Comfortably Drunk..

As we entered, one was instantly in a different world, indifferent to the rest of the world, of chaos, traffic, crowds. The lighting was a combination of blue dim lights as well as bulbs. Initially, one can’t really see anything else, except the assorted couches, tables and seats…

The atmosphere was….. well, cloudy, mostly because of the ‘n’ number of lighted cigarettes all around. I, a non-smoker instantly felt the strong sense of smoke and non-existent fresh air…
Wondering where I was? Well first time in a pub, in the two and a half years of residence in Bangalore (unless one counts the one hour I spent with friends at ‘Spinn’ before rushing home, about one and a half years back). I was at Legends of Rock, 80ft Road, Koramangala, sitting with a group of friends, all there to celebrate a birthday. It was just about 7:30 pm on a Sunday evening, and the place was hardly full - not empty; a few tables/seats occupied here and there…and some loners sitting at the bar’s table (I don’t think that’s what they call that), on elevated stools.

My friends had been there before, and supposedly the music was great here. For me, who has a somewhat a limited knowledge of English rock, that supposed fact didn’t really make a difference.
At the start of the evening, there were eight of us, out of which two (including myself) didn’t drink, while the others could gut down gallons if the occasion arose. One lady left very shortly, so basically ninety percent of the time there were seven of us. We (again, for all subsequent reading, ‘we’ basically means myself and my teetotaler friend) didn’t mind, so long as our mocktails were being served, along with starters of course. While all of this was being ordered, along with the expected list of alcoholic beverages, I looked around trying to understand what was so great about pubs that they were so popular…

Well, this particular pub was dedicated to Rock, as of course the name suggests. There was an electric guitar (figuratively), hung on the wall where the bar was, i.e. a guitar shaped frame with electric lights was pinned to the wall, there were several large size photographs of rock-stars on several walls, some posters of upcoming live shows in the same place and small fancy bulbs hung over the bar table. And as I said before, there were also several inconspicuously placed blue lights. Since there were virtually no other lights except these and the bulbs, the scene was kind of dark, dimly lit, as if not wanting to disturb the visitors. There were also two large size flat screen TVs – one on the wall next to the guitar, and another on wall next to the door, such that on entering the place, you are facing the bar with one TV, and there’s another on your left. Initially, they were not turned on, and only music was playing.

Except for a very few songs being played, most were unknown. Some songs I did know (selected songs of Metallica, Eagles, Nirvana, etc. etc.), that too mostly courtesy my brother, one of whose sudden passions would be to make me listen to some songs, convinced that I’d like them and most of the time, I did. The rest were all a cacophony of voices, guitars, and drums. However, one thing I’ve realized, one can get used to rock music; you listen to the songs a number of times, you automatically start liking them. It doesn’t matter that the voice of the singer sounds like he has a throat rash, and that he’s got no clue what he’s screaming. There’s something different in that genre of music.
And so, although the songs were all loud as hell with meaningless (to me) lyrics, the tiny thread of melody caught a hold of me and the rhythm finally got to me. With time, I also nodded my head, my feet start thumping slightly with the beats and I started liking the feel of the music…my mind became thoughtless, except for the music.

The people sitting around, all had some kind of liquor placed in front of them, but it didn’t seem that that was the only reason they were there; they seemed to be there for the music too. There were two groups (if you could call two people a group - I called them so just so I didn’t have to call them a couple. Well, they were guys and they COULD have been a couple, but well, 99 % chances are they weren’t; they were maybe just two friends out to have a good time) sitting nearby us. In one of the groups, the two were really enjoying the music; they were almost swaying with the beats, every now and then lighting a cigarette, and sipping the stuff in front of them… sometimes saying a word or two to each other.
As for the other group, well as far as we had observed, they hadn’t spoken a word to each other; they merely sat there, listening to the music, smoking (yes I think almost everyone there was a human chimney) and occasionally singing. They all looked to have come just to relax. I have no idea how much they imbibed, but they sure looked relaxed and comfortable and they didn’t seem to be going anywhere, (throughout the time we were there (some 3-4 hours), the place did fill up, but hardly anybody seemed to be leaving. The place seemed like a sponge, absorbing people into it, without letting them out…

When we had come into the place, we were not really sure as to how we’d spend our time there, seeing as we didn’t drink, and not really fond of rock music, and there basically wasn’t anything else to do. We were just friendly bystanders to a drinking lot. And of course how much could you have of ‘Safe sex in the beach’ (Haha that’s a mocktail), lime juice and chicken tikka. But as it turned out, we had a very entertaining evening, all thanks to our dear frends with whom we’d come and way too much beer on the table…

As we sat there, listening to music, and waiting for the food/liquids to come, we continued with our chitchat (I say continue because with us, there’s no stop to talk, only pauses). Our friends were alcohol-lovers all the way from college, so several embarrassing/revolting moments came up. We had several occasions to see them drunk but this was the first time we were actually there to witness the entire process and it was one funny ride. Some of their antics were comically stupid…. And I think I need to elaborate on those…

Because of the risk of getting sued, I’m not naming names, but since we need some pseudonym for each, here’s a brief description of the characters of this real-life comedy..:

Out of the seven of us, one was kind of an outsider as in he was a junior from college - lets call him Junior. We knew (know) him, but not that well. (All grammar tenses are going haywire). He’d just come to Bangalore and believes weekends are all for partying and of course drinking. He knows almost all of us…

Another guy – well he WAS an outsider, until he entered our lives and the residence of #232 (privileged information) about a year ago. Cousin of a common friend, he got a ready-to-serve friend’s circle when he joined his company in Bangalore; kind of cute, nobody gets enough of pulling his leg – whether it is because of the ‘n’ girls he talks to on Orkut/phone, or the seniors he keeps on visiting, or the one girl he believes himself to be in love with. We all love teasing him… and most times, he’ll seriously explain why this girl calls and that girl gets irritated if he doesn’t call her everyday. We have a great time around him - lets call him the Involuntary Casanova --- Mr. InvoCasa.

Mr. Bottom’s Up – well the name itself is self descriptive, and on which there will be more later. Besides that, well, I used to think him taciturn back in college; we hadn’t had much interaction back then. Now when I meet him, he’s much more talkative. He’s the one who makes the most fun of Mr. InvoCasa and yet advises him sensibly regarding some issues. We both have somewhat similar tastes in music, and share (I feel) a common feeling of being dispassionate.

We two (the two girls a.k.a the two teetotalers) are roomies as well as college mates; from the same college as the remaining three are. We’ll remain ‘we’ through this entire piece.

Another guy/classmate - he’d ordered Rum (as opposed to others who were all inclined towards ‘non-alcoholic’ beer); well what can be said about him? In the past, whenever he’s been drunk, if ever he calls in that state, well he speaks a whole lot of emotional stuff – stuff which he’d never say in his senses. Always maintains, during those times, that he’s NOT drunk…we also agree each time. Also each time, he’d repeat this sentence ‘Main acha insaan hun’ (I’m a good guy/human being (to be exact)). Let’s call him the Mr. AchaInsaan.

And lastly, the Birthday Boy – well let’s call him that only. He’s also from college, and he’d come all the way from another city up north to spend it here, with us in Bangalore. For him, that evening, almost every story started or ended with something to do with drinking. He’s got a truckload full of disgusting imagination, revolting thoughts and dirty (in the literal sense of the term) memories. (Ughhh!)

Now that the scene has been carefully described, and you almost feel that you’re sitting there with us….lets divide the time period we were there (3.5 hrs) in small pockets of easily distinguishable phases… in terms of consciousness…

1st Phase – 7:15 – 8: 15: The Preparation.
This period, I’ve already described partially; we were chitchatting. Except Junior, the rest of us were all pretty good friends, spending a whole lot of Timepass time together (except poor Birthday boy who is stuck in another city). Put us anywhere, at home, on the road, on the way to someplace, in a pub, we’d go on talking - about the past, about the present, and rarely about the future. It would never be deep routed philosophy or something inspiring... just memories; teasing, old jokes, old incidents.
After a round of photographs, the food and the beverages (or atleast the first round thereof) arrived. As we dove into the starters like we’d never eaten before, the rest of my friends prepared to start drinking their respective beverages (yes all alcohol). I say preparing because, one of them (Mr. Bottom’s Up to be precise) didn’t like the glasses in which the beer was being poured, so he asked the waiter to change them. According to him, the glasses should be proper beer mugs. The subsequent mugs on which they drank were huge; one would easily accommodate one litre in each. The guy having rum (Mr. AchaInsaan) didn’t ask for any such early changes, he just shook the glass, and kept it down, as if savouring it till the moment to drink.

When everyone was finally satisfied with their respective beverages, there was a moment of cheers, even though some had already sipped, and then began the marathon. The liquor started flowing while we continued our chitchat. As usual, some hilarious incidents came up (like how the other time one of them got drunk and what happened, etc. etc.); nobody seemed to be in a hurry, occasionally sipping, more frequently smoking. By now, I’d forgotten that exquisite feeling of fresh air. Sometimes talking, sometimes silent, listening to the songs (which were gradually progressing to louder, harder and noisier stuff), we got used to screaming and conversing with each other - such was the sound system of the place as well as the songs. As soon as a song started, someone would say, ’awesome song’ and then some bit of rock trivia would be mentioned, then some would head-bang slightly, and finally fall silent, just listening.

Then Birthday Boy ordered ‘Sheesha’ - flavoured smoke, which I was assured did not contain tobacco (or any such substance). He ordered the apple flavour; I tried inhaling deeply, but each time, I coughed up - it hurt my throat. I finally gave up. Everyone else took turns, with some inhaling with practiced grace, while others (like my teetotaler friend) coughed just like me. The ‘hukkah’, (in which the flavoured stuff was burning) was very royal in appearance - Silver exterior with a long pipe for inhaling.

