Marriage, Mayhem and Mysore

So it was that time again to visit people from the past. Well, not my past exactly but the past of someone close enough to me for me to have by virtue of sheer proximity, imbibed most of his past....I'm not talking about the rowdy been-there-done-that past which includes vast numbers of drunken nights passed out in one's own puke and the days spent shamelessly chasing any skirt in town, yes even the ones who had buck teeth and acne and squint eyes and had the unforgiving task of teaching anatomy to dental school nineteen years olds who acted like fourteen years olds in the throes of puberty. No, I've got plenty of that past myself and don't need anyone elses, thank you. I'm talking about, well, the joyous past of friends and bonding and ...I am quickly reminded here that there isn't much of that goody goody nonsense in his past, but what the hell, I've imbibed the minuscule amount that exists anyway.



While the official agenda involved attending a wedding of an old dental school classmate in Mysore, the unspoken plan was to play hooky away from work, play hooky from most of the wedding, gulp all the free drinks we could manage AND hit 140 on the Bangalore - Mysore highway (er, hopefully the drinking like a fish and the flying too low would not happen on the same day, but in my life I can never be too sure of coincidences like these) . It did occur to me that we were a couple of doctors who doing really well and who were acting like cut throat first year hostelites - following the free food, free drinks and high speed in the invincible way that only broke and hungry students can. Through the course of the next day, someone did mention something about "they can take you out of the hostel but can never take the hostel out of you". Ever notice how the really bad lines are the ones that ring true the most?



So anyway, we're off to Mysore, driving my dad's 2002 Honda City (the one with the nice gentlemanly shape) from Bangalore. We reached Mysore in record time thanks to some great roads and some even better acceleration. We checked into a hotel and started getting ready for the pre-wedding bash. I wore a multicoloured cowl neck top with skinny jeans and shiny high heels. This was an outfit chosen with great care. The cowl neck was to make my neck appear longer, the skinny jeans was to make me appear skinny (bet you didn't guess that!) and the high heels was to add to the glamour quotient. Correct me if I'm wrong, but this was what I thought was acceptable for a pre-wedding bash (not 'function', mind you, but 'bash' which to me and to all those who speak English means non formal, fun, time to let the hair down ). So we show up at the venue which is a large hall, 100 white tube lights, 10,000,000 flying insects and outdoor wash basins with cracked soap. I step out of the car and my stilettos sink into 2 inches of muck. As I struggle to free the heel without dismembering my foot, I look up to see a huge banner draped across the parking lot with blinking red and blue lights, which said with no absolutely ambiguity, in size 72 font letters-

Welcome to the Happy Weeding of Shivkumar and Shailaja.
Your present is presence enough.



We nearly tripped over ourselves with laughter. So much so that it took me a while to realise that I was kind of inappropriately dressed for this 'bash'. There were two kinds of dressers at the pre-'weeding' thing. Type A dressers - those who looked like they were out buying vegetables for dinner - faded white un-tucked shirt, open sandals, sari border 4 inches above the ground, plastic or cloth bag / pouch in hand, talcum powder on the face. Then there were type B dressers - heavy silk saris, gold by the kilo, cravats, jackets, berets. But there were no jeans, no slinky cowl necks and sure as hell there were no cleavages to be seen.


My companion looked at me and grinned gleefully.

You're the official skin show for the night, he laughed, adding: Who would have thought you'd be the designated Pamela Anderson of the evening, he whispered in my ear.

Well, you're no Tommy Lee, I hissed back.

And that took care of that!



But confident as I was, there is nothing more discomforting than being under dressed in the truest sense of the word in a over lit room with a neck line 3 inches lower than anyone other woman's and the only ones to keep me company in that department were the type A dressers, the guys with the untucked shirts who has 2 buttons open from the bottom and 3 buttons open from the top. Infact from what I could gather looking at the vast expanses of their hairy chests, their shirts were being held together by only one loose button in the middle. But in the final analysis, they were men and their chests were far less interesting. I did try briefly to find dark corners to hide in, but the only ones dark enough were right next to the outdoor loos which on closer inspection had no doors, just slightly convoluted entrances. So I did the next best thing. I squared my shoulders, pasted a smile on my face and went in search of alcohol. I came back with rum and warm coke in a plastic glass...it really does not get more hostel-like than this, believe me.



