“If KJo Were to Make a Twilight Remake”

It was summer of 2008. My friend from US, while discussing books, suggested that I read Twilight which was heading NY Times bestsellers since its release. According to her, it was the ‘avant-garde’ work of modern times. Those were the times of Orkut and sanity. The country was yet to import and witness the hype and mania surrounding the saga. Local bookstores were oblivious to the series but the store I patronized, promised me a copy in about ten days. Twenty days later, I had an overpriced imported copy of the book. The cover looked aesthete with a pair of hands holding a neat-fresh red apple in cusped palms over a complete black background. The title - twilight and author’s name – STEPHNIE MEYER were embossed in white at the top and bottom of cover respectively. Pages and fonts reminded me of cheap copies of pulp literature.

Long story cut short: the protagonist, a timid teen girl with ‘family-issues’ moves out to a new place and discovers that her ‘soul-mate’ is a vampire. A wolf-pack is touted against the vampire family to entwine the plot in later sequels. Apparently, the favorite pastime of all the characters in the saga is to protect the half-wit girl who has all the baddies vying for her blood. The writing was prosaic at best with irritating biblical undertones.  

No hard-feelings towards Stephnie Meyer till then. But one day, they come up with a movie by the same name. All characters that came alive on the screen were necessarily beautiful and terribly incompetent as actors. The suave vampires had their faces and bodies painted white. The wild and brutal wolf-pack was characterized by their six-pack abs. Rob Pattinson, the chief vampire protagonist, who did the commendable job of maintaining a single grinning-cum-snaring expression throughout the movie, was giving Bills and Boon a run for their money. He was only overreached by Kristen Stewart, the female lead, who achieved the double feat of simultaneously fidgeting her hair while giving her signature constipated look and acting as dumb as she could. 

And guys had a tough life. Girls went frenzy and copies of saga became their cult accessory. (Most of them, in their lives, had not read anything beyond Chacha Choudhary). Every girl-profile I trawled on Orkut would depict the love for Twilight. Dating standards went all time high. Every girl at campus grew smugger and meaner. Although, the saga emphasized the importance of having a boyfriend, anyone less than an immortal would not do for them. The girl I was dating suggested that I get a ‘Rob-cut’ (Yes! The first time I heard that word, I felt something inside my guts wanting to scream!) Damn Twilight. Damn Hollywood. Damn globalization. And yes, damn MTV movie awards as well! (All rich and dumb kids in West vote for it!) So, when this friend of mine, with her unfading excitement for the saga, mentioned how the lead protagonists are getting married in the next sequel, a thought ran down my mind. Bollywood can befittingly reply to the torture of Twilight and excel at that. All we need is a KJo.

If KJo were to make a remake of Twilight, the movie would be named either ‘Kuch Kuch Twilight hai’ or ‘Kabhi Vampire Kabhi Wolf’. He’d properly buy the rights for the remake rather than just remaking. And no prizes for guessing who the male protagonist will be: Shahrukh Khan. Of course he’s busy with his superhero commitments, but he can’t say ‘No’ to a KJo project and those who have watched the visual torture of Twilight can assure you; a vampire is no less than a superhero. And we all know how well Shahrukh can pull off the character of a student. Any of the KJo’s actresses can be cast as the female lead. They all look more or less dumb, but I think Kajal, dancing in the rain in a white saree, will add a new dimension to the character of Kristen Stewart while seducing the wolf-pack. Finding a wolf-pack would not be a major headache for KJo. New gen Hindi actors compensate for their acting skills with their six-packs. But obviously it will be a casting coup if KJo could persuade Salman Khan to enact the role of Taylor Lautner. It will be interesting to watch the Khan rivalry flame the silver screen. And man! He’s without his shirt all the time. The role of the aloof cop-cum-father should go to Big B. Of the baddies, I so much see (or want to see) Mallika Sherawat play the role of Victoria.

Obviously the story would be set in Switzerland and opening shot will depict Shahrukh, playing a violin and subsequently stretching his arms, waiting eternally for his true love. Contrary to Robert Pattinson, he can have as many expressions as he want on his face. The viewers will be free to choose the one they like and ignore the rest. Biology lab would replace classes on literature. (Of course the ones those teach the meaning of love) And songs choreographed by Farah Khan would see books and sarees flying. The Main Hoon Na prom dance can be re-enacted at the end before the credits roll.

With my limited knowledge from the one book I read, and one movie and few trailers I saw, this is all I see KJo doing. Of course with his creative freedom, he’ll stretch this by too far. The movie will surely be a hit in NRI strongholds (Indian audiences are getting too critical of Shahrukh these days) and Shahrukh will get another Filmfare for best actor. (Of course they’ll make him cry in the movie)

Post Scripts:

I would like to leave the portrayal of the marriage sequence to your imagination.