In the midst of all this, we too sipped our mocktails, and had lots and lots of starters. The waiter who was serving us was so unobtrusive that when he brought the second pitcher of beer, we didn’t really notice. We had not seen anyone calling for the next round and yet the mugs were never empty. It was later that we realized that an almost imperceptible nod to the waiter by anyone present in the group meant another pitcher/peg/round. And then, the mood of the evening was decided by Mr. Bottom’s Up who uttered the most significant of the evening, ‘Aaj peeke out hone ka man hai’ (I’m in the mood to get drunk senseless). So you can guess were the evening was heading…

2nd Phase – 8:15 to 9:15: Mixed Reactions.
Well, our Birthday Boy had been drinking almost continuously; he’d become rather silent, occasionally he’d speak one or two sentences to us (mostly to myself and to Junior who were sitting on either side of him). None of realized how much he’d imbibed, until we noticed that he wasn’t really talking much. Neither was he smoking - Sheesha or cigarettes. After some time, he was completely silent; he looked sleepy – red eyes and rather drowsy. When we talked to him, he’d try his best to respond suitably, and open his eyes, then in seconds, they’d again go back to almost closed. Soon, they closed completely – he dozed off in his own party, sitting, head inclined front-wards. We all had real fun shocking him out of his drowsy existence - suddenly shaking him ‘get up get up’; he‘d wake up, look around, realize nothing had changed and go right back to sleep, all the while – not a single word; Hilarious.
Mr. AchaInsaan commented, that even back in college, sometimes Birthday Boy would be very verbose on such occasions, otherwise, oftener he’d be this way… some things don’t change. Mr. AchaInsaan had not drunk much. He seemed to be conscious of the fact that we were observing everyone, saving comments for future use; he was still at his first drink. Mr. InvoCasa was also at his first mug; he seemed to be in deep thought, also looking around in amusement – a tiny bemused smile permanently on his face, a cigarette a fixture in his fingers. All the while Mr. Bottom’s Up and Junior were busy drinking. While Junior was almost totally inactive in terms of conversation (now that his adjoining companion was in dreamland, he didn’t seem really in the mood to make small talk), Mr. Bottom’s Up seemed to remember all kinds of topics he wanted to talk about; nothing boring or fantastic, merely stuff... which could be interesting. We listened, sometimes genuinely listening and responding, sometimes, wondering why and how that particular topic had come up. But wait - just want to clarify; he wasn’t drunk (as yet), he was just talkative. It was in this historic phase that he spoke the words which became his namesake, ‘Bottom’s Up!’, holding in his hand an almost full mug of beer – Birthday Boy was out of the match, Mr. InvoCasa wasn’t interested, Mr. AchaInsaan was deeply involved in the videos playing on the TV (yes the TV got started sometime in this phase), so it was only Junior who responded, but in the negative; with folded hands as a sign of regret and apology he said, he wasn’t up to it. However, at Mr. Bottom’s Up’s behest, he did try - a defeated attempt; he paused even before halfway through his mug, while Mr. Bottom’s Up, true to his word drank up his whole mug.
More beer was on the way. As for us, well, we were really busy, listening to everybody’s stories, occasionally leaning to hear atleast excerpts of the tales so that we could conjecture the rest of it (it wasn’t possible to hear all of it – there was too much ‘music’ around), watching the videos playing, (some of them were bordering on vulgar, some morbid, while some weird..) and sipping occasionally….
Now, the music had gotten louder, if that was possible, and most of the songs were unknown, and even if they were known, the version would be different (I would have heard the unplugged hence soft version). It was truly difficult to believe that the song being played was just a different version of the same song - there were so much of additional percussion and other instruments added.
The crowd had hardly, if at all, changed; the two non-speakers were still there (I think), and so was the other couple - one was now constantly singing along. The waiters were busier, and place seemed full…

3rd Phase: 9:15- 10:30: Comfortably Settled.
This was the phase where the fun just got better. Birthday Boy was still asleep; after a lot of nudges and shakes when he could not be woken, we let him be - after all he was the Birthday Boy and if he wanted to sleep while he was drinking at his own treat, he could very well do so. The ambience was livelier… when familiar popular songs were played, almost everyone in the house sang along, some head banging, some playing air guitar, while some doing both at the same time. Mr. InvoCasa was rather quiet; now that I think of it, he had been rather quiet all evening. He would have been contemplating the ongoing problems with his current dame, all the way long distance in the faraway land seven seas apart, which had been discussed at length on and on and on, with no perceptible solution. Mr. InvoCasa was not really with us; he was lost in the obscure world of chat, internet, Orkut and Infosys… may his wishes be fulfilled.
Junior was also lost in the world of music, beer and silence - he just continuously sipped, occasionally getting up to relieve himself in the restroom, or attending a phone call outside (of course it was impossible to do so inside).
Mr. Bottom’s Up was at his loquacious best, talking about the past, the present and the future - college days, some senior who had had some issues and who had subsequently been part of a heart-to-heart discussion with Mr. Bottom’s Up, etc. etc. Although he had imbibed a lot of beer, he didn’t seem drunk, and each time his mug was full, he called out ‘Bottom’s Up’. Nobody joined him, but he sure finished his mug at one go. He also frequently went to the restroom, (each time somebody got up to go to the restroom, Mr. AchaInsaan giggled, and whispered to us as we leaned forward ‘beer peene se bahut bathroom jana padta hai..’ and some other disgusting fact about the same which is not worth mentioning here.
As soon as Mr. Bottom’s Up returned, he continued with his conversation with us because the rest of them were either too far to hear, or asleep, or disinterested. We listened, trying hard to ignore the fact that he was repeating himself pretty frequently. Then again, he’d get up for a visit to the restroom. At the late end of this phase, according to our trusted sources (Mr. InvoCasa and Mr. AchaInsaan - who were the only ones who didn’t look or talk drunk) he presumably threw up in the restroom (twice).
We had a sudden overwhelming feeling of pity for the waiters/cleaners at the pub – what a job; serve them, see them get drunk, ensure that they do, and clean up their mess, and then again get them drunk…
God forbid someone got sick within the seating area.
However, we tried to find something positive in their job – maybe they would be entertained by the endless stories, gestures, ‘nautanki’ of some of the customers when they were in the self-created world of ‘alcoholdom’. Who knows? Maybe… Maybe not.

We realized that we would be leaving soon, and we’d be hungry as soon as we left - the starters having been ingested a long time ago. So after asking everyone present, we perused the menu and ordered some sandwiches; everybody else vehemently refused, ‘no…we’re not hungry.’ But well, one should have seen how almost all of them repealed that statement and went straight ahead with the sandwiches (not that we had any problem). We had ordered one plate which had four pieces; well we managed to get a piece each I think. As I put my hand on the plate to get the second, it was seized by Mr. Bottom’s Up who didn’t realize I was about to take it. (Come to think of it, I don’t think he even realized that he was taking it). Considerate Mr. InvoCasa (its no wonder really that all the girls want to be married to him, he’s pretty sweet) asked us if we wanted the fourth remaining slice which he had in his hand. We declined, but seeing the ‘not-hungry’ appetites of all present, another plate was ordered.
It was when this second plate of sandwiches arrived that we realized that Mr. Bottom’s Up was totally and absolutely wasted - gone case, drunk, in another world. When the waiter set the plate down, opened a ketchup sachet, poured a little and left, Mr. Bottom’s Up started eating, now not talking much; he was slowly following the footsteps of Birthday Boy. When the ketchup finished, and his sandwich remained, he tried to pour some more from the almost empty sachet. Boy! His hands were shaking constantly; it was with an effort that he held up the sachet and tried to press it - he wasn’t able to even press the sachet; he had no grip. Somehow, after one whole minute of shaking it, one-two drops of ketchup very generously descended onto the plate. It wasn’t enough even for one bite, but Mr. Bottom’s Up was apparently satisfied. With one wave of his hand, he mopped the sauce with his remaining sandwich and ate it, as if that was all the ketchup he had needed. After his adventure with food was over, the arduous task of getting a tissue started. There was a tissue dispenser on the table, to his left, and there was a Special’s stand (where a piece of paper announcing the day’s special or something such is inserted on a small stand) to his right. For about 5 minutes (maybe I’m exaggerating a wee bit), he kept on taking out the Special’s sheet, assuming it to be tissue, then putting it back after realizing that it wasn’t. Then again, the whole process started. He kept at it for quite some time; I think it was only after we had realized what he was doing and had laughed our full, he became aware of his mistake and somehow pulled out a tissue and wiped his hand.

Except us nobody else had noticed; as we looked around, everyone else was in a haze. Of course Birthday Boy was still out, Junior didn’t seem to care about anything at all, except cigarettes and beer, Mr. Bottom’s Up was looking drowsy, Mr. InvoCasa still had that lingering smile on his face and a mug in front of him (he hadn’t drunk much but he was rather quiet) and Mr. AchaInsaan was on his 3rd glass (peg?) of rum, just staring at the TV, occasionally interspersing comments regarding the songs or videos or us. He looked to be sober and sensible, which was really surprising, considering his past record. Once or twice, he did ask us, ’You two must be having a blast making fun of us.‘ or ‘you must be thinking what a set of drunk friends you have..‘. We gleefully agreed.
He asked if anybody wanted anything else, preparing to ask for the bill (it was about 10:25). At that time, dear Mr. Bottom’s Up was in the restroom, relieving himself and wasn’t there, and so the bill was called for. When the bill came, and Mr. AchaInsaan took out his credit card on behalf of his buddy, Birthday Boy, Mr. Bottom’s Up decided he wanted another pitcher of beer. Looking towards Junior for agreement, (who very thoughtfully didn’t disappoint him) although how they were going to drink that was a mystery of cosmic proportions. Mr. AchaInsaan, disbelieving, and somewhat hesitating, again confirmed. ‘Yes’ came the reply. The now grinning waiter, who had a total look of disbelief and amazement on his face, (as if he was wondering where ALL that beer went and why had we ordered yet another pitcher) nodded and went to get that last pitcher.

4th Phase: 10:30 -10:45: Curtain Act, and Totally Drunk.
By now, our neighbours, the couples, had left, and had been replaced by other people who didn’t seem quite as interesting as the ones before. The place wasn’t emptying, but it was less crowded; it was time to leave.
Before the last pitcher arrived, Mr. Bottom’s Up had joined Birthday Boy in dreamland; he sat there, leaning back, but his head kept falling downwards. As his eyes closed, not even the flash of a camera could wake him. When the last mug from the last pitcher of beer (that HE ordered) was poured in front of him, he took just about a sip and then promptly went back to sleep. To help in finishing the beer, (of course it had to be finished - it was sacrilegious to just leave it there un-drunk) Mr. AchaInsaan gave himself to the cause, smoking a cigarette and asking the waiter to pour him a glass. Mr. InvoCasa had hardly drunk all evening; one of his unfinished mugs had even been finished by Mr. Bottom’s Up and obviously now too, he wasn’t interested in helping in such a charitable cause.

