley till 3 in the morning. The dinner had at least 30 dishes. Maybe there was more but there were too many tables all around to cover them all. The wedding finally got over at 4 in the morning in a little room which stood apart form the lawn. The pujari made cute jokes which most of the family laughed. But I was a little drunk and very sleepy and missed most of them.
On the other hand for the last one week I have been stationed almost permanently at the local parish hall here in Pavaratty. It is a whitewashed two-storey building a stone’s throw away from the parish church that was built only a few years ago. But every year the ceiling begins to sag a little and they add a few more pillars to support the weight. So much so that the main dining hall is now called the Madurai Meenakshi temple because of all the pillars that obscures your views and gets in the way of all the waiters. (Rumours abound that the then parish priest siphoned out cement from the construction to build a house for his brother. And apparently he used the ambulance from the parish hospital to carry out the deed. Such are the conspiracies my little village cherishes.) The engineer who worked on the hall also designed my uncle’s (the bride’s) house. They live in mortal fear.
My uncle, the father of the bride, and the brother of the author’s father, is not one for shows of opulence or wanton spending of riches. (Not that he has too much of both. He is a simple little man who has worked in the same bank since graduation and refused any higher promotions because he did not want to work in Calcutta or Delhi. Tanjavur was the farthest he would go.) Left to him he would just get the bride, groom and priest in a little room and be done with it. However he does believe in making sure the lunch is a blockbuster. “They will only remember the fish, chicken and pork,” he’d say, “not the bride or groom or priest or videographer.” When I was younger I used to vehemently disagree. But now I know he is right. A relative’s wedding a year or so ago is still remembered only for the fried rice which was too cold, the chilly chicken that had too much soy sauce and the ice cream that was melted in the cup.
So I was there when they counted out 95 skinned and quartered chickens, chopped up 55 kilos of the most wonderfully fresh and firm fish chunks and suddenly discovered they were short of 15 litres of curd for the consolation vegetarian dish. (Kaalan. Raw bananas cooked in a thick, tangy coconut based gravy served at room temperature.) All this of course is much more complicated than it sounds. Five cooks with ultra short tempers and always a little tipsy on Old Cask Rum are highly nerve-wracking to manage. I ran around in my Adidas tracks and oversize check ‘work shirt’ with my cellphone pasted to my ear. At 3 or 4 in the morning the cooks have a habit of asking for the most ridiculous things. Three kilos of old newspaper. Two packets of macaroni. (Only elbow please.) At one point we even had to grind our way through 5 kilos of masala. Half for the fish and half for the chicken, we had to do it with an old gulf return mixer-grinder that could do one tea cup worth at a time. It took two hours. But all this is to be expected.
What was not expected was that a couple of allegedly Muslim League supporters would hack to death the Corporation Chairman of Chavakkad (a staunch leftist) the night before the wedding. Within minutes there were cars burning and stones hurling and hartal declaring. Policemen everywhere to prevent retribution murders.
Saying there was complete panic would be a colossal understatement. The groom was still kilometers away in a little hamlet called Kottekad. It was a given that more than half of the 800 or so invitees would not be able turn up. There were rumours that there would be violent road blocking the next day and even the usual concession for wedding party convoys may not be extended by the severely upset commies. I was called for a top level huddle of male relative to decide on further action. The oldest, and alas the loudest, couple of uncles and grandfathers were allowed to speak as much as they wanted. Then, once they had left, we regrouped without them and planned. A few bottles of beer were popped open.
But the greatest worry was that the shops would be closed and the cooking would come to a complete and agonizing stop. In fact at that point in time the only part of the proceedings completely ready for action was the alcohol supplies. Three cases of KF and enough bottles of rum, brandy and whisky had been stashed away the night before. (And already partaken of but my uncle did not know this of course.)
