Twinkle Twinkle Little Star..

If you're thinking this post is a geeky article on cosmology, or about my adventures on a space ship (how cool would that be?! *sigh*) or has got anything to do with the whole star-sign hocus-pocus thingy (I'm a bit of a non-believer. Apologies.) then you're sadly mistaken. Its actually about the day I killed Adele. Butchered, to be precise. Metaphorically ofcourse. Yes. The multi Grammy Award winner and now Academy Award winner, multi Platinum record selling, one-and-only singer-songwriter Adele. Considering she's by far, one of my favourite artistes of all time, this was, needless to say, purely unintentional. In my defense I can only say 'Oops!' and hope that one day, you can find it in your grieving heart to forgive me And this is how the tragedy took place.

It all started in December during my birthday week. Just so you know, I had one of the most boring birthdays ever, spending most of the day in lab, mixing chemicals that I did not care about waiting for some sort of magic to happen. That too on a Saturday after a particularly 'enlightening' meeting with my boss earlier that day. So I was a little on the grumpier side to say the least. While walking back home, cursing the moment when I decided on science as a career and graduate school as a 'life' for the next five years, I got a phone call from my darling brother. He wished me and told me to check my mailbox for a package. Presents! I almost screamed like a child in the middle of a rather quiet road and rushed to my mailbox to find that beautiful yellow mail pick-up slip. I think I did a bit of a bottom-bouncing jig too.

The girl behind the counter was called Kim. I handed her the yellow slip, smiling my toothiest smile, looking quite the buffoon. She smiled back awkwardly, gave me the you're-one-creepy-dude look and went looking for my package in the mailroom. I waited there impatiently staring at the clock and tapping my fingers loudly on the counter. The other girl behind the desk whose name tag I didn't bother to check gave me the dirts. I didn't care one bit. Its my freaking birthday and I'll do whatever the hell I want. Deal with it! It took Kim twenty long minutes to find my package. Riding high on birthday-induced adrenaline I was almost about to yell and create a massive scene of epic soap opera proportions. But seeing the mere size of the package and little Kim (Li'l Kim. Get it get it? *nudge*) teetering under its sheer weight I felt a teeny bit sorry for her. It was a freaking keyboard!! I smiled uncomfortably and tried to save the situation.
"Wow. That's big. I wasn't expecting it at all." I said.
"What?!! This is NOT your package?" she said, her face flushed, beads of perspiration on her forehead staring back at me.
"Err. No no. I mean its a surprise present. Its my birthday." That toothy grin raised its ugly head again.

Kim did not answer. I could tell that she did not care two hoots about my birthday (or wedding or anniversary). She probably wanted me to drop dead instead. Anyway, with my birthday balloon thus unceremoniously deflated, I decided to borrow a trolley from them and make a dash for my apartment. Now the thing is that my apartment was a block away from the common mailroom. If that was the only issue I had to deal with, I would have still been glad. The trolley was square, and at least a foot shorter than this goddam long rectangular package. Its wheels were loose, moving at inexplicable angles almost independent of the direction I was carting the trolley in. In addition, they made an earth-shattering loud grating noise against the stone pavement which was anything but level. So with every little twist of the unruly, fiercely-independent wobbly wheels, the humongous package threatened to slide off the cart, jabbing the shins of unsuspecting innocent bystanders on one side and deleafing prickly bushes on the other. I was yelling the entire way, instructing people to move away to avoid any casualties, apologizing profusely, and covering my face in embarrassment. Thanks Bro. Ain't you the best?