Unflinchingly Junior took a generous mug, he didn’t seem out of his senses; he was aware and yet he was drunk. As Junior and Mr. AchaInsaan worked hard at finishing the last remnants of beer, the bill was brought again. After a frantic search for a reasonable tip in cash for the waiter (supposedly if the tip was included into the bill of the card, that didn’t reach the correct person, and so Mr. AchaInsaan, true to his name always preferred giving cash), and retrieval of the credit card (paid very considerately by Mr. AchaInsaan as Birthday Boy didn’t seem to be in the state of signing anything), Birthday Boy was also rudely woken up from his dreams. This time when he woke, he was almost instantly wide awake; he refused the beer, and now sat straight, refreshed from his two hours of un-interrupt-able sleep (there’s no such word as un-interrupt-able, it basically means sleep that cannot and will not be interrupted even if Earth was smattered by asteroids and God himself screamed at the sleeper). He recalled his duty and asked for the bill, ‘it has been taken care of’, Mr. AchaInsaan giggled and informed him. Satisfied, Birthday Boy relaxed and laid back, now very much awake.

Finally we got up; the waiter was smiling ear to ear, Mr. Bottom’s Up had been shaken out from his drunken reverie, and informed that we were leaving. He got up, walked to the door, stumbled at several places, and started his descent to the ground floor (luckily it was just one flight of steps). As he held on to the stairs’ railing, we followed, pretty sure he’d fall. Amazingly he didn’t. As we assembled below, we decided to walk back home; our place was just 5 minutes away and most of the others didn’t seem to be in the state to drive their bikes). Mr. AchaInsaan and refreshed Birthday Boy, very chivalrously offered to accompany us back.
Hardly drunk Mr. InvoCasa escorted Mr. Bottom’s Up to the bike, an expression of worry on his face (I think the thought running paramount in his mind was what if Mr. Bottom’s Up vomited while on the bike?). Well just to keep you in the loop, Mr. Bottom’s Up did throw up, fortunately not while on the bike, but only after reaching the comfort of their home, on a chair, according to a harried Mr. InvoCasa who later called up Mr. AchaInsaan to give him the latest news.
Mr. AchaInsaan had told Mr. InvoCasa to warn Mr. Bottom’s Up that ‘usko bol dena agar vomit karega to khud saaf karega’ (tell him that if he vomits he has to clean it up himself’). I don’t have any confirmation on that happening.
Junior seemed to be in his senses; we shook hands. I just said ‘drive safe’, sincerely hoping he did, he said he hoped so too. (Again, to keep you informed, he did drive safe, fortunately.)
Our knights dropped us back home, sat for a while, socialized with our amused room-mates and then left home. They also reached safely.
And there ended the four phases of alcohol, amusement, and a lot of music.

By the end of it all, they didn’t seem very drunk (Birthday Boy was all sober while Mr. AchaInsaan would have reached the drunken stage had he had another round). During this entire comedy, we did repeatedly tell all our drinking buddies that’s they should NOT drink so much and then NOT drive. But well, who listens?

Our room-mates asked, ‘but why didn’t you drink, what did you do the whole time? You would have gotten bored.’ In the midst of unadulterated giggles, guffaws and laughter, we replied, ‘you have no idea how much fun it is to be sober when you’re with a group of drunken friends; we had a very entertaining time…’, and proceeded to give them a detailed description of the antics of our friends.

They believed, but didn’t look very convinced… maybe you aren’t too…
Ah well. You had to be there…:)

Deleted Orkut Profile - II

Change has evaded me for some unknown reason; I’m the same I was 10 years ago - no evolution, no improvement, no deterioration, no weakening. A non-descript face among millions, sometimes clamouring for attention, sometimes trying to hide in the crowd. Unable to speak out, I used to take solace in penning down my thoughts, now I simply write things I think I would like to share. My thoughts are lost somewhere in my confused mind…..they are too personal to publish online and somehow, somewhere, the concept of personal diaries has died; I no longer have the time or inclination to actually write, using pen and paper. Life has become a series of keyboard shortcuts and high speed typing, staring at a monitor for hours at end.
This is the sum total of the current life of an ex- reserved inarticulate conventional female with no guts to be different, no courage to head in a different direction, no talent to succeed anywhere else.
Yet she hopes, strives, who knows? Maybe the non-entity can finally slam the doors of convention and find it in her to do something she actually likes doing, work towards something she actually believes in, and maybe make a difference somewhere.
She knows it’s a one in a million possibility, considering how things are heading currently, and yet that single strand of possibility doesn’t let go, holding on, hoping to get a stronger hold in her conscience, somewhere in the distant, if not near, future.
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The somewhat morose description below isn't always how i feel. The mood oscillates from one state to another, sometimes finding vent in penning the emotions down somewhere. What's written below is the product of my mind on a rather bleakish dark day.
Most of the times, I’m happy with life as its going...

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And now, lighter shades of me....

Nobody who knows me well would call me sweet, soft spoken, sentimental, or spontaneous…
And they would be completely correct…
Almost.
I’m self conscious, superficially cool, stupidly stubborn, and scathingly sarcastic…

A tad on the crazier side of the planet; just a tad…I’ve been certified a psycho by one of the most renowned consultancy services in India. I’ve been trying to prove them wrong, but somehow, all my efforts have proved fruitless…
I’ve inadvertently developed a dislike to having inane conversations with strangers on the net…..so unless you really think we’ll get along, don’t scrap me.
And by the way, incase there’s my picture on the profile, just remember that looks are deceptive…

Passions:
Music..(The Food of my Life)…
Books ..(The Food for Thought).. I guess by now ur getting tht FOOD is also a major passion in my life :):)

Sports:
All sports are prejudiced against me..its a sad fact of life, that from day 12011, they have all been united in being biased against inactive people like me..

Activities:
Since that fateful day 24 years, when I was rendered lethargic by unknown forces of nature, which have persisted till date, I am helplessly enervated, lazy and inactive almost permanently....
Sometimes, for some temporary glorious moments, when the forces subside into hibernation ...I find the will power in me to meet up with friends, go out, read, occasionally (very) write, movies....

Books:
Friday's Child by Georgette Heyer, If Tomorrow Comes by Sidney Sheldon, Fountainhead by Ayn Rand, The Class by Erich Segal......

Music:
The recent success of Himesh Reshammiya's music has broken all previous rules regarding the importance of melody, lyrics, and voice inflections in the creation of good music. His nasal tones have indeed been an inspiration for all the millions who till now were made to believe to that their voices were not even worth bathroom singing, and who are now lining up for all those
endless talent hunt reality shows..
Since his onslaught on Indian entertainment industry, music tastes have been known to be malleable.. you hate a song the first time you hear it.... the 20th time you get used to his nasal intonations and no longer mind them... the 40th time, you unknowingly hum along... the 60th time, you sing along.... the 80th time, you like the song.. the 100th time onwards, you play the song in a loop on your media player....
Before this recent phenomenon, I was known to like old Hindi songs, soft rock, Bryan Adams, all kinds of assorted stuff....

TV shows:
Not much usually worth watching on TV.. the attention span is exponentially diving towards (-) infinity....ads seem too long..
amongst the plethora of song, dance and saas-bahu scheming, some old shows like The 70's show, Still Standing and other good sitcoms keep the faith in television entertainment still alive..
One realizes the futility of TV, when the cable connection is disconnected for over a week, and the only stuff one misses are the news channels...

The Great Indian Celebration called 'Shaadi'...

To an outsider (read foreigner), an Indian wedding is an Indian wedding – the same all over the country. To them, states are not entities; a Tamilian, a Bengali, a Gujarati or a Punjabi all are the same to them. However, for an Indian, divided by states and languages and communities, a wedding could belong to several categories: same caste, different caste, same language, different language, correspondingly same region, different region, same religion, different religion, even different nationality.

It’s a big divide, and then again there’s the divide of whether the bond is arranged or one of love (it’s just a term – doesn’t mean that arranged marriages don’t have love in them). When it’s an arranged marriage, well, the selectors of prospective bride/grooms don’t go for marriages with other castes, and NEVER different communities. Obviously, because one expects that two people belonging to similar backgrounds (read caste, religion, language) would get along much better than otherwise.

However, if recent urban trends are to be considered, love marriages and arranged marriages work hand in hand; parents are open enough to allow their progeny to choose their partners in life. And even if they aren’t, their children go for it anyway and then, more times than not, parents have no other choice except to accept the relation. And, a majority of the time, they choose people who are invariably of/from different caste/language/region/religion. Off late, I’ve seen a lot of such couples; in love, striving to make their respective parents accept their decisions. Some accept grudgingly, some don’t, until they realize they’ll lose their children. However, once they accept, they realize that its not that bad - the chosen person is actually good. After all, how much would it matter that s/he’s Punjabi and not Telegu, or Assamese and not Bengali?
And they get along just fine, if not better.

Inter-caste is not such an important factor nowadays amongst the urban, (I repeat urban, because in rural areas, even today couples are not allowed to get married, and are even murdered, if they are of different castes, leave alone religion). Several of my friends are part of/are couples who transcend states, from North India to South, from East to West, and all with relative ease.

Some years ago, in my family, we had a Punjabi bride married to my very Bengali uncle, and surprises of surprises - it was an arranged marriage, arranged by mutual friends of both the parties involved. The couple just knew each other, and that’s that. The marriage was special; although it was between a Bengali and a Punjabi, it was conducted in Guwahati (a place whose majority population is Assamese). Anyway, it was a concoction of Bengali as well as Punjabi customs, with the former dominating, maybe because it was the groom’s side (as always, the Indian psyche gives more importance to the groom’s side). However, there were customs of the Punjabi way of marriage too. The one I remember were the knots tied in a string, which had to be untied by the bride or groom… I’m not too sure…

That had been a relatively low key affair, even though cross cultural, I’d not felt the cultural differences in both parties. And since the bride’s party had come all the way from Delhi, very few people had come, and so I’d not really experienced the Punjabi flavour of the marriage.

That loss of mine was compensated very recently, when I was privileged to attend the marriage of a very dear friend in Hyderabad. Punjabi by birth, Gujarati by place of stay, he was getting married to an Andhra girl (another sweet person I got to know through him). Yes of course it was a love marriage, but luckily, both the sides (parents’) had come to a mutual agreement. And so there it was - a marriage of different India-s, languages, customs, and possibly castes (though that would hardly matter after the previous different-s).

For me, it was a trip to look forward to, going to Hyderabad, meeting the friend after four years, that too for his marriage, that too to a person of entirely different region.
I don’t know why I chose to write this post…I’m not going to describe the entire marriage am I? Well maybe I am. Only because I was so amazed by the way people came across cultures and merged into a single multi faceted ceremony; add to that a touch of foreign spice - you have your very own version of unity in diversity as well as nationality.