I was introduced to all his old friends. The smart ones who spoke a lot and the quiet ones who looked, looked away, then looked back again, the boisterous ones who back slapped too much, sloshing alcohol all over my toes and the middle aged ones who just plain depressed me. The last ones were the lot that worried me the most. They were my age and yet seemed middle aged in a depressing way. The back was slouched, the waist was ballooning, the pate was balding (no not in a sexy way, but in a way that looked like the head was the focal point for voluminous fungal growth), their colours of life were between cement and muck and their biggest adventure involved travelling to Bangalore for a weekend.



We finally bumped into Aby, close friend, experienced corrupter, he was the one who introduced the bulk of their class to alcohol in their 2nd year and a wearer of loud shirts in every neon colour that exists and a burper of competition calibre.


So how you doing in Bombay eh? he asks. He's on his 11th glass I think (to be fair though, the plastic glasses hold about three sips...)


I'm doing well, I say. Polite conversation is hard when you're swatting flying insects and covering the mouth of your glass so that none fall in. Life's real busy, I add with a 70 mm smile.


Aah ****, he said, spittle flying all over, he then paused to slurp/suck it all back into his mouth before he continued: You guys never come to visit. Gone to Bombay and then you have become too busy, he continues.


He thought for a moment and then said - now poor bugger Shiva, he is married, now he too will disappear, he will get busy, yevery time we will call him, he will say he cannot come, wife is saying no, work in the house, this and that. Poor bugger.



I smile at Aby ranting. He is the unlikely alpha male. He has a thick bushy mustache, a huge stomach, the mouth of a sailor, calls everyone (sorry, yevery one) bugger or you fool, or idiot or f****** depending on his mood and his biggest claim to fame is his favourite statement: I can stand in the middle of the road in Kottayam without a shirt and girls' parents will throw 3 crores at me just like that to marry their daughters, hehe.



Er, to bring a little perspective to this, in no way is he better shirtless, infact his stomach and the folds of skin around it are enough to cause a traffic accident. What he means that even when he behaves badly, he is confident that all Malayali homes are dying to have him for a son-in-law. All I can see is that Aby has been saying this for six years now - there's still no money or girl flying in his direction, or maybe he just has not taken off his shirt as yet :-) But in his defence, he is lovable in an very small quantities! And especially so if you don't mind burps, farts and warts.



The bash which was actually turned out to be a 'function' in disguise ended up being fun. I had gained quite the fan following by the end of it. My partner had gained a lot of envy. The dean of the dental college who was in attendance wanted to talk to me. The bridegroom wanted to talk to me. This was our short conversation:

Him: So how're you liking Mysore.

Me: It's great. So congratulations, you're getting married. (Duh)

Him: Ahhaha yes I am. I came to Bombay once.

Me: Did you like it?

Him: Na, too fast. Cannot enjoy in a place like that. I like it here only.

During the entire conversation, the bridegroom did not look me in the eye. It may not have been intentional though, he was only 5 ft tall in dress shoes.

It was then time to get introduced to my companion's ex-girlfriend, a girl who was very pretty in college but who had now metamorphosed into a slightly harassed, matronly looking woman chasing after two kids.

Good thing you didn't marry her, I said cattily. People may have mistaken you for her son.

That's okay, he grinned back. Right now people are mistaking you for Aby's daughter.

Did I mention that my companion and I are best friends with no holds barred....



