It’s over. It’s all over. I will never get to see her again; never get to hold her completely. I held her for too long, and now she’s gone. If only I’d not kept her away for so long. If only I had pulled her back towards me. If only…
But now, it’s over. It’s all over. And all I am left with is half a Parle G biscuit in my hand. If only I had pulled her back out of the tea in time. She would still be complete, and with me.
But life is about moving on. I have already picked up another biscuit. And this time, I won’t dip it for long. This time, I won’t lose her to a cup of tea. This time, I won’t let the lower half get soggy and fall apart.
Don’t give me those looks. I am emotionally attached to my food okay.
Now before I begin with this post, I need to set a few records straight. Thanks to a handful of idiotic bloggers, I am getting known in the blogosphere as “Mr. Poopy” or “Poop Head”. And this is just because in a couple of my posts, I have cracked a couple of insignificant lines on toilet humor. Now if you notice only that line in the whole fucking post, it is you who is poop obsessed, not me.
Thanks to me being referred to as Poopy/Poop-Obsessed/Poop-Head everywhere, people, I’m sure, are imagining me in my toilet as this:
I enter the toilet. Sit and do my business. Once I am done, I sit on the bathroom floor beside the commode and sing odes to the magnificence of the floating yellow. And then I yell “Ye zaalim samaaj humein ek nahi hone dega! Lekin hum phir milenge. Kisi aur jagah. Kisi aur janam mein. Tab tak ke liye, alvida!” and flush. Then I wipe off a lone tear from the corner of my eye, and go to brush my teeth.
The above description is of someone who should be called poop-obsessed, not me.
So I had recently been to my first cousin’s wedding, and it was a great experience. The journey started with a long drive from Baroda to Bombay in my uncle’s Tata Indica, which is surprisingly comfortable for such long drives. Now I’m a restless sitter in a long drive, so throughout that drive I had taken all the positions described in the Kama Sutra, at regular intervals, one after the other, sitting in the back seat.
The first day was the Garba night. Now Communists can survive without a pair of red underwear (so can Govinda), but a Gujju cannot survive without his/her bi-annual doze of Garba. I played garba after like ages, and I love garba, so I thoroughly enjoyed it. After the Garba, various cousins and friends of the bride and the groom had organized performances for that night. Since I no more stay in Bombay, I didn’t have time to rehearse for a dance. But I made it up by hosting the whole event, and luckily it went well.
The next day was the main wedding. Now this was, as far as I remember, the first such wedding of my life where I was so actively involved. Since I was the brother of the bride, lots of responsibilities were supposed to be handled.
Everyone was so heavily decked up in the wedding that it looked like a regular day in the house of an Ekta Kapoor serial family.
You know that clichéd joke that in weddings all elders come and tell you ‘you’re next’ and you feel like doing the same to them in funerals? I literally went through that feeling in this wedding, because almost every other relative and non-relative was coming up to me and telling me ‘you’re next beta’. And the worst part is, going by cousin hierarchy, I bloody AM next.
My mom told me that many aunties came up to her in the wedding and asked her what I do and where I work and stuff. A few aunties came up directly to me, introducing themselves and later their daughters, who luckily weren’t present.
I was the eligible bachelor in that wedding. I’m not being pompous here, but this is not the kind of spotlight I like being in.
Many people later asked me if I liked any girl in the wedding. Well there were a few good lookers, but none that made my heart skip a beat. And no I’m not the guy who falls for good looks. It’s just that, at times you just know. I was actually hoping that my hunt for my ‘the one’ would end in this wedding, but it didn’t happen so.
Now after the girls were done getting ready and with their entire make up, my brother and I thought that even we should get a little touch up. So we went up outside the girls’ changing room and asked if we could get our touch up. Inside me was a voice calling me gay and mocking me. But I needed the touch up to cover the freaking pimple on the nose. We all have experienced this. Throughout the whole year your face will be spotless, but out of nowhere a boil will emerge on your face on the very day of a function.
When we asked them if we could get the touch up, the bridal make up team gave a stern ‘No’. Giving us even the smallest of a foundation cream application would have fallen outside the boundaries of their pay. Bitches they were.
