Wedding Vows

I stared at my mom in dismay.
“You can’t do this to me,” I said.
“I’m sorry, dear, it’s just one of the things you have to put up with in life. Besides, all your aunts will be there and they want to see you.”
“If they want to see me they can always come home,” I grumbled. My mom pretended not to notice. I stomped back to my room, muttering curses under my breath, and slammed the door behind.
I had to attend my ‘distant’ cousin’s wedding. Worse, I had to wear a sari! Give me jeans and a sweatshirt any day, but a sari? I’d be tripping and falling over it a dozen times before we even reached there. I sulked and pouted for a week before the wedding, behaving typically like a teenager, and not the twenty-three-year old I was. My mom’s reaction to it was just two words. “Grow up.”
I don’t know why it irritated me more that she was right. Maybe being right all the time comes as a side-effect of gestation? If so I can’t wait to have children, so I could advice someone who’d at least listen to me. But if they are going to be anything like me, I doubt that.
Anyway, the whole marriage thing just freaks me out. At my age, marriage was akin to claustrophobia. I hate being told what to do or being dependent on anyone. Like most smart girls, I saw marriage as a lifetime imprisonment, a millstone around the neck, a violation of my freedom, etc. One-fourth of those who got married got divorced anyway, so what was the point? And arranged marriages are so archaic. The whole concept of marrying because of matching horoscopes seemed silly to me. I mean, what if the person you married was a chain smoker and you married him without knowing it? Or what if he snored in bed or frowned upon the books you loved or movies you liked watching? Or if you two have absolutely nothing in common to even talk about and are bound to each other for the rest of your lives? It would be like putting a scientist and a punk artist together. But I kept my thoughts to myself, so as not to give a heart-attack to my grandmother and aunts, who couldn’t wait to marry me off, like a particularly nasty cold they wanted to be rid of. Fat chance of that ever happening, I promised myself.
I was rudely woken up by my mom from a wonderful dream, involving me dancing in the rain with Shah Rukh Khan, at four o’ clock in the morning on Sunday. Which idiot ever decided to fix the wedding on a Sunday? My mom turned a deaf ear to all my whining and complaining, punctuated by yawning every few minutes, as she helped me put on the sari. I reflected on how it would take me two minutes to pull on a salwar as opposed to the twenty minutes it took to fold and twist and wrap the green sari around my body. If I ever got married, I had to wear a sari for every bloody occasion. Another excuse to my list of why-not-to-marry excuses.
I wore a pretty silver chain and small studs on my four-times-pierced ear lobes, which my grandmother always found as an excuse to criticize. I refused point-blank to wear the heavy gold necklace and the matching dangling earrings she took out from the locker. She gave a what-has-happened-to-the-girls-of-today sigh and kept it back safely in, advising me to wear it at least for my marriage, which I promised her I would. If I ever gotten married.
I slept through the drive in the car, and woke up with a jolt when it came to a halt in front of the marriage hall. I looked out the window. It was only 5 o clock in the morning. The sun hadn’t even come up yet! The last time I’d been awake this early was during my last semester exams.
“Take that frown off your face, and put on a bright smile, dear,” my mom said as she got out of the car. “Anyone would think we dragged you here in chains.” She looked lovely, despite her age, I admitted. Her chocolate brown colour sari swept around her like a ball gown, and made her look years younger.
I plastered a wide smile on my face and said, “Is this bright enough for you?”
She was not impressed one bit. “You are only making a fool of yourself,” she said in that maddening, mom’s-always-right tone again. My dad, dressed in a silk dhoti and a light brown shirt, gave a non-committal shrug, stifling a yawn, and took my mother’s hand as he led her in. He too would have preferred to spend the day lounging in the sofa, watching a cricket match. I knew he at least sympathized with me.
The smile on my face turned to a grimace as I was greeted by ear-splitting music that blared from the five-feet-tall speakers on either side as I entered. I stuffed my fingers in my ears till we passed the speakers, and then heaved a sigh of relief. Boy, if this was their way of welcoming people, there was going to be less of a crowd than at a Bangladesh vs. Netherlands cricket match on Indian turf. Unfortunately, the hall was full of people, a parade of silks in all colours, and laughter and chatter flowing around despite the hour and the din of the music. I had to shade my eyes against the glare of the gold and diamonds flashing at the neck, chest and earlobes of each and every one. People greeted each other with enthusiasm, slapping each other’s backs, kissing and hugging as if they were meeting them after years, which was probably true. Marriages are the only occasions everyone turns up for. No one wants to pass up the offer of free food.
I smiled at everyone in general, and tried not to trip over my sari and high heels. My mom was swept off into the growing crowd, but not without a warning glance at me. Sheesh, I knew how to behave; I’m not a silly teenager. After greeting and chatting briefly with all my aunts and uncles, I found myself a secluded corner, and a cup of hot coffee, and decided to watch the going-on’s from my vantage point. I told myself this was a lesson on human relations.
The whole hall was the scene of intense activity. The bride’s harassed-looking father hurried about, clutching his silk dhoti with one hand, welcoming everyone. The groom’s relatives swaggered about as if they owned the place. People bustled about, drinking coffee, exchanging pleasantries and idle chitchat, and at the dais, in the front, the groom sat with the pujari, repeating chants after the former, looking very sombre. Probably, mourning for the last few moments of his bachelorhood. The bride was still dressing up, I guessed.