After this mini-disaster I tucked the keyboard under the bed, and conveniently forgot about it, allowing a neat layer of dust to do the rest, my upcoming qualifiers serving as the perfect excuse. Two months later when I finally managed to scrape through my exams, I decided to give the keyboard a shot, fired up to live some serious Mozart dreams. Now what should I play? Considering my mother is quite the pro at the keyboard and my brother is a guitar-god (Dude! I'm seriously good at this 'buttering' thing.) I thought I couldn't be anything but a natural. So I decided to play one of my favourite ballads by one of my all time favourite artistes. 'Someone like you' by Adele. Perfect first song for a natural who's never even brushed past a piano key, right? I started playing. Do-re-mi-mi-fa-fa-fa-soooooo-la-la-la-damn this is a weird instrument-ti-ti-do-nailed it! Well that was a breeze. I imagined a concert stage, the spotlight almost blinding me, and the house chanting 'encore'. I sighed, gratified. Okay now focus. 'I heard that you.. you.. you.. ting tong.. where the hell are you? Aaah. Found it... settled down, that you, found a.. found a.. found.. Can you find it already? Damn.. found a.. found.. This is such a bogus song... found found.. which key is it? Adele sounds a bit off tune here isn't it? It sounds so much better if she just sang re-mi instead of la-ti here.. that you're married..  you're married.. married.. Why can't people just remain single? Goodness. All this mush just makes me sick.. Never mind I'll find.. find..I'll find.. I don't think I care enough to find. That's it. This is such a dumb song. Someone like you? Really? Why can't you broaden that parochial outlook of yours and go find someone else for a change. Stop bawling will you? Never mind.. mind.. mind.. Well never mind. Screw you. 

In that trying moment I decided the song sucks. My favourite love ballad was infact quite hateful. Adele can die. I cannot believe I liked that song. I must have been on something. So I decided on a better song. Err. Well nursery rhymes are songs right? Twinkle twinkle little star.. wow that was easy. And the melody is just heart wrenching... Up above the world so.. so.. so high.. Like a diamond in the sky.. Woohoo! There couldn't have been a more soulful rendition of that song. Fine. Rendition of that rhyme. Stop getting so technical already. But think about the lyrics. So meaningful. And the underlying pathos just touches a nerve. You don't see it? I guess I have to break it to you. You have bad taste *whisper*. Next up, Ba-ba black sheep. I'm on a roll baby! Ba-ba black sheep have you any wool?.. I have tons my boy! You name it! But wait. It sounds a bit like twinkle twinkle right? No. Its EXACTLY like it. Well who cares. Its two WHOLE SONGS right there. All in two hours. I told you I was a natural.

Applause.
Encore.
Bowing modestly.

Raising the Brat

Before you begin raising the red flags I want to clarify that NO, I did not have any kids while I was away. But I learnt some valuable life lessons and considering that half the parents out there today are busy popping babies out like the popcorn machine with no inkling as to how to go about raising them to be responsible global citizens, I thought I should share my hard-earned knowledge. Yes. You're welcome.

A friend of mine from college was in Seattle a few days back and he got in touch with me through our oh-so-popular social networking site. To be honest, when I read his message, I had mixed feelings. Now you might ask why I wasn't thrilled at the prospect of meeting someone I knew from way back in college, and that too in a foreign setting considering I don't have a ton of guests coming over often. To truly understand this you have to know something about me. I'm a closet antisocial. The reason I use the term 'closet' is because anyone who has even remotely interacted with me knows that my absolute favourite activity of the day is to blabber away endlessly with anyone and everyone I meet, thus wasting precious time when other great ones out there are busy trying to save the world. So in a nutshell, my philosophy is 'talk till your tonsils burst'. However, I'm also a slave of routine and this is where things get complicated. Throw in a fancy dinner at a time when I would normally vegetate on my couch glued to the television with eyes popping out of their sockets, and I turn into a nervous wreck; shifting in his seat, curling up under his comforter, whining. And this is exactly what my friend proposed. A fancy dinner. On a MONDAY. I think I lost faith in God for a moment.

Anyway, I accepted the invitation. Since I knew Brat from before, and he was more than just an acquaintance who shared my skill of making unending small talk, I figured that for once I might actually enjoy doing something different. Although I remembered he had been party to an incident which involved almost setting a college residence room on fire, I decided to ignore the warning bells. Needless to say, since he was the one who was visiting Seattle, the onus was on me to decide the restaurant. Fair enough. A virtual conversation ensued.

Brat: Yo! You up for dinner on Monday?
Me: (After overcoming that longstanding inward strife) Sure. Where do you wanna go?
Brat: I was thinking of going to a non-Mexican ethnic place.

How incredibly racist, I thought. Or maybe he just didn't like Mexican food, or had an overfill of it in California. Just to keep things more interesting, I decided to stick with my former opinion.