A big bunch of us went back to our hotel room to finally drink some cold liquor, only to find that there was no electricity and the generator was not working. Aby said a few more f****, bastards, KLPDs, WTFs (Aby was the undisputed king of abusive abbreviations) and we drank some more warm liquor and talked about college days, cheating in the exams, always borrowing money that never got paid back, falling in love, writing love letters that fell in the wrong hands, bunking class, failing exams despite cheating, canteen food and forging the Dean's signature or the parents' signature depending on the situation.



And at 4 am when I thought we had run out of things to talk about, questions about Mumbai started popping up - Isn't it too crowded? Do you make lots of money, you bastards? Are the people unfriendly? Why are the girls so skinny? Don't they know being that skinny does not look nice?
It was so odd how they spoke of Mumbai like it was a universe away, like it was Vietnam or Hawaii or at the least Harlem. An alien land, a foreign country. Something they didn't know and didn't understand and hence didn't like and were loathe to visit.



The next day the wedding went off well. Or atleast I assume it did. We made it for last 30 minutes. The first 2 hours of it were lost in groggy sleep - thanks to the fact that XXX rum had stopped suiting me ten years ago. And then ofcourse, I had to drape a sari. A part of me wanted to show everyone - So what if I had dressed a little adventurously yesterday? I can also carry off Indian nari with equal panache (completely untrue, I cannot even drape a sari properly, it took four tries, but what the hell, whose counting anyway).



We finally showed up in time to wish the couple. I stood with our huge gift in a snaking line that had about 175 people. Thank God we had gotten them a gift and had not thought that our presence would be present enough!!! When we finally got onto the stage, no small feat considering that my heels got caught on the coir floor mat every step of the way and the pleats of the sari were slowly beginning to unravel, we wished the couple, handed over the ever important present, smiled for the camera and then just when I was congratulating myself on how well the morning had gone, I tripped on the stairs down and fell flat at the feet of the ex-girlfriend.


3 days later, I was back in Mumbai. I was back in the city of fast lives and skinny girls. The 'weeding' had been an eye opener of sorts. These are the lessons I learned the hard way:

1. When going to a wedding at a new place, dress like you think your mother would. It is better to be safe than sexy.

2. Limit interaction with the exes to the minimum. Grovelling at her feet is NOT becoming.

3. Do not call the Dean of the college by the wrong name. He will not turn a pretty shade of purple.

4. Carry a present no matter what the invitation says. A glittering banner at the venue may inform you otherwise.

5. Do not drink more than 1.5 glasses of XXX rum. If you can manage more than that without getting acquainted with the inside of the toilet bowl, you are a better man than I.

6. Wear a sari blouse that fits. You never know when you may fall and the sari may unravel to reveal a blouse borrowed from a friend who is 2 sizes too small.

Foot-Loose

I saw a pregnant woman walk by

her waddle could make a duck cry

and when she sat right next to me

she did it slowly to the count of three

her face held the knowledge of hidden joy

I could see her wondering - girl or boy?

her feet were swollen, tired and veined

the weight of two had them strained

she stroked her stomach like a lover

the subconscious act of an expecting mother

her breath was laboured, with none to spare

as if the baby was using up half her air

I asked her when she was due

in reply she turned a strange hue of blue

I looked more closely and my mouth opened wide

to reveal my foot that was stuck inside

Earth Calling Mr. Michelangelo

I paint. Colours, canvas, paints, brushes, inspiration, you get it. I'd like to make this very clear - I cannot draw to save my life ( I will eternally regret that nudes are out for me!!!). In second year of dental school, we had to learn dental anatomy in such detail that we were required to draw to perfection every tooth in the mouth. It took a lot of convincing to assure my professor that my initial few drawings of molars were infact actually teeth and not the lopsided stars that they appeared to be. But wonders of wonders, I sure can paint. Not that I do it very often. Inspiration strikes, oh, about once in six months and perspiration shows it's face about once a year. As you can imagine, all of this makes for one very rare painting.


For an artist who does not sell paintings, there are two options. Either you fill your home with your art, or you gift everyone you know a piece of your work and hope that they like it enough to keep it around for a few months before they look at it closely enough to say - what the hell is this painting about anyway or I'm not sure I really like this, or worst of all have them say - cheapskate, giving me one of her own paintings.


