“Why I’d always skip a Marwari Wedding”

I, in my lifetime, on an average have attended less than a marriage every year and none for the last three years. A statistic my mother is not very proud of for she’s an ardent believer of  the Indian mothers’ theory which states that the number of guests in your marriage are in direct proportion to the number of marriages you’ve attended. Marwari marriages are more substance and more sound. While people around me find a strange pleasure in wedding celebrations, I suffer in the midst of all topsy-turvydom, traditional and elaborate customs (which often take over a month for execution). Being from a hardcore Marwari family, marriages are never personal and always universal. It’s an occasion where everyone who you didn’t even care to check the existence of for as long as two decades is invited. Old memories are rekindled and new resolutions are made to be in touch from then onwards.

If you are an unfortunate single soul like I am, everyone will make sure that you starve but work hard till the last guest has been satiated with all the delicacies on the menu. You’ll be held responsible for everything that goes wrong and nothing that goes right. So if there is a fistfight at the buffet, no one but you will be chided off. You are even supposed to know what went wrong with the sounds and why the ghohdi-wallah did not turn on time! At the top of that, better keep in check your testosterone levels while stealing glances at the largest annual conglomeration of beauties. Either you’ll end getting beaten up or you’ll lose your single status the very next season.

In such a setting, everyone will notice everyone but the bride and the groom. Poor they are made to sit on a seating no less decorated than the Peacock throne in the midst of all this pandemonium. At the top of that, they are supposed to smile and look happy all the time lest someone photo-capture a sulky state of theirs to make fun at the post-wedding ceremonies.

No Marwari marriage is complete unless there are altercations between some ‘historical rival gangs’ who happened to cross paths at the bash. Mostly, it results in reconciliation. Initiation is made by the group who realizes that they have under-estimated the number of members in the rival gang and then both channelize their violence streak by abusing the bandwallahs often on the pretext that they didn’t play the desired Bollywood number.

The success of marriage is a direct function of the number of hours it blocked the traffic at the busiest route of the city. And no traffic policeman will ever dare to play a spoilt.

Alcohol is mostly a strict no-no but opium and grass of ‘unknown-to-me’ kinds go with the tradition. If you are a five year old, you are supposed to politely refuse the offerings, but cajoled you’ll be nonetheless.

In all the marriages I’ve so far attended, I’ve always found myself struggling to find a space of my own. Nobody will allow me to enjoy my sumptuous meal unless I’ve proved my worth by working in sync with the caterers all the while. I’ll be forced to make embarrassing dance movements at the every baraat-stoppage. But the most prominent reason of not attending such bashes is the fear of getting into the eyes of our esteemed Marwari fraternity who’ll no doubt empathize with me and curse my parents for making me stay single at the age of twenty-two (:D)! Marwari weddings, hence I avoid.   

©Rakesh 2011

“The Maharajas of Rajasthan”

My childhood summers were mostly spent listening to the tales of the darbaar of Jodhpur from my granduncle who served as a comptroller at the palace. I vividly remember him telling, with drama and vivacity, an incident when the Maharaja ordered him to throw out the goods of a British gentleman who refused to pay any rent of the city-shop on reason of being an aadmi of the Raj. He was further asked to leave the state of Marwar before two sunsets considering that he had a family of four. The Colonial-Crown was falling in the country and his ousting was very much a symbolic grudge against the Raj. Day next and the rents of all the city-shops was muafed by an order to add salts to the injury.

