Saturday, May 23, 2009

Single in the City

Being single and staying away from my family was one of the things I looked forward to growing up.
I had thought of all the fun, and the parties, no deadlines, no third-degree about men who dropped me home (Jeez Dad, I didn't take down the car registration number, didn't really foresee the possibility of having to pepper spray my friends).
Word to the wise: Living with your parents is not that bad.
Okay I know it's irritating that you have to share physical space quite often and give up the remote control to Balika-Vadhu-reruns, that treacly, diabetically sweet, addictive (not me, my friends)soap.
I also found it irritating to be answering calls from mom's friends (made me realise nobody was calling me that often). However, however my dearies, thou shall not a foolhardy step take, that too in the heat of the moment.
So living alone, with the all the fun and all the men, OVERRATED. After you've burnt your rajma one time too many and on a day that you've really worked you're ass off, you will begin to appreciate mom's watery dal and hybrid raw papaya-raw banana curry.
Not to mention that you always have to get the door (at all times, twilight, break of dawn). Things don't get taken care of while you're at work (like the ironing, the internet, the plumbing, the electric bell gone awry, the clogged drains..the list is endless). I think I'm all in favor for extensive research on The Economic Evaluation of household work and its inclusion in the National Income.
The other day I actually absent mindedly tried to unlock someone else's door for 15 minutes while the watchman wondered if I was nuts. No luxury to be absent minded when you're on your own honey. I'm a decent cook and all I found myself at the end of a tired crazy day was making a distress call to my mother because I had found worms in the new pack of wheat flour. I mean I make allowances for the viciousness of the bugs in my flat, but man this smacks of poetic justice!

Kind of like god's way of telling me 'I-told-you-so' punctuated by images of my parents doing the victory dance.

I think your parents actually want you to move out, but they do this reverse-psychology thing and try to convince you that it's not a good idea. So that you go ahead and try it, and agree with them and then they can say OK NOW, we're very proud of you and we want you to live on your own and take responsibility for your life!

Saturday, April 18, 2009

Of picky parents and poor souls

A friend of mine told me about her sister's marriage, and how her normally mild mannered father became finicky. In a population that speaks India's smallest language (roughly a million people only), the father wanted only a Brahmin boy from their subsect.

Uphill task? Well there was a distant cousin (with those specifications, he had to be from the family), only he happened to be studying at the Stanford. So the father would of course not hear of it, the prospective son-in-law being 'unemployed' at the time.

Well, parents do want the best for their children, no doubt.

Picky parents and single women go well together. Well, atleast all those single women who don't want to get married. God save the ones who do..and are on a mission to do so. And if you happen to be a man who is being scouted for by such women, you are in grave danger of losing your hair, not to mention your independence.

For not only will you be chased crazily around the plot by even the most together of women, you will also receive threats, and be subjected to devious and puzzling mindgames. Almost every other hour, you may expect a trick question. You might wonder what happened to the gentle souls you fell in love with. They cry copious tears that make you look for a bottle of glucose in case of dehydration. They laugh and cry as if stricken by mania. And you wish you knew the answer to the colour of the curtains in your dream house and whether it matched the answer you gave last time.

Several years ago Oscar Wilde had an epiphany, he said women are meant to be loved, not to be understood.

Sunday, March 1, 2009

bridesmaid again...not the bride yet..thankfully

This wedding turned out to be that of my best friend's. Thank god she's older, although mom did ask with a pitiful look, "Don't you want to get married seeing all your friends do that?".

I thought my family was a cute way of course, now I think most families are like that.

The bride aka Bonnie aka Best Friend #2 is oscillating between being Bridezilla and calming hyper Bengali nerves (did I not mention it was a Bengali wedding). The mother is overstretched between instructing the maid and feeding you and everyone.

On the day of the wedding, amidst the chaos or rather in the Midst of Chaos, the father of the bride is blissfully unaware and solving Sudoku.

I'm Bonnie-r Bondhu (Bengali for "Friend of Bonnie's")and half Bengali by now (you know you are if you agree about Fish ranking higher than any other meat. Note to my strictly vegetarian parents: You just have to agree, not eat it.)

In keeping with typical Indian ishtyle, Bride aka Bonnie went to the beauty parlour, and Bonnie-r Bondhu aka me went along for moral support and slapping the gay make-up artist if he were to screw up.

Bride and Groom sit before the holy fire that makes their eyes water and noses run. Yet they pledge firm commitment despite the testing circumstances.

In short the wedding went as per plan, I wiped a tear from the corner of my eye in truly filmi fashion and later Bride and Groom were expected to consummate their marriage in a house filled with atleast 20 other wedding guests. (Seriously, have some compassion).

I think there is some merit in being the bridesmaid...and not the bride.