Several of my paintings hang at my dental centre and patients and visitors have been very kind in their remarks. However, even the most ardent fan has not offered to buy any of them (and I would sell them at a bargain that undercuts all other bargains). And so you can imagine my utter surprise when a visitor to the my centre took a huge interest in a large green and red painting in the reception area. The painting was done one late slightly inebriated night (well, what can I say, it was a rare moment when both inspiration and perspiration walked hand in hand through the door). The hazy trees and the hazy red poppies were perfect when I saw it in the light of the following morning.

And so, one full year after the painting was done, I was unexpectedly treated to the sight of a very distinguished gentleman viewing it critically. He first walked in front of it for about three minutes, looking at it from different angles. He then stood still right in front of it. He looked at it with his glasses in place. He then took his glasses off and examined it more closely. He then placed the glasses at the tip of his nose and looked at the painting with his nose stuck up in the air (I’d like to believe that the painting looked best when he looked at it in this position!). My receptionist all of a sudden got suspicious of this man who refused to sit, refused to say a word, paced the room like a zombie and gave the painting on the wall strange looks. In all her wisdom, she got up and not too quietly hid the tray of cookies and mints that we keep for patients. She then gave him a look that said – okay pal, now let’s see what you planning on flicking.


Do you know the artist? he asked me, giving me a cursory look.


Kind of, I replied, still not sure of what his game was and hence not wanting to give too much information away. This was all very espionage-like in any case – the dark suit, the two mobiles (one in his hand and another one somewhere else on him. I didn't get to see the second one, I only heard it ring once before he thumped the right side of his jacket and the unseen mobile miraculously went silent), the lack of pleasantries, the looking at the painting as if a secret camera was going to jump out any second. There was some kind of tension in the air that I could not put my finger on.


By this time, he was gently scratching the painting with a manicured finger. I wanted to tell him to keep his hands to himself, but I then thought it was too much of an attack for a painting that I had actually spilled Sprite on just as the paint was drying. Surely if anything, his gently ministrations would serve to only scratch off the sorry bits of dried liquid. And so I let him carry on caressing it.


He then looked at me right in the eye and smiled a very charming smile, which immediately made two things happen. Firstly it made me put my guard up. I don’t know about you but I tend to get suspicious of people who are completely disinterested in me for the longest time and then in the matter of a split second they look at me like I am the centre of their universe! It makes me SUSPICIOUS in capital letters. But on the other hand, I was also relieved. Maybe he was normal after all and not in the business of being a psycho or a spy or several other dubious professions that came to mind.


How can I reach the artist? he asked, now at his charming best.

You’re speaking to her, I answered.

His face registered his surprise. Ha, I thought, let it not be said that I was a woman with no talents.

Have you thought about selling your art? he asked.

Of course I’ve thought about it. If only thoughts could generate actual buyers, I’d be in boom town, I said.

Maybe your thoughts are actually working for you and you just need to be patient enough, he said.

Huh, I think, is he indirectly saying he has a buyer for my hazy painting with fizzy drink impressions on it? Well on the other hand, it really was one of a kind, let this man try and find another like it, just let him try.

He was still looking at me expectantly. And so I asked the question begging to be asked:
Do you have a buyer, er, Mr…., er…, I stammer.

Mr. Kaushik Raj Kumar, he said extending his hand.

I shook it, disappointed that he answered the less important question.

So do you, do you? I asked. After all I didn’t want to show too much eagerness!

I might, he said smugly. I wanted to whack him across his head and kiss him at the same time.

What would you expect to sell this for? he asked.

I named my price. I thought of how much a decent painting that size would cost. I added some more to that amount. I had the good sense to not mention to him that I would have even sold it for 1000 Rs. just so that I could have my painting hanging in someone else’s house.