Me: (After spending a good amount of time looking up non-Mexican ethnic dining options in Seattle and cursing myself for having said yes) I know this really cool Vietnamese place in Downtown. Or else we could try out one of  the sea food joints along the waterfront. That place is gorgeous. What say?

Brat: (Replying almost immediately) Dude, can we try out Ethiopian?

Pehle bolna chahiye tha na! Idiot. Way to make someone come up with an array of choices and crushing them with something this specific. Jerk. So off I went looking for Ethiopian restaurants in Downtown Seattle, and after coming across a bunch that shut down due to 'inexplicable reasons', I came up with one that looked pretty promising. The website was informative. The pictures were enticing. The menu looked reasonable. The reviews were more than positive. Jackpot!

Me: (Distinctly proud of my online searching abilities) Hey I found this really nice place on Cherry Lane. The ratings are pretty high. It seems to be a popular joint. Here's the link to the website. Have a look and let me know what you think.
Brat: (a couple of minutes later) Sounds good. What time?
Me: Between 5.30 and 6.00. I'll give you a call when I leave. It should take me not more than forty minutes. It'll take you twenty minutes tops.
Brat: Coolio. Yo. C u den. (He often used words I didn't really understand. But it sounded vaguely like a yes.)

Next day I left work early and as promised gave him a call at 5.00. He didn't pick up. Obviously. I left him a message saying I was about to leave, hoping he would hear it in time. But going by the above mentioned conversation, I was positive that he'd be there by 6.00 latest. Smiling to myself at the prospect of mouth-watering Ethiopian delicacies and contemplating how well I had evolved socially thanks to dear friend Brat, I headed to Cherry Lane; naive and trusting. Except when I got off the bus, I was in for a rude shock. The neighbourhood was shady to say the least, with none of the promised cherry trees in sight. People decked in bling and leather were walking around, smoking what I suspected to be weed. I decided to get out of this place as soon as possible, and was thankful for spring and the longer days it brings with it. Nothing bad can happen while the sun is out right? However I was glad I wouldn't be stuck here alone and dialed Brat in a surge of kinship.

Me: Hey, where you at?
Brat: Err.. Have you reached?
Me: Yes. I said I'd be here by 6.00. I gave you a call an hour back. Have you checked your messages?
Brat: Hmm. I thought you said you'd take an hour.
Me: (voice mounting the scales, slowly and gradually) I did take an hour.
Brat: Sorry dude. I missed your call.
Me: But either way I told you I'd be here by 6.00!
Brat: (conveniently ignoring the indignation) Dude, I'm walking towards the bus stop.
Me: Where the hell are you?
Brat: I'm at Pike Place Market.
Me: (impatiently) What the hell were you doing there?
Brat: (casually) Nothing really.
Me: (taking deep breaths) Do you know which bus to take?
Brat: Err... No.
Me: (trying hard to keep my rapidly thumping heart from rupturing a vessel) Did you even check up the address of the restaurant? It was on their website.
Brat: (cool as a cucumber) Nope. (As if he had done me a favour)
Me: (still trying to be generous) Okay. I'll help you out. Do you have google maps on your phone?
Brat: Err.. pause.. I guess.
Me: (almost yelling, but trying not to attract the attention of the occassional weed-smoking passerby) What do you mean? Do you have it or not?!!
Brat: Yes yes. I do. I remember now. Actually its my girlfriend's phone.

I didn't care two hoots about who's goddam phone it was. I told him to make it fast and hung up. So here I was stuck in a questionable neighbourhood, feeling terribly out of place, waiting for the most irresponsible person to find his way through an absolutely unknown city. Great! I turned up the music in my ears in an effort to drown my frustration in it, and went about looking for a place to sit and wait for an indefinite period of time. Little did I know that finding a place to wait it out would turn out to be such a formidable task on its own. After a few aimless rounds around the neighbourhood, I chanced upon a park. Not a deserted one, but one filled with giggling pint-sized kids and their beaming parents. Nothing on the planet could be safer than that! I smiled to myself and strutted through the entrance, with a content air of achievement. As I made myself comfortable on a solitary bench near the swings, a cursory glance around told me that I was the cynosure of all eyes. Needless to say, the stares weren't welcome. I couldn't, for the life of me, understand why that would be. And suddenly I had an epiphany. This park was primarily meant for the recreation of five year olds and their parents, and unfortunately I was neither. And as God is my witness, I had never wanted a child so badly than during that dragging hour spent in Garfield park! In the effort to raise the white kerchief, I tried my best to gauge a kid's attention, forcing a plastic toothy smile from time to time, which made my jowls hurt. The kid paused for a moment and having decided I was a creep after ample deliberation, promptly went about his business of rolling in the sand, occasionally shooting me tiny baby daggers. I guess my 'Ole-Baby' face needs a lot of work.