The women looked happy, probably because they didn’t have to cook at least today, and the men looked happier, probably because they didn’t have to eat their wives’ meals today. The sheer number of relatives was overwhelming. One lady, who looked like she was a contestant for the “biggest loser challenge”, ambushed me and claimed to be my third aunt’s sister’s husband’s cousin. She pinched my cheeks not-too-gently and commented that I reminded her of one of her uncle’s sister’s daughters. I very much wanted to tell her who or rather, what, she reminded me of, but I decided not to flap my gums. I was left rubbing my sore cheek as she waddled away, but my relief at her departure was short-lived as another one, who made the previous one look thin, wandered up to me and ploughed on like a steam engine. I put on a fake smile and listened to her, nodding my head, like I used to do in college while pretending to listen to the lecturer. I interrupted her droning with a “that sounds fascinating, but I really should go. I want to help my mom with, err, the flowers.” She smiled and said, “of course, what a responsible girl you are.” I walked away, rolling my eyes.
I watched the ‘’ Kasi Yatra”, the swing ceremony, and the rest of the fanfare from a safe distance. I had nothing against the customs, of course, but I just wasn’t inclined to follow them myself.
Another thing that irritated me was that they all knew I was, according to them, of marriageable age. I was bombarded with some subtle, and some not-so-subtle hints about how I should start shopping for my wedding trousseau, learning how to cook, and how to show respect to elders, blah blah. The shopping I wouldn’t have minded, but as for the cooking, my culinary skills extended to making bread toast and frying eggs. I side-tracked all their questions as politely as I could manage, and slipped off to find a refuge before they started showing me photographs of ‘prospective grooms’, all of whom, they assured me, were either good looking, successful business executives, or big-muscled sports persons. Nowhere were the words ‘smart’, ‘understanding’ or ‘practical’ used. One of the women even claimed her son was shy and didn’t speak much to girls. I didn’t point out that I had seen the very man flirting with one of the serving girls in a corner of the kitchen.
I was just starting to get really bored when the crowd parted, and I saw a tall, handsome man in a black Sherwani, walking in from the door. He looked rather dashing, like one of those old-time heroes. I imagined him in a dark suit, at a club, saying “A vodka martini on the rocks, shaken, not stirred”, Bond style. The girl in me gave a long, appreciative whistle, and I tried not to drool. Finally, I told myself, this wedding is starting to look interesting. I took a step forward but someone brushed past me and I caught sight of a long mane of sleek black hair and a rich, peacock blue designer sari, before the woman launched herself on the guy, my guy, and hugged him hard enough to make me grit my teeth. He responded with equal fervour, laughing and hugging her. Strike out, I thought gloomily.
I decided I had had enough of this wedding, and was just about to find my mother and tell her I was leaving, when everyone began to get excited. The time had come for the grand finale-the tying of the ‘thaali’ around the bride’s neck. The image of a noose came to my mind, but I edged forward with the others, hoping to glimpse the momentous occasion. I caught sight of the bride’s face as she sat patiently on her father’s lap, while her husband-to-be continued the chanting, according to the pujari’s instructions, holding the yellow thread in his hand. A kaleidoscope of emotions raced on her face, as she stared up at her man, and he, down at her. In that moment just before the pujari gave the signal to the drummers, they stared at each other, two individuals giving up all bonds to become one, to live together for the rest of their lives, to share joy, sorrow, and most importantly, their love. And that was what, it suddenly struck me, marriage was all about. Love. The love and the happiness they gave each other and to others. He smiled at her, a radiant smile, and she gave him one in return, while tears ran down her cheeks, as he tied the knot around her neck three times, to the loud beating of drums, signifying the union. Everyone cried, hugged and congratulated each other, and suddenly they all seemed closer to each other, the bond running through all of them clearly visible and strong. I saw my mother wipe a tear from her eye, and lay her head on dad’s shoulder, as if imagining my wedding. I couldn’t help the small lump in my throat.
Lunch was a noisy affair, but the food was great and finger-licking tasty. I laughed with my father as he made comments about how some people made kesari that tasted like mud, giving a surreptitious glance at my mom. My mother frowned at him, but I saw her lips twitch when he turned away. I was amused, but kept my mouth shut. I was really enjoying myself. I actually felt a twinge of regret the day had to come to an end.
My mom was surprised to see me smiling, genuinely, as we started to leave.
“So how did you find it?” she asked.
“Well, it was boring at first, but I think the idea of marriage is catching up to me after all. At least I managed to trip and fall only twice.”
My mom laughed. “Your grandmother will be so proud.”
I gave another smile as we settled down in the car. It had turned out to be quite an interesting day. And, best of all, I had finally managed to work up a conversation with the good looking guy I’d seen. He gave me his cell phone number and invited me to a cup of coffee. I sat back in the car, contented with the world.
Oh, and that girl I saw with him? She was his sister.


