"Theirs not to reason why"

IMDB Title: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0077416/

Twilight descends on Clairton, a sad-looking town, somewhere in Pennsylvania. A massive steel plant looms over the rain-soaked streets. The spires of the Russian Orthodox Church rise up into the sky, but they are dwarfed by the chimneys of the factory where Michael, Nick and Steven work for a living. It would be last few hours they spend happily together in that sleepy town, for their decision to join the American war effort in Vietnam would irreversibly alter their lives. “A drama of friendship and courage and what happens to these qualities under stress” is how Michael Cimino describes his 1978 epic, “The Deer Hunter”. The film was nominated for nine Academy Awards and won five, including Best Picture, Best Director and Best Supporting Actor.

On the eve of his departure to Vietnam, Steven (John Savage) is getting married to Angela. His friends Michael (Robert De Niro), Nick (Christopher Walken), Stanley (John Cazale), Axel (Chuck Aspegren) and John (George Dzundza) join in the revelry and then set off for their last hunting trip before the war. During the course of the war, Mike, Steven and Nick are captured by the Vietnamese soldiers and forced at gunpoint to play Russian roulette. Steven loses his mind, but Michael manages to outwit his captors and rescue his friends. However, the game takes its toll on Nick and he goes AWOL from the hospital where he is recuperating. Michael returns home, but is unable to comprehend the muted life after war without his friends. He tries to find solace in the arms of Linda (Meryl Streep), Nick’s girlfriend. On his visit to the hospital to see Steven, who has lost his legs in the war, he learns that Nick is alive and still in Vietnam. With the intention of fulfilling the promise he had made to his friend, Michael returns to Saigon to bring back Nick, only to find him playing Russian roulette professionally.

Though there is only about 25 minutes of war footage, “The Deer Hunter” is one of the most poignant anti-war movies ever made. Inspired by Erich Maria Remarque’s 1937 novel Drei Kameraden (Three Comrades), it was the first major American film about the Vietnam War. Holding back the actual horrors of Vietnam, the director tries to portray the impact and repercussions of the war on the survivors as they strive to pick up their shattered lives. The central cog around which the story moves is the deadly game of Russian roulette, where the players gamble with their lives, brandishing the revolver with one bullet. On the hunting trip with his friends, Michael stalks the best deer and fells it with a single shot. “A deer has to the taken with one shot!” exclaims Mike, and it is that One Shot – the lone fatal bullet in the chamber – that tears the three friends apart, as Nick loses himself to the mad game of death in the dark streets of Saigon.

The film courted controversy in its portrayal of the Russian roulette – there is no record of captives being forced at gunpoint to play Russian roulette by the captors during the Vietnam War. Critics also claimed that “The Deer Hunter” sparked off a string of suicides with viewers trying to imitate the roulette scenes. Deric Washburn’s screenplay, though at times elongated, keeps the viewers captivated in the surreal narrative of love, friendship and disenchantment. The long wedding scene in the beginning (reminiscent of The Godfather) and the hunting expedition that follows, perfectly etches the portraits of the lead characters in our minds. The haunting “Cavatina” written by Stanley Myers and performed on the guitar by John Williams, floats through the movie like an unseen ghost, invoking a feeling of dread and agony at the fate of the war veterans. The cinematography of Vilmos Zsigmond is mesmerizing and serves to hold the film together.

De Niro is perfectly cast as Michael, the natural leader of the group, torn apart by his inability to protect and bring home his mates. But it is Christopher Walken - in an Academy Award winning role – who steals the show as the doomed Nick – Michael’s lovable and loyal friend who loses everything to the dangerous game of death. Meryl Streep – as beautiful as ever (sigh!) – gives a smashing portrayal as the subdued and suffering Linda, uncertain, whether to wait for Nick or surrender herself to the love of Michael. The supporting cast is equally brilliant. But spare a thought for the tragic John Cazale whom you will love to loath as the eccentric and self-centered Stanley. The immensely talented Cazale did not live to see the release of the film, succumbing to bone cancer barely a month after the completion of the film. His sparkling career last just five hugely successful films (The Godfather, The Godfather II, The Conversation, Dog Day Afternoon and The Deer Hunter), all of which were nominated for the Best Picture Academy Award.