I sat for an hour through sundown in the freezing cold, dodging unwelcome eye-contact from people around me, before I got a call from darling Brat. He had FINALLY reached the damned restaurant. While he was busy profusely apologizing for being late and telling me how he had missed the same bus three times over (?), I could only think of different ways to bang his head against the wall. The next hour was spent in hearing more mind-boggling Brat stories. He had apparently planned to go to Vancouver to meet a 'special friend', Seattle being a brief stopover. Sounded like a wonderful plan. The only glitch being, his visa had not been approved yet, and he was also missing essential travel signatures from his University. How the hell was he planning to go to Canada without a visa?!! The border patrol might consist of well-meaning generous individuals, but I couldn't imagine how they could change the law of the country for making a meeting with a 'special-friend' happen. It reminded me of the J. P. Dutta Bollywood yawnfest 'Refugee' where the only thing that Abhishek Bachhan did throughout those excruciating three hours, was to run endlessly from India to Pakistan and back, smuggling people across the border. The amount of running that he did in his debut alone made me wonder why he had never tried out for the Olympics.

The food was the only saving grace of the evening. It was delicious and totally worth the effort. I wanted to rush to the kitchen and hug the cook for bringing me comfort food on an especially bad day. Brat remarked, "Dude! This is yum! Its exactly like dal chawal." So much for exotic ethnic cuisine! After he insisted on paying for dinner (That's the least that he could have done anyway!) we headed out. The alley was pitch dark with a couple of dim street lights blinking sadly in the distance. There was not a soul in sight. The only noise I could hear were our footsteps and the din of the cicadas. As we neared the bus stop, we could see two huge men in leather jackets and hoodies pacing in the distance. They could be nothing but drug dealers. I was sure I would be mugged that day, and having nothing but a heavy wallet, my blackberry and a brand new iPod in my pocket, I found myself strangely vulnerable. Being the generous man that my parents raised me to be I decided to first get Brat on his bus home, although my instincts told me to run for dear life. Brat left in minutes, burping and rubbing his sagging belly, while I was left alone waiting for my bus. Those ten minutes were the longest ten minutes of my life. The bus stop was on the other side of the road, tucked away from regular sight, with no light or visible signage. I tiptoed towards it avoiding contact with the towering supposed drug dealers and  keeping my eye out for homeless meth addicts possibly huddled in the dark. I kept my black hood on in an effort to camouflage. I cursed my stars for not having attended karate school when I was a kid. As I was busy rehearsing my lines to avoid being stabbed for cash, I saw the semblance of a vehicle in the distance. It was the 48. It was my bus. I dived in through the open doors and almost landed on the benevolent smiling driver's lap. I felt my heart. I felt my pockets. I felt my throat. They were all intact. I guess there was a God after all. I decided on keeping a set of rosary beads handy next time, especially for such trying times.

Brat did not make it to Canada after all. You don't need to be a rocket scientist to get that right. He spent the next couple of nights on someone's couch he had rented online from a website I had never heard about before this. He tried to convince me that it was a great living option, as it was cheap and the guy he was living with was really nice and was not a serial killer. He said the latter with such finality that I did not bother contesting it. He met his 'special friend' and rented a motel in Bellingham. Incidentally, the motel was owned by a Sardar family, and Brat ofcourse made the most of their charity and goodwill. He had free meals comprising makkhi ki roti, dal, ghee and sabzee for the next four days and was a tad disappointed when he didn't manage to get a discount on room rent on top of that. He met me a couple of times for the odd lunch/dinner, choosing vegetarian Thai food and burgers/fries over delicious middle-Eastern lamb gyros. He even insisted on an Indian restaurant, ignoring my apprehensions about it being overpriced, ordering  a plate of kebabs worth twenty bucks and later cancelling the order and walking out as if nothing had happened. He stayed in my apartment the night before he left, politely turning down the offer to sleep in the living room and grumbling about my sleeping bags being not so comfortable. I had to steel my roommate's blanket and sponge mattress for the night, only to ensure additional padding for his cushy spoilt behind. He even requested for a spare key to my apartment and wanted to work on my laptop, where I decided sternly to draw the line. The only things I gained out of this experience were a bottle of red wine and an amusing story to tell.