But the famed mallu resilience (but not as much as the ‘resilience of the mumbaikar’) kicked in and all of us were up all night. The groom was shipped in overnight before dawn. Asianet News said that the hartal would kick in at 6 in the morning. I called the Manorama office to reconfirm. We secretly opened up a couple of the local provision stores and shipped out provisions from the back doors. The waiters and table setters indicated at midnight that they would not be able to come. Which meant we had to come up with a serving team of 25 as soon as possible. We did. Somehow. Distant relatives and any able bodied males were drafted in on sight.
It suddenly occurred to me that we had not checked if the priest was in station. A couple of frantic calls later we were told by a grumpy security guard that the priest would come in at 3 in the morning. Our priests are mostly nice and very eager to please the parishioners. Sort of like the ones you read about in Blyton or something. Though there are the occasional cement thieving ones.
At 11:15 the next morning, a few minutes behind schedule, the families made it to the church with a cloud of photogrgaphers and light-boys swarming around. Only half the invitees could make it in time for the Mass in church but, as expected, many more of them made it to the lunch after the service. I ran between the church and parish hall. There were photos to be taken at one end and banana leaves to be cut and cleaned at the other.
We served everything in large luxurious portions, partly because nothing spread faster than the gossip that the Vadukuts were stingy with their chicken or held back on the fish curry gravy, but mostly because we did not want to be loaded with tons and tons of leftovers.
By evening the official result was out. The lunch was a brilliant success. The chicken was cooked with great flavour, the fish was cooked to delicate, flaky perfection and the rice soaked up gravy just like it should. After sizeable dispatches of food to the local nursing college (a charitable institution for girls from poor families) and waiting for all the beggars to have their fill (and pack small packets in banana leaves for their later consumption) we carried the rest home in buckets. Not too much. Nothing we couldn’t eat through in a couple of days.
I sat in the evening and tried to sort out the few gifts and presents they received. Pressure cookers, casseroles, gold coins, some money and a few cheques. Nothing good enough for a honeymoon. Maybe enough for a trip to Thrissur, a new Mohan Lal movie and a dinner at Thrissur Towers, a swanky place where all the rich tourists stay.
So all in all I guess the wedding was a great success. There was no horse or brass band. No bespoke suits and gas heaters. No jacketed waiters and no trolleys of drinks by any means. Only a whole bunch of young men in stained white dhotis and crumpled shirts with aching backs smelling of fish. But the lunch was good and my cousin calls from Calicut every morning. She finds her in-laws wonderful but is still too bashful to talk about her husband.
I, on the other hand, need to go now because my uncle tells me some of the bills for the hall rental and the stage decoration still need to be settled. And my little nephew is watching Pokemon too loudly. That is not blogging-friendly at all you must agree.
Aloha brothers and sisters and all you hot women out there! I welcome you from the lush green shores, clear blue waters and highly anti-incumbent political scenario of my wonderful home state of Kerala. It drizzles for a few hours everyday but not enough to cool the nights. I still wake up in the morning leaving a ‘portly man’-shaped sweat stain on my bed. The silence on the blog is because of a cousin’s wedding which has kept all of us here up all day and night for the last one week.
Few people know of mallu weddings. At least not remotely as well as they know of Tam Brahm, Punju, Bong or any one of the other more glamorous wedding processes from around the country. Tam Brahms have their breaking pappadums on the head, the highly comical Kashi Yatra and making the bride sit on her father’s lap thingies. (Or maybe maternal uncle’s lap.). Bongs carry the bride around the ceremonial fire. Punjus are the Texans of India. They do everything bigger, better and fluffier.
Mallu Christian weddings however are simple uncomplicated affairs. They last for half a day at most and the entire sequence of events is designed to culminate in a steaming rich and flavorful lunch served with great care and attention to detail. The meal is truly the cynosure of all eyes and opinions during the wedding.
A few months ago I had the great fortune of attending my first full blown North Indian Wedding. If I remember correctly the bride and groom were both from UP but I do not remember what communities. One may have been Bania. But it had all the elements of a big opulent ‘northie’ wedding. The baraat went from Delhi to Chandigarh, stopping every few kilometers so that the children could pee under trees while the band could play a few Bollywood essentials. Some of the boys smoked behind the buses.
