Price of privacy in an average Indian household

It’s pretty much like the conundrum of whether the chicken came first or the egg; the influence of movies on the society and the society’s influence on movies.It was in the mid nineties when, Sooraj Barjatya in the north and Vikraman in the south, spearheaded the renaissance of placing family before individual, making a virtue out of it. In the process killing privacy as a collateral necessity, making a vice out of it.You’ll see families in these movie walk in horizontal human chains- members on left and right extremes spilling out of every frame -even to modest places like blood donation camps, invading each other’s bed rooms spreading cutesy and going on picnics together. In this ecosystem, family was no mere crowd, but therapeutic. These movies talked about the trauma of being alone, establishing solitude as a comeuppance should someone dare stray to the other side, in the name of self discovery or love.

If you’re someone who had been raised on a firm diet of Tamil movies in the nineties, chances of having missed this spectacle called Suryavamsam are bleak. For the uninitiated it is one of the several evolutionary-anomaly Sarathkumar movies in which grandfather,father and son all look the same and get played by him. In a pivotal scene in the movie, the son’s kicked out of his house with his share of wealth for daring to get married to the love of his life. Notwithstanding the condescending nature of his overbearing dad, he somehow doesn’t part with the wealth to a farther haven.Because, it is hard after all, for an illiterate man pushing forty to choose between his hateful dad who acknowledges his existence while buying anti-fit khadicraft shirts on birthdays alone on one side and a prosperous life with a loved one on the other. His rather prosperous stay apart from his colony sized family is made to look like a stint at Shawshank prison  throughout the movie’s running time.

The thing about these movies is that the individual always put himself, his love, aspirations behind his family’s and dissolved in its well being.

The resounding success of these kind of conservative- and regressive -family films reiterated the moral code of most families across the board. The elders identified with what was sold off as non negotiable virtues and the youngsters were naive to believe idiosyncrasies to be traditions. These were strictly above-the-belt movies that would sermonize on vanilla values that were digestible, inoffensive and non-debatable. Even when it came to couples, they never went beyond the tropes of innocent stalking, crass duets, wedding ceremony and the coy first night sequence when the shy camera would pan up at the prospect of below the belt activity about to ensue, once the couple were done establishing chemistry over cold milk and ghee sweets. This systematic attitude to over preach sentiments as values and push icky topics below the carpet has systematically percolated from one generation to another to create elders who didn’t respect the post puberty phase of a grown up. For instance If a teenager’s found whispering on landline, the immediate parental instinct would be to launch into stealth mode. Pick the extension from another room and eavesdrop; for it might be a member from the opposite sex. Obviously the nefarious act has to be stopped. For you can’t afford to be friends with him and joke about his flirting skills, right. It doesn’t fall under the Suryavamsam family code.

Another dreaded recurring occurrence in most Indian households must be the Sunday morning special visits. That’s when an out of town relative would pop unannounced into our life like a pimple. But that or their amusingly large breakfast appetite wouldn’t even form the primary concern. Like a frog run over by a lorry, we would peacefully be sleeping in the safe confines of our bedroom in an awkward position when mom would come to wake us up to say, “hello”. Even before your brain can begin to process, a lecture about how showing courtesy to a guest is more important than precious life would begin. This would go on for several minutes. And it would only be a matter of time before her persistence would take the form of a loud scream, promise of a bad lunch or the most dangerous face expression before emotional blackmail. That’s the time when you would know that you’ve got no way out. Your eyes would detest. Your entire body would resent. But you’ll somehow drag yourself to only say that dreadful, “hello” and go back to bed in the hope of better karma.And just when you thought that the misery would be over with the thirty painful seconds, the relative incapable of understanding body language or silent “fuck offs”, would endeavor to stretch your tenure with one sensitive question after another. By the time he/ she gets done with you, you would start hearing the liver churning bile from within.