Though the leading cast went on to establish a name for themselves in Hollywood, Michael Cimino never rose to the heights that he achieved with “The Deer Hunter”. With its moving story, “The Deer Hunter” touches your heart and leaves you numb with horror. A few images leave an indelible imprint in the mind: the old couple resting peacefully in each others’ arms as the guests revel in Steven’s wedding party; As Steven and Angela toast to the crowd and drink together, two drops of blood-red wine drip down on to Angela’s white bridal dress – the omen of dark days ahead; The gaunt and ghostly face of the heroin-influenced Nick, as he steps into the dark room to face Michael in his last game of Russian roulette. But the most poignant scene of them all? On a hunting trip after his return, Michael stalks the best deer. He has the deer in his gun sight, but cannot bring himself to shoot the animal. He pulls up his gun just as he pulls the trigger, and lets the animal go.

Perhaps never again will he be able to take a deer with One Shot…

Delhi Heights (...and lows)

"For God's Sake! Please dress and behave decently tomorrow! I've told my parents that my boss is coming home for dinner!": warned Pragati on Thursday afternoon. Boss? Me? Uh...Since when? I felt like responding in typical Robert De Niro style: "You talking to me?" And what about the decency part? As I was always fond of telling Sundar C Narayanaswamy, I consider myself the epitome of decency. "I don't want you turning up in one of your orange or yellow garbs, and please put away your Australian jerseys", she continued. Ah! so that was it! "Don't worry", I assured her: "I'll be on my best behaviour tomorrow". Knowing me, she looked a bit skeptic, as if I'd just told her the Martians had landed on the ITPL grounds. For me, all this meant a little bit of unpacking, since I needed to take out all those flashy T-shirts I had actually lined up for the trip.

It was my first trip to New Delhi - and it came like a bolt out of the blue (pun unintended, as events later would clarify), courtesy the travel desk in our company, who informed us at the last possible moment that we needed to personally visit the Hungarian Embassy, if we wanted our Budapest trip to materialize. Neither am I allowed to slander about them in public, nor do I consider it my moral right to abuse anyone, so i'll let that pass. Anyway, a little bit of travel never harmed me, and abiding with Pragati's wishes, I turned up in full black - backpack and all - at the office the next day. I further managed to infuriate her ("show-off" was her comment), when I showed her the tie I carried in the bag, "in case I needed it the next day". We had opted for an evening flight from Bangalore to Delhi, which meant that we had to leave directly from the office. We had to take a detour to her house so that she could also pick up all her tax papers (on my insistence). By the time we reached the airport, the sweltering heat had almost drained us - the cab driver had refused to put on the AC claiming that this was "non-AC duty"!

No sooner had we cleared the security checks that Pragati found a seat, crawled into a foetal position and went to sleep. I found a copy of Mid-Day, and got myself busy figuring out the various crosswords(it even had a "Bollywood" crossword! Yuck!) in the paper, all the time trying my best to bug Pragati. To her credit, she managed to stay asleep until the flight was announced. We were in for a surprise when we boarded it - what looked like another teeny-weeny aircraft, actually looked impressive inside. Even though we had non-reclineable seats, they had enough leg space, and not to mention, they even had inflight entertainment capsules. I soon immersed myself into a couple of documentaries ("Some of his quiz stuff", as Pragati would later inform our friends). Food came and went and I gobbled it up with glee. For the starved soul, anything to eat is like manna from heaven - though Pragati seemed to disagree. It seemed like an uneventful flight, until we reached Delhi. Then all the hell broke loose... (...for me. Pragati slept through the whole thing). First came the announcement that we were 15th in the landing sequence at Delhi. Then came the turbulence. The aircraft was being tossed around like a rubber ball. I confessed to Pragati that I was indeed scared. She was quick to point out that a woman was piloting the flight and hence it was no surprise. By the time we landed in Delhi, it was well past 10:00 and we had got a free ride to Jaipur and back. And the biggest surprise of all? It was raining cats and dogs in Delhi.