I am a die-hard Shahrukh fan!

© Rakesh 2011

“Weekend Musings: Should the Guy Pay for All those Dates?”

Weekend is here and it means more dating for some and more longing for others. There is a third category, that of losers, for whom it will mean more cricket, more movies, and more readings. But I don’t want to talk about myself in all my posts.

I, also, do not claim to have an expertise on the intricacies and nuances of dating but while talking to a group of my friends, a very sensitive and complicated aspect of dating hit my mind: the money involved in or rather while dating. I am talking about more pedantic and proper form of dating — the kinds we see in, and often imitate, movies — than its innocent and elementary counterpart.

Given the social and poor urban planning in this nation, there is always a need for ‘some place nice’ and the money involved while dating is quite a fortune. At the cost of sounding like a capitalist, I wonder no big players of market research have yet studied the spending habits of the people involved. This huge market, to an extent, remains unorganized and faintly demarcated.

The usual norm is that the guy pays for the food, drinks, ambiance, tickets or any other costs incurred. There is no deviation from this practice. The school of thought which believes in sharing the costs is minority and those who successfully pull it off sans awkwardness and raised eye-brows are even lesser in number.

Why is a guy expected to pay on a date? Because this is what guys are supposed to do: provide assurance and a sense of security. They did this by showing off their brutal and raw strength, and hunting abilities during cave-ages. Now money provides more protection and sense of stability. It is like an imprimatur of manliness. So they often will spend what they normally would not, on dates; tough to digest, but very close to truth.

Times have changed, as they often do. Women earn and guys use lip-gloss. There is rise in the number of feminists. Isn’t it a hypocrisy that on one part a woman expects equal rights in every sphere and on the other the issue of money is wholly a guy’s issue?

Do we bend the rules of feminism and chauvinism according to our ease and benefits?

Are you a guy who’d expect your girl to share dating costs or even accede to any such idea?

Would you date a woman who earns more than you?

Would you date a guy who talks money to you?

I’ve never done it. Till now, I even hadn’t thought of it. I, like you, was lessoned the tenets of chivalry since childhood. And none of us would want to see a girl aiming towards her purse when the bill arrives.

Beneath that veneer of our shallow pretense on gender-equality, the demarcation of sexes still shows up. If men and women were to be equal, I wonder if God just meant fun while making such distinction.

© Rakesh 2011

“Sunday Discourse: Cricket, Women, and Enlightenment”

“Damn!”

He banged the table. As the agile Rayadu displaced Vettori’s - the last ray of hope for RCB followers - bails off Harbhajan. I fake-sympathize with him and others, and bang my table with twice the intensity. I cannot overtly display my love for MI for the risk of getting sister and mother cursed by a mob who still believes the solution to India Cricket’s woes lie in Dravid and Kumble – two city boys and India cricket’s veterans who surpass in popularity my, and probably yours as well, favorite cricket star. I accept that. I have no other choice. It’s like risking your life debating Shahrukh, and not Rajnikant, is the bigger superstar. I just look at them and try to wonder how Plato could draw a parallelism between anarchy and democracy thousands of years back before us. The Rights and rights is democracy need not necessarily be right and your Right. It should just have a mass attached to it. The say of the minority is not worthwhile of consideration. I try to recall Suketu Mehta’s discourse on democracy but couldn’t.

I am disturbed of my intellectual cerebration in midway with the fall of next wicket and I bang my table again. This time nobody bangs and they all look at me.

The scene is straight out of last night at my humble abode. A pack of geeks decide to watch and cheer the final of CLT20 between RCB and MI together hoping they’d finally witness a RCB victory in the finals. Given the life-less person I am, I’ve only two things to do in my spare time: listen to their woes and listen to their woes. Finally accepting that I don’t have any choice, I’ve so much trained myself to fake-listen them. I look intently, reverse count starting from 983, and in between nod my head vigorously up and down. This is their way of catharsis. In this city, nobody listens to nobody and I am an emotional-dustbin for this once hopeful and now hopeless bunch of people.

This weekend, they add to my woes and barge in to my place expecting a triumph of RCB over half-depleted MI, disturbing my soliloquy while reading a journalist’s account of underworld, riots, bar girls and Bollywood. Now, with RCB’s loss, there is silence; no one is speaking to no one.