Luckily one of my sister’s friends obliged to apply some foundation type powder with a brush, and we were happy. But we weren’t happy when she yelled, “Don’t worry. I’ll do these guys’ make up.”
IT’S NOT FUCKING MAKE UP!!!
But the part that followed was so embarrassing for me, it made the Sharad Pawar – Harvinder Singh incident look like garland ceremony.
That girl came out of the girls’ room, and in full public view, started applying that powder on our face with a brush. A few girls passing by giggled and commented ‘Oho! Now these guys need make up too?!’
God I am dying now-u!
She’s happy how-u?
That moment passed quickly, and she did her job well. Pimple ka naam-o-nishaan mit chuka tha.
This wedding was held in a marriage hall on the top floor of Raghuleela Mall, Kandivli. Now the hall was splendid and spacious, but I realized that hosting a wedding in a mall is not a good idea. It was hell awkward when I stood with my brother outside the mall entrance, all dressed up for a wedding, on a busy Sunday morning, waiting to welcome the groom’s side. It was even more awkward when my brother got a call and walked away, leaving me alone to handle the weird stares. But I’m sure these things were nothing in front of the fact that to attend his own wedding, the groom had to go through checking at the mall entrance.
Also, that very day there were three more marriages in the same mall, in different halls. So there were four direction boards kept on the top floor of the mall, fourth one being for Gold’s Gym. I was on a constant look out for suspicious non-gujju looking guests at the wedding, because I was sure at least one person would have entered the wrong wedding.
Now the bride and groom have to go through way too many rituals before the groom actually steps into the hall. The mother-in-law trying to catch his nose, the bride and groom attempting to put the garland on each other (my sister literally threw it on him out of competitiveness), and various other I don’t remember, as during that whole time my mind was occupied by a small patch of rice that was stuck under my sandals.
This wedding was a close family affair, so I had to make sure that everyone is eating, everyone is comfortable and stuff. But when I looked at the audience, I realized that this was the first time I was on the other side. I have always been among the audience, the people who can’t wait to eat and leave.
But in that wedding I really missed having my girl alongside me. A hypothetical girl if you may. Because I had no one around to bitch my heart out to. Comments like ‘Look at how much acne she has on her back,’ and ‘she’s wearing a cheap bra’ and ‘man that chick is hot’, all died inside me.
Now it may look great fun in movies, but the custom of stealing the groom’s shoes can literally turn into a rugby huddle, which I witnessed for the first time in my life.
After the wedding and the yummy food came the Bidaai part. My sister was already little teary eyed during the wedding itself. But when the see-off time came, all the women - my sister, my maasi, my mom, my sister’s friends, started crying. Even my brother, who was the bride’s real brother, couldn’t hold back. I was her cousin, but the situation started getting even me a bit choked, so I took out my cell phone and started checking Facebook to divert my mind.
The whole wedding luckily got over with ease, and no issues cropped up whatsoever. All the guests went back home happy and well fed.
The next day was the reception, which was in Nashik, since the groom is from Nashik.
The drive from Mumbai to Nashik is one of the sexiest drives I have ever had in my life. The landscape was picturesque, and the climate was serene. It was also one of the few drives of my life when I was awake the whole time.
On our way, we asked the driver to play music. He played ‘Choli ke peeche kya hai’. I gave the driver a look that, if I was an X-Man, would have made him get out of the car and jump down a nearby valley. Luckily one of us had our CD, and the trip was saved. The very first song in the CD was Bhaag Bose DK, which I felt God had specially dedicated on behalf of me to the driver.
The reception was good too, but nothing memorable happened there. Although I did realize that non-family wedding receptions are much more convenient. You come, stand in line for the stage, meet, click, eat like you’ve never eaten before in life, and leave.
Personally speaking, I hate giving cash in weddings. I prefer gifts. But sadly that is what most people do, and the most common denomination is Rs. 101. I am very serious that in my wedding invitation, I’m going to specifically mention ‘Only gifts, no cash’.
All in all, this was a fun wedding. And as opposed to what I’d said in my previous post, I did get time to go home. So I was happy.
P.S.: Facebook is PMSing again. I add ten people, nine accept, and one doesn’t, and FB thinks I’m a stalker. It has blocked my friend requests for 14 days. So if anyone wants to add me, the link is on this page itself.