The bridesmaid’s diaries — Part I

This is the first of what will probably end up as a series. If I get ambitious, I might even take out an Indian version of “The Bridesmaid’s Hand-book”. Well, how this started was when I realized that I was (and continue to be) on my third bride in less than a year, with two to go next year, and my memory refuses to come to my help any time I have to go on countless shopping trips or spa bookings, or discussions on venues, themes, cards and guest lists.

Now, don’t get me wrong… I love doing all that, but I’ve always wondered it would be easier if someone had chronicled this, so that I’d have some pointers to start off with. There are several resources for the Western bride, but what of my beautiful Indian ones? So, after Bride No. 3 refused to do this on her blog, I figured I’ll give it a go instead.

First up, it’s important to remember that there might be several kinds of brides, but some things will never-ever change!

There’s the one that’s done so much research herself that one would wonder why anyone would have to go looking anywhere. But then, she wouldn’t be a bride if life were that simple right? Nope! Even if she had a 10kg scrapbook with all the information, you’d still have to go all around town looking at 15 versions of everything before a decision is made.

YOUR JOB: You should have the numbers and names of almost all kinds of shops on speed dial, or at least the places where you guys liked something. Why? you ask. So that every time you need to check back on things, you can just call and don’t have to keep going back to the stores! Another thing with this kind of a bride, more often than not the final decision is a split second one, so

when she’s found “the one” of any item or clothing and 5 minutes later she wants to check back on her “list”, just insist on going with her gut feeling, right then and there. Otherwise, you’ll never reach any decision till you’re running way behind schedule.

The second kind of bride will say that she doesn’t really care about what’s going on. The main thing is that she’s getting married to the one she loves and that’s all she needs. HAH!! Get this one on the first shopping spree for her bridal wear and you won’t find a more “exacting” bride. And the trouble with this one is… because she hasn’t actually researched the latest trends, most of her answers would be on the lines of: “Erm, I don’t know, but something’s missing (Einstein, where art thou?). Just show me all the styles and then I’ll decide (Oh good lord!). Why can’t I wear even a little black? It looks so classy! (Just what one needs…a tradition-vs-modernity fight) This is just not it!!!! (And here I thought you didn’t really care.) etc., etc., etc.”

YOUR JOB: Patience! If this is what your friend is like, then you anticipated this, right? Plus, I hope you’re reading this before your friend gets married, because then you’d know that as soon as the wedding bells were being hung (as yes, they ain’t ringing yet), YOU will have to start doing your homework.

Get on top of what all that your bride will need, wayyyyyyyy before she comes to the realization herself. Alternatively, you can just take her on the first shopping spree really soon, and hammer some sense/paranoia into her.

I now come to bride type No.3. The one that will “technically” be everyone’s dream come true. She is supposed to be the p

erfect balance between what she wants, what her parents/family wants and what her in-laws want. Now this is where the job of the bridesmaid gets super tricky.

YOUR JOB: YOU are supposed to play the perfect go-between. Yes, yes, I can just feel many of slooooowwwlllyyyy nodding your head in agreement. For those who’re going “huh?”, well, face it… you’re the one who knows your friend right? And would she really be okay with

whatever her family and in-laws picked out? NO! Would she say anything to them because saying no or even subtly resisting their selection would mean hurting their feelings? NO! So, what is one to do? Go against all odds, and play the devil, as your friend secretly (and I mean VERY secretly…so much so that she doesn’t-know-it-then-herself secretly) counts her blessings for having you there. You take over the shopping sprees… start butting into conversations

with your “own” (read the bride-to-be’s) inputs and suggestions. Brave the disapproving stares of the elders. This is possibly the most exhausting kind of bridesmaid to be. All the best!

And then there’s bride 4. This is possibly the best kind of bride. She takes things as they come. She makes quick decisions. She knows that she has to buy whatever her mom-in-law wants to buy for her, but goes back to the same shops with her mom, you or just by herself to buy the things she really wanted. She’s used to shopping by herself and will make a pact with you not to go to browse around more than four stores for the same item. AND she multitasks.

YOUR JOB: The only thing that you need to do with such a bride is to make your notes, and be there for references and second opinions. That leaves you all the time to concentrate on all the fun stuff and surprises that you’ve always been planning for your best friend and just be there for her. She will have her phases of frustration, paranoia, confusion, doubt, and loads and loads of excitement… just be there, and you’ll both do good.

I suppose these are the only kinds of brides that I can think of, have encountered or heard about. If there are more, I’d be glad to hear about them. :-)

She’s got the look

Have you ever walked down the street or a market, encountered a complete stranger, shared a single look of complete comprehension, smiled and walked ahead…probably never thinking of that person again?

