The art of wedding crashing

India wastes up to Rs 58000 crore of agriculture produce, that accounts for almost 40% of the total produce screams a statistic. And the remaining unwasted 60%, comes with sweet inflation attached to only get wasted in fat Indian weddings. In most weddings after the guests have left and the last member of the catering crew has grown thicker in the waist, there’s still food left. Not left over, but perfectly good food, enough to feed a needy slum to slavery. Wait…wait…the tone’s changing with the prologue. Almost got carried away there. Well this piece by any stretch isn’t  about waste management, vigilante justice or any kind of gentlemanly intention. Sorry if you got that impression.This is in fact a first person account of my shenanigans and the guilty pleasures I’ve derived over the years at the expense of several clueless couples.

I’ve always believed that most of us have a dormant side- by ‘us’ I’m referring to the movie buffs -that gets instigated by some movies. Though I’ve always been pretty good with numbers, I’ve never got that part of me tickled after Good Will Hunting. But there’s been this cheapskate within, waiting to be unleashed. Wedding Crashers was the Aladdin that got him out. It was a movie that glamourised the entire shindig of crashing weddings-celebration, music, food and women. And it has been one hell of a ride ever since. A continuous learning experience of sorts. Sometimes I’ve learnt about rituals. Sometimes about cuisines. And sometimes even discovered new things about myself, like the fact that my appetite improves incrementally in the sitting position than the standing one.

In a convoluted way, it’s an act of altruism where  you do your bit to make someone look good. The common complaint at the end of most weddings- in this part of the world – is of the turnout not matching the invited ball park number. This is where, we the uninvited lot step in, to cover up for the invited. By beefing up the headcount and filling the hall, we make the host feel and the event look good. It’s quite easy to spot the tribe, especially in the dining area. While the legit ones would eat quietly, the crashers like empty vessels would make more noise.They would be conspicuous by the number of times they ask for a starter or a refill of a gravy. They would often be found occupying corner positions in a row and munching with the desperation of a famine hit refugee. Check their faces in the wash, it would be plastered with a post coital relief. For it’s just not about relishing good food, but also the relief of not being caught in the act.

Crashing is a gift that keeps giving and can be therapeutic in more ways than one. Some times when you just don’t want to be alone, it becomes the perfectly crowded excuse to get lost. During month ends, it serves as a multi cuisine alternative to save on dinner spend. And if you get a tad shallow, you get to sport those expensive jackets in your wardrobe that have hitherto been cultivating cobwebs. While it is a prerequisite to be well dressed, attention is to be paid to not turn up overdressed. Never go wearing a crown to an uninvited coronation.

There are times you can always improvise like how I once threw a birthday treat at a respectable wedding reception. Or another time when I took a date to a midnight wedding. It’s up to you to have something in hand for the sake of effect while making an entrance , like a gift wrapped empty carton or a fancy envelope. I’ve always adhered to the “empty handed” school of thought myself, while a friend likes to carry an envelope with a limerick scribbled on the back side of a random invoice. Since it boils down to one’s cheap thrill, subjectivity of the modus operandi has to be respected when with a co-crasher.

With time, like with most habits, we tend to develop  an unique signature of completion. While the most common one in wedding crashing is leaving with a return gift, mine’s a little different. My ritual comes to its closure with a picture with the couple. I go up the stage when it’s crowded, wish them quickly and leave after getting a picture. The sheer thought of the bewildered look on the couple’s faces guessing my identity- while going through the photos -alone is priceless.

I would like to think of this as a batman kind of alter ego if you will, that responds to the crime of lavish weddings. Misplaced reasoning apart, most of us in our childhood couldn’t have resisted the lure of a low hanging mango in the compound nearby. We would’ve flicked a pebble and fled with the stolen fruit. It’s not like we couldn’t afford to buy one. Just the pleasure of the stolen mango is something else. As adults, some of us continue to preserve this child in us. I’m just one among them.

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Together & Apart

 

Born in the dichotomy of inhaling and exhaling is life. For how would intake of oxygen seem relevant, without the punctuated venting of carbon dioxide. A bonding is as special as the tenure of separation that preceded it.

Our times seems to be characterized by the epidemic of overdone togetherness. where we see a couple invade righteously into each other’s personal space in the name of love. Ironically, love stories of the yore that happened over correspondence with civil wars at the back drop,seemed to have endured the test of changing times more resiliently in comparison to today’s Whatsapp relations,set in a world with a rapidly shrinking radius,

That was an era when platonic was revered fervently, a time where the lover’s picture in the wallet was solace enough unlike our Instagram times.There is something magical about separation in a relation. It makes you miss the aura of your partner, long for their body’s warmth, vicariously live those cherished moments in the mind while realizing the way they completed you.

While the time together might tempt you to take your partner for granted, the time away would more often than not make you realize their value. Togetherness might breed complacency, while solitude would lend respect to a relation.

Move a foot away from a tree, you would see the tree better. Move a few more feet,you may see the garden it is a part of and move a few more feet, you would see the entire house it belongs to.

The figurative distance from your partner lends objectivity to your relationship. You tend to appreciate facets in them, which you might not have been able to with the forced proximity. We are what we dream of, what we aspire and what we stand for. One’s individuality is his signature.A relationship is nutrition for his soul, for it inspires him to look up to another day with purpose.

A relationship born on the death of one’s individuality can be likened to the predicament of a person so overwhelmed by his vehicle to embark on a journey with it.

With most people around submitting to romance or marriage, timing difference apart, we are going to be no exceptions to the eventuality. So neither would we be the first or the last to be in a relation with a person we love. The lure to over-sanctify the institution of marriage or romance from being a designation in the visiting card, to our visiting place itself would naturally inundate us. Just remember when you’re together, it’s love for each other. When apart, that’s love as well, for yourself. It’s always the case of self love activating love beyond self and not the other way around.