Hmm… to explain all that I’ve rambled about above, let me elaborate a little (a lot actually).
Well, to begin with, I had never had an idea about a north Indian wedding, let alone a Punjabi one. All I’d heard was that Punjabi ceremonies are usually rather ostentatious, with a lot of pomp and show, somewhat spectacular and flashy, involving a lot of cash flow (this I assumed after watching a lot of Hindi movies which although I knew exaggerate could be partially true). As for Andhra weddings, I had an even lesser idea about that, never having attended any south Indian weddings or watching any movie depicting atleast some part of it, unless one counts the two minute wedding part of he movie ‘Hyderabad Blues’ (which is a very nice movie by the way).

Lets begin with the pre-marriage ceremony…the Engagement also called the ‘Sagai’. No wait... I’d missed one ceremony - the Sangeet, that’s again a North Indian function, a day or two (I’m not so sure) before the marriage, where there’s a dance function, and all the ladies (again I’m not sure) dance, and sometimes even the bride, if she wants. In this case, I heard that the bride had danced with aplomb, while the groom was trying to signal her to be a little demure (or atleast act as if she was). She was not at all perturbed and supposedly danced with no shyness, and so did her father.

Anyway back to the engagement…
According to the merged set of customs, the groom’s side arranged the engagement. It was all set at a hotel far away from where we were put up to stay - a cantonment area ahead of Begumpet (where the airport is). When we (for all subsequent reading, all ‘we’s indicate people from the groom’s side) reached the place, after a long and rather picturesque ride (with the sunset glistening the waters of the Hussain Sagar lake), the place was almost empty; besides the people who had arrived in earlier cars (from the groom’s side) and others (again from the groom’s side) who had come there directly. Not a soul from the bride’s side was to be seen.

On enquiry, it was found that she was caught up in the beauty parlour and it would take some time before she could manage to reach the place. Now that in itself was something different; traditionally, brides are the ones meant to be ready before time, nervous, awaiting her knight in shining armour (of course not literally) to arrive. In this case, it was a rather uptight groom, who was waiting, at the same time, socializing with the guests; most of the time standing with a few friends of his own batch from college.

As I looked around, the decoration was really pretty; it was a simple affair of flowers, but not the conventional set of marigold. From afar, the flowers looked artificial, they were so perfect. But later, after the ceremony, we found that they were real fresh flowers. They were very tastefully decorated with medium lighting, nothing to make the people present blink while looking at the elevated dias. Initially, two throne-like bronze chairs were kept at the centre which was where the engaged couple would be sitting for quite some time, like the king and queen of the subjects sitting below. Some music was going on that was all Telegu; not a hint of Hindi. Later, at the behest of us, a few songs of Hindi and English were played.

After some time, some of the bride’s sides’ relatives came in. It was then that one realized that this was indeed a confluence of cultures, not in a bad way, but as outside appearances and manner went. Unlike the groom’s side which was comparatively livelier, maybe a little too impatient, the bride’s side entered rather tranquilly, so much so that their arrival was just a little short of inconspicuous. They came in mildly, talking softly among themselves (or so it seemed). Even the way the ladies of both the sides were dressed for the occasion was very different, even the colours. Though all the ladies from the bride’s side wore sarees and mostly all from our side too (not me), but the sarees were radically different. While their side wore heavier sarees, probably silk, Kanjeevaram etc., in our side, it was mostly chiffon and georgette, and even the colours were different; while ours were in bright shades, theirs were a little less bright, bordering on dark. Maybe those textiles come in such colours. The jewelry was visibly more of gold; our side, the jewellery was less noticeable, rather light. As for the men, there was hardly any noticeable difference. Atleast some things are universally same.

One could make out a perceptible wariness running through the air - both sides were anxious to please, and yet unfamiliar to the other side. As we looked on, the groom’s mother welcomed the bride’s and they started talking; the groom’s mom gave some sort of jewellery to the bride’s mother. They were chatting like old friends. Everyone settled down and mingled, well, not so much as mingled, maybe talked among themselves; both the sides separated. But then again that had nothing to do with culture clash; that happens at all weddings (at least Indian) - the groups hardly ever mingle initially.

Note-In-between: For all the customs and traditions that I’m describing, some might be incorrect and misleading as I never observed that closely - whatever appeared to me as a custom, I’m putting it down here. I could be wrong.

About half an hour later or so, the bride entered, all decked up in her finery looking beautiful in a completely sequined orange-yellow saree, her face glittering, more so with her constant smile. She wasn’t the conventional bride – she was (is) the modern Indian bride; not at all self conscious or shy. Charmingly, she came forward and smiled to someone, a nod here, a wave there - she was meeting almost everyone at once. As everyone looked in her direction, she was not at all put into confusion, neither was she nervous. A friend’s wife offered to walk her to the dias, she cheerfully refused, ‘that’s all right I’ll go...’ and so she went forward, meeting people on the way, a word or two here and there. In retrospect, as she sat down at the dias where the groom was already sitting, maybe the groom looked more nervous compared to her.

Then started the Punjabi ceremonies (so it seemed)… there was this tradition called Aashirwaad, where the elders blessed the couple. Several other customs would have been there, but as I was seated at the back somewhere, I really didn’t know what exactly was going on.

All I remember is photographs - a lot of them. As the bride and groom made a cultivated effort to talk to everyone present, they also had to photograph with almost all the guests. It was like they had a smile permanently on their faces; friends, relatives, cousins, kids, colleagues all wanted snaps with the couple. And even if they didn’t, courtesy indicted that the couple force them to take a shot with them; the photographer hired was busy all the time, along with the video camera guy, who was also recording off and on.

So there it was - the engagement was done, and all they had left to do was sit at the dias on their royal seat, welcoming invitees as they came to congratulate them , and then clicking a photo with them. By the end of it, they were incapable of genuine smiles; too tired to smile genuinely but yet trying their best, a tiny upward lurk of the lips, that was the thin line on their faces by the end of the evening. And then in the midst of the guests, there entered a very special couple - an Australian couple (since I don’t know their names, let’s call them Mr. and Mrs. A), who were special because of the way they became a part of the whole marriage ceremony….

Mr. A is a very famous eye surgeon who had come to Hyderabad for some seminar or something and Mrs. A had accompanied him. As they were staying for quite some time, Mrs. A decided to join some Indian cooking classes. So she asked here and there and finally stumbled upon the cooking classes that the groom’s mother taught. When she saw that the classes were temporarily suspended, she enquired why and found out the reason, i.e. her (the teacher) son’s marriage. And so she and her husband talked to the mom/groom (I’m not sure who) and requested them to invite them to the wedding. Of course they agreed, but yet they were persistent, as if disbelieving, ‘no… invite us… my wife is even ready to wash the dishes if required but we want to be in all the festivities’. (Since I heard this after several versions, I’m not sure whether these were the exact words). And of course that was not required. Anyway, that was how they became involved in the whole celebration.

And so they arrived, both looking so happy and comfortable; as they went to congratulate the couple, one elderly uncle of the groom smiled and motioned to the photographer, ‘take their photo with the family’, who happily complied. There they were – the affianced couple along with groom’s mother, and the blissfully bemused Australian couple. Displayed here was a classic example of Indian hospitality; all the members of both the sides, especially the groom and bride, made sure that Mr. and Mrs. A did not feel odd or lost at any point of time. They made sure that someone was there with them, to talk to them, explaining the various customs so as to make them comfortable. Indeed so, they looked at ease while a young cousin (probably) of the bride stood/sat conversing with them, explaining the highlights of the ongoing ceremonies.
That’s when I realized. To them, it was an Indian wedding, not Punjabi, not Andhra; they wouldn’t have even realized the cocktail of cultures they had landed themselves into. Strange how an outside perspective makes you realize how petty some of our inter divisions are.

During the ceremony, we heard some bad news. There had been some bomb-blasts in the city; one in a park by the Hussain Sagar lake and another in some other place (the name I forget). Everyone was a little worried, but no one wanted to mar the evening with sadness. Many got calls from worried friends/relatives to know if they were all right. That tragedy made the atmosphere somewhat sombre.

While we were having a late dinner, we were witness to a special dance show by the bride’s cousin. A teenager of about 13-15 years age, when the chairs had been removed and the couple had come descended from their throne, he got onto the dias, and danced away to glory - one song after other. The people sitting below also cheered him on, buoyed by the enthusiasm on his face. As he danced on and on, another girl (also from the bride’s side) also danced. But the boy was exceptional; he danced as if he didn’t care whether anyone was watching, he seemed to love it. After a lot of dancing and intermittent applause, the bride’s dad (his uncle maybe), in a gesture of appreciation, got onto the dias, sportingly danced along with him for a few seconds and then at the same time, gifted him with some cash as a blessing. The boy pocketed the money, smiled and continued dancing.

After the last guests had left, the families dispersed to their respective places. As we left, we crossed a flyover from where the area of blast was partially visible. I felt somewhat helpless, a tinge of sadness hinting to shade over the festive mood. There hovered in my mind a pinch of guilt; we were laughing and enjoying while people were coping with the tragedy of losing their near and dear ones. While a bond of love was being sealed, some bonds had been forever torn apart by the cruel act of some heartless people. It is a testament to the different ways of life that are common to Indians - Babies are born, people get killed, marriages get sanctified, riots get started, and yet, life goes on… life has to go on. Tears flow, heart-rending images prick and yet somehow memory and time gives each a respite… to forget and to heal.

That’s how we also somehow put the thoughts at the back of our consciousness, to ignore, to forget.
Let me get past the guilt and continue with the wedding saga…I know it might sound callous, but then, as I said, life does go on.

After reaching the temporary residence at the cantonment, after a while of chitchat, discussing this and that, that saree and that lady, that food and this dessert etc., as is common after every major event, people retired to their respective rooms. Atleast I did.
It was already pretty late and the next day i.e. the marriage day was going to be a rather early, long and eventful day…

It had been decided that the marriage ceremony in itself would be conducted in the Andhra way – i.e. their customs, but of course the classic north Indian baraat (groom’s bridal party) would be a forerunner to the wedding..

The next morning started early for the main people involved, and consequently for all the people present in the residence, including me. After a sumptuous family breakfast (just so because we had become somewhat like a family, as all were present there for a common cause). I, along with another friend, headed out to meet a college friend. We left with some other members who had to go to the bride’s place for some ‘Shagun’ I guess, where they would be giving (or getting?) some ritualistic articles to (or from?) the bride’s side.

When we came back, I was a little disappointed to know that I’d missed the Haldi ceremony. Atleast that was a ceremony I was familiar with, i.e. the same happened in Bengali marriages too. At both the sides, the prospective groom and bride were made to sit docilely, while they were smeared all over with turmeric (haldi) paste… and they could not object. Sometimes, while this happened, others smeared others and it would eventually turn out to be a small Holi.