I have. And even though life goes on the same way after that, it feels good to have shared that one look which said: “I see you”. (I honestly typed this before the dialogue from Avatar came to mind!!! :-) )

It happened today when I was crossing my local market and this woman was getting mehendi done on her hands. I loooove mehendi, so I was trying to a peek at the design, when she looked up. It was just a fraction of a second, but we connected. I looked into her eyes, both of us smiled in acknowledgment of our mutual love for henna. We were happy for her. I didn’t know her, but I was happy for her… the fact that she was getting mehendi done… the fact that even though she had soooo much of work to do while taking care of her house and family, and the only time she got free to get this done was in the middle of the afternoon, under the relentless sun… we were both happy that she was getting something that she likes.

I walked away. I didn’t look back. I am not wondering what kind of a life she has. I am just happy that she’s happy to be getting henna on her hands. And I know she knew it too.

The reason I felt compelled to write about this is because just after coming home, I read the news of a bunch of guys stoning a harmless truck driver to death just because he could/would not give them a pass on the road at night. That’s also a connection between two strangers. One of them isn’t alive to think about what happened between them… the others, well, one can only hope that they regret what they did. (It’s sad how I’m becoming numb to such atrocities. I sigh, comment how uncivilized civilizations are becoming, and soon forget. That’s unfair!)

We make so many connections in our lifetime. Some stay, some are just as brief as a single look. But it’s bizarre how even the briefest of connections can turn out to be so life altering. Or even that sense of being acknowledged or being “seen” by some random stranger gives your spirits a renewed boost…a reassurance that you’re not alone.

On a lighter note, there can be many such shared looks between strangers that are not as serious too. The look guys exchange when one of them has scored with a hot chick at a party. Then there’s the exasperated look women share if some guy is acting obnoxiously (and all of them may be strangers!). The assessing look between a guy and girl (this leads to a whole different story, but we’re not getting into that right now ;-))

Hmmm… can’t think of any more, but I’m sure there are several in the list. Anyone wants to give me a hand? The comments section on the blog is all yours…. :-) )

(And yes, I know the last line is a plug for you readers to comment… so save me the teasing :-P)

Mean Mom

(I'm not one for putting forwards or mass mails on my blog. But this was forwarded to me by my editor and it really moved me. So figured I wanted to keep it for posterity and share it too. Hope you relate to it as much as I have.)

(Something's finally original! My photo :-))

Someday when my children are old enough to understand the logic that
motivates a parent,
I will tell them, as my Mean Mom told me:

I loved you enough to ask where you were going, with whom, and what time
you would be home.

I loved you enough to be silent and let you discover that your new best
friend was a creep.

I loved you enough to stand over you for two hours while you cleaned your
room, a job that should have taken 15 minutes.

I loved you enough to let you see anger, disappointment, and tears in my
eyes. Children must learn that their parents aren't perfect and have their
own human weaknesses.

I loved you enough to let you assume the responsibility for your actions
even when the penalties were so harsh they almost broke my heart.

But most of all, I loved you enough to say NO when I knew you would hate
me for it.

Those were the most difficult battles of all.

I'm glad I won them, because in the end you won, too. And someday when
your children are old enough to understand the logic that motivates
parents, you will tell them.

Was your Mom mean?

I know mine was. We had the meanest mother in the whole world! While other
kids ate candy for breakfast, we had to have cereal, eggs, and toast.

When others had a Pepsi and a Twinkie for lunch, we had to eat sandwiches.

When all the other kids were allowed to stay out late, we had a 1 o'clock
curfew.

Mother insisted on knowing where we were at all times. You'd think we were
convicts in a prison!
She had to know who our friends were and what we were doing with them.
She insisted that if we said we would be gone for an hour, we would be
gone for an hour or less.
We were ashamed to admit it, but she had the nerve to ask us to take a bus
when all the other kids had chauffeur driven cars.
She always insisted that we tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing
but the truth. By the time we were teenagers, she could read our minds and
had eyes in the back of her head. Life was really tough!

Mother wouldn't let our friends just honk the horn when they drove up.
They had to come up to the door so she could meet them.

Because of our mother we missed out on lots of things other kids
experienced. None of us have ever been caught shoplifting, vandalizing
other's property or ever arrested for any crime. It was all her fault.

Now that we have left home, we are all educated, honest adults. We are
doing our best to be mean parents just like Mom was.
I think that is what's wrong with the world today. It just doesn't have
enough mean moms!