The sudden invasion of a dad or uncle into bedroom while generating handmade pleasure is one of the most disturbing things to happen to an average Indian teenager. What’s more disturbing than the ocular exchange between the two, would be the awkward silence that follows, as he contemplates euthanizing and the elder behaves like having walked into a satanic mating ritual. The sexual curiosity of the youth, his coming to terms with his own body that’s looking different with each passing day and his sudden mooning over girls his age is something the average Indian  elder diligently pushes under the carpet, courtesy the  Suryavamsam family code.

We in this part of the world never really acknowledge the importance of an individual’s identity. His coming of age, his love, lust, failures, successes and how they shape him as a person. His dreams, aspiration, yearning to create a legacy of his own. His alone time. His spiritual growth. Notwithstanding all this, all that matters is that he has to be married at a certain age. And she has to be married as well by a certain age that often comes a few years before. The dreams can wait, goals can and aspirations…stop joking..are certainly not as important as creating a family at the right time.

Most elders operate with the sole purpose of getting an individual deeper and deeper into the institution of family, drifting him further and further away from himself. Not every flower needs to get into a bouquet, some can look beautiful by themselves. An individual’s privacy has to be respected. His personal space has to be acknowledged after a certain age. And more importantly his values have to be let the place to fashion themselves into something independent, not necessarily agreeable.

 

Advertisements

Ghosts of mobile phones past

It was a dingy place that found its odor in a spot between molten iron and plastic lava. The ground was punctuated by systematic crevices, each leading to an endless abyss beneath. This had everything that went on to make the perfect hell, no wonder it was in fact one.  Well almost. It was the lobby, from where the deceased got demarcated, before being taken to hell ahead or heaven above.
Amidst the chaos, there walked in this guy to bulge the sea of heads by one person. He seemed wet, from head to toe like someone had gargled him out. The small, but prominent marking on his rear end caught the attention of another individual— with a sharp cut that ran across his entire body —who bore a similar marking. Glances were exchanged amongst them, before he gesticulated to the new guy- “Skip the queue, come here.

If the hell’s lobby was a morbid cake, this motley bunch of broken individuals was the icing on top. They displayed between them every anatomical casualty fathomable- some were headless; some deaf; some had deep cracks running across their solar plexis and the recent addition seemed to be stewed in dampness. Different from each other, they were unique works of art in carnage. But these two, though born to different parents,  were there because of a single destructive individual, who’s initials got them together- AT.

I was his first…err…first this month. He seemed pretty nice in the beginning. And just when I was starting to feel special, his butter fingers took over.
Yeah, the butter fingers!“, the wet guy coughed in unison.
He constantly keeps dropping us, like a bad habit. And should his homicidal streak continue at this rate, soon there will be a colony here, named after him.

Anyways, where was I?”
“Butter fingers.”

Haa…butter fingers. I’d unlike many other misfortunate brothers of mine managed to come unscathed through every onslaught, till his trouser zip screwed with me.
Trouser zip?!
Yup. you’ve seen freak deaths doled out in final destination movies right, mine was like that, just a tad miniscular in scale and vision.
We were at work, a few minutes from his presentation when he decided to take a leak. All was hunky dory, till then. I was already starting to feel like the last survivor in those serial killer movies, when he took me in his mouth, like a dog holding a bone, while he continued emptying his bladder. In a fatal flip of a second, he zipped along his “little guy” with his trouser and ouch…his teeth pierced through my upper body. And like that I was rendered lifeless, thanks to a fucking zip!”
Ouch. that explains the torn solar plexus. Caught between the lip and the zip.
Very funny. Now tell me how you ended up like a wet sock?

“Hmmm..”, like that damp guy’s excitment left him like a silent fart.
I was cherry picked. And I guess it was the guilt from his previous kills or probably simple prudence, but he actually took very good care of me. He was always around and to be honest, despite his reutation, I kind of started to feel secure around him. And then..

Yeah the then has to come. Then what?

The butter fingers phase began. All the maternal warmth from the previous days of nurturing had paved way for coldness of anxiety. And one fine night, he had to take a leak.

Wow. Same pinch. Same place.“, the broken guy was giggling till the cracks on him contracted in tandem.