So anyway when we returned, we were greeted with a yellow groom, all the haldi dried up on him, except his face, which he had washed. He looked busy; on the phone, doing this, doing that. Supposedly, there was some custom, where the water to wash off the haldi should come from the bride’s place (obviously just a nominal amount), but that had not arrived, and so the groom was all covered in yellow paste, waiting for the water.

The baraat was to leave the place at about five thirty or so, after some ceremony, but till four, the groom was roaming around, not even close to ready. Luckily, then the water finally arrived, and whatever ritual was to be performed, was performed. I have no clue, because I was busy freshening up. Amazingly, the groom took about ten-fifteen minutes to get ready for the most important day in his adult life; handsome and charming in his brownish golden sherwani, complete with a stoll. As soon as he was done with his toilette, he hurried up the rest of the people to get dressed, helping out with the kids, and smiling all the time.

Finally, we were all ready almost in time (yes I did take time seeing that I had chosen to wear a saree). Mr. and Mrs. A had also arrived in an auto, after frantic searching of the area for the place. Mrs. A, resplendent in a magenta salwar kameez, greeted the groom and his mom; while Mr. A was all dapper in his complete suit. As they talked to the people around, she glanced at myself and another girl (who was newly married), both trying hard to handle the sarees, and came forward, asking if we could help her wear her saree. She had actually bought a saree, but since she didn’t know how to wear it, she’d brought it along with her, hoping that someone would help her into it. We said, we’d try but maybe someone else would be better, because we were also novices in the art. As she stood with us, her husband, her husband called out to pose, his camera in hand; they were both so enthusiastic, ready to capture every moment.

After some customs (again, I have no clue what exactly), where a pandit chanted some mantras, and also some story from ancient Hindu mythology, I’m unable to recall which exactly, and blessing from all the elders present, we all left for the marriage hall. The baraat left in six-seven cars; I was privileged to be in the car along with the nervous (somewhat) groom, his mom and some friends. I’d never been part of a north Indian baraat before, and so I was rather curious as to how things were going to follow.

What happens in a baraat in our (Bengali) weddings is: After some blessing etc. at the groom’s place, everyone sits in the respective cars, reach the bride’s place/marriage hall, where they get welcomed and then starts the fun. There’s a custom of blocking the gate (usually done by the brides’ sisters, cousins and smaller kids etc. during the welcome), called. ‘Gate Dhora’; either the groom’s cronies have to force a way in through the barricade of people, so that the groom can follow respectably (of course he can’t be involved in the forcing) or he has to pay the blockers money to get in. Usually, the groom pays (after all he gets married that day - he can’t be cheap and not pay). Then, the groom, along with the other baratis is seated at a stage/hall/rooms/ which is all decorated and comfortably arranged. Last time I attended a wedding (a long time ago) from the groom’s side, the arrangement was done in the traditional Bengali way, with cushions and mattresses placed in a semicircle, with sufficient space for all the people. With the groom sitting in the centre, aromatic incense burning next to him, flowers set in front him, now, when I look back, it appears to border on the funnier side. But that time, I believe it was the norm. Generally, refreshments would then be served, or the people would be escorted to the pandal (temporary constructed eating place) where they could partake refreshments. Then, if I recall correctly, the groom would be re-dressed in the clothes given by the bride’s side, and then the wait would begin until the auspicious moment of marriage. Either I had attended mellow weddings, or all Bengali weddings are mostly mellow in comparison to the north (atleast in terms of baraat). True, there are a lot of light moments, games, and it’s a week long festival, but there’s not much of song and dance except the traditional shehnai, which has of late been converted to live bands (the uniformed kind who play loud popular songs) or Hindi film songs, but it’s not even in the vicinity of being as lively or loud as a North Indian wedding (that’s what I realized after being part of this wedding).

As I was to find out, in true Punjabi style, the baraat halted at a place about a kilometre away from the marriage hall, and got out of the cars. I realized that the groom would be reaching his wedding astride a horse that was standing there, all decorated, along with its caretaker (that’s not the exact word, but that’s the nearest I could get). A uniformed band was also present, with some bright lights on top of some kind of vehicle, which was to travel along with the baraat. After all the cars had arrived, the groom finally got onto the horse’s back, wearing the sehra (a headdress with strings of flowers hung on the top, so as to cover the whole face). The band started, the lights shone… and then there was dance. And boy! What a dance! The groom’s brother, cousins, and his friends started dancing, madly, no method, no steps, mindlessly moving their limbs, with some rhythm along with the band, which was playing some popular Hindi movie marriage songs. After a few minutes of frenzied dance with indescribable steps; random and wild movements, the baraat started moving, but not for too long. Within five minutes, again the entire party of dancers, i.e. the brother/friends/cousins started dancing yet again, this time pulling others (yes… me too) into the dance. Even the ladies danced for a while. The groom’s brother and a cousin sister even managed to teach Mr. and Mrs. A, who were initially hesitant, to dance. Then, they too, realizing that nobody really cared about the steps, danced with gusto.

The baraat was moving at a snail’s pace (obviously), with dancing going on every five minutes. We were moving on the main road, but initially there were no people or shops etc. on the sides, but as the buses and cars went by, people inside, turned and stared. After all, such a loud and colourful baraat wasn’t that common in these parts. A person in the baraat had to keep the dancers and others from going onto the middle of the road, because they (the dancers), as such were not really in their senses; once they were dancing, that’s all they seemed to be doing. All of them were drenched in sweat; such was the intensity and movement of their dance.
All the while, the groom stayed put on his horse. Frequently, he looked through the sehra, momentarily moving the strand of flowers, to look around as to what was happening; he looked so helpless, sitting on the horse, no control over anything going on around him, just waiting for it all to get over. That expression was to remain on his face for the remainder of the evening, temporarily camouflaged by smiles.

And all the while, the madness of the music and dance continued. As we neared the place (half an hour to forty-five minutes and barely a km later, that too), the frequency of stops became more, the progress diminished to miniscule steps. I was reminded strongly of the celebration of Dashami (10th day) of Durga Puja - when the idols are taken for immersion, a similar song-dance scene reigns. (I’ll not delve into that now – maybe that’s another whole new post). Here there were more people along the road, and as we progressed, they looked on, wonderment in their expressions, smiling, and if I’m not mistaken, some guys joined in, danced and then left again. We’d created such a commotion in the usually peaceful place, that everyone around was looking at us.

Finally, we reached the marriage hall. Surprisingly, there were three marriages in the same marriage hall (it was more than a hall - a four-storied building of halls, including a garden and parking space). Our marriage (sounds funny but this was the easiest way to phrase it) was on the third floor. There were separate entrances for the three marriages but the baraat was visible from all the floors. So, as we entered, with pomp and show, a lot of people looked down from the other marriages, staring; all the shine from their wedding faded into the glitz of ours. Yet more people stood in the area outside the building, just outside the entrance; probably they were all from our bride’s side - I was in no position to distinguish. Again, the penultimate round of dancing, this time some youngsters from the bride’s side also joined in and were totally encouraged by the groom’s side. Some crackers… and then the baraat had finally arrived.

As the groom waited to be brought down from his mount, his friends & cousins insisted that the groom go until the very end astride on his horse (if it was upto them, he would have entered the building on his horse). And then it was all a haze - crowds totally swaying with the band while the dancers went on and on and on. Someone (probably from the bride’s side) told the band to stop playing but somehow they also didn’t stop, caught in the madness of the dancers. After a LOT of dancing, and lot of music, when we had all mingled along with the bride’s side, the band finally stopped. The horse had reached the entrance to the building. As some young kids went to help their future relative dismount from his horse, he said something to them which was not audible to us. Then we realized that the groom had his demands; he wouldn’t dismount until the bride’s parents danced (I guess there lies the advantages of a love marriage; you are already on familiar terms with your in-laws). Everyone started clapping, the band started playing (again), and a shy mother and totally zestful father danced perfunctorily. Satisfied, the groom dismounted and the herd (better known as the baratis) entered.

Our bride’s function was arranged on the 3rd floor, just below the top floor where the food arrangement had been done. As we reached there, we were greeted with people serving some kind of liquid refreshment (water/ juice/ something else). Inside the hall, the arrangement was simplistic; chairs were arranged throughout the length of the hall while at the front there was a decorated raised dias, again with flowers. This time it was the traditional marigold flowers - all shades of orange and yellow livening up the white painted walls.

Now, I’m not sure how much later the next event happened, probably some fifteen to twenty minutes after the baraat arrived at the marriage hall. This was a north Indian custom – Jaymala – the first exchange of garlands between the groom and bride. Here also there was a lot of fun involved; what happens is that neither the groom nor the bride wants to bow down when the other is garlanding him/her. So usually they are lifted by their friends/brothers/cousins etc. so that the other had to reach higher up to garland him/her. In this case, our groom’s friends lifted him high up, nearly touching the roof of the flowered enclosure; the bride’s brothers then lifted her too, but somehow, as soon as she reached his level, they pulled him higher. The scene was hilarious; two dressed up people lifted up high, holding garlands in their hands. The resource pool on the groom’s side was more than the bride’s side and they were showing no signs of bringing him down. When both were on the verge of crossing even the roof (in terms of height), the bride’s brothers resorted to tickling the people who were holding up the groom, so as to get them to bring him down. With that, the garland exchange was finally complete, fortunately, without the couple toppling down.

After that, there wasn’t any ceremony or ritual before three (yes in the morning) when the auspicious moment (Shubh Muhurat) was. It was about nine when the Jaymala was completed. Post that, while the couple were in for another round of photo sessions, this time for a larger audience, we all went to the food area on the top floor. Here there was an assorted cuisine of both North Indian as well as South Indian ; so while there was panipuri (also known as golgappa), and chaat, there was also sambhar rice.
After some tasting here and there, we went back; the couple was still at it, greeting guests and the inevitable photos - both were looking tired.

At about eleven thirty or so, when the invited guests had eaten, and nobody was expected to come, the couple finally went to have some food, so they sat at the centre of an elongated table (arranged by joining several tables) while their friends (us included) and sisters/cousins sat with them, also having their dinner, i.e. if one could call it that at that time. Since the actual yagna (Don’t ask me the meaning of the word…I too am clueless)/rites were times at about three in the morning (night rather), we all went to the rooms allotted on the same floor, and rested there; I dozed off.