The venue was covered with yards and yards of shiny cloth in reds and pinks with shiny golden tassels. I was dressed, for the occasion, in a smooth new upmarket branded suit. It was, however, woefully inadequate against reams of silk and gold threaded sherwanis and the like.
It was well into a chilly winter and there were little gas fired heaters placed all around the huge grass lawn. Around each heater were circles of plastic chairs where well-fed aunties in almost-bursting silk blouses (clichéd but true) and salwar suits sat and gossiped while their children ran around upsetting glasses of juice and flower pots. I walked around overawed by the whole spectacle for some time.
The couple was presented with gifts, mostly in thick little envelopes. One of the photographers, apparently a CNN-IBN employee specially drafted for the occasion, told me that the couple made enough with those envelopes to have a very decent honeymoon. Once in a while some of the relatives did things like lifting the groom so the bride could not garland him which I found a little bizarre at first. But then I have not yet seen Hum Aapke Hai Kaun which is supposed to be a must watch for northie wedding novices.
All the while the brother of the groom walked around with a thick wad of notes. Crisp pink thousand-rupee ones that he kept handing out every few minutes.
Waiters in rather smart jackets went around with platters of paneer, chicken and
On the other hand for the last one week I have been stationed almost permanently at the local parish hall here in Pavaratty. It is a whitewashed two-storey building a stone’s throw away from the parish church that was built only a few years ago. But every year the ceiling begins to sag a little and they add a few more pillars to support the weight. So much so that the main dining hall is now called the Madurai Meenakshi temple because of all the pillars that obscures your views and gets in the way of all the waiters. (Rumours abound that the then parish priest siphoned out cement from the construction to build a house for his brother. And apparently he used the ambulance from the parish hospital to carry out the deed. Such are the conspiracies my little village cherishes.) The engineer who worked on the hall also designed my uncle’s (the bride’s) house. They live in mortal fear.
My uncle, the father of the bride, and the brother of the author’s father, is not one for shows of opulence or wanton spending of riches. (Not that he has too much of both. He is a simple little man who has worked in the same bank since graduation and refused any higher promotions because he did not want to work in Calcutta or Delhi. Tanjavur was the farthest he would go.) Left to him he would just get the bride, groom and priest in a little room and be done with it. However he does believe in making sure the lunch is a blockbuster. “They will only remember the fish, chicken and pork,” he’d say, “not the bride or groom or priest or videographer.” When I was younger I used to vehemently disagree. But now I know he is right. A relative’s wedding a year or so ago is still remembered only for the fried rice which was too cold, the chilly chicken that had too much soy sauce and the ice cream that was melted in the cup.
So I was there when they counted out 95 skinned and quartered chickens, chopped up 55 kilos of the most wonderfully fresh and firm fish chunks and suddenly discovered they were short of 15 litres of curd for the consolation vegetarian dish. (Kaalan. Raw bananas cooked in a thick, tangy coconut based gravy served at room temperature.) All this of course is much more complicated than it sounds. Five cooks with ultra short tempers and always a little tipsy on Old Cask Rum are highly nerve-wracking to manage. I ran around in my Adidas tracks and oversize check ‘work shirt’ with my cellphone pasted to my ear. At 3 or 4 in the morning the cooks have a habit of asking for the most ridiculous things. Three kilos of old newspaper. Two packets of macaroni. (Only elbow please.) At one point we even had to grind our way through 5 kilos of masala. Half for the fish and half for the chicken, we had to do it with an old gulf return mixer-grinder that could do one tea cup worth at a time. It took two hours. But all this is to be expected.
What was not expected was that a couple of allegedly Muslim League supporters would hack to death the Corporation Chairman of Chavakkad (a staunch leftist) the night before the wedding. Within minutes there were cars burning and stones hurling and hartal declaring. Policemen everywhere to prevent retribution murders.