Yup.Same place.Same guy.Different modus operandi. He seemed excited, he was talking to someone that made his face pink. Probably his girlfriend, when he accidentally dropped me into the commode. And I suffocated to my last breath.“, a tear rolled down the cheek of the damp guy.

Brother. I don’t understand how he doesn’t fall often.”
“And all that love for animals, my ass!
“This place can’t be hell, if it keep us far away from his reach.”
Yup, god bless his new victim.
Redmi 4, right?!
Yup.

Ashwath get up, it’s nine in the morning.“, mom screamed.
I accidentally pushed down my new phone, with my stretched right hand in an endeavor to wake up.
Thud, it fell.
Dey…it’s your third phone in two months. If they have a mouth, they’ll cry.
I think my Motorola and ASUS were in fact crying to each other, before you woke me ma.
Butter fingered. And now delusional.God save my son.And the innocent phones from him.”

 

Ambushes in the name of wedding invitation

“Wake up, your friend’s come.“, mom yelled.

It was a blissfully sleepy Sunday afternoon. At that hour even God comes second to sleep. A true friend doesn’t show up as a mark of friendship. An enthusiastic acquaintance from school days isn’t even supposed to be there. Yet there he was, immune to common courtesy. I wanted to train my rottweilers on him. Too bad they seized to exist outside my imagination.

Grumpily I snuggled out of the warm confines of my bedsheet. I checked the phone and there were two missed calls from him. So my right cheek didn’t develop a sudden ability to vibrate in the dream after all.

“Tell him, I’m not home.”
“Too late, I’ve already told him that you’re. He’s waiting in the hall.”, my mom walked out, switching off the fan.

My mother was unleashing this rude social experiment at me on a Sunday afternoon. So long to maternal promises of unconditional love.

After adjusting my hair, I reluctantly walked into the hall to see the perpetrator gleaming on my sofa. He had more gold apparels on him, than Xerxes from 300. On a casual weekend, he could be a bullion reserve to a third world country.

“Hi. I was asleep.”
“Ya da, your mom told me.”
Yet you’re here without a glimmer of discomfort.

“I called and you didn’t pick. So I just came.”
Wow. Decent people check if someone’s at home, before blessing them with their presence, asshole!
“That’s….sweet.But you could’ve just given me a call and I’d come to the wedding.”

“I wanted to see your parents and give my wedding invitation.”

Not see, ambush. And dude, the last we hung together, my balls were bald. And as special as you think our relation is, we’re not friends. As for my parents, they acknowledge the existence of the lizard on the wall above, better than yours,

He gave me what was supposed to be his invitation from a thick stack. It embodied everything that was him-his overall colorfulness,his sledgehammer subtlety and the obscene opulence. Had it been any more embellished, I could’ve pawned it for a home loan.

“Would you like some rosemilk kanna?”, mom interrupted our tête-à-tête with her host hat on.
Before I could turn that offer down on his behalf, he nodded willingly.
Maaaaaaa. Your rosemilk means ten more painful minutes with this prick from a scarred childhood, who doesn’t get the fuck-off on the forehead.

“So when are you getting married?”
“Not anytime soon da.”
“Then you’ll get married after thirty is it?”
Dude you’re really pushing it now. Not only are you overstaying an ungiven welcome, but stepping into unchartered territory to cover rosemilk leadtime.

“Why man. Do men hit menopause at that age?”
“No…..but it’s just”
“I’ve got a few things to do. So not anytime soon.”

The hall was loud with the awkward silence between us. And in a coordinated roll of the eyes I took a glance at the almost empty rosemilk glass and the clock. And voila….he finally got it and got up. God is omnipotent.

“Ok da. I’m starting. I’ve got a few more places to be.Come without fail okay.”
Atleast don’t surprise them.
“Even if meteors are falling, I’ll make it da.”

I opened the door for him and my resistance had finally paid off with his hard earned exit. I felt the relief that generally comes with a good dump after hours of constipation.