(PS -- I think this applies to fathers too... no? :-))

Neem Tree

By Banaphool (Translated by Dipannita Datta; published by Rupa & Co., 2004)

Some people are skinning the bark and boiling them.

Some are tearing off the leaves and crushing them on the grindstone.

Some are frying them in heated oil.

They will apply it to scabies, itches, and chilblain.

It is an unfailing medicine for skin diseases.

Many eat the tender leaves too.

Just raw…

Or fried with brinjal.

It is very beneficial for the liver.

Many people split the young stems and chew them…

Keeps teeth healthy.

The ayurved experts are effusive in its praise.

The wise people are pleased if it grows near the house.

They say the neem-breeze is good for health; let it stand—don’t chop it off.

They don’t cut it, but don’t nurse it either.

Garbage accumulates around.

Some fence it with whetstone—there’s another kind of rubbish.

One day a new type of person arrives.

He keeps on gazing at the neem tree fascinated. He does not flay the bark, nor does he tear the leaves, or break the stems, he keeps on staring at the neem tree with amazement.

He utters on a sudden inspiration: Wah! How beautiful the leaves are… What a beauty!

How lovely are the flower bunches too… They are like a shower of stars that have come down from the blue sky to the green below. Wah!

He gazes at it for sometime and leaves.

Not an expert in ayurved, he is simply a poet.

The neem tree wishes to go away with that man. But cannot. The roots have gone far and deep into the soil. It is forced to stand there, in the backyard of the house amidst heaps of rubbish.

Exactly like the gentle, hard-working daughter-in-law of that house.

This is the first story from the book Neem Tree, a compilation of short stories by Bengali writer Banaphool (Balaichand Mukhopadhyay).

The first thing that struck me in Banaphool’s stories is the sheer simplicity of writing. Sure, the version I read was superbly translated by Dipannita Datta, so my reaction to the stories has as much to do with Datta’s interpretation of Banaphool’s words and thoughts, as it does with the original author’s plot.

Being a “trained journalist”, one is taught the value of brevity. And so, even if I can’t do it myself, I can certainly appreciate it. Telling the entire story is as few words as possible is something Banaphool has mastered. His sentences are short, crisp, complete. There’s no getting lost in a muddle of words trying to pour the entire dictionary into 10-odd pages. Rather one gets lost appreciating the profundity of his word play. His genre would not only be short stories, but “ultra short” stories.

According to Datta, who had once collated his 550-story oeuvre, 125 of Banaphool’s story could be printed on one single sheet!

Banaphool’s propensity for the ironical twists in our lives is definitely O. Henry-esq. He does dabble in the painting contrast pictures every now and then, but his real skill lies in playing with the deeper contrasts in life. Two brothers questioning their religion/faith for someone they love; a couple in bed dreaming about their respective romances before they got married; the n number of possibilities for Sulekha crying on a full-moon night—his repertoire is endless.

Intrinsically based in the hinterlands of Bengal, the writer talks about all kinds of human relationships that’s built of out love, respect and even hatred, with that characteristic twist at the end of it all. But at the same time, his plots are timeless, and his connections global.

My reading of the Neem Tree bouquet (as Datta introduces the book) was reminiscent of my experience with an Asimov omnibus, where after 11 stories I knew exactly where the storyline was headed. Eventually I gave the book up out of sheer boredom. But Neem Tree was more pleasant. Not only could I not keep the book down, even if the “twist” in the tale was staring me in the face from the fourth para onwards, what mattered to me was the journey to the end. And that is where Banaphool excels—stringing those sentences in such a tantalizing way that you’re addicted to them. You know the destination, but you want to get there with Banaphool—not before him, not after him.

Thank you Rajeshwari for introducing me to such a wonderful writer.

And for those who have taken the time to read this post, do get yourself a copy. It's certainly worth it.