Since it was my first time in Delhi, I decided to follow the leader and promptly followed her into the pouring rain. By the time we got into her car, we were fully drenched, and I was cursing myself for not carrying the one thing that a Mallu-born-and-brought-up person would never forget to have - the umbrella. It was another half an hour ride to her home, and yes, I did manage to surprise her with my nice manners - I let her do the talking :) The dinner prepared at her home was extremely delicious and mouth watering. By the time I reached the SAP guest house I was half asleep. I do not exactly recollect what happened next, except that I collapsed on the bed, anticipating a long sleep. When I woke up, the day had lit up. But to my utter surprise I saw that the time was only 5:30. Huh? In Bangalore I never get to see the sun until I get out of the house at 7:00. Anyway, since I was awake, I decided to take a tour of the guesthouse. It was a sprawling mansion in itself with magnificently arranged rooms. The room overlooked an elegant park. The cloudy sky gave hopes that perhaps we would get a respite from the heat. Switching on the TV, i found that all the news channels were busy reporting the rains in Delhi. So far so good. After a quick shower, I went down for a breakfast of parathas. Sathish was already there at the table. He related his tale of woes as to how he reached the guest house only at 1:30 in the morning.

Pragati arrived at 9:00 and the three of us left for the embassy in her car. The roads of Delhi are superb, and the absence of traffic jams like the ones we find in Bangalore amazed me. The embassy proved to be another surprise. Before I left for Delhi, me and my cousin had joked about it that perhaps they would be employing people to queue up before the embassy to give an impression that Hungary was also a destination for Indians. Hence it amused me to no extent to actually find a small queue outside the visa counter. The woman at the visa counter proved to be a trifle too much. There were barely 10 people ahead of us in the queue, but this lady was taking almost half an hour to check each visa document. An exasperated Pragati promptly declared that she could no longer stand in the queue, sat down on the ground, and started cursing the country of Hungary. By the time our turn came around, it was also clear that we had to PAY cash to submit our visa documents - a fact that was conveniently forgotten by our travel desk. My expert advice that "we wait and see whether we actually need to pay" meant that Pragati had to go hunting for an ATM as me and Sathish waited at the counter. The lady at the counter dropped another bomb when she informed us that we need to be back in Delhi to collect the passports and possibly for an interview too. So far it had been a day of surprises.

After a whirlwind tour of what's-there-to-see-in-Delhi, Pragati took us out for lunch (that's just a way of speaking - it was not her treat) at United Coffee House in Connaught Place. It was supposedly a place steeped in tradition, since it was in existence since the times of the British Raj. The ambience of the place was good - a jazz joint, with huge chandeliers, it appealed to me immediately. Pragati's sister Manvi also joined us for lunch, and they had a tussle to decide what to order. Finally they agreed on murgh changezi, and I was left wondering how the chicken was related to the Great Khan (Genghis, not Shah Rukh). The highlight of the lunch was, however, a drunk lady who was sitting a table behind us. Perhaps she did not have enough cash to pay for a bottle of beer, so she started a shouting match with the authorities. To drown the whole affair, the volume of the worldspace radio (which was until then murmuring something) was cranked up, but somehow, the lady kept winning. Pragati immediatley declared that she'd lost her appetite. So it was left to me to finish off the chicken, which I didn't.

They dropped me off at the guest house and I immediately went to sleep in the cool surroundings of my room. I was woken up by the buzz of the cab river, who was supposed to take me to the airport. Take me he did, to the International Airport ("Are you so stupid?" asked Pragati, once she was back in office) where I learned that the domestic airport was a further twenty to thirty minutes away from there. I hassled with an auto driver and finally got to my destination, to find that it was across the big runway. Maybe they should just allow people like me to run across the tarmac to reach the other side. As the day ended, there were no more surprises left for me in Delhi. The flight was late, and Jet Airways was no longer like the vision we had on the previous day - just another one of those drab dark blue flights, where I had to entertain myself with the sad songs I had on my iPod. But nature seemed to have something up her sleeve for me....