“Accompany him to his car and send him off properly”, mom mumbled while picking the tray.
“I don’t do that even for a friend. And definitely not for him. Maybe I can go to his car to ensure he doesn’t come back.”
“I think I’ve brought you up badly.”
“I can’t change that now, but my brand of courtesy ends at the door.”

Another disagreement on the count of courtesy with mom. No food and beverages at home for the next few days.But the threat of his visit had stop looming over my life.I had weathered the storm. Now I can go back to the heart of sweet sleep and try to undo the longest twenty minutes of my life, that I was never getting back. And also hide the rosemilk syrup from my mother.

 

The first time I met Kamal Haasan

 

All of us have a set of things to do and words to be spoken should we accidentally bump into God or a favorite personality, to make the most of the time without remaining awestruck for too long. I’ve always thought about how I would shake hands with Kamal with a firm grip without grabbing them, the first time I meet him in blood and flesh. He’s been my God cum favourite personality since the first time I stepped into the dark of a theatre playing Aboorva Sagotharagal. Ever since, his steep sand paper voice has changed in its meaning in my life from being just a lullaby to the very sound of my conscience. He’s the matinee idol, I’ve over the years come to subconsciously imitate in my articulation and gesticulation out of affection and some kind of entitlement. So I should’ve ideally genuflected at the sight of him, like a minion at the first sight of a mountain.

But coming to think, what I actually did when I met him for the first time was a lot different than just reverential. Funny in fact. But weird most certainly. So he was the chief guest for my school culturals that year, 2005 I suppose. With a moustache that only looked thick next to a girl my age, a mushroom cut for a hair statement and trouser worn just an inch below the chest, I was in the eleventh grade and looked every bit a junior artist from a tacky B grade.

To leave a startling first impression on Thalaivar, I had left no stone unturned. I would’ve done a fifty more push ups that day than usual to look firmer in my uniform, shampooed my hair to a bouncy extent and wore a neck piece that— coming to think of now — made my sexual orientation questionable. I didn’t know how my chest being firmer or my bouncy hair smelling fruity was going to make his trip to my school any more special. But at sixteen you’re allowed your share of screw ups at trying to impress.

Anyways I was there since morning by the doors of the auditorium. Sadly I wasn’t a volunteer. Had I been one, I could’ve been a part of the entourage to take him to the dais. Luckier, could’ve stood next to him for the whole time. But wretched me wasn’t. So I had to do the next best thing to get the front row seat to the shindig.

I’d heard before that Kamal was a chronic late comer to events. I didn’t take it seriously till his car appeared outside the venue, three hours past the scheduled time. People from outside were trying to percolate into the hall, which already— with crowd ballooned inside beyond it’s capacity — was a couple of members away from a stampede. Evergreen tracks from his movies were inundating the air, which by then seemed to transmit electricity from the collective palpable excitement of wolf whistling teenagers. As soon as he walked through those doors, all hells broke loose as the roof came down with the raucous. Sporting a black V-neck half sleeve shirt with a pair of black chinos, he was every bit the debonair presence that had captured the imagination of more than a generation from the silver screen.

At the aisle of a row, I was still a several seconds away from him. He was sauntering in my direction. The seconds in my time frame became slower than minutes, as my demigod was about to cross my path. As I was taking in every bit of the moment, I was ruminating the things to do when I would be parallel to him.
Should I ambush his trajectory for a shake hand or an awkward hug? It felt a little too outrageous for my sensibility. And not only that, it would’ve drawn a lot of attention, which makes me uncomfortably nervous. Maybe I should just wave at him. But that would be too generic an expression of my unconditional love for him.
The window for decision had closed as he was a row away.

I’m going to leave a mark on him, like the way he did on me.

Before my brain could process that course of action, the index finger in my right hand had already began to act. In one quick motion, I swiftly scratched his ample forearm with my nail as he went past me. It took a moment for him to realise that he’d been scratched, by then he was a row before cursing the charlatan who’d done that. I didn’t know what I was thinking, thankfully the deafening crowd around, kept me invisible.

I did manage to leave a mark on him!