The jump, white-waters and other tales

So I jumped.
From an arguably 30ft-high cliff into the 60ft-deep Ganga, I, a non-swimmer, jumped—not knowing if I’d come out alive, but fully knowing that if I didn’t do this now, I’d regret it for the rest of my life.
Somehow, what started off as just a sporting challenge became representative of how I live or would live my life. Don’t things like this happen to you sometime?
The weekend trip to Shivpuri in March-end, 2009, marked the beginning of my new life—one where I stop wanting to do things and simply plan and do them. And boy, was it a start!
It was one of those times that one just simply needed to get away… from life, from work, from everything that represented living in chains and fulfilling one’s role in society. At least, that what it was for me… What motivations the other 11 people in the group had, isn’t mine to speculate.
We head out in the dead of Friday night in a 12-seater tempo (I would not suggest this as a mode of travel!), after work—tired and excited at the same time. Most of us were going rafting for the first time… and most of us did NOT know how to swim! Silly of you… some of my other friends had commented… all the while turning a pale-ish green in colour. Maybe so… but there is actually no feeling like the one you get when you know you’ve pushed your limit and succeeded. Of course, at that time pushing my limit meant rafting out into the tumultuous Ganga, riding the waves, with the very-real possibility of being dunked in water. I did not know about the cliff!
The ride to Shivpuri was relatively quiet. I think it was a combination of tiredness and that of feeling out one’s fellow travelers with the sound of the purring (and occasionally spluttering) tempo engine in the background. I don’t know if it’s only me, but somehow the usual, mundane and often irritating sound of a motor engine assumes a different buzz, one of excitement (if you please) when I know that there’s adventure ahead, and the sound seems oddly fitting...akin to a drum roll leading up the climax of an act!
After hours of odd postures and innumerable failed attempts to comfortably, or even uncomfortably, get some sleep, we reached Shivpuri around 5 the morning. It was pitch dark and no one at Camp Paddler’s Zone had woken up. It was perfect!
Canvas tents spread out across the riverbank, the glorious sound of rushing, gurgling water, the rocks lining the streams, the vast expanse of the Ganga sparkling black in the fading moonlight…coming out (visually) of the V formed by distant mountains on both sides, a cute little bridge across the stream, and the sudden onslaught of camera flashes from all sides, excited squeals of laughter and delight, followed by more squeals when some of us dipped our feet into the ice-cold water and immediately jumped out, the amused expressions of some of the more “experienced” members of the group… Yes, I was there and it was perfect!
As dawn broke, the camp began to stir with life. We were allotted our respective tents (two in each… and no cross-gender sharing…ahan, right!). The morning broke in with some pleasant breeze, a slight nip in the air and some saccharine sweet chai, the kind without which any road trip in India would be incomplete. Over steaming plastic glasses of sweetness we chalked out plans of heading out into the water later the same morning. A couple of hours later, we all trudged back to the tempo and headed towards Marine Drive (Shivpuri has its own version of the place).
After getting our rafting gear together (life jacket, check; helmet, check; paddle, check!) we trekked down to the waterfront. Our motley group of 12 was joined by a bunch of 10 guys. We all had to be divided into three rafts, with one instructor each. As the groups were formed, one poor soul from the other group had to join our raft (he would probably not forget the ride till his final days, but let’s not get into that). The instructors set about yelling out the instructions to a bunch of what would seem like overgrown kids (You see… no matter how old we are, put us in a group in the outdoors, and we’ll behave like we never graduated high school!).
The instructions were simple—sit on the edge of the raft (are you kidding me!!!! I don’t know how to swim…I want to sit well-shielded in the middle) or else the raft will topple over at the first major wave (on seconds thoughts, the edge is absolutely fine!). Tuck both your feet below the raft bars, one in front and the other behind you (finally, at least ONE place I can hang on to…phew). Hold on to the paddle for dear life (you don’t say!). Right paddle means people on the right will paddle, left paddle for those on the left, paddle fast, normal means sit back and do nothing (get swept away by the waves you mean!), down means get in the boat and crouch. If we go under (hey!!!! Did I tell you I can’t swim… whatchya mean by that???!!!), don’t do anything and you’ll float right up (seriously man… have you any clue about human psychology. Jeez!!!), and so on and so forth.
After repeating the same instructions set at least four times, we finally got into our rafts. Mine was a blue one. There was another blue and a yellow floating with us. We slowly paddled out of the bank and into the middle of the stream. Now, I love the water, but I also fear it, so I was pretty much psyching out, till we saw the other rafts going awry with no sense of direction, while we were what it seemed like, on course. Our guide (whose name I have sadly forgotten…my sincere apologies, so I shall refer to him as Mr G) initiated us into the rafting experience with the war cry: Bolo Bolo Ganga Mai Ki…Jai…Jai…Jai. Of course, city slickers that we are, we kind of murmured it the first time, so he had us shout all over again. This time a bit into it, seven voices bellowed their cry for a good trip to the goddess Ganga, proudly holding up their paddles, ready to brave whatever the dark, deep, tumultuous river intended to throw at us.