Saying there was complete panic would be a colossal understatement. The groom was still kilometers away in a little hamlet called Kottekad. It was a given that more than half of the 800 or so invitees would not be able turn up. There were rumours that there would be violent road blocking the next day and even the usual concession for wedding party convoys may not be extended by the severely upset commies. I was called for a top level huddle of male relative to decide on further action. The oldest, and alas the loudest, couple of uncles and grandfathers were allowed to speak as much as they wanted. Then, once they had left, we regrouped without them and planned. A few bottles of beer were popped open.
But the greatest worry was that the shops would be closed and the cooking would come to a complete and agonizing stop. In fact at that point in time the only part of the proceedings completely ready for action was the alcohol supplies. Three cases of KF and enough bottles of rum, brandy and whisky had been stashed away the night before. (And already partaken of but my uncle did not know this of course.)
But the famed mallu resilience (but not as much as the ‘resilience of the mumbaikar’) kicked in and all of us were up all night. The groom was shipped in overnight before dawn. Asianet News said that the hartal would kick in at 6 in the morning. I called the Manorama office to reconfirm. We secretly opened up a couple of the local provision stores and shipped out provisions from the back doors. The waiters and table setters indicated at midnight that they would not be able to come. Which meant we had to come up with a serving team of 25 as soon as possible. We did. Somehow. Distant relatives and any able bodied males were drafted in on sight.
It suddenly occurred to me that we had not checked if the priest was in station. A couple of frantic calls later we were told by a grumpy security guard that the priest would come in at 3 in the morning. Our priests are mostly nice and very eager to please the parishioners. Sort of like the ones you read about in Blyton or something. Though there are the occasional cement thieving ones.
At 11:15 the next morning, a few minutes behind schedule, the families made it to the church with a cloud of photogrgaphers and light-boys swarming around. Only half the invitees could make it in time for the Mass in church but, as expected, many more of them made it to the lunch after the service. I ran between the church and parish hall. There were photos to be taken at one end and banana leaves to be cut and cleaned at the other.
We served everything in large luxurious portions, partly because nothing spread faster than the gossip that the Vadukuts were stingy with their chicken or held back on the fish curry gravy, but mostly because we did not want to be loaded with tons and tons of leftovers.
By evening the official result was out. The lunch was a brilliant success. The chicken was cooked with great flavour, the fish was cooked to delicate, flaky perfection and the rice soaked up gravy just like it should. After sizeable dispatches of food to the local nursing college (a charitable institution for girls from poor families) and waiting for all the beggars to have their fill (and pack small packets in banana leaves for their later consumption) we carried the rest home in buckets. Not too much. Nothing we couldn’t eat through in a couple of days.
I sat in the evening and tried to sort out the few gifts and presents they received. Pressure cookers, casseroles, gold coins, some money and a few cheques. Nothing good enough for a honeymoon. Maybe enough for a trip to Thrissur, a new Mohan Lal movie and a dinner at Thrissur Towers, a swanky place where all the rich tourists stay.
So all in all I guess the wedding was a great success. There was no horse or brass band. No bespoke suits and gas heaters. No jacketed waiters and no trolleys of drinks by any means. Only a whole bunch of young men in stained white dhotis and crumpled shirts with aching backs smelling of fish. But the lunch was good and my cousin calls from Calicut every morning. She finds her in-laws wonderful but is still too bashful to talk about her husband.
I, on the other hand, need to go now because my uncle tells me some of the bills for the hall rental and the stage decoration still need to be settled. And my little nephew is watching Pokemon too loudly. That is not blogging-friendly at all you must agree.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
The gasket and the hole in the ground - Part 2
We boarded a bus for Lonar a little past
As the trip progressed we noticed something peculiar about the dietary habits of the locals. Apparently the staple diet of the locals in central
What’s for breakfast?
Bonda Bhajiya
Whats for lunch?
Bonda Bhajiya
Whats for dinner?
Bonda Bhajiya
What is your name?