It was raining when I landed in Bangalore.

Raindrops keep fallin' on my head...

Yesterday it rained.

It was not a shower, but a storm - a storm that came from nowhere - the first of the season. I hope it is the first of many to come, for I love it when it rains.

Memories of childhood come running to me whenever I see the rain. Perhaps I shouldn't be happy, but I wonder why I am. The monsoon in Kerala has a charm of its own. The earliest memory I have is the pitter patter of the rain on the tiled roof of our house at the Hill Palace. I was a show-off right from my childhood, as I loved to flaunt my colourful umbrella to everyone around. I used to know at least four different designs for making paper boats and I cannot recall how many times i have been scolded for playing in the rain.

Perhaps there might be very few people around who have not been scolded for playing in the rain. It is always a reprimand about catching the odd cold or fever. As time passes, perhaps due to the effect of all the warnings that we get, we come to dread going out in the rain. I can still recall all the miseries I have endured as a result of being caught in the rain at the wrong moment.

But yesterday was different...

I stepped into the rain for a moment, only to be chastised by my friends - "Don't behave as if you are Shah Rukh Khan!" For a moment, I thought of myself as the child I was once - running around with all the paper boats under my arms. Alas, we no longer have that childish innocence with us to enjoy the rains. As I put on my helmet in the months of June or July, I look up at the sky, and wish that it does not burst forth when I am driving. "Have you taken your jacket?" was the last thing I heard from my parents today morning, as I sat on my bike.

It's raining again now, and once more, I'm off in the rain.

I wear my glasses so that you can't see my eyes...
I walk in the rain so that you can't see my tears...

"Kalyanam" for Dummies - a beginner's guide to Iyer marriages

DISCLAIMER: No Iyers were harmed during the composition of this article. However you can be rest assured that at least one Iyer might come to bodily harm after the publication of the same.

“Welcome to the wedding of the season!” - The media screamed about Mira Nair’s “Monsoon Wedding”, a few years back. Marriage - A function I distance myself from every time one of those comes around – for reasons not known to me. Indian marriages, as you might be aware, are spectacular affairs – the lights, the colors, the music all encompassing – and iyer marriages are no exception to this general perception.

But what makes an Iyer Marriage (or “Kalyanam” as it is known in the local tongue) stand out? They are a ritual unto themselves - the bride and the groom, and the relatives who attend and join in the revelry. And God help the hapless soul who fails to ignore the small nuances that come along with the package. Mine is a humble attempt to educate those naïve fellows who might fall into this trap.

As the big day looms, sambandhis (relatives) from all over flock to the venue – some of whom the groom (we’ll take the groom as the “reference object) would never have seen in his life! There are usually “courtesy visits” undertaken, when all and sundry turn up one after the other at the groom’s house. The visit usually starts with a question like “Ennada, readiyaa?” (Are you all set for the marriage?). I’m yet to come across someone who responded with a “No”. The one good aspect of such visits would be the hot cups of filter coffee handed out to everyone, including the groom. One can imagine and shudder at the caffeine levels in the poor man’s blood, by the time he gets to the altar.

Come the big day, the poor guy would more or less resemble the proverbial lamb for slaughter. But then, this is not his story or account. So let’s just leave him to face the music…er…the chants. Marriages are also like quiz competitions – you request people to register in advance, and 90% of participants turn up at the venue unregistered! A sizeable number of relatives turn up only at the Mandapam (Marriage Hall). The first few hours would be pure mayhem, as most of these people would not have met each other for ages (at least not since the last marriage in the family).

