It's been a while since I used this dustbin, which now makes me like most Indians, for whom dustbins are a relative unknown, like contraception and consensual sex. That's the thing. Indians hate being told what to do. If anyone goes against our pre-conceived notion of the world and how it must operate, we go bat-shit crazy. Such vast expanses of land and you tell me to throw my waste in a small cylinder? HOW DARE YOU. The nerve of those cleanliness loving hippies, those environmental Nazis. Littering is an age old tradition and is ingrained in our DNA, like peeing on walls, or spitting paan at pedestrians from our car windows. We must preserve our customs and traditions, right? But, I digress. What I would love to talk about is another tradition we Indians absolutely love, weddings.
Let me set the record straight, I hate weddings. Not only because the idea and institution of marriage doesn't appeal to me much, but because as someone who doesn't really know his extended family that well, weddings are an exercise in fake smiling, getting your cheeks pulled, and the worst of the lot, comments from slightly tipsy 'aunties' saying that I'm next, while simultaneously ruffling my hair, pulling my cheeks and nudging me excessively (all while polishing a glass of some expensive whiskey). These aunties are all reincarnations of Goddess Kali, the many armed goddess of destruction, if she were drunk and wearing a sari far more expensive than she could afford. They completely destroy my peace of mind. They believe time stops since they last met you, hence the outrageously overdone tone of surprise at seeing you tall. Even if they last time they saw you you were in your diaper. The only difference between then and now is that all the crying is inside your head when you meet them now.
But even these over-social aunties aren't the worst you'll see at weddings. Their husbands give them a good run for their money in this regard. While aunties drink in moderate quantities, 'uncleji's' at weddings seem to throw caution the the wind, if the wind was Hurricane Katrina. Glasses after glasses are downed, and conversation that was pretty crappy to begin with, turns simply into animal-like roars of "OYEEEEEEE" with a minimalistic form of Bhangra that I assume has been taught from generation to generation. What this ancient dance form aims to do is maximize the satisfaction derived from the music, whilst being careful not to spill a drop of the whiskey or rum in their hands. Now, I'm not much of a dancer, but I appreciate its use as a form of recreation or blowing some steam, so I refrain from judging people on the dance floor. But minimalistic Bhangra makes trapeze artists look like elephants on roller skates. The skill and balance involved at that level of inebriation requires years of mastery and gyaan that only comes as your hairs fall off or turn white. But what annoys me the most is that any uncle, whether he knows you or not, will, if you make eye contact with him, will dance his way over, and attempt to drag you on to the dance floor. If you politely decline, he will offer you a sip of his drink, which you naturally refuse because your parents are watching, and who knows what irrevocable damage that particular concoction could cause to your liver? He then proceeds to fulfil the role of the cool uncle, saying he won't tell if you don't. This is a lie. Do not fall for this. If you do accept the offer of a drink, he will boast about how cool he is to everyone, including your parents. So as you sidestep this obvious minefield, and still refuse, he will manhandle you and drag you to the dance floor, dance with you for a minute, before abandoning you without a qualm for the next clueless child. This leaves you in the sticky predicament of being a stationary, sober man amongst vigorously writhing, drunk people with little or no control over their motor functions. As you play an extremely difficult game of 'Get The Fuck Out: Wedding Edition', you realise that weddings are less about sharing happiness and more about getting people as close as possible to killing themselves.
And then, as the night grows long and the venue is littered by the passed out bodies of people you once thought knew everything as adults, you could be forgiven for thinking that it is over. But no, then is the actual wedding ceremony, and suddenly, like zombies rising from the dead, all the uncles and aunties are resurrected, spankingly new- sober and their usual selves. Now this part of the wedding is both good and bad. Good because it is done in what I call 'Punjabi Silence', which, for normal humans is a 'metal concert sort of sound experience'. But it still is peaceful. And you can even get five minutes without any conversation, which, amongst a room full of Punjabis, is as probable as a dabbawallah in Bombay bringing you a lunch box filled with caviar. But the bad news is, that this part of the ceremony is boring. Not the at home on Sunday afternoon with nothing to do kind of boring, either. This boredom is right up there with being stuck in a prison cell with Kim Kardashian, in terms of the suicidal tendencies it evokes. But you can't even contemplate actually jumping into that fire, because it would steal the thunder from the couple, whose special day it is. Stuck between the devil and the deep blue sea.
And the icing on this shit flavoured cake, is that after the couple is officially now each other's property to nag and irritate the other slowly to death, is what is known as the bidaai. It's the symbolic handing over of the bride to the groom's family. I apologise for making it seem like a transacton, but in many cases, it actually is, what with dowry and all. So all the men out there, study hard and earn good money, and that BMW you always dreamed of having, that might just come free with your wife. Talk about good motivation. But overlooking the horribly outdated practices, the bidaai itself is as drawn out and emotionally awkward as the hit TV series 'The Bold and the Beautiful'. All the bride has to do is walk about a hundred feet to a car that will whisk the happy couple away, but this relatively menial task turns into one filled with hysterics- the bride's mother crying, two more steps, her sister crying, five more steps, then the father starts crying, and daddy's little girl can't handle that, she runs all the way back to the starting point, and we're back to square one. Cue emotional hindi music. All that body water going to waste. The girl is probably moving like 30 minutes away, and will constantly be in her old home, but no, no wedding is complete without a good ol' fashioned tear-fest. Maybe they're crying over the amount of money sunk into a car carrying their daughter away.
All in all, Indian weddings to me, have as much appeal as an intellectual conversation to Snookie. On a scale of the Wrecking Ball video to Eye to Eye by Taher Shah, Indian Weddings are about as disastrous as an Ajay Devgn movie. As someone who doesn't know his relatives, like dancing, or enjoy playing dress up, Indian Weddings are about as entertaining as an Uday Chopra marathon. Which, I know now realize, is a good metaphor for marriage itself, if you think of it. It's always been my motto,' Don't share your happiness, and outsource your grief.' So pardon me if weddings are as alien a concept to me as toilets and spittoons. I'm only human, after all.