I will hereby take this opportunity to plead to the million struggling parents out there, that they should spend a little more time teaching their kids the value of punctuality, responsibility and compromise, rather than be content leaving them with nannies. For once they grow up, its all too late, and harmless innocent people like me have to bear the brunt of the baggage that they have grown to be. I'm seriously contemplating whether having kids in the future is a good idea or not, as I don't want to add to the existing bundle of caprice in the world. And in the unfortunate event that they do turn out to be brats, I guess I would have no choice but to kill myself.

R.I.P.

The Great Indian Wedding

December saw me stuffing my things with a vengeance into a humongous suitcase once again. I was headed to good old India, and this time for a lengthy twenty days, instead of a meager, rather volatile and unfulfilling twelve days like last year. Oh the joys of travel! I was talking to somebody the other day about how a journey home after extended absence makes one stupid. For instance, when I landed at Frankfurt for a tolerable (and much needed) four hour layover, my unbridled happiness made me flip out my fancy phone and soon enough, I was fervently texting my friends back home, updating my facebook status (which on other days would be deemed unnecessary) completely oblivious to the fact that I was on international roaming during which most cell-phone apps ceased to be free. I was too busy basking in my Grad-school afforded luxuries which allowed me to flash my credit card and indulge myself with a scrumptious brownie while reading Vikram Seth, instead of running around looking for a calling card to make that tragic minute-long voice-trailing-in-the-middle phone-call home. It was only when I came back and stared in disbelief at my phone bill that I had an epiphany. Happiness is fleeting. Almost cruel. And all this stupidity thanks to my 'Smart'phone. Rather ironic don't you think?

Anyway coming back to the things that made it all worth it. I landed in Bombay, a quick detour, before heading to Calcutta. I had planned to stay over with a couple of my best friends there and explore a different city with renewed appreciation for home. There was non-stop chatter about love-lives or the lack of it over glasses of wine till wee hours in the morning. There were unforgettable meals in quaint hole-in-the-wall Parsi eatouts. There were brushes with brilliance at Prithvi. There was blatant ridicule for tourists who posed awkwardly before the Taj, trying to replicate possibly the most overdone instance of trick-photography, stretching their arms out at odd angles in the hope of grazing the top. There were sunsets across the Marine Drive and moments of idle staring into space. There were truckloads of bad photographs where our nostrils looked too inflated thanks to unflattering camera angles. There was extended philosophizing surrounding a certain redundant 'dentist's appointment'. There was heat during what was supposedly 'winter'. There was dust, incessant honking and unruly traffic, and a butt-of-all-jokes NRI version of myself stuck in the middle of this chaos, too accustomed to zebra-crossings for his own good. The romance of it all was intoxicating, the certainty reassuring. That warm fuzzy feeling came rushing back. It made me smile.