What happens next is akin to what used to occur at the gates of the Nazi Concentration Camps of yore – men, women and children to different sides of the hall (not the most apt metaphor, but I couldn’t resist the temptation). The final outcome is always the same – gossip – the difference lying in the levels to which it rises or falls. The women perhaps are predictable – it mostly centers on the unfortunate souls who could not make it to the marriage. The men, I’ve never been able to figure out, since it is too dangerous to go near this group – due to the risk of electrocution from high voltage gossip. And the “children”? - No matter how much you grow up, the elders always refer to you as “kuttikal” (children) – it consists of trying to decipher what the other groups are talking about, only to be shut up by a severe reprimand: “Pesamirungo da! Anga function nadakkarathu!” (Keep quiet! Can’t you see that there’s a function going on?) – wonder when they realized that!

That’s something you need to be aware of – the reprimands. The people who bestow unto themselves the title of “periyavaal” (No…Not “big sword” you idiot! It means “elders”), are always around to warn and advise if you step out of the line. Your first encounter with them would inevitably be when they come in. If it is someone you’ve never seen in your life, be on guard! The first question would be: “Ennada, naan aaru therinjutha? (Hey kid! Do you know who I am)” The safest option would be to act like the proverbial child-in-the-topless-bar and blabber out a “no”. The reaction to this answer has been recorded many a time by experts in the field of psychology as a tirade from the elder about how you used to play in his/her lap when you were a kid. A more adventurous approach would be to boldly say, “Yes! I do”, but the consequence can sometimes be injurious to your ego, as my unfortunate cousin once found out. If the elder in question retorts back: “Oh! Yeah? Then tell me who I am!”, you're in deep water. Personally, I have a reply to such a retort: “Do you mean to say you don’t know who you are?” But the prerequisite for giving such a reply is that you have already prepared your will and appointed an executor.

Iyer marriages are equally well known for their culinary delights as for their pomp and splendor - four-course meals, filled with sweet and spicy delights that make your mouth water. As the clock strikes 12:00 (no obvious connection to Mrs. Cinderella Charming) it is time for the first meal. Strangely though, there won’t be any rush for the first serving. It always starts with the elders commanding the younger ones: “Dei, chaappada varungo!”(Come and have your lunch!) – Mostly since they don’t want to be embarrassed at being the first ones to rush into the dining hall! We of course, will never be there (some hapless children do suffer the misfortune of having to sit in the first round itself, fearful of a tongue-lashing from their parents). We try to make it as late as possible, after the elders have finished their lunch (there’s always enough for everyone). Of course, after their lunch the first thing your elders would ask you is: “Neengal ellam chappatteloda?”(“Have all of you had lunch?”), knowing well that the answer would be “no”. Another embarrassment for you.

Lunch again, has its own “code of conduct” – and men usually bear the brunt of it. Any guy who was gone through the sacred thread ceremony, is not supposed to touch the food until rice and ghee has been served and he has uttered all the necessary mantras (something popularly known as “neer chuthal”) – and inevitably, rice is served last. It starts with the sweets, followed by umpteen curries, and above all, the small serving of “payasam"(kheer). We watch in dismay as the ladies slurp the servings with glee (I don’t need to emphasize what would happen to you if you try eating the payasam before the rice comes around). And when the rice finally arrives, it is an anti-climax – try as you may, the person serving would make sure that the rice is served on top of the payasam. There goes all for nothing!

Etiquette does not end here. First comes the sambar, followed by rasam, a few varieties of payasams, and finally, buttermilk (oops! Did I forget the double dose of “appalams” - papads - in between?). By the time you finish your lunch, the banana leaf on which the food is served should have been wiped clean. Rasam – now that is a dish every Brahmin loves, with the exception of me. Being old enough to disregard the advice of elders, I’ve never had rice with rasam as long as I can remember. But you cannot try the same, if you have your parents or any other relative sitting next to you. If you do not prefer the rice-buttermilk combination to have a sweet taste, and hence prefer to skip all those varieties of payasams, think twice. In our circles, it is considered a heinous crime not to have payasams. Of course, after eating all these (an endeavor that you can compare to a cross country race), you might need to crawl on your belly to get out of the dining hall. Ever wondered why we have pot bellies?