His eyebrows went up as he heard my price. Too much or too little, I wondered. He said nothing. He took his mobile phone that was in his hand and whispered into it for an indefinite amount of time. I was getting nervous. Should I interrupt him and tell him that I could scale the price down? But I stuck to my guns. I hadn’t sold a painting ever. No reason to sell myself short now. The thought made me laugh. He put the phone down.


My buyer would be interested in this. Infact he would be interested in 10 more paintings. Can you get them done in 3 weeks? he said casually.


3 weeks? Did he see my second painting hand anywhere? If he did could he please tell me where it was!


Let me think about it, I said just as casually, noticing that he had not said anything about the price.


He took some pictures of the painting. We shook on it. And then he was gone. Only, as he walked out the door, he turned around to say that the price was fine.


Too little, I berated myself. But I could not keep the smile off. I was an artist. I wanted to go to my window and scream out - Everyone listen up, I am an ARTIST. And if I had a buyer, I must be darn good.


That evening I sat at home and imagined what it would be like to be a selling artist. I did some research after Mr. Kumar left. Everyone in the know said that it was a very generous price for a painting, let alone one from an unknown artist and an artist who would probably never ever be famous….no, my friends do not mince words! But that also meant that my work was really good.


I sat down at my table, night glass of milk in hand and thought of why I hadn't thought of this before. Why hadn't I thought of making a business of this. Probably because I had never had an offer before, but despite knowing the obvious answer, I still pondered on the point. It made the fact that I had a buyer all the more sweeter. And I did the math. 10 times the amount that I had quoted was an obscenely large amount. I had to pinch myself. Was it really that simple? I suddenly had visions of me as a famous artist - Michelangelo or Da Vinci, spending my days in artistic and torturous ways, people not recognising or understanding my genius until long after I was gone...oh wait...that would not happen...my genius was being recognised right now :-) Maybe all the stars were shining down on me. This was Preeti Shining. Maybe I should buy my first lottery ticket.


I quickly reigned in my thoughts. Oh well, I could take a few evenings off work and paint the ten paintings. Maybe I could even get into a contract to supply more paintings to him. The possibilities were endless. And I was brilliant. And I was a tad bit confused. Why would an unknown buyer who had never seen my work and who had never heard of me, be willing to spend so much for one painting and commission ten more? Was there a catch somewhere in here ? I had never been this lucky. I had never even won a pair of socks, let alone a large payment fora painting. But I reminded myself that this was not the time to look a gift horse in the mouth.


The elusive Mr. Kumar called a few days later. He said he needed to speak to me. I told him to come on over. Anyone helping me fill my coffers and appreciate my talent was more than welcome. He came over bearing a huge file of papers. Probably a file for his chartered accountant, I thought to myself. But as he placed it on the table in front of me, I realised that the file which contained about 200 pages was for me. I know I was hoping for a contract, but this? And in any case what kind of a contract ran into 200 pages? How many pages were required to make me promise not to recreate the same painting twice and to relinquish all claims to the ones that I had sold. Two pages was my guess and perhaps if my lucky stars were still shining, an additional page to say that I would be required to paint 20 exquisite paintings a year for a totally crazy amount (thoughts of making huge amounts of money doing nothing has been an ultimate fantasy). What the balance 197 pages contained was a mystery. And to read 200 pages in the middle of a work day would call for more brilliance than I possessed.

It's just a formality, said suave Mr. Kumar.

What is? I asked.

The paperwork, he said, casually shrugging.

Whats in it? I had to ask, though I really didn't care, it could have been a draft for a romance novel for all I know. What I really cared about was whether he was carrying the amount for my painting. I looked at his suit up and down, checking for what appeared to be a wad of cash (in other words, a bulge!) but could spot none.

He started speaking really quickly - It basically says that the paintings will be unsigned, you will agree to lose all claim to them and you will never talk of this deal or of these paintings or when they were painted or mention any knowledge of them to anyone.