2:30AM: Knock knock knock… and we were back at the hall, where the marriage was now officially on, the Andhra way…

As the we reached there, slightly sleepy, coffees in hand; we looked to the dias to find a curtain hung there in the middle, such that no one sitting in the hall could see beyond it. And who was that sitting this side of the curtain, with his back towards us? That was the groom, facing the opaque curtain, doing what no one knew. Presumably, he would be following instructions given by the people on the other side of the curtain. Since we were all too lazy to find out, we never did know what did go on all the while. Supposedly, the curtain would lift little by little, to disclose the bride sitting on the other side. So we sat, awaiting that, chatting amongst ourselves. Someone said, ’poor guy - we all friends or someone should atleast sit there with him… he’ll be so bored, sitting facing nothing’ and then someone else commented gleefully (something to the effect that) ‘let him, after all he chose his Andhra bride - he has to follow their customs’. Nevertheless, someone must have heard the groom’s unspoken prayers (or someone must have heard the first guy) because in a few moments, some of his relatives did join him there at the dias, half of them looking at the curtain, as if in his support, while the other half looking back at the hall.

I don’t remember if the curtain went up gradually or in a single stroke, but it eventually did go up, and the cutest sight awaited us at the other side. There she was, the bride, wearing a different saree, (silk I think) in South Indian style, sitting inside a wicker basket (yes a wicker basket) facing the groom, who was still in the same position as before, just that the curtain had been raised. The bride’s mother and some other female relatives of the bride, sat beside her, while the pandit recited some mantras and performed some rituals. All the while, she sat in the basket; at the end, the pandit pasted some gur (jaggery) on the heads of both, along with some rice grains.

Then there was again a change of saree for the bride; when she came back this time, dressed in a white saree with red border, of cotton I think, she sat on the floor and not in the basket, still facing the groom. Then, their were an assorted number of games, which had some significance with marriage, things do with togetherness, caring for each other, etc. etc. As they were told to do this and that, the pundit explained the significance and analogy of the games with marriage. One such game/custom/ritual was the pouring of rice grains on each other from the same plate; whoever spilled more before the plate emptied, was supposedly the winner (of what, I have no idea). The first time the couple did it, they just did it because they were instructed to; the second time, they actually seemed to be competing with each other, picking up as much rice grain as possible in their two hands and pouring it all on the other. At the same time, a huge grin was pasted on the bride’s face (I couldn’t see the groom’s face as) – they seemed to be enjoying themselves…

One or two more similar kind of games were also conducted. Now my memory doesn’t allow me to decide whether there had been any ‘phere’ or the circling around a fire, of the couple, joined together by a cloth tying her saree’s end (pallu) to the groom’s dhoti-end/kurta. I have no clue – as far as I remember I don’t think so, but then again, I was sleepy so I could’ve missed it. Anyway by four thirty – five in the morning, the wedding was officially over. As we all returned to the rooms where we’d previously rested, we were joined by the groom in some time. We all sat chatting till dawn, somewhat sleepy, yet knowing there wasn’t much point in sleeping now; some of us were leaving by morning flights. After some time, the bride too came in; all marriage ceremonies over, both were finally free. She came in, and after sometime, promptly lied down and fell fast asleep, all the sleepless nights finally taking their toll. She was so sound asleep that all of us talking, people coming into the room, her spouse throwing a pillow at her - nothing disturbed her.

And thus they were married.

That morning, we had planned to see Hyderabad - places like the Charminar, Golkonda Fort, some movie studio, and the Hussain Sagar Lake which spread across a large part of the city, the park near it etc. were among the placed we were told were famous in Hyderabad. However, due to the blast two days earlier, there was a bandh (kind of an involuntary strike, where a small number of people declare that the whole city will remain closed in protest, whereas actually, they are the only people who want the city to remain closed) in the city, we were advised not to venture to any of these places. To kill time, (our bus back to Bangalore was in the evening), a few of us cooped up at a mall, Hyderabad Central and watched a movie ‘Hey Baby’ (don’t ever watch it - the movie begins well but then loses track as to whether its a comedy or a drama). The mall is like any other mall in Bangalore; a branch of the same mall was there in Bangalore too (Central). The only difference was maybe the food court, and the architecture of the place. Then we went to the Eat Street – it’s along one of the sides of the afore mentioned lake. It’s a beautifully arranged place; several self serving food stalls, and tables and chairs arranged along a stretch of the banks, where people could enjoy the food as well as the view of parts of the lake and city. One could see the roads at the other bank of the lake, with the cars running on them looking miniscule, so much so that they didn’t even pass for toy cars. It is a nice place; however, surprisingly, inspite of the lake there was no breeze. It was absolutely still and if one didn’t stay in the shade one came to experience the heat of Hyderabad.

After some time, we left the eating place and walked around for sometime around the lake. Whether it was because of the bandh or the time of day (afternoon bordering on evening), there were almost no people around; it was peaceful but hot. I missed Bangalore somewhat. After walking around and thoroughly tiring ourselves especially after the sleepless night, we went back to the groom’s place, where the bride had been already received. People (relatives) who had come from out of station to attend the marriage were preparing to return to their respective destinations.

When we reached, the new bride was sleeping; it seems she had fallen asleep while an elderly relative had been narrating some random history of the family (maybe). When we left, about a couple of hours later, she was still sleeping - so comfortable, very at home in the new place (after all it was a love marriage and there wasn’t the normal shyness associated with the arranged marriage bride). We didn’t have the heart to wake her.

So as we left the newly married couple, the Andhra bride, and Punjabi daughter-in-law was sleeping after a tiring and exhaustive two days, while the Punjabi groom and Andhra son-in-law was still in the midst of post-marriage duties; dropping off people leaving after the marriage.

Nothing seemed different or weird. You see, when two people decide to live the rest of their lives together, minute details like language/region move out f the way, creating a beautiful amalgamated union - the best of both worlds, and obviously the worst too. 
Though one could work at slowly phasing out those not-so-good elements of both worlds in all the subsequent happy years of togetherness…

Note: Mrs. A did wear the saree, and she looked wonderful.

Without a twist - Part II

Well, here’s the second and final part. Undoubtedly, this part lives up to the title of the story. Read on if you’re still interested.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Nothing in the last 3 years of security experience had prepared him for this situation; Varun’s utterance of those fateful sentences left Vikram so dumbfounded that after walking for a few seconds, he stopped and stood there, agape, staring at Varun, and at the sea of faces staring back at him.
A rush of thoughts were going on at superhuman speed – this was his moment of truth, his chance at glory, his chance to show the entire staff and employers what he was capable of, this happy thought was simultaneously being marred by the unnerving realization that he really didn’t know what he was supposed to do, then a sudden thought also made its appearance; was his leaving his post for a few minutes in any way responsible for Varun’s situation? This possibility, he was quickly able to dispose off. In the midst of all these conflictions, another pretty mundane issue was popping its head – his open lunchbox; his food. The fact that in such a situation he could still think about food disgusted him, although, he then realised, he was actually very hungry.

He was brought back to attention, from all this meandering emotions by some one nudging him from the back; it was the tea/coffee guy. Very softly, he whispered to Vikram from behind, ‘you have to stop standing there like a statue and do something.’
In and undervoice, Vikram muttered, ‘easy for u to say - the suicidal guy has not called your name‘. All this had happened in the space of hardly a couple of minutes, but to him, it seemed to have been much longer – more like an era.

Slowly, without having a clue as to what he was going to do, Vikram walked towards railing where Varun was standing, looking at him with a strange look in his face - pleading, as if asking for help, and at the same time wishing he had the courage to just jump off. When he saw Vikram coming forward, he started speaking disjointed phrases all over again…’you all are trying to kill me… I might as well do it myself’, ‘what more do you want from me?’, ’am I harming any of you by standing here? Then why are you all staring at me? Go on…do your work…I’m sure you all have important work…’, ’you all can’t stop me from doing what I’m doing…he (pointing at Vikram) knows why I’m doing it, he understands me..’, ‘move back all of u… I don’t want to see your faces, bloated with all the self importance that you give yourself’. While saying these jumble of sentences, he started walking on the railing, his knees shaking constantly.

All the while Vikram was walking slowly towards Varun. In a corner of his mind, he was thankful that he had been in the totally opposite side of the cafeteria (from where Varun was standing), so that he had some time before he came face to face with him. At that moment, absolute chaos was reigning in his head - what was he to do, how was he to bring down a frenzied guy down from the railing on the 10?th floor, what about his food? In that short time, he had made a mental recall of all the countless movies he had seen in his life… was there a precedent he could follow?

Hindi movies: He couldn’t immediately recall any such scene. The one movie where someone was sitting on the railing of the 20th? Floor, she had been pushed down, so that was not the road to go forward in, another movie, the girl stood there, already injured, and then jumped, peacefully. She succeeded in her suicide effort, so that was again not the way to go. Then he wondered why only females fell from railings? He forced himself to not think of such trivialities and focus. In another movie (an old Hindi classic (yes! That was the exact same situation) - one guy had stood high up (on a water tanker was it?) and threatening to jump. But, why was he jumping? Oh yes! He had wanted to get this girl’s (who he liked) aunt to agree to marry her niece to him. Darn! Did that situation apply here? Don’t think so but how was the problem solved? The aunt had been forced into submission. Boy! That had been a good movie… sigh…the hero had been drunk in the scene and it had been hilarious...sigh. Vikram wished he could watch the movie again. Then he came back to the present, ‘hey stop! Focus! Focus! Is Varun drunk too? Well he could very well be….his eyes were bloodshot and he was speaking nonsense…we’ll find out’…

By now, Vikram had almost reached Varun; he paused, should he ask Varun whether he was drunk? And even if he was (drunk) how would that help? Marriage didn’t seem to be the reason Varun was screaming, standing on top of a narrow ledge, on top of the 10th floor. As a last hope, Vikram shifted mode to English movies - was there a way out there? There had been a movie where people had been stranded on the top of a building due to a fire, but then they had all been rescued by seemingly trained firemen, and a few who had jumped were saved by some kind of cushion landing… Naah that was not helpful…where would he be able to manage and coordinate all that? How would he get the cushion landing while stuck with the guy and the spectators on the terrace itself? (Maybe someone else had thought of that and were bringing some kind of arrangement) - Plan 1 temporarily discarded. As Vikram’s memory kept flowing, and he proceeded slowly, the rest of the people walked a little back; whether it was due to Varun’s entreaties or a general disinclination of witnessing a tragic end, was not clear. However, what it resulted in, was a clear semicircle area, considering Varun’s erratic position as the possible centre, and Vikram standing in the middle of the cleared area - still, relaxed (atleast that’s how he looked to the spectators, after all how were they to know that it was not coolness that was keeping him away from panic but tiredness coupled with hunger, and mindless thoughts), and most importantly, silent. There was an expectant pause in Varun’s speeches; he was also hoping for something…what that something was, he himself didn’t know….