After an eventful two days in Bombay, I landed in Calcutta. The week spent there was a blur, out of which two days were spent in recovering from a severe jet lag. Isn't international travel fun?! But I had less to complain about this time round since I had a wedding to look forward to. My mad cousin R was getting married! Yes. She's crazy. Not only because she has rather unruly hair which makes her head look like a bird's nest bustling with unseen activity. But because she is a rather bumpy emotional roller-coaster herself. Her mood swings are legendary in the family and she has no qualms in admitting how big a drama queen she really is. Incredibly creative, talented with more love to share than she can manage, you'd love to hate her and hate that too. (Well, that's a bit complicated. But I'm sure you understand what I mean. And R, incase you're reading this, just focus on the last statement. The rest aren't that important.) Anyway, after a rather emotional bachelorette party sans strippers and lots of 90's cheesy bollywood music, we started preparing for the big day. And a day of massive proportions it was! Initially I envisioned a very different stay at Hyderabad which involved a lot of relaxation, idle banter and exploring the sights and sounds of the city, not to mention gorging on truckloads of unhealthy, calorie-peaking food. I did get to do some of it. But the one thing we didn't get to do was 'relax'. It was only when R was walking us down the wedding venue carrying a sketch of what it should look like on the day and explaining everything in excruciating detail, did I realize that the supposed event-manager was the bride herself, and us cousins, her hapless minions. As if that was not enough, her brother A and I were in charge of decor. Yes. You heard right. D.E.C.O.R. For the ENTIRE venue! Considering my prior experience in this field included over-decorating a foot-long glittery Christmas tree once every year such that it couldn't stand anymore and had to be kept sadly leaning against a wall, I felt myself breathing really hard through a severely constricted windpipe.

What followed in the next two days was nothing short of disaster. It all started with cousin A and I heading to the flower market to procure three hundred kilos of orange and yellow marigolds at 4 AM. I had never seen a flower market before and did not , in the least, know what to expect. It was nothing short of a battlefield. There were at least a hundred numbered shops, each selling exactly the same set of flowers. There was ample yelling and ferocious bargaining, some of it in Hindi, some of it in Telegu, some of it in unflattering gestures. And two city boys with zero experience were stuck in the midst of it all. On top of that, cousin A had one leg in an ugly green cast and was limping all along, thanks to some ice-skating related mishap in Germany. Excellent! But we survived the ordeal, thanks to our God-sent chauffeur Akbar. A small little chap, forever smiling, and bargaining impossibly, he was a treat to watch. Cousin A and I were just wax models, frozen in time and space, staring at him in awe, as he brought down prices from 50 to 35 bucks a kilo! Now that's some serious haggling I would say.

Having stuffed the nine huge sacks of crumpled flowers in one autorickshaw (a major feat in itself) we headed home to take care of the rest, as the auto followed us in snail-speed, wobbling precariously on its semi-deflated wheels. The next day was spent in putting up all those flowers strung together to make a seemingly impossible pattern that cousin R had come up with. By that time, I was convinced that she hated us all. Thankfully we didn't have to do this maddening task ourselves (which I feared we would have to at one point). As help, we were introduced to Khaled, the flower guy who spoke only Hindi and Murthy, the electrician, who spoke none at all. Now isn't that exciting? Cousin A and I looked at each other. We had to make a quick call on who to instruct. I was going for Khaled any day, as the only Telegu I knew was 'Vaidhava' (meaning stupid) and needless to say, that's not very helpful. But cousin A was fast, even on his limp feet. Before I could say anything, he called dibs on Khaled, and began instructing him about the flower arrangement. I had a clueless Murthy staring at my face. Sigh. I went ahead with accomplishing the impossible and I decided to use my hands a lot to do it.

Me: Murthy Bhai! The green lights go here and the yellow lights go there.
Murthy: (silently looking here and there.)
Me: Murthy, did you understand what I said? I was thinking of having the green lights on alternate bushes and have strings of yellow lights behind the mandap, in the form of a separated curtain. (At this point I was waving my limbs frantically in the direction of the bushes and drawing imaginary lines in the air.)
Murthy: (still silent, staring blankly)
Me: Murthy! (A bit agitated at the failure of afore-mentioned enthusiastic gesticulation) Say something. Kuchh Bolo. TALK. (Trying every language I knew)
Murthy: (calmly) Aaa. (shaking his head sideways)
Me: (exasperated) Murthy! Understood? Yes (nodding) or No (shaking head)? (hoping to give his inexplicable head movement some much needed direction)
Murthy: Aaa. (Swaying head sideways ambiguously.)