He lights a fag. I resist. I am met with an air of indifference; a bureaucrat’s look to an RTI applicant. I try to enlighten them how narrowly a folk-tale writer from my town missed this year’s Nobel for literature and how I am associated to him by taking high-school Chemistry lessons from his grandson, the importance of lobbying, and the shams of such awards. They don’t share my avidity. The fag-piece changes hands with every puff and die slowly. I realize how symbiotic a fag and smoker are. Mutual. Die and kill. Die and kill. I repeat like a chant. And wish it will herald their departure. I desperately want to breathe, punch my hand in air, and scream for MI.

“This place is cursed man!” one cries. “This guy supports MI!” He adds and allegedly points towards me.

The mob looks towards me. I get chills down my spine. I don’t undermine this nation’s fanaticism for Cricket and Bollywood.

“Cricket fuck karo yaar. My head is spinning. What a dead match it was. Very unlike the last two matches RCB played.” A god-sent angel comes to my rescue.

“Very unlike. Very unlike” I repeat and nod; my instincts helping me in times of danger.

“Yaar Rakesh, kuch sarcasm kar na. The types you do with girls” One demanded.

From the guy who provided them a roof to watch the CLT 20 final, I now finding myself to be a nauch-girl straight out of William Dalrymple’s romanticism-laced accounts of Moghul Empire.

“Yes. Yes. Entertain kar yaar” another one cheered and moved his bum for the first time.

“Yaar what do these girls want?” One asked. There was a peculiar exasperation and melancholy in his question. That of a monk who failed to seek enlightenment and questions his guru the real meaning of truth and life.

“I really don’t know” I shrug-off my shoulders. Aware that there is no one line answer to his query.

“No. No. Tell us. What is their definition of an ideal guy?” He persisted; the conversation now moving from cricket to women.

All the sex starved junta till now had intently pushed their chairs towards mine to listen my treatment on the subject. I felt important for the first time in four hours.

“Tell us yaar. Teri toh girlfriend bhi hai na? Woh Poona-wali” Another one joined.

I smelled danger. I now had a twin mission: to save my personal life from these voyeuristic wolves and quench their queries.

I adjusted my posture. “See, it is different with different girls. There are no hard rules” I began nervously. Like a monk giving his first public sermon.

Observing that the disciples were ungratified, I hastily added, “Generally guys who are smart, intelligent and sophisticated are preferred.”

“How?” One asked.

Knowing that I had no ways out through my vague answers, I mustered all my intrinsic observation of the fairer-sex of the past (Mind you, I am a good observer of everything. And only person who debates and listens to my observations is my own self) and began:

“See girls may like different kind of individuals, at different point of time in their lives. The ones they get hitched with just happen to come at right time.”

“Timing is very important” One notes.

Not knowing whether he was talking about sweep-shot or women, I continued.

“There are two classes of guys who get women: Ones who provide them bread (read luxury) and the others dreams”

“Dreams. Dreams” they chanted.  Fully aware back in their mind how poorly paid they were.

“And be nice to them. Be courteous and chivalrous. With the economic reforms of ‘90s, the days of machismo are long gone”

I again turn to vagueness but my disciples now looked at me with new reverence on my adroitness to connect women and Economics.

“Rakesh how do I get the girl I like?” A shy fellow at the end finally opened up.

“Umm… depends on the girl. No two girls are alike. (No two guys are alike as well but nobody cares to find about the guys!) Also depends on the cultural and societal influence on her. Some may like guys who travel, are well read, and have tastes for esthetics. Some may go for muscularity and brusqueness. And some others may like a bit effeminate; metro-sexual types. Soft inside and out.”

“Like Ranbir Kapoor!” One exemplifies.

I ignore him and continue, “But out of all the qualities, a sense of humor is the greatest accessory. Be humorous but funny. Buffoonery is mocked, not appreciated. Try out what she likes. It’s like demand and supply. Observe her needs and demands closely and hit the right nails. You need to outsmart the extra seventy guys of the gender ratio.” I now entwine Economics with social studies.  

“We need to put a ban on female infanticide!” One comes with an idea.

“There is already a one” I let him know.

He looks disappointed that his bright idea is not that revolutionary.

“There need to be stricter laws” The chain-smoker suggested a solution. His voice had a genuine pain of an individual being robbed of his prospective life-partner before she is born due to fallacy of laws.

Observing the discussion now going into territory of Laws unknown to me, I recourse to vagueness again.

“So the bottom-line is: know her well. And in course of that, make you known well to her.”

“How to know her well?” an eager disciple asked.

“Good question.” I acknowledge him not knowing how to answer.

“Know more about her. Her likes and her dislikes.”

But recalling how my disciples were shy of standing even five feet next to women, I sermon-ed,

“Overhear her conversations with other girls. They often talk about potential mates. And if even this doesn’t help, steal her personal records from office computers, find out her star sign and read Linda Goodman.”

