But Most Importantly, Be Mine.

Prologue: Eventually, say when I am 25, I want to get married. Probably not settle down, but definitely spend the rest of my life with one man. This post is for that man. I know this is five years too soon. But this is to remind me what I need to demand of him. I must not be blinded by the fervor and must not compromise on my indispensable requirements. Of course, this may be rendered useless. I will not settle for sub-standard so I just might not get married at all. If in case I do, it is my fiance’s responsibility to read this post.

Hi.

You are going to spend the rest of your life with me. Are you sure? Rethink. Please consider this as documentary evidence of my official warning to you.
If you’re still so madly in love with me, this is what I want:

A humble wedding.

Ever since I can remember, I thought extravagant weddings were the best kind of weddings. As I grew up, I was familiarized with family politics and I learned that big weddings do not usually mean happy marriages. As I gradually attended more and more weddings, I realized I would be much happier with a humble wedding. Firstly, rich weddings are highly inconvenient. I do not want to be an unmoving, over-dressed doll that needs to walk at the pace of an 8-bit video game character on the very day that I want to jump with joy and laugh and dance and not care if the whole world is looking at me. See, my plan is simple:

1.       ALL traditional rituals and functions must be followed. In case you are not Punjabi, I want to do all your set of rituals, too. We are not going to miss out on even the tiniest tradition.

2.       Anyway most of our pre-wedding functions will be different for you and me. We will each be with our respective families. All my pre-wedding functions will be amongst a small gathering of only those closest to me. Therefore, just family. As for you, I am going to trust you to have sincerely performed all your set of required rituals before getting married to me.

3.       A sangeet. I would prefer that to be more or less private, too. My friends and I are constantly editing the song-list. I have already decided the anchor for the event - my maid of honour. So you can’t have a say in that, sorry.

4.       The shaadi – I want pheras. Even outside a mandir will do. Nothing too fancy, please. I just want my pheras and sindhoor and all that jazz. And lesser the audience, the better.

5.       Basically, I want to make just the Reception an open-to-all event. Rest everything needs to be a family affair. Since 80% chance is that you are a Punjabi, our combined family strength will be 800 people. We need to cut it short to 200. That is our guest list for the sangeet. Okay fine, plus a 100-odd for our friends. Reception, you may invite even 1000 people.

6.       I DO NOT WANT US TO SIT ON A STAGE FOR OUR RECEPTION. It’s a reception! Not an exhibition. We will be moving around constantly, touching the feet of elders here, there and everywhere. We will have a table with the rest of the people. NOT a stage. If you insist otherwise, go for the reception alone.

7.       I want to hire a cool wedding photographer and I will not be made to pose with my hands under my chin phonily.

That’s it. See? I don’t ask for much.

Now, here’s what I expect from you once we’re together (since I’ve already chosen you, the disclosure of my more detailed, essential pre-requisites is not needed here):

Say I’m beautiful.

Defend me at all times. Come home and shout, that’s okay.

Don’t leave me alone anywhere.

Be interesting.

Love me, but don’t spoil me.

Travel light.

If I am marrying you, I sincerely hope it is because we love each other. Even my expression of love to you is restrained until we’re married; and I’m yours.

In this life and beyond,

Candidly yours,

Wannabe Wayfarer.

 

So that the bachcha party doesn't get bored



Wonder Years

Precariously balancing on the edge of the aluminum ladder, after several unsuccessful tries with a long stick, I pulled myself up and wiggled into the duct-like passage. Came out disheveled, but finally pulled out the bag that’s been on my mind longer than I care to admit. It was heavy and I was as excited as I am when I have unending dessert options! Dragged my colossal haul to a corner of the house and settled amidst the comforting memories.

That was at 12 in the afternoon. Fast forward to 5 in the evening, my brother and I are laughing our stomachs hollow (me, quite literally on an empty stomach) at a super scary baby picture of me. No kidding. I was a scary baby. Eyes too big for the face, and add to that hideously frilly frocks and dresses. It’s like a china doll from those scary movies is unblinkingly staring at you. I have the potential to scare the bejesus out of somebody. I’m glad; some talent. If I was a scary baby, I haven’t seen any kid cuter than my brother. I swear. I’m saying this impartially. Maybe even a little reluctantly. He’s a born poser, like my mother and has got the math-whiz brains of my father. Me? I’m considering the possibility that I was adopted.