I suddenly imagined a wedding with no lights, and cousin R, shuffling in the darkness in her trousseau, looking for a kitchen knife to stab me with. I glanced at Cousin A dragging his injured foot around, and Khaled following his every move, nodding vigorously. Oh how I wish Murthy would nod. Just once. But he didn't. And it made me want to cry. In addition, cousin R wanted to hang hand-made bucket lanterns along the entrance (Yes we made them too). I tried to explain the concept to dear Murthy. I didn't bother to look at him this time. It would only result in more heartbreak. So after some aimless instruction from my side, exaggeratedly pointing to the wire canopy above which was set up in order to hold the lanterns, while Murthy stared at the ground looking for a pen he had dropped and couldn't seem to find, I decided it was time for me to give up and fervently pray for some divine intervention. Three hours before the in-laws were supposed to arrive, the bride decided to hand out some last minute construction work. She wanted a gate to be constructed, which would supposedly serve as a sign for the groom to get off his horse! I ran to Khaled hoping against hope that we were still left with some flowers to build this magic gate. He somehow anticipated this, and before I could ask him anything, without even looking at me, he raised his hand gesturing that we were out of flowers. Great! I turned to look for cousin A. I saw him playing an awkward game of hopscotch in the distance cutting a rather sorry figure. I assumed walking/running was no longer an option for him thanks to that darned cast! So the only other option was a gate made out of fairy lights. It would seem rather magical from a distance surely, I thought, but the prospect of explaining the concept to Murthy made it nothing short of a call from hell.

Me: Murthy Bhai! How's everything going? All OK?
Murthy: (dryly) Aaa.
Me: Good. (Hoping 'Aaa' meant Okay.) We want some lights twirled around these two poles right here and a couple of light trails hanging between them. Something like a gate. (Holding my palms at an angle which looked more like a thatched roof than a gate. But never mind.) Could you do it?
Murthy: (busy scratching his head with the pen he seemed to have lost a few hours ago and staring into space) Aaa.

At this point I was convinced that 'Aaa' meant No, because Murthy's face did not reflect the slightest signs of understanding. But that's all I could do and I just hoped and prayed for the impossible to happen. And the impossible did happen! When I came downstairs in the evening, R's uncomfortably large camera (which I incidentally didn't know how to use) slung across my shoulder, I couldn't believe my eyes. The twinkly lights were on, and the venue looked absolutely gorgeous. At that moment, the only thing I wanted to do was to kiss Murthy, riding high on a wave of awe and gratitude for a job well done, but I couldn't find him anywhere. I was a tad dejected, but I had no time for despondency. I had to run around following every event, the unimaginably heavy wretched camera in place, capturing precious moments for cousin R's album. But Murthy, if you're reading this (I'm sure you're not), you ought to know that I love you and you're my hero. You inspire me.

The wedding itself was another episode altogether. The bride's side were Bengali, mostly comprising quintessential Tagore-reciting, phuchka/Rosogolla eating, book-fair visiting intellectuals, whose favourite pastime on a rain-soaked Calcutta day was to discuss politics or literature over a steaming cup of tea and Marie biscuits. The groom's side were Marwari; an acutely business minded, shrewd, education loathing, strictly vegetarian, Bhangra dancing lot raised primarily on Bollywood. With gritted teeth and bared claws, they judged each other with every morsel of their being. What followed was a night of drama, flared tempers, heated exchanges, reluctant compromises (or the lack of it) and a battle for ultimate superiority. I could imagine a hundred men in the background, beating their gigantic drums, letting out occasional earth-shattering cries of war. Well that might be an exaggeration. But all that stress and lack of sleep made me see things. Literally. At one point, I saw a kid furiously tugging at one of the flower strings, determined to pull it down. I remarked sarcastically, "Beta, Aur todo. Pull the life out of that thing." The girl, at this unexpected encouragement, began tugging at the pole with renewed vigor, the intensity of the effort throwing her off her feet. She landed straight on the ground, bereft of grace or dignity. She cried out in embarrassment. I giggled like a child. It was a victory, too sweet to digest.

When the wedding was over, we all sighed in relief. The remaining unwed cousins went straight to the terrace for a breath of fresh air, suffering from severe marriage withdrawal symptoms. I'm not sure how long its going to last, but it'll be a while before any of us treaded the path, I can assure you. But when I returned exhausted, to my quiet routine life in Seattle, a week after the wedding, I realized I missed it. The laughter. The madness. The herding. The people. The differences. The conversations. That warm fuzzy feeling.