Some other narrations which I half-remember were the crowd estimates, which would be generously raised every time he’d tell the magnanimity of the event , when the now titular Maharaja Gaj Singh-II came back from England after finishing his education. Some other were encomia of the Maharaja when he ‘saved’ half of his praja from starvation by giving them work during what was the most severe kaal(drought) ever in the State. And it resulted in what we now call The Umaid Palace, worlds largest and probably the most regal private property. Years have passed, but the majesticness and the awe has stood the test of time. I believed not and found the Discovery documentary “The Maharaja of Jodhpur” to be a fake but the disturbing sobs of the inconsolable Jaipur masses at the cremation of Maharani Gayatri Devi made me feel so much out of time. The death of Bhawani Singh, Maharaja of Jaipur some days back aroused similar emotions and the entire city was on roads. The royal wedding of Shivraj, Rajkumar of Jodhpur (who is an international Polo player and almost lost his life some five years back falling off an uncontrollable horse) this year would’ve beat the so much over-rated British Royal Wedding by any account. There is something in the regality in the erstwhile provinces of Rajasthan which still make people so much attached to it. The record electoral victories of the Rajkumars in the early ‘60s and ‘70s so much unsettled the Central Government that all the shahi-pensions and allowances of all princely states were stopped with immediate effect to discourage the trend. Still, the royal families have given some of the most competent officers to the Indian Army right since the World-Wars.

The forts are crumbling, the shades of blue and pink are fading, walls are being defaced and encroached and cities are expanding beyond the regal-gates of the towns but still there is a world still trapped in the past fearing of losing their identities and heritage. A world of nostalgia unable and unwilling to accept the death of aristocracy.

In picture: HH Maharaja of Jodhpur Gaj Singh-II (1948-Present)

©Rakesh 2011

“Romancing the Metros: Women of the Towns”

My friends will know that women will be the last thing on my mind any day and how I’d gladly skip an eve with my girl over male-bonding and how I'd excuse the company of those males if they exhibit even a remote attention to the fairer sex. I say this not to sound pompous. I have always believed that guys are so much better without women and I am sure it is the other way round too. It annoys me to dead-extent when people relate being single with being a loser. In simple words, they have this theory that no one is single by choice.

Yes women are the most beautiful creations of nature; all you got to do is to know them a bit better. But men and women are two entirely different civilizations co-existing at the same time, same place and the battle of sexes is bound to occur. Yes there are highs and lows when they exist together. I am sure they are worth of some trouble, but what if one loves serenity instead of turbulence; a line parallel to the axis. And hence I often muse over a genderless society the way a Marxist dreams of a classless society. I believe the world was bliss before Eve incited Adam for damnation. If one thinks this way not, one should be allowed to relish in the company of women for that is the most passionate sense datum, but if one thinks this way, kindly allow that poor soul to make things work for him the way he wants to. In spite of all these sexist remarks I’ve made above, I’ve been blessed enough to know some of the most beautiful and intelligent women in this world with somewhat intimacy. Neither am I a pro nor any two women are the same, but I highlight (not necessarily in dating order) the some or no contrasts I observed while being fortunate enough to date women from each of the metros. Also my disclaimer would say that a city maketh a person not but the hues and tints are often visible in streaks and blotches.

Some more disclaimers:

•  I am not a sexist or a narcissist confessor.
•  Some phases overlapped not sharply but gradually, intermittently and unintentionally.
• I never wanted my blog to be my personal space.

Happy read.

The Girl from Calcutta

Fresh out of high school, through a common friend, I met this incredibly beautiful woman who was pursuing studies in Law. With slight anti-capitalist inclinations, she was the one who introduced me to the color Red and more notably Che Guevara. Now I don’t find Che to be a heroic iconoclast, but still till date I did not find any woman so ardently fascinated by him. Also I realized how food and Tagore are so inextricably entwined in the life of the city. She took extreme pride in her upbringing and the demeanor with which she always carried herself was awe-inspiring. For the year we dated, we so much valued the importance of space and privacy in the relationship. It was next to impossible to make your lie sound credulous to her, not that I love to do that. I had had never met a woman so calm, so composed and so intelligent till that date. Four years since then, I now hear that she’s heading for some modeling assignments.