But as luck would have it, the goddess was kind to us mere mortals. We were gently eased into the rafting experience with Good Morning. A class 1 rapid that gently swayed the raft—piece of cake, I thought, a bit disappointed that this wasn’t exactly turning out to be the extreme sport that one had expected to do. The next was The Three Blind Mice, a class 3 rapid, which although made us paddle a bit harder but wasn’t movie-making material. Feeling a bit complacent with ourselves, we went ahead to tackle Sweet Sixteen, which did what must every teenager does, made life difficult. As the class 3 rapid (there’s something wrong with the grading system, btw) came upon us, the raft slightly started to lose control as one wave after another hit us hard, the water spraying all over us. I was sitting in the middle, trying to establish some rhythmic paddling in the group, shouting out instructions that Mr G was giving us (sounds like I was the teacher’s pet no? Yuck). Hoarse voice be damned, I wanted to get out alive, so shouting the numbers 1, 2, 3, 4 in a rhythmic cycle out the top of my lungs seemed to be the best way to “ensure” we got to safety.
A couple of rapids later, we hit the Roller Coaster. At the moment we were all feeling a bit smug. We’d done fairly well, the raft didn’t topple and I felt like King Triton, with my paddle that could change the course of the raft and, hence, my fate. Big words and even bigger thoughts! Floating a bit towards the rocky hills, Mr G yelled out for us to back-paddle really fast so as to avoid hitting the rocks. Following instructions and eyes riveted on the rocks, we (not Mr G, though) didn’t even see another rapid coming till a huge spray of water hit our raft really hard, throwing us all out of balance. Thankfully, we’d all had our feet firmly tucked in the front bar, and managed not to get thrown out. “Paddle forward, FAST! FAST! FAST!” yelled Mr G with an urgency that meant “your life depends on it”. Words not to be taken lightly. As wave after wave hit the raft, our grinning faces (finally!) and ferociously paddling arms met each of them with courage akin to David’s when fighting Goliath. Courage that was well rewarded with shouts of victory, as the raft was enveloped by the calm waters of the Ganga soon after. Of course, here the David was mainly Mr G, who stood with his broken paddle, bravely steering the raft (almost single-handedly. We were just dispensable facilitators), literally laughing in the face of danger, while giving out instructions to us. Phew! He was my hero.
As the raft followed the current of the river, we finally docked at the cliff. My friends were super excited at the thought of jumping off a 25-30ft-high cliff, just for kicks, but not me! In fact, I kept on telling them that I didn’t think I should do it. Of course, my courage had justifiably faltered when my “hero of the day” told me that it might not be a good idea for me to jump, so who was I to argue? As my friends climbed the hill to the jumping cliff, some started having second thoughts, while others (confounded, no-fear-of-God creatures that they were) couldn’t get to the cliff fast enough. I inched slowly and unsteadily to the top of the cliff, a little voice telling me that if I didn’t do this now, not only will my awesome trip be spoilt but I will also regret it for the rest of my life. As the penguins, oops…people, kept jumping off one-by-one, I mustered enough courage to go right up to the edge, but no more. “I don’t know how to swim. I’m not sure I want to die because of water filling up my lungs. What if I hit the rocks instead? Water would be a better way to die…” and so on and so forth were the one-sided conversations in my head.
A friend who was very enthusiastic backed out at the last moment. I almost followed suit, but then willed myself to stop and turn back. Several others pushed me aside to take the plunge themselves. As I continued the debate in my head, my instructor gave up on me and jumped (great confidence booster, huh?). And even though I was terrified, I could not but laugh at the hilarity of the hopeless situation. As I took my final steps towards the edge, still unsteady with indecision, two guys walked up behind me. Being strangers, they managed to replay almost every sentiment that was going on in my head. The strongest being: I don’t want to walk back a failure. It wasn’t just about this one jump, it was about how I have lived my life and how was I going to live it from now on. The jump was liberation. The jump was an assertion that I will not be bogged down. The jump was my life. With a final deep breath. Hands crossed over the chest, holding on to the life jacket straps. I jumped.
Eyes closed, till I realized I was being an idiot. Eyes opened, and all was a green blur. Then, just a micro-micro-second before I hit the water, time stopped. I saw the sky, the rocks, the trees clearer than I’d ever remembered seeing them; felt the air or, eerily enough, what felt like the lack of it, the thin stretched surface tension of the water; I heard silence, pure and haunting. And I don’t know how, but I literally felt the water break against my body, and just as soon as I was soaking all this in, the moment had passed. The gushing water enveloped me as a whole. My eyes, still open, saw the parted sea-green waters splash back to seal the void that had formed, and I recalled the scene from Ten Commandments when Moses closes the parting of the river after his followers have crossed.
As I bobbed up to the surface in a while, struggling to find my way to the nearest rock, I asked myself just one thing: What’s next?