The Wedding Season

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His status read “So it goes…”

They couldn’t decide whether I had lost or gained some weight. “He was so sweet when he was a little boy.” I had friends then. Harsha, Apu and me would cycle from Adalat Mahal to the SP’s Bungalow, past the pigs, past the post office. We would throw large lumps clay at each other; the redness exploding on our sparkling white school uniforms. They had a tennis court, a turtle and dog named Rambo. We learnt Taijyoku Shodan from Constable Rashid, Black belt 2 Dan, Star Karate Club, Bijapur, on a rectangular concrete patch on their tar covered rooftop. Gouri scratched my hand for punching her in the stomach, while Harsha-Apu alternatively chased each other, our sensei watched haplessly.

Left hand envelop, right hand card. 113 cards fed-exed from the US of A, have lovely orange flowers on the left. Gouri’s selection for sure. There will be music and dancing later. This one is only for the party. A dozen different cards for one wedding, one for the wedding, one for the reception, one hand-drawn and written by Vasu Uncle, one with some lame saree pattern; in Kannada, English and Kannada-English. 150 people for the wedding, 2000 or more for the reception. “Everybody on the Civil List, MLAs, all the Department Heads, Chief Engineers PWD, BWSSB… Are you calling all your classmates for the reception?”

She has an eye infection. She is still working on some assignments. She is getting married in December.

He said that Chaitra met his parents and they accepted her. Only the parents have to meet now. He got an unexpected hike, 46%. I am getting paid peanuts. He said it was good starting salary for a media job. He was just being nice.

He was nice even when I told him that I was dating the girl he liked. She said lunch would be ideal. In the evening she had to spend time with her work friends (The same set of overpaid no-lives who she has spent the entire week working with!) She was free only until 5. I used to pick her up every evening. She would be waiting in front of her office on Museum Road. Barista, Java City, Painted Platter. I would drop her off on the road behind her house. I never did meet her parents. Don’t know whether they would have accepted me. She said our relationship was going nowhere. She moved on.

She is getting married and then moving to the UK, wants to do literature or anthropology. She is distant even on chat. She liked Namesake, I didn’t. Maybe now I have something to talk to her about. I had her last dance in the city. She was too drunk to dance. She is in love with Delhi. City of Djinns. Heaven is 42 Degree Celsius.

She doesn’t reply to messages. She is on roaming. Her Palghat Iyer boy is in my town.

She is in a red sleeveless T-shirt and is smiling without the crowfeet. Boyfriend has been cropped out. I’m already missing her huggety hugs and all the other kind of hugs aswell.

The Names:
Mouriniho
William Darhampyle
Hemmingway
Jack Kerouac
Graham Greene
P N Rao
Peter Jackson

The Numbers:
3 Cheap Books
2 Large Vodkas
1 Expensive Suit


Opinion: Peter Jackson should give fantasy movies a break. Should make documentaries on Meer Cats instead.