Ranjini Ragunath is a humourist, her works look at the simplicity of life through comically dramatic eyes. Wedding vows first appeared in the starting issues of the “New Woman Magazine” she can be found at  http://myworksnstuff.blogspot.in/

Dumped

“He just dumped me.”
I choked on the piece of bread I was eating and looked up at my friend. 
“What?” I asked. She burst into tears and starting wailing loudly. People in the restaurant turned to stare at us. I automatically shifted into the sympathy mode, patting her shoulder and silently passing her a tissue, while wishing the old man at the next table would stop peering at us through his thick glasses and mind his own business. I signaled the waiter for a large scoop of chocolate ice cream. She blew her nose and looked at me through puffy eyes.“But why? I thought you guys had stopped fighting?” I inquired, infusing enough concern and anger in my voice as was expected of me. 


“He says he wants someone who is more practical and less emotional. What the hell does he mean by that? Am I the kind of person who makes a scene?” she screamed. I declined to point out that the whole restaurant was now staring at us avidly, more interested in her drama than the menu. Choosing the better of two evils, I hid my embarrassment and nodded my head in agreement, assuring her that she wasn’t emotional and that he was a jerk and that he didn’t deserve her. Fifteen minutes of who-needs-men and men-are-bastards and five hundred calories later, she calmed down enough to bring her voice down a notch. I mentally added another to her list of failed relationships, which was now at a staggering seven. 

I’ve known her since my school days and despite our many differences, we’ve always remained good friends. We tended to balance each other-she was dumb, I was smart (which is another way of saying I was a nerd); she was the ‘hot chick’ while I was the kind who is usually invisible to guys till exam time. Still we managed to remain friends through our school and college lives.

“Remember when I had my first break-up?” she asked. We were only fourteen then, at a time when we were just discovering new body parts, and the idea of having a boyfriend was nothing more than owning a shiny new doll, and something inspired by chick flicks we watched on weekends. The word ‘dumping’ meant nothing more than a few tears and was soon forgotten over a large tub of Arun ice cream. As we grew older, the size of the tub grew proportionally smaller and were accompanied by increasingly expensive shopping sprees. 

“Why do these things happen to me?” she said, looking up at the ceiling, as if all the Gods had specifically chosen to trouble her alone. I could have told her that she’d brought it onto herself but then she’d never listened to me. She could never stay single longer than a few months. I could not understand what she saw in the men she went out with, when it was plain to everyone else that they didn’t care for her more than they cared for their cars, and that they wanted only one thing from her.

“That’s not true. It’s not just about sex. I care about them and they care about me too,” she said, when I told her quite bluntly. I rolled my eyes. 
“This is men we are talking about. Words like ‘care’, ‘PMS’ and ‘commitment’ don’t figure in their dictionary,” I said. She looked at me and burst into tears again. I threw up my hands and fell back in my chair in frustration. 


Ok, I admit I was a weenie. I didn’t have the guts to tell her to her face that she was being silly and immature and that she needed to get a grip. That was just me. If I had a house of my own, the name plate would probably read D-O-O-R-M-A-T. 

It took me another half an hour of male-bashing and another large scoop of ice cream to make her stop crying. By the time the bill arrived, she was calm enough to stop blowing her nose and even offered to pay the bill, which I gladly let her do, taking it as my fee for being her sounding board and counselor. For the seventh time. In my own foolish way, I felt nice for having helped her by being such a good friend and being so sympathetic. 

We had just walked out of the restaurant when I remembered I’d left my car keys inside. I went back to get them. When I came out, she was standing there, talking to a guy. There was no trace of tears in her eyes and she was giving a sort of I’m-available pose- with one hand on her hip, her head slightly tilted and a sly smile on her face. He murmured something to her to which she gave a well-practiced husky laugh, and said, “Don’t be silly. I’m not that pretty!”