The very narration of stealing sent a wave of excitement across all James Hadley Chase fans. Others discussed how all men community should be indebted to Linda Goodman and ranted why there were no statues of her in the country. ‘Linda Goodman is a good man’ one chucked (Poor Linda!)

“What if even this does not help?” One skeptic loser challenged.

“Then pray to God or Shakti Kapoor” I advised him taking my expertise on the subject to a whole different level. You got to have some balls to challenge God. And I knew he didn't have the balls to confront Shakti Kapoor.

“Father!” quivered a disciple, his voice laced with genuine query. “Do tell us, if girls like bad boys more than good boys. They say nice guys finish last. So should I more be like Shahrukh or Salman?” The last statement denoting the confidence I had instilled in my disciples. Knowledge is power.

Now this was really my territory.

“See girls do like the uncertainty, masochism and vulnerability of bad guys. Their unpredictability and self-destruction fascinates them. But hardly will they marry them. Nice guys will provide safety, stability, and security in their lives. They need these things since cave-ages. They need such environment to pass their genes to next generation. So they’ll mostly (you can never be sure about girls) choose nice guys as their potential mates. Darwin theorized this more than one hundred fifty years ago.” I corroborate my sermon with Darwin.

My disciples folded their hands as a measure of respect for our hero. Darwin always command a degree of reverence among men community for his immortal rules-cum-tips on mating and copulation (Apparently, his works are also the most subtle and intellectual pretext for adultery). After a guy fails to understand women, he goes under the aegis of Darwin, seeking answers to his queries (mostly on heartbreaks). So Darwin is potent solution to everything between men and women. He has stood the test of time.

“So you’ll find that” I continued, “those girls who look a Shahrukh in their partners also fantasize about Salman in darkness (No offense on their modestly. Just to make it sound good to the poorly developed literally tastes of these men). And like thy kids, or at least other people’s kids.” I corrected. “It is a potential sign of a good mate. Girls like guys who pretend to like kids. Like kids as much as you like Rajnikant. After all Rajni Sir was also a kid once.”

I had touched a very maudlin nerve. I had shown them the fountain-of-breeding and another reason to love Rajni Sir. There eyes were wet.

“Go back home” I knew they would not leave on their own. “And watch Robot once more. Also watch Ra.One this Diwali. Shahrukh is a great follower of Rajni Sir. He parted with the title ‘Robot’ so that Rajni Sir could have it. Rajni Sir has a super-special appearance in Ra.One. So watch Ra.One, because if Ra.One fails, I won’t be able to take his sides in Shahrukh versus Other-Khans’ debates. He’s aging so fast. Go. Go.”

‘Father, come to McDonald’s next Sunday with me’

‘Sir! Have a drink with us at Hard Rock this Friday. You have changed our lives’

‘Lord! Enlighten some of our friends tomorrow evening; they have troubles passing their genes to next generation’

‘Baba, it will be an honor if you’d join us to watch Ra.One this diwali’

I immediately commit to the last offer, and cajole others to raise their offerings.

Some enthusiastic disciples intently peruse my study. One of them asks if he could borrow “The Origins of Species by Means of Natural Selection” for some days. Others touch the holy book to their foreheads in reverence. I had formed a new cult.

They don’t hug me like they normally would. They fold their hands, bow their head and leave one after other in order.

I observe them leaving as long as I can see. I grab some water. Scream MI twice, switch on my computer, and start writing. My phone buzzed and played Chammak Challo and the screen depicted: Shahrukh Calling.

Post Scripts:

Call me anything but sexist, racist, regionist, or religionist. I really take offense if people think I discriminate on the basis of sex, skin, region, or religion.

It’s irritating why MS Word doesn’t understand British form of English. It also doesn’t go by the pedantic rules of commas, colons, and semicolons. Just because you invented Microsoft doesn’t mean you kill the sanctity of language. They should also now understand that Shahrukh Khan is not a spelling error. He has more followers than Brad Pitt! Americans!

I am a Shahrukh maniac, so please endure the torture of Ra.One coming soon at cinemas next to you.

Finally, get in touch with me if you understand women or are a woman who is super-smart, very intelligent, classy and a sucker of books, words and buildings; I am looking for you.