Vikram had no clue as to what he should do. Unable to think of any solution, and seeing the expectant looks on everybody’s faces, he just blurted, ’Sir, are you drunk by any chance?’. What followed was a torrent of exclamations - ’what! You’re saying this? You!! I thought you understood!’, ‘you think I’m drunk?! Drunk? I’ve never touched alcohol in all my life and you think I’m drunk?!’ and much more to that effect…. Vikram thought ‘he certainly sounds drunk, but guess he’s not.’ After some more of similarly phrased sentences, Varun stopped, a look of exhaustion mixed with despair on his face; his knees seemed to bend in submission. With an effort, he stood there, unwilling to get off and yet lacking the courage to jump.

Whispers started going on among the people; more people came into the cafeteria, while some left reluctantly (last minute pending deadlines), some recalled the tea/coffee guy back to his duty and were sipping tea/coffee at the back, wondering what was actually going on. The Admin people had been informed and they had reached; but they were also similarly clueless as to what to do, they had informed the fire department people, and asked for help.

Vikram, by this time, had recalled one particular English movie, where the exact same scene had happened; one guy standing on top of the roof of a multi-storeyed building, threatening to jump, when the whole thing had been resolved by the hero of the movie who had climbed up to the same place where the guy was standing, and then explained something (because of the English, Vikram had no clue what that something had been), but whatever it had been, the suicidal guy had become very docile, and had climbed down. And then everyone around had clapped; the hero had become an even bigger hero.

Ah! So this is what he needed to do, but there was a small technical problem; he was scared of heights. Not scared in the literal sense of the word, somewhat not fond of them lets say. Of course, it wasn’t like his knees would shake the moment he looked down from a ladder or something, but to stand on the railing of an open terrace on the 10th floor of a building, with no support, that too in the vicinity of a suicidal person… wasn’t that a little risky? But then again, it was Varun, the nice quiet guy who always talked softly (except now); he might be a little out of sorts, but he wasn’t murderous was he..?

To get more time to contemplate this plan of action, Vikram started to try to calm Varun down, he asked,’ Ok you are not drunk Sir, but then why are you trying to jump off from here’?
This brought forth another torrent of expletives, ‘what have I been saying for the past hour?! (It had not been more than 10 minutes) I am tired, my boss doesn’t let me eat, I hate my boss, my computer is slow, I haven’t gone home in 2 days, my boss doesn’t let me eat, I’m feeling sleepy, and yet my boss doesn’t let me sleep’.
He kept on saying the last sentence on and on as if in a trance; at this juncture, this ‘boss’ of his, attempted to step forward and explain (he was standing at the front of the semicircle of spectators,). ‘Varun, I had just asked you about the pending report. That’s all I’d done. Now come down and stop creating a scene’.
If Varun was frustrated before, now he was maniacally so; had his boss been within reach, he would surely have been throttled. Varun regained his speech after a few moments of disbelief – ‘you had JUST asked me about that pending report??!! You knew the rest of the people are on leave, you didn’t give me leave, I’m the only one working - 2 days continuously, day AND night and you JUST ask me about the pending report while I’m eating LUNCH??’.
There was a collective gasp amongst the crowd ‘Boss’ tried a last time to pacify Varun and convince the audience that he had not been unfair (a lost cause), ‘OK I was wrong in asking, I apologize. Please come down’. This speech had the opposite effect of what it was supposed to have - ’you apologize?! I don’t want your apology. Get lost! You didn’t let me eat’. Varun kept on repeating the same thing over and over again; he seemed on the verge of a breakdown.

During this not-very-friendly tête-à-tête, Vikram had somehow convinced himself that he needed to climb up; he just had to do it. Slowly he motioned to ‘Boss’ to stop talking, and slowly, very slowly, started to climb onto the railing; unfortunately it’s was a little too high to just climb – he needed a support. While he looked around for something he could use, Varun started screaming, ‘why are you coming here, I’m not coming down! Don’t come nearer… or I’ll jump’.
Vikram paused, he said ‘OK sir, I’m not coming up (somewhat relieved that his dangerous task was slightly delayed), but could you tell me what exactly is the problem. I couldn’t understand what you were telling your boss, I know how frustrating your job is - staying late, working alone etc., but why are you jumping off this building? Shouldn’t you be making someone else do that instead?’, quietly pointing with a nod of his head, and looking very meaningfully towards ‘Boss’, who was glowering helplessly at a distance.

Infinitesimally mollified, Varun slightly cooled down. Atleast he stopped repeating ‘he didn’t let me eat’, and now stated recalling all the supposed wrongs done to him by his boss. He stood still and kept looking down at the railing which he had been pacing for last few minutes, when every other person’s heart had been in their hands, looking at him pacing the narrow strip of the railing, knees shaking intermittently.
How, and by what stroke of luck, he hadn’t faltered, was a cosmic mystery; maybe he hadn’t even realised how much danger he had voluntarily signed up for himself.

Then, in front of the Boss’s horrified face, Varun blurted out all the frustration that had been festering in his conscience for quite some time. Of course, the basic reason why he was standing on top of the railing was his Boss’s unsympathetic question about the report while Varun was lunching. However, seemingly, there was more to the whole situation. The gist of the continuous gibberish that was flowing out of Varun was that he had never been a workaholic; he had been forced to become one. He had joined a year before, fresh from college, all plans for an ambitious future, and things were going pretty ok too, training and fun; after 2 months or so he joined the team where he was currently working, where of course ‘Boss’ was the manager.
Initially it had been an easy job, learning, basic reviews etc. However, with time, the senior members kept on unloading their work on him, and he, being the junior-most (besides being somewhat timid and eager to please), couldn’t refuse. Later, he didn’t know how to; he had never been one who liked to say no. Result: long days, extending into nights, sleep deprivation. ’Boss’ apparently knew about the real division of work and yet didn’t do anything to change it, and the worst part was that he was never given the credit for the work. ‘Boss’ supposedly had a favourite in the team, who always got all the opportunities, even though he knew squat and hardly did anything productive. At any point of the day, if one looked at the monitor if this favourite, he would be reading some online gossip, reading some forward. Because of the boss’s favouritism, many had left the team; the 8 member team had dwindled to 5, Boss wasn’t even taking in new joinees; according to him , the work could as well be handled by 5 people, when actually it was almost being handled by a single person (our victim Varun) who had involuntarily transformed into a one-man army.
For the last 2 days, the other 3 were on leave (it was Diwali this week and all had gone home), and the 4th one (boss’s favourite) was preparing to go onsite as he had been selected to go to France to attend a very prestigious training; one that Varun had been sure he’d be selected to go. So Varun had been stranded in office, handling the work of 5 people, without even going home, without sleeping, without proper food, continuously thinking of the opportunity that he hadn’t been given and that had been the last straw (actually the last straw had been the inquiry for the report). That pent up frustration had all erupted when, while he had been eating a proper meal after almost a day, his boss had had the nerve to ask him about the report.

Varun let out a deep breath and stopped; that had been all about it. So, Varun’s sleep-deprived brain had revolted, the nervous system had started doing acrobatics, and had forced him to take a stand (rather, forced him TO stand- that too on the railing of a 10 floor terrace).
Vikram took that golden opportunity to indicate to the tea/coffee guy to push a big flower pot (next to him) a little further so that Vikram would be able to use it as support to climb up. When he looked at the other side, he was momentarily distracted by the Emergency Response Team (ERT) guys, who had finally come and were preparing to move towards Varun, hoping that Varun wouldn’t start pacing again. Unfortunately, (more for Varun, rather than them), seeing Vikram, his only sympathetic listener distracted, Varun did turn around, and the moment he saw them, he returned to his frenzied state - shouting that nobody let him have a moment’s peace. He told the ER guys to stop moving towards him, and threatened to jump if they neared. They tried reasoning with him; to cool him, but Varun was in no state to listen to reason. Although they knew, he most probably wouldn’t jump, but they couldn’t risk it, their only fear being that he would fall by accident. Anyone who was present in the cafeteria would vouch that it was indeed a miracle that he had yet not fallen, given the earthquake that his knees were going through.

The ER team backed off. Actually the problem was, never in their wildest imaginations had they envisaged such a situation, and so they were in no way equipped or prepared to handle it. Another problem was the time factor; when someone was threatening to jump of the 10th floor, one really couldn’t ask that person, ‘excuse me, could you please delay it a while so that we can arrange a cushion landing?’ or maybe ‘when are you going to jump? Is it worthwhile to get the cushion landing brought here?’. The ERT guys had called here and there and a cushion landing was on the way, but when that would reach was an unanswered question.

So whatever hope Vikram had had for a moment, of returning to his lunch, and of being spared the Varun saving session, died. Everyone, including the ERT and the ‘Boss’, were looking expectantly; he was even momentarily annoyed; what were they expecting? A miracle? As he looked down below, he swallowed, the prospect of standing at such a height for long, was not tempting at all. And then, in a flash of genius, a scene from the English movie with Hindi dialogues, Titanic, struck him.

Maybe he didn’t have to climb the railing after all; what had the hero done in the movie, merely tell the girl (again!) how cold the water was and how difficult it would be for him to come after her. OK small technical problem – he couldn’t very well tell Varun that he’d come after him if he jumped, but what he could do was, scare him with the results of his fall.
So Vikram, our hero, proceeded to act like Leonardo Di Caprio aka Jack Dawson, and said to Varun,’ Ok fine Sir, nobody is coming to force you down and I understand what you have gone through… but Sir, did you think about what will happen once you jump? Varun, unfazed, ‘I’ll die what else?’.
Now that wasn’t very encouraging, but Vikram continued, ’well, its going to be very painful, and it might so happen, that you won’t die, and instead be permanently damaged - broken all over but not dead, with brain damage, so much so that you would not be able to speak again, or try to die again; then you’d be taken to a mental institution where you would live for the rest of your life, you would not released for fear that you’d try this (pointing at the railing) again.’ (Vikram had no idea, if anyone could come out alive from a 10 storey leap, but what the heck? he could give it a shot).
Varun didn’t seem very affected by the vision; he said,’ I don’t understand why you, of all people, are trying to bring me down. Your life is as screwed as mine; pathetic, boring, tedious, unappreciated. You and I share misery, and yet you think I should come down?’

The truth of the statement left Vikram a little stunned; his job was pathetic. Yet, somehow, he shook his head, as if to remove the unsavoury thoughts and concentrated on trying to find some way to convince Varun. He repeated, ‘why are you doing this Sir? What will you gain? Etcetera etcetera’.
Varun was in no mood to come down. His eyes now had a gleam, bordering on madness. He said, ‘I think you should also come up; together we’ll prove a point to this world that we need a life too, c’mon - don’t you want the world to remember you as the hero who sacrificed himself for his creed’ (of course, Varun meant the profession of security…most probably, although what was the point of the while exercise was still beyond comprehension.. but nevertheless).. Varun kept speaking in this manner, looking all around, as if he was an army general, and he was delivering a speech before a battalion of reluctant soldiers.