She turned to look at me and beamed as if the past one hour hadn’t happened at all. “He’s so cute, isn’t he?” she came up and whispered to me. Ignoring my stare, she said, “he’s just asked me if I could join him for a drive along the beach and I’ve said yes. What do you think?”

I looked from him to her and slapped myself three times. I walked to my car, shut the door and drove away, without looking back.


By, Ranjini Raguhunath 




Ranjini Raguhunath, is a humorist.It is easy to make someone cry with words or even write depressing short stories but it takes much much more to laugh at oneself and come out with flying colours.You can find other humorous works of Ranjini Raguhunath at http://myworksnstuff.blogspot.com/

To The Point

And they pour their hearts out to me

Placing their torments on my shoulders.

Momentarily,

I play my part well.

A good listener

A silent one

Smiling with compassion

keeping my thoughts to myself

My opinions  like a mirror

that never tells the truth

i shoulder their burden

Never pausing to ask

Why should i?

Let my world burn

when theirs does

Suffer their pain

like its mine

and forget i have my own

Sadly, i cant scream out to them

To stop or to just let me be

being the coward that i am

Sadly i try smile

when its too much to take

Turn the music loud in my ears

and shut out the world

This is a lousy piece

of literature

worthy of being framed

and marked as absolute rubbish

Our world is filled with rubbish

and i am only adding

my share of words to it

 In a much broader sense

you all can go fuck yourselves.

by Mithun.M.K

Just Trolling m8s thank you and please come again:D

Anu's Night

The girl felt her way through the darkness with what she would have liked to call the stealth of a panther, but was far closer to the clumsy flip-flop of a misguided animal-rights activist on her way to breaking the law, which was, unsurprisingly, what it was. Anu felt a warm sense of pride run down her spine - she had dreamt of this moment for several years. She was after all, on the verge of achieving something that would make a difference.

The mainstream establishment, which Anu knew as a good liberal was utterly evil and an entity to be rebelled against without question, was an active participant in both the holocaust against animals that was perpetrated everyday in the name of non-vegetarianism and the organized system of slavery that humans imposed on animals by owning them as pets. P.E.T.A documentaries had opened her eyes to these horrors when she was merely twelve, but it was only now, at the wise age of nineteen, that she had mustered the courage to act on their advice and fight for the voiceless.

‘For Friends and Family’ was the name of the pet shop. Anu’s blood reached feverish temperatures whenever the sinister name crossed her name. "What about the friends and family of the precious animals that they keep imprisoned here?" she muttered while fighting back her tears of rage, and switched the flashlight on. It was not a particularly big shop, the two padlocks at the back door had been relatively easy to break with the tools she had stolen from the landlord’s garage. The shop dealt primarily with birds, but also with dogs and rabbits.

The canines, immediately alarmed at the presence of a stranger, voiced their displeasure in loud, openly hostile growls. Anu approached the cages and smiled at them. "Don’t be scared." she cooed soothingly, "I’m not going to let them hurt you anymore, I’m here to rescue you." Pulling a can of spray paint out of her jacket, she walked to the walls and designed elaborate threats on them, warning pet owners across the city that what she was about to do was just the beginning. 'STOP ANIMAL SLAVERY’, 'ANIMALS DESERVE FREEDOM’ and 'THE LIBERATION HAS ARRIVED’ were only some of the subliminal messages she sprayed across the interior of the shop.

Yes, this was just the beginning, she told herself. She had been careful to wear gloves and even had an alibi prepared if she came under suspicion. Once this rescue operation became a huge success, others would join her in future missions. She would become one of the new faces of the animal rights struggle and with the aid of other courageous souls who were willing to fight the establishment’s cunning machinations, would usher in a new era of animal liberation, where the fascism of the human species would be brought to an end.

She jogged to the dog cages enthusiastically and, with her painting done, opened the first cage, her heart singing in joy. "You’re free!" she exclaimed, "These bastards can’t keep you trapped here anymore! You can finally..." her sentence was cut mid-way as the frightened and angry dog lunged out, straight at her throat. The last thing she remembered was the sheer speed with which it’s fangs, dripping with saliva, ripped into her jugular vein.

The police identified her corpse the next morning as Anu, a botany student. Her face had been mauled beyond recognition. It took precisely four hours longer to wipe the blood stains from the floor than it did to remove the sprayed paint on the walls, which came away with a bucket of water.

The dog, found wandering the streets with a blood-stained mouth, was sold to a security firm. It lived happily ever after.

- Nilan