Afternoon is the time to relax and enjoy on your own, with elders enjoying their siesta. Times have changed though, and nowadays you cannot even enjoy a private session of antakshari or dumb charades without the elders challenging you for the same. And if you thought that your array of remixes would serve as ammunition, you’ll be bombarded with those obscure tamil songs from the time when K L Saigal was crawling around in diapers. All said and done, this is the perfect time to impress them and get on their good side – provided you can sing well, and possess rudimentary knowledge in Carnatic Music. There would of course, be the odd expert who might claim that their grand nephew, once removed, could sing a thousand times better. But if you possess a decent voice, you can floor most of them.

The evening starts with hot bajji and…coffee again. After that it’s a mad scramble to get ready for the evening festivities on time. As you would expect, the ladies take the maximum time – to deck themselves up in smooth and shining Kanjeevaram silk sarees and put on tons of gold ornaments that would probably throw any weighing machine off calibration. The guys just have to put on any shirt or trousers they can lay hands on, or drape on any “veshti”(dhoti) lying around. Nobody pays much attention to us – something that might be evident from the Santoor advertisement of yesteryears. Honestly, have you ever seen a guy featured in such ads? I have tried dressing up elaborately in kurta-pyjamas, but the result was not much to talk about. Looking down from the ceremonial dais, you can see an ocean of dazzling color on the side of the auditorium where the ladies would be sitting. It’s time to start from where they left off in the morning – the only difference being in a new topic introduced into the agenda: the origins and family tree structure of every silk saree on view. In another corner you can also spot a splinter group, busy practicing songs for the “oonjal” ceremony the next day.

Talking about music – the kalyanam is never complete without the nadaswaram, the world’s loudest non-brass acoustic instrument. Nowadays the nadaswaram is usually found only in Hindu marriages – the genius of Rajarathnam Pillai, Karukurichi Arunachalam and Sheikh Chinna Moulana has sadly been forgotten. It is the duty of the nadaswaram vidwans(experts) and their accompanying troupe to entertain the audience with Carnatic keertanams. You can perceive the men in the family nodding their heads as if in appreciation of the skill of the artists, even though their attention would be on their on-going gossip session. He would have just finished a glorious raga-alapana, ready to start the pallavi, when the hand of a priest would shoot up from the dais asking him to stop. It is now the priest’s turn to show off his prowess in the Vedas – though for the untrained ear like mine, it would sound like a modem trying to connect to the internet. The unfortunate part is that the groom is expected to repeat whatever the priest recites. The greatest responsibility of the nadaswaram guys however is to play a definite piece of music at regular timed intervals. Those who attend marriages regularly might comprehend what I am referring to but for the uninitiated, this piece may sound similar to the theme music of 2001: A Space Odyssey. Since this is an oft-repeated piece, I did fancy whether it would be a good idea to provide a free CD of the same along with this article. The nadaswaram can then be dispensed with and you just need to run the CD in repeat mode. But the fact that this article might well end up being banned in most agraharams, thus rendering the CD useless, put me off.

Oh! And spare a thought to the groom and bride. Here they are, sitting merrily on the dais: the guy decked up in a blazer – the only time he would ever wear that in his life – and the girl, well, she has to change her garb once in a while. It would have barely been ten minutes since she changed into a brand new silk saree, than the ladies of the family would come and take her along for another costume change. In between, the guy would have had to make a visit to the near-by temple. Nobody knows exactly when this happens, since everyone would be busy in gossip to take notice. The biggest ordeal for them however, is the photography session. Even if the groom and bride are not photogenic, the photography session is mandatory, since all the guests would have primarily turned up for that moment. Each photograph would take 10-15 minutes of arrangement, framing and composition. Add to this, the fact that there would be at least five hundred odd people eager to appear on film. It’s simple mathematics as to how much time this whole exercise would take. A study of this photograph album would enable the groom and bride to trace and draw their family tree. The photography session is the last major act before the grand finale of the first day – the dinner (sadly, for the groom and bride, this may not be the case).