What happened next left the entire cafeteria stunned; Vikram said to Varun, ‘Yes Sir, you’re right, I deserve better!’, and climbed onto the railing. There was yet another collective gasp in the crowd. Some people shook their head, some started talking urgently among themselves, while some looked thoughtfully at Vikram, guessing they knew what he was trying to do, and yet unsure.

What was going on in Vikram’s mind was another convoluted story; what was he thinking? Well, at that moment, Vikram himself was shocked into inaction. Several questions ran in his head: how had he been crazy enough to climb onto the railing, that too all of a sudden? Had he really been inspired by Varun? Was he going to jump? Or had he come here to save Varun? What was he doing? What if Varun pushed him? What if Varun jumped? Would he have to jump too? What the heck was he doing? He looked around, hoping for help of some kind but he was disappointed. Everyone was instead standing down there expecting him to do something.

What was he to do? To play for time (yet again), he decided to follow Varun’s suit.
Varun, on the other hand, was ecstatic; he looked totally maniacal now, a somewhat triumphant look coming into his face. The frustration lost, a childish joy of victory had crept into his face; what that victory was, he himself didn’t know.

Vikram now said, almost as loudly as Varun had been saying for the past 10-15 minutes, ‘I hate my job – you people make me sick, never acknowledging our presence or service, always looking busy - I have nothing to do all day, I hate my job and I don’t even get paid for it. I hate my job’. As he said all this, he realised, in dismay, that he wasn’t pretending, not at all. All the words were simply flowing out – he actually hated his job. In some mental confusion, he looked around, just as Varun had done, and met the eye of the Admin head who was staring very intently at him (maybe realised that Vikram was not, like everybody thought, putting on an act).

Vikram was shocked that he had no difficulty in acting that way, was he really that frustrated? He had had no clue. Yes he knew he didn’t like his job, but until now he hadn’t known that he hated it. Or did he? Maybe he was unintentionally acting very well, he tried to reassure himself. Then, as if to assure the Admin guy, Vikram smiled at him. (What Vikram hadn’t known was that that smile had actually been a wicked grin, and had done much to scare the daylights out of the Admin head).

On one side, he saw the ERT guys trying again to approach him and Varun (they were not sure whether Vikram was pretending or serious), but he warned them, loudly , not to come…or else…

In the meanwhile, the few moments of respite from shouting, (for Varun) had rather subdued him. The joy had left his face and he just looked like a tired, rather stubborn kid. He stood there silently when Vikram turned to him and said, ‘Lets jump Sir, right now.’ Vikram had played his last card.
Being encouraged for the first time to jump, Varun was now hesitant for a second.
Softly, barely above a whisper, he asked ‘Vikram, are you sure you want to do this?’
Vikram, recognising the touch of reluctance, said loudly,’ Yes sir, what’s there in this world for us, bad job, bad pay, lets jump.’
Varun, somewhat unsure, the gleam from his eyes faded, said softly ‘but what will your jumping achieve? Don’t you have a family who cares for you? I’m an orphan, so I can die, but you… you can’t just give up‘.
Vikram realised that his last card had worked. Varun had relatively calmed down, and no longer wanted to jump or anything. However, he also knew that Varun couldn’t just get down and walk back to his work station; he had an ego after all. So here he was, silently, asking for a way out, such that he could come down and not become the person who didn’t have the guts to do it. Vikram understood that all Varun now wanted was to get off safely without losing face, or facing the wrath of his ‘Boss’.
So Vikram played along and said ‘Yes I can! So what if I have a family? If you are proving a point Sir, I also want to do so; you can’t do this alone.’, and looked intently at Varun, as if trying to indicate to him that he understood, and he would play along..
Varun, as if working on cue, immediately started shouting in a somewhat theatrical way, ‘somebody take him down! He shouldn’t jump! I can’t be the person responsible for inspiring another’s death’.
Now, Vikram said the final words which would be all to get Varun back to safe ground without him feeling that he had lost face, ’Sir, I can’t let you take all the glory with you. I won’t allow you to jump alone!’
A look a relief flooded over Varun’s face, and he said, ‘calm down Vikram. Ok fine, maybe I won’t jump please go down.’
Vikram, in a moment of suspicion that Varun, was after all going to jump, refused and said ’No Sir, first you go down, and then I will’.

During this very interesting exchange of words, the rest of the people were extremely confused; some thought that Vikram had also lost his mind, while some were all praise for his presence of mind and reverse methodology, while some didn’t know what to think; they were just wishing that the scene would conclude, so that they could return to their computers/chat/work/email. Now, most of them realised that Varun wouldn’t jump but also that he wasn’t going to come down on his own as he wouldn’t want to look like a coward. They were all willing to entertain his stance; if only he would come down and end the episode. They knew they would have no choice in believing him when later, he would say that he would have jumped had it not been for the sake of the guard. It was a façade, Varun, knew it, Vikram knew it, everyone else also knew it, but they would all have to let it remain so.

When Vikram agreed to come down only after Varun, Varun didn’t look like he minded, but then again, he appeared to demur, as if still thinking that he’d jump after Vikram got down. Everyone knew the reality, and yet everyone had to pretend; someone spoke out from the spectators, ‘c’mon Varun, don’t do this, save the guard, come down’…
Others also voiced out similar words, and finally Varun agreed to come down TOGETHER with Vikram. Having progressed this far, Vikram wasted no time in agreeing and said ‘OK sir, lets go down‘, and proceeded to get off.

Vikram jumped, but whether it was some water on the railing or something else, he didn’t know, but he tumbled, momentarily on one foot on top of the railing, and then he could see that he was falling. After that moment, all was hazy until the end.

He realised he was falling down, he could see the floors rushing above him, and yet he was not hitting ground. He was helpless and yet in that state, he was thinking, maybe it will be painless and instantaneous death; he prayed…and yet… the floors continued to rush above. Then suddenly he realised, he was not alone; someone else was also falling - it was Varun, who looked happy. Varun said ‘Boss didn’t let me eat, but why did you jump?’ Vikram screamed, ’I didn’t want to jump, atleast I don’t think I wanted to jump, except at that one point in the beginning. You pushed me!’. Varun nudged him and then suddenly it was raining….
‘Everything is all right Vikram, be calm and open your eyes.’ The voice sounded vaguely familiar. He opened his eyes; the voice belonged to the Admin Head. That meant he was not dead. Thank God! But where was he? What had happened?

In typical movie style, Vikram looked around in confusion (even he wasn’t sure if it was an act) and asked, ‘where am I?’ It was an effort, his head was throbbing; he closed his eyes. The voice said, ‘you had to trip didn’t u.? After all the saving Varun, you had to get hurt eh? Anyway, nothing much happened, you tripped, heaven knows how and fell face forwards. And that’s not all, you hit your head on the flower pot and lost consciousness,’ in such a casual way, as if he was reading the news. ‘Anyway, as for where you are, you are in the company dormitory, and a doctor is on the way’, he further continued.
Vikram heaved a sigh of relief; he was hungry. What had happened to his lunch box, he wondered. He asked, ‘can I eat something?’. Something like a grin came over the Admin head’s grim face, ‘well after what happened with Varun today, do you think anyone will be refused food today? I’ll send in some food.’ As he started leaving, he turned back, and as a forethought asked Vikram, ‘ so tell me something honestly, were you really acting when you got up there and said all those things about your job?’

Vikram hesitated for a second but then decided not to lie, ’Sir, I wasn’t acting when I was complaining about the job, but I think I was acting about the jump.’
The Admin Head sighed, ‘you still THINK you were acting about the jump? You’re not sure? Well better be sure you know. One wouldn’t like to be facing the same situation another day. And yes don’t publicise this all right?’
‘Yes Sir, I know. I’m sure’, replied Vikram.

Vikram still wasn’t sure but he wanted to be so and he said that; but in his heart he knew that for a few seconds he had actually drifted into Varun’s world of madness, glory, martyrdom. Luckily he had drifted back soon enough. He couldn’t tell anybody else this; it was just between him and the Admin Head. Some people in the spectators had understood his moment of dilemma, most hadn’t. Anyway, now he could pretend that it had all been part of the plan.

While he was eating, the doctor came and prescribed some medicines, after putting some bandage on Vikram’s bruised head (besides the concussion, there was a cut which had bled slightly). The Admin Head came back and further updated him; Varun had been kept under medical supervision, and he was currently sleeping in the next room. His emergency contact number had been used and his roommate was on the way to take him home. Boss had apparently granted him a leave for as long as it needed to become all right.

As for Vikram, did he want to go home? Yes he did but only after sleeping for a while. He was tired and his head was playing football with the rest of his body, rather like that girl in that Hindi movie, something to do with a ‘Beckam’? Wait; was it a Hindi movie or English? The rest of the people in the movie were English, but the girl was Indian….maybe it was like Titanic; English movie with Hindi dialogues…..

Epilogue:
As Vikram stepped into the lift, with his bandaged head, he felt somewhat different. Not that now he was looking forward to the day at work, or that he now loved his job or anything, but the feeling of helping out someone had made it seem not so bad, after all. Then he realised that everyone else in the lift was staring at him. Finally someone said, ’your Vikram right? Hey great work yesterday, how’s your head?’ Others also chimed in with their words of praise. Someone else said ‘great presence of mind by the way. When and how did it strike you to behave like you also wanted to jump? And how did you have the courage to climb? You were really convincing, you know. For a moment we thought you were actually going to jump.’ Vikram smiled; a faraway look came into his eyes for a second and disappeared. He said ‘well the idea came to my mind the moment I saw him climb the railing. You know how it is – we security people have to think on our feet and react.’ with an air of authority.

Vikram sat at his desk, almost feeling useful. He knew nothing had changed in his job and in a few days the hue and cry would die and he would yet again start hating the job.
Until then… he’d enjoy his 15 minutes (literally) of fame.

By the way, if anyone is interested, ‘Boss’ quit his job and joined another organization; he couldn’t tolerate the stares he got from everyone around him.

Varun got promoted to Module leader after a few months of undergoing stress therapy. Since that incident, he never spent nights at office, and made sure that the people working under didn’t do so either.

Varun and Vikram became friends; Vikram no longer called him ‘Sir’ and sometimes, they even shared lunch; turns out Aloo Gobhi was Varun’s favourite dish too…