©Rakesh 2011

“Sunday Diaries: A Kenyan in the Town and Other Stories”

A heritage walk in the city last Sunday brought me in acquaintance with a youth from Kenya. Let’s call him Mr. SM. SM, in his mid-twenties, was in our assortment of seven very hopeless people whose idea of fun on an early Sunday morning meant staring at buildings after getting ripped off close to $12 each. Brief introductions succeeded a lengthy discourse on what to expect in the next three hours of our walk by guide whose credentials I suspected. I was proved wrong though. Our guide, who according to him, was a “consultant architect” (I did not ask him what that meant; I thought all architects were consultants) proved out to be much more than a story-teller. Though sheepish at times finding that we did not share his enthusiasm for ‘a fine mélange of subdued and subtle Caranetic blend in Indo-Saracenic style’ he pointed out all the nuances of architectural styles and old city planning which even an experienced-eye could amiss. A young couple, irked that they could not get the ‘art’ in the architecture, volleyed a series of vague questions trying to sound aesthete and irked us all. The woman went a step further and declared her love for Art-Decos. “I love Art-Decos because they have art in them.” The guide perhaps was too embarrassed by the lack of Art-Decos in the city and did not say anything. But patient he was nonetheless, with all our queries: amateur or pro. I scribbled the “joke” in my notes and the PS read: Why not to get married (reason no. 42).

After three hours of detailed enlightenment and the usual after-rants on modern city planning and drawbacks of a la mode building styles (Surprisingly, no ASI this time) we were given an informal but witless feedback form as we left for our “farewell breakfast.” This is when I actually interacted with SM. Opting to stay away from the couple and letting the silent elderly gentleman enjoy his solitude, I took my seat next to SM. Embarrassing smiles followed awkward silence. In the next thirty seconds, our talks were as varied as possible. From the tattoo on his arm to the grilled-sandwich and finally hitting on what we were there for: buildings. It turned out that SM was not just another sucker of buildings. He studied Town Planning in Kenya and was here on a project to document something-something and finally suggest a solution to city’s traffic woes. I wished him luck for this noble endeavour of his and profusely thanked him for understanding the plight of citizens. Now only the city-bureaucrats could share his enthusiasm. :D

Not surprising, Bollywood has another fan. SM rarely fathoms much of the stories (who does anyway) but he likes the dance and fight sequences. His favourite star? Our own man; Salman. We later took a cab to the city market and SM got himself DVDs of No Entry and Dabbang.

At the end of the day, I dallied with the idea of setting AS up with SM. Picturing them both in the same frame was anything but exotic to me. But the very thought of ‘exporting’ AS out of the country in a distant land enthused the sarcasm in me. Apparently, AS did not share my level of enthusiasm and straight away rejected the proposition of dating a non-Indian guy. A discussion on virility of Indian and Afro guys followed which yielded nothing

Bored, I perused through my notes, documented the reason no. 42 into the MS Word and re-read all of those. Convincing, they all sound.

©Rakesh 2011

“Coffee Tales: I Just Want to Have a Coffee!"

Today, tired of the day, I went to this coffee café which has franchise across all the major cities. The ambiance was nice and the big screen on the wall showed a repeat cast of an EPL match. It was a no-brainer that the place was less coffee and more dating. But that was not the reason I was there. I wanted to be at any place which was not spelt as T.R.A.F.F.I.C. I was fidgeting the contents of my bag when I was presented with the menu card.

Jeez! I’ve been to cafés but this list was really endless. I realized that I’ve had never ordered anything at such places; thanks to my friends who always did it for me. But this was confounding. Cappuccino? Espresso? Okay. This sounded familiar. I can do that. I thought.

“Espresso it will be.” I told the waitron.

“Ristretto? Doppio Espresso? Or Macchiato?” Came the quick interrogation.

“Macchiato sounds good.” I pretended

“You want it with latte or with ice?” He was not giving up.

“I’ll have it with latte please.” I expressed my intentions.

“We’ll have your customized-coffee at your table in few minutes Sir.”

Now I did not know what to say. But that was exhausting! I felt like screaming out loud that I just wanted to have a coffee. Any damn coffee as long as it is not a tea. I don’t care if it is Cappuccino or Americano. Yes, I don’t understand coffee for I ain’t a coffee-maven. I don’t even know what ‘latte’ means your schmuck! (I later ‘Googled’ it though to make sure they weren’t adding poison.) I'll rather watch KJo's shallow talk show where they don't have to choose from n varieties of coffees. and where they spell coffee with a 'K' than dying of suffocation at this place.

And by the moment they had the customized-coffee for me, I did not even feel like having it. I felt like an outsider and had a feeling that fifty pairs of eyes were piercing through me for the every sip I was having. Overcharged and done with pretentious etiquettes, I rushed out of the place. Breathed some polluted air. Cars and buses were talking with honks. I love traffic, I said to myself.

©Rakesh 2011

“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