And the dinner? Please refer to the section on the etiquette for lunch. They are the same.

The next day is perhaps the biggest and most important day in the life of the bride and groom: the day they are bound together in wedlock – an event which, in reality, 90% of the people present would never get to witness. All the relatives have to be at the hall early in the morning, and with the unwritten rule that you have to dress up better than the previous evening, you can be sure that for people like me, it would be the one day of the year I see the sun rise. The first important event of the day (no…not breakfast cum another cup of coffee) is the “oonjal” ceremony. The bride and the groom exchange garlands and are seated on a huge swing. Tladies of the house go bananas…er...I mean, feed them banana and milk. The aforementioned “splinter group” who spent the previous evening rehearsing their voices, now take over for a performance of their own – but only after the priest or his assistants announce “aaravathu paattu paadungo” (somebody sing a song) – as if to convince everyone present that they are just obliging on the insistence of everyone. If you listen carefully, you will invariably get to hear only one song – that “laali" song (in reality it is a beautiful piece composed in ragam Kurinji), with all the ladies (never heard the men) competing against each other as if this were an audition for Indian Idol (at this juncture, the idea of staging an “Iyer Idol” did tempt me). Be whatever it may, I have to confess that I personally have sung this song (perhaps the only guy in history to achieve this) at a relative’s marriage, albeit when I was some 10 years old – a fact my mother always tries to bring up during marriages, prompting me to quietly slink away from the place.

At the end of the audition, the groom and bride take up the pole position on the dais. Thall would be choc-a-bloc full with relatives, friends and acquaintances of both families, most of them blissfully unaware of what is happening on the stage. For:

Theirs is not to reason why,
Theirs is but to do and dine…
(Copyright: Lord Alfred Tennyson, the Charge of the Light Brigade)

On the dais, the groom and bride are completely engulfed by hordes of relatives, eager to witness and help in the rituals. Their efficiently in shielding the two would put any black cat commando unit to shame. I’m one of the privileged few who’ve actually witnessed the “thaali kettal” (tying the knot) ceremony that happens in the midst of this security blanket – thanks to the fact that I carry a high-tech digital camera. Ever heard of the term “Paparazzi”?

For the general public, the only indication of something important happening out there would be the periodic outbursts of the aforementioned “theme music". After a while the bride and the groom finally come into view and realization would dawn that everything’s done and dusted. It’s time for lunch.

Really? Maybe the groom would not agree. Here is a guy who has to now sit for over an hour and brave all that smoke, trying to decipher what the priest wants him to recite. And wait, there’s that small ceremony of lifting up his wife’s feet and dragging it on top of a huge grinding stone. It marks the first time that he falls at the feet of his wife – something that he has to keep doing throughout his life…

The grand and sumptuous lunch marks the end of the festivities for most people who turn up (the bride and the groom get to eat last, and are always accompanied by the photographer and the videographer). For the relatives this is the end of another memorable outing whereas for the bride and the bridegroom it marks the beginning of their life together. And people like me? We heave a sigh of relief – for all's well that ends well. All said and done, the Iyer marriage is perhaps the most beautiful and meaningful ceremony. People might dismiss me as cynical and disrespectful. They would advise me: “You can go on teasing. When it is your turn, you’ll realize its important”. But then, I’m still a bachelor and as they say in Hindi: “Bandar kya jaane adrak ka swaad?”

P.S: The incidents detailed here are purely based on the author’s experiences in attending marriages, and do not strictly constitute a “must-do” list for the functions. Elders being elders may always find new ways of reprimanding you. If you come across any such unchartered incidents, do send in your experiences to the author.

This photo was taken on 25th of December, 2006 during our trip to Badami.

Being Christmas Day, we were for a minute astounded to see the entry "Jesus and Milkshake" in the menu of the restaurant.

Blessed art thou, who drinketh my juice...

"Children below 4 feet are not permitted"! Now what's that supposed to mean? I've never seen a child who has more than two feet (like any other human being)