My jaw dropped open. This was the fishy smell I had been getting all along. Someone was going to be taken for a ride with MY paintings. I looked at Mr. Kumar. He looked at me unflinchingly. He was obviously an expert at this. I foolishly wondered if he could see the 'BOZO' written on my forehead with the twenty five light bulbs flashing around it. I was being made a part of a scam and I was being paid a tidy sum of money to keep quiet about it. No lucky stars were shining on me except for the BOZO which must have been shining bright.


I shut the file. No actually, I threw the file in my dustbin. I wish I could squeeze the dumbstruck man in front of me into my dustbin. But it would have been a waste of a good dustbin.

That painting is no longer for sale, I said.

And with that I held the door open and kicked him out of the room. And that was that, I was no longer Michelangelo, I was no longer the to-be-famous artist (more likely I would have ended up the infamous artist) but I was back to being Preeti the accidental artist.

The last I saw of Mr. Kumar, he had sneaked back into my consultation room and was rummaging through the dustbin for missing page number 122 of the shady contract. I let him grovel like that, looking really silly with his butt stuck up in the air while I had the last laugh.

29 hours and counting

The past month has been a writer's disaster. Between vocabulary challenges, grammatical confusions and subjects that are either too riske to write about or just flat too boring, August has not been one to put down on paper (or screen). Mind space has been occupied with more pressing problems like how to throw a sudden dinner party for 18 when I have crockery only for 12 and how to fall asleep at eight in the evening and sleep right through an evening of my life without waking up to regret it the next day. Like I said...pressing problems!

Every time I sat down to write, there were forces beyond my self that would force me to stop.

- The doorbell at midnight (all very exciting, friends from an ad agency dropping in to talk life strategies and fight about ethics and gossip about whose seeing whom and whose cheating on whom and whose flirting with the boss). I readily exchanged a chance to write for a chance to sit with 6 very interesting, very smart, very funny and slightly drunk friends.

- A phone call from an ex boyfriend who had completely vanished from my world only to re-surface, strangely enough, as I was trying to write. Ofcourse I had to take the call and ofcourse we spoke for 3 hours, and it goes without saying that I had to reminence and mull and snort over several things in the hours after the call, all of which effectively spelled death for my article which was oh, about fifteen words at that time.

- The arrival of my next patient. I am testimony to the fact that it is a lousy idea to try and sqeeze some writing between patients. Sometimes I barely get in five thoughts and one word before my receptionist comes in to say the four o'clock is here. Besides thoughts do tend to get a little confused in my head. I found myself sometimes thinking of root canals while writing articles and thinking of article topics (er, think - funny, shoes, clothes, poetry, boys) while elbow deep in a mouth...it was a bad bad idea.

- The urge to move and fidget and do something physical even if it meant twiddling my thumbs. For a person who can sit still for hours on end (book, movie, sleep, faking exhaustion!), I have named last month Angsty August. My body was in some kind of unknown angst. I was fidgety, it was impossible to keep hands and legs still. If my body couldn't keep still, my mind was even more unfocussed. Thoughts would enter my head and fly out at 300 miles / hour. I was craving fresh air, I wanted to be outdoors, I wanted music pumping in my ears and I wanted to walk, or rock climb, or dive from a really high rock in a really blue sea. I wanted adrenalin and I wanted it now. Most importantly, I wanted to not have to think.

It was a conspiracy. I was not meant to plan. I was not meant to control. I was not meant to try too hard. Everything about last month was about not doing what you think you should be doing, but just going with the flow. It was about making 24 hours feel like an eternity and not the other way around.

Now that Angsty August has gone, I am back to what I do best - planning and dreaming. If I could plan one perfect day just for me, this would be it:

9 hours of sleep
5 hours of work
2 hours of reading
2 hours of writing
2 hours of walking
2 hours of movie watching
3 hours of eating (now you know my weakness, I like long relaxed meals and eating out)
2 hours of learning something
2 hours of friends (extendable to 8 hours if necessary)

That is 29 hours and counting...and it sounds just about right.