Every time I reminisce this anecdote, I can’t get myself to stop laughing. What a stupid seventeen year old have I been. Wish I had known figurative from literal back then, Thalaivar would’ve been one scar less.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Share auto love stories

I’m riding peacefully at one in the afternoon, notwithstanding the unwilling pan that my city has turned under the heat, nope wrath of the Sun. The vehicles- beyond, before and behind seemed to going smooth. All of us were hitting steady pace, happy about each others engines and mileage, when the SUV before me came to a screeching halt, in acknowledgement of a share auto that had pulled over to drop a passenger. Caught midway in our trajectory,  we were back to cursing each other’s parents for consummating decades before and the State Government for letting the Sun go unregulated. It’s not the first instance of a share auto screwing up the rhythm of a busy road, you see. They’re omnipresent across roads, insignificant till the point of collusion reminds us of the influence they wield. They’re apostles of karma on road, that administer sweet caution and danger in uneven pockets, to spice up “just-another” days on road.

Better looking then a rickshaw and too ugly to be an auto, they’re cursed anomalies- love children of manufacturing defect and passenger commerce.

Thinking of share-autos, this line from an Amitabh starrer springs to my mind in which he says the line begins from where he stands. Share autos are like that. No respect to traffic conventions. No regards to the syntax of driving. While a bus commuter’s journey ends at stops, the share auto stops where the commuter’s journey ends.

To understand the turmoil of caged hens that are carried in trucks, one needs to step into a share auto, at peak time. You’ll know how gas chambers were and where to look for Hitler’s spirit the next time. Its’ the most egalitarian of places, with people of different social standing, faith, size and shapes fitted exactly in homogenous spaces. So there are people in seats, people in leg space and people perched in places meant for spare tyres.
The icing on the cake is the front, where the driver sits. There are two men strategically placed sidewards on either side of him, that their formation resembles the three lions in our coins emerging from the same set of buttocks. Before population can be controlled in the country, it needs to be in these vehicles.

The price of privacy in an average Indian household

It’s pretty much like the conundrum of whether the chicken came first or the egg; the influence of movies on the society and the society’s influence on movies.It was in the mid nineties when, Sooraj Barjatya in North and Vikraman in the south spearheaded the renaissance of placing family before individual, making a virtue out of it. In the process killing privacy as a collateral necessity, making a vice out of it.You’ll see families in this movie walk in horizontal human chains- members on left and right extremes spilling out of every frame -even to modest places like blood donation camps, invading each other’s bed rooms spreading cutesy and going on picnics together. In this ecosystem, family was no mere crowd, but therapeutic. These movies talked about the trauma of being alone, establishing solitude as a comeuppance if someone dared to stray to the other side in the name of self discovery or love.

If you’re someone who had been raised on a firm diet of Tamil movies in the nineties, chances of having missed this spectacle called Suryavamsam are bleak. For the uninitiated it is one of the several evolutionary-anomaly Sarathkumar movies in which grandfather,father and son all look the same and get played by him. In a pivotal scene in the movie, the son’s kicked out of his house with his share of wealth for daring to get married to the love of his life. Notwithstanding the condescending nature of his overbearing dad, he somehow doesn’t part with the wealth to a farther haven.Because, it is hard after all, for an illiterate man pushing forty to choose between his hateful dad and an extended family that only acknowledges his existence while buying anti-fit khadicraft shirts on birthdays alone, on one side and a prosperous life with a loved one on the other. His rather prosperous stay apart from his colony sized family is made to look like a stint at Shawshank, throughout the movie’s running time.

The thing about these movies is that the individual always put himself, his love, aspirations behind his family’s and dissolved in its well being. One off movies like an Unnal Mudiyum Thambi were rare, where the son at ideological loggerheads with his father abandoned ship. Such movies appealed to a niche, because they didn’t pander to popular beliefs and were seen as isolated Utopian instances.

The resounding success of these kind of conservative- and regressive -family films reiterated the moral code of most families across the board. The elders identified with what was sold off as non negotiable virtues and the youngsters were naive to believe idiosyncrasies to be traditions. These were strictly above-the