The Girl from Chennai

She’s not exactly from Chennai, but currently resides in the city. So I’d take the liberty to call her The Girl from Chennai as the last time I was in Chennai was as an eight year old when my dating skills were still a fledgling. Since then I didn’t find any women from Chennai who found me anything but weird. We went to the same high school but started dating only a year and a half after. It was gradual but so pervasive. Also I had this woman classmate of my previous school who later happened to be her classmate at her previous school which made her believe that signs so much mean it to be. She was the only women whom I ever wrote for. She is the most feminine woman I ever met. Be it her countenance or her school of thoughts. She made some of the most profound changes in my life and gave me the immeasurable moments to remember. It is only because of her that any tinge of nostalgia scares and alerts me to the next breakdown. Her inane logic skills would often make me go frustrated and all smiles at the same time. Most of the times, her talks would not make much sense and sometimes they’d be so much dense in content that I’d get them not. Furious when you’d want her to be calm and stupid when you’d so much want her to be serious; that’s my girl from Chennai. We have had been in an on-off-on and now off relationship for close to four years but I see her each day when I close my eyes to sleep. She now is pursuing her corporate stint.

The Girl from Bombay

Now I did not exactly date this woman for I never met her. Neither would I ever date her and nor will she so she says. But as I need to complete my metro quadrangle and also that I know her well for more than two years now after I accidentally met her online. (without any serious intentions I mean, for I never stalk strangers) You can at the most call us text-buddies. She is one of the smartest women I have known. With a confidence which often rubs shoulders with arrogance she’s very mature, intelligent and cosmopolite for her age. Sometimes she can well be a drama queen but it is so much better to know a woman whom you aren’t attracted to, I realized. And her ‘No’ always means a ‘No’. Like everyone brought up in the city, she’s a Bombay-chauvinist and have some very sophisticated friends in her life. I hope to meet her sometime soon. She has now embarked into final year of her college.

The Girl from Delhi

I met this girl from Delhi University during my (or our) IIFT interview; a b-school I wasn’t much keen to join. After some casual and very awkward-for-me talks, we exchanged our numbers. That excluded, we have met a couple of times since then. Very sophisticated and not as feminist as I feared, I finally had someone to talk about my passion for English. With very peculiar ‘I-think-fake’ accent she gave up her initial attempts to make me pronounce the words the way she did. I didn’t analyze how and where things are going, I’d rather just prefer to be in the phase.

©Rakesh 2011

“Why I am Not an Indian”

Firstly, all apologies to Bertrand Russell for I half plagiarized the title-style of one of his many iconoclastic works. And with that, chances are manifold that you may have already labeled me a traitor, a nonstarter or at least a generally frustrated sadist. I respect your choice of adjectives or expletives -if any- according to your understanding, opinions and schools of thought. But I for one pity those who are patriotic, not by choice, but due to their inability to question the norms and systems and seek answers by contemplation and observations. I pity those not who always can substantiate their beliefs and find reason in them. Religion and patriotism are probably the only two attributes which are non-natural in nature but are often hereditary. Aristotle chose to go off-the-wall here for he considered himself to be a citizen of the world and not of Athens or Greece. The very notion of patriotism is a primitive animal instinct which we didn’t yet cast-off in our quest of civilization and cerebral-development. Patriotism makes me prejudiced and parochial and blocks my thoughts beyond jingoism. Like Aristotle, I’d prefer to let the world be my playground.

Nature gave us different physiognomies and resources which enabled us to survive and grow as an entity against the vagaries of life. The ones which looked like us became ‘us’ and the rest ‘they’. When survival became secondary, we chose to extend our territories. This in course of time became an imprimatur of several futile and useless characteristics; bravery and patriotism among them. Patriotism by all reasons isn’t nature’s own child.

Patriotism and History are close kins. Both provide soil to each other for growth. History will make one feel proud of ‘our’ roots and contemptible for sufferings given by ‘them’. History is never absolute and if often altered by the State to suit its objectives, often to rule its populace.  

The very notion of ‘one-nation’ becomes flawed if different races co-exist and if we say India is an exception then we fool not anyone but us. One falls short not of examples where minor races suffer the grudges of those in majority everywhere around the world. If people do not share a common past, chances are that they won’t be ‘sharing’ a common future as well. The cycle is vicious and gives birth to racism. Modern day sports are nothing but a mean to flare those basic instincts. Cricket, for example, in the subcontinent often provides a reason for racial expression only if we play against ‘them’ else intra-nation matches hardly garb any attention.

Proud of my roots and nation but for I see people and not borders, I am not just an Indian.  

©Rakesh 2011