There were a zillion more photos – of my parents’ wedding (me absent), mom’s first karvachauth (me absent), playschool, all our vacations, trips to temples, chirstmas parties, holi, Diwali, birthday parties – of all the cousins, raksha bandhan, everything before 2000 and a little up to 2003. Since I’ve been pretty much jobless having taken unnecessary leave from work for inconsequential exams, I thought that instead of wasting yet another day on sleeping and eating on my laptop, I’d look through these photographs.

Irrespective of the bag-full of photos, I remember very little of pre-teen me - just a few incidents. Individually, they might not make sense but put together, there is fluidity (eh, critics?) in the awesome tale of my childhood. Here, I shall try to be as chronological as possible in my reminiscence of those few far and in between childhood memories:

I remember journeying from one make-believe city at the right of the sofa set using a threadbare ottoman to reach the other end where my mum waited to spoon-feed rajma chawal to me. The self-made game was to reach her without putting my feet on the floor. I don’t think she understood that; or cared. She hates spoon feeding. She would get irritable and hurl expletives only like a Punjabi mother can. She only spoon-fed me because the rest of her sisters-in-law did their children. The perks of a joint-family lifestyle, I tell you!

When my kid brother was born, I remember holding that tiny little thing and saying, “He is so pink!” Later, I also suggested that he be named Mickey Mouse when all the elders congregated in the “sitting-room” to jot down baby names. I remember stealthily creeping into the room together with my cousins where he was peacefully asleep and pulling the crib net off so he would wake up – something mom had specifically warned us against. I remember feeling terribly guilty about that; worrying all the while whether mosquitoes were hovering around my tiny brother because of us.

I love my cousins. I’ve grown up playing lagori, Simon says, red letter, land-water, hide-and-seek, treasure hunt and what-not with them. I am extremely lucky to have not just one, but three loving brothers and five beautiful sisters.

My eldest brother, he’s an angel. Once, aggressive me bit him; not like a tiny kid’s peck, but a piranha’s bite. A deafening scream; and then I ran. Ran for my life. Expecting him to chase me and pay me back in stones. Panting, I hid in our garden, the farthest I could get from him. Hours passed, he never followed. I thought he’s gone a step further – complained to mom; or worse, to badimamma. All day, I was so scared, waiting for the blow that never came. He forgave me. Just like that. That was just the beginning of his unending generosity to me. My brothers are my 3 a.m. friends. I trust them with my life.

As a kid, I think I would look up to my elder sisters; I still do. So probably whatever they said was gospel truth to me back then. My sister fooled me into believing that the best part of the bread was the sides. She always fed me the brown sides of all her sandwiches because she disliked them. And guess what, eventually, I developed a taste and now the sides ARE the best part of the bread to me; in fact I actually dislike white bread.

I was barely four when we shifted out. I didn’t understand much of what was happening or why and I thought shifting meant a bad thing. Our first separate place, albeit temporary, was quite far from my joint-family home. When badepapa dropped me at the depressing apartment and was about to leave, I hugged him, cried uncontrollably and just wouldn’t let go of him. I couldn’t believe he was leaving us. He told me not to be silly and that he would come the next day to pick me up for school. After a lot of tugging, I was forced to let go. Unless I’m mistaken, badepapa had tears in his eyes too. He left hurriedly. He did come over the next day; and the day after that. My heart slowly healed; my maternal uncle had come to stay with us for a while and so I didn’t have to miss badepapa all the time. Mom forced me to go out and play with my “friends” in the building. I hated them; the bitches were nothing like my sisters.

Of course, as time passed, things got better; I made a few friends and even started paying attention to school. But my best friends remain my cousins. I still cherish my every visit to them – discussing books and movies with my two beautiful younger sisters, seeking work and college advice from my benevolent and patient brothers, teasing, taunting, laughing at each other, and the unparalleled motherly love of my badimammas and chachi. Family - I didn’t realize it was so important to me till I finished this post.

I could go on, but I have to start packing for my trip to vaishnodevi with badepapa and badimamma :)

See you soon,
Wannabe Wayfarer.