Luck by chance

A couple barely familiar to each other- “barely” only if knowledge of names,horoscope compatibility and positive sign off on conduct by respective households alone doesn’t constitute familiarity – decide to give a shot at matrimony.So life started like that, out of a chance taken three decades before. XY it was, a guy I was.

In hindsight most things in life- both,fascinating and commonplace have happened, because of chances I took and chances that were taken with me. Something as rudimentary as my alma mater happened because the cousin I absolutely loathe now, passed by it when the applications were flying out for admission. My education was cultivated from a premier institution because my mom took a chance, when she stood in the beeline. What about my ability to sketch well? It was born from a moment of utter insignificance. I was a three year old intrigued by the sight of a brass elephant. I had to recreate it on paper. I just had to. That urge lead to my first sketch and a bunch of baffled adults who flattered incessantly. Had no one been around or the ones who were there, turned out to be grumps like me, the flattery wouldn’t have happened. The artist in me wouldn’t have as well.

An ex-girlfriend was the first girl child in ages in her family. Again, a case of a close call between X and Y. Had it been Y, I wouldn’t have stalked her in the first place- I’m straight -leave alone send out a request. Still we had a lot of mutual friends, maybe we would’ve been good friends and played a lot of gully cricket. But it was X, she was dusky ,unconventionally beautiful, from the same city and took a chance with me. And I found love in her, made love to her, took her love for granted and in the end, fell out of love with her, actually with love itself.

Every event in life, every bit of our identity now has been a culmination point of a chance  taken. It’s laid out like a board game, life, with every decision point born out of a chance taken. While that chance takes you down a certain path, it takes you away from another, probably less risky, had the former not been taken. With time, what happens in these respective paths- the dividends earned, opportunities lost, relationships made, wisdom accumulated – fashions our appetite for peeping beyond conventions. In the end, we are product of the chances taken.A number where the dice stopped. Sometimes the dice. Sometimes the hands that rolled the dice.

Ari Gold cravings

I’m seeing someone“, Melissa blurts coldly.
Ari breaks down to tears instantly.
Aren’t you going to  say something?
What is there to say?

Well, for the uninitiated Ari Gold‘s a character from the series, Entourage and Melissa’s his wife. The above is an excerpt from their conversation, when their wedlock hits a roadblock. Entourage’s a vivid fly on the wall account about Hollywood actors, their shenanigans, the psyche of the entourage that sticks to them, the men who run the showbiz and the hardball they play to levitate their image.
Ari rates amongst my most favourite men, alongside Kamal Haasan and Chandler. This notwithstanding the unabashed bastard he is. Foul mouthed and irreverent, he would be Osama if political incorrectness was terrorism. But there’s something endearing about all this. Below all the pungency, the pompousness, he’s a nice guy.

Maybe there’s more to my adulation. I identify with him or immodestly put, he’s a lot like me. I’m aware and have been told when I haven’t been, what a human repellent I’m. All my life, I’ve barely been the guy to be found kind or considerate at first sight. Just like Ari, I’m a jack fruit kind of personality, with my thorny exterior being a red herring to the sweetness within.
It is quite fascinating when a favourite character and alter ego merge. Even more, when he goes through the same things you’ve been through once. The fourth wall breaks. You just don’t root for him to be alright. You emote with him; actually like him after a point.
This is exactly where I found myself through the final season of the entourage.

Ari’s wife leaves him over his incessant cussing and mercurial temper.Suddenly his trigger mouthed persona is reduced to a moping bundle, who seeks solace in mediocre gatherings. It took me back to days when I was going through the motions in life post my break up, with every iota of desire sucked from within. She told me about how embarrassed she was before her friends, every time I would use cuss words. Embarrassed?!
Wasn’t she supposed to embrace me for the foulmouthed asshole I was. It stung. I could empathize with him, when he got dumped. The vantage point we gave to our sweethearts, only to be shot from there.

She needed a break from me to discover new things, when I begged her to take me back, months after my break up. I couldn’t believe the low hanging fruit, my self respect had turned in the name of love. My king sized ego, self respect…whatever had become a luxury I couldn’t afford anymore. Beggars couldn’t pick.  Just like me, Ari too was left high and dry.
Bitch found some one else! I’m sorry. But I couldn’t see the man I revered, shrink in humiliation. God, at forty something he’s still quite the women killer and yet he had to go through all this. I remembered the shame I felt to my very soul when I came to know from her, my sweetheart of five years, that she was considering someone. Apparently he was an antithesis of the aberration I was. Fuck, has her lips that belonged to me been tasted by another man? Has her beautiful body made love to another man? The very thought was reducing me to an insecure shadow of myself. I knew logically that we weren’t working, this had to happen and we had to move on, but this was insulting and I just couldn’t swallow the bitter pill life was shoving up my throat.

Like Ari’s wife she was the calmer person between the two of us. All the years, I didn’t know about the implosion happening beneath that calm demeanor, much like him. The break-up, brought out years of pent up anger from their system.The roles reversed, it was our turn to bear the brunt. If he was asked to stay away from their house, I was kicked out of her church in public display.
It was strange to see a character in a TV show, going through his break-up, beat by beat, just like me. Worlds apart, we were the same lines dipping southwards in the graph of love.

What happened in the final episode put a tear or two under my eye, drew a wide grin across my face. He was heard, she took him back.  Notwithstanding the fact that it was a rerun, I was as affected by the magnitude of that moment, just like the first time. Unlike me, Ari wouldn’t become cynical about love. Unlike me, he got another shot. It was magical to vicariously live a different outcome to a similar story through an alter ego. If only, life was written by TV writers.