Bonda Bhajiya
Ha! Got you!
An other alarming trend was the complete inability to use Hindi as a medium of communication as we went more and more into the rugged heartland. After a point even the marathi became very difficult to understand. However after much shaking and rattling and bonda eating we reached the
I walked over to the nearest shop and asked the old man for our final target. “Bhai saab yeh hypervelocity basaltic meteoric crater aapko pata hai?” He blinked. I then spread out the palm of one hand and made a ball of the other and, drawing a graceful trajectory, slammed one into the other. He smiled and nodded, went into his shop, and handed me a nice little plate of Bondas and Bhajiyas.
But soon we saw a sign board for the MTDC hotel, where we were to stay, and began to walk. We had carried with us a Lonely Planet guide and it gave us some idea of what we were about to face. A brisk walk to the crater it said. We began to briskly walk and after some distance we saw another sign board which told us to take a right from the main road and walk for another two kilometers. So it was no surprise that as we walked we all concluded it would have been much simpler if the meteorite had landed near a major railway station or airport or in South Bombay and would have been much easier to explore. But try telling the MTDC that.
Anyways we reached in due course and checked into the hotel. Right across the road, was quite literally, the biggest hole in the ground I have ever seen. It was some 150 meters in depth and almost two kilometers across. One moment you are walking by the road tanning slowly into an apricot and then the next moment you are standing looking over one of the biggest craters in the world. Breathtaking indeed. We rejoiced and decided to do our first trek a little after lunch when the sun went down.
There was no power in the hotel. This was a minor issue however and we bathed and freshened up and dropped into the MTDC restaurant which, the board outside proclaimed, was open from
We were facing that marathi problem again. We finally located a more helpful fellow who told us that the restaurant was closed and lunch would be served at 2:00 PM. Not a morsel before. Finally we had lunch and walked out across the road to descend into the crater. It was a most arduous journey and sapped most of our energy but by the time we reached the edge of the crater the sun had mellowed somewhat.
Finally we gathered enough courage to descend. The crater, incidentally, has twelve ancient temples inside and our guide books told us it was almost entirely untouched by the modern human hand inside. A most surreal experience it was sure to be. We trekked to the bottom through perilous slopes and over craggy merciless rocks and finally made it. The lake at the bottom is super alkaline and has a pH of 10.5 or so. Or, as they call it in Chennai, tap water. No sign of any other human beings yet. We decided to trek around the shallow lake at the bottom.
A few temples later we came across a bunch of cavorting couples. And to be honest a lot of modern human hand was touching a lot of other modern human things if you know what I mean. But onward we continued letting the couples be and merely taking a few photos for our reference. That is when we bumped into a large metal object that seemed to be making rhythmic thud noises.
A diesel generator? At the bottom of a crater! This was quite unsettling, and smacked of human presence. We happened upon a nice little agricultural setup right in the middle of the crater where they seemed to growing spinach. We sat and watched them at work for sometime and, after the initial shock had passed, sat down to enjoy the rustic pleasure of it all. But this was short-lived as one of the farmers received a phone call to the tune of something by Himesh Reshamiyya and we quickly left.
It was beginning to darken now and the sun was slowly turning in for the day. We quickly located our way back and followed the exact way up the crater as we had come down. We emerged at the top some 4 kilometers away from the hotel. Most of us were gasping for breath from the ascent and walked quite slowly. The locals seemed to think we were foreigners and a particular gentleman walked with us. He was an incessant conversationalist.
Man: Hello?
Us: Hello!
Man: Hello!
Us: Hello?
Man: Ah! Hello!
Us: Ahem… Hello!
After a couple of kilometers, like long-term love affairs that are forced to turn to issues of Cosmo and Playstation, we ran out of things to talk about and the man let us be. We returned to the hotel and decided on our next plan of action. Buy beer.
We bought much beer and the night was full of fun and frolic and we decided that we would wake up early next day morning, say around six, to do a complete trek of the bottom and all the temples. Then we would catch the bus to
Back in
We finally reached the station in time and we quickly dispersed, each person assigned a specific commodity to purchase for the trip like food, beverages and reading material. Now let this be a warning to all, never drink a beer called Zingaro from Lonar. Some of us apparently were still buzzed and in the ensuing confusion we boarded the train with 14 litres of drinking water, two dozen five-star chocolates and 7 copies of the Mid-Day. Suffice to say that by the time we reached
I was more than pleased when I reached home. It had been a most wonderful trip. I had enjoyed the journey, the trekking and of course the joys of fellowship and sharing. So it was with much glee I entered my house and went into the kitchen to eat something. I opened the still warm food containers to find that my maid had made our weekend special. Bonda and Bhajiya.
Dammit.
The gasket and the hole in the ground - Part 1
Yes it has been a very long time indeed. But as usual I have a set of rather good reasons. Most importantly I have been concentrating on a couple of columns and my book. FYI the book comes along very well and I am proud to say I am almost 50000 words through. (Clap Clap). And it looks like the first draft will get squeezed out end next month. And before you ask it is not a funny book. Well at least not in the Domain Maximus scheme of things. But there are a few jokes in it. But no sex. (Yet.)
As that may be, a couple of interesting things kept my fingers away from the laptop over the last few weekends. Both were journeys out of
The first began as a set of innocent instant messages. I was sitting at home on a weekday morning fretting over a particularly turbulent stretch of prose. Inspiration and content seemed to have abandoned me completely. Thankfully my roommate had left for work with his Gmail on auto login and I was deep in thought, research and photo downloading. (Man, did he have a side I did not know of. Literally.) Suddenly I noticed a close friend online and we embarked on a merry little conversation. Suddenly he popped the question. “This weekend. Let us drive to Lonavala. In my car. It will be great fun.” I accepted almost immediately.
Later I would rue the decision. Not because I had not thought it through. But because my friend had grossly misrepresented the terms “drive”, “fun” and, of course, “car”. We left fresh and spiritedly on a Saturday morning at
My friend, the auto genius, stepped out of the car and propped up the hood. He was immediately engulfed in thick white steam and momentarily looked majestic and heroic. But it soon passed when he walked up to the car and said, and I dont jest when I say he is an expert, “Dude there is a lot of smoke. Shit.” He called me out and decided something drastic had to be done. We rolled up our sleeves. The three other souls in the car snored in support.
Four hours later we were merrily bouncing along the Pune Expressway drinking beer and singing songs, the wind in our face and considerable dust in our eyes. Ahead of us a tow truck pulled as along as we made our way back to a workshop. We ate several vada pavs on the way and slowly even the dashtop deodorant began to fail.
Soon we reached what would prove to be the highlight of our trip. A place called Turbhe. There we handed over our car to a workshop. We described our problem in details to the proprietor. “There was a sudden eruption of steam towards the forward half of the automobile culminating in a rapid loss of forward motion. We suspect it could be a sudden steam eruption locomotion loss problem.” He nodded and smiled wryly at our complete understanding of the issue. We were engineers and were not prepared to let him take us or the car for a ride. (Not that the car would have let him.)
Car repair expenses are remarkably like courting women. The workshop charges you a steep flat fee just to pop the hood but any more exploration pushes expenses exponentially. By the evening we were told that the problem was with something called an air gasket that would cost some 15 rupees to buy. Replacing it would cost another 34000 rupees or so. Apparently the gasket is designed in such a way that you can only replace it by lifting the car on a stand, removing the engine, replacing the pistons, removing all the doors, changing the upholstery and then getting a new paint job. We were not to be fooled and told him to LEAVE THE PAINT JOB ALONE!
Two weekends after that we decided that Lonavla had proved to be too easy a challenge and we should now go to a place called Lonar. For the simpleton Lonar is the site of the world’s largest high-velocity meteorite impact crater in basalt that also had beer shops. In other words a perfect place for a two day weekend trip. The trip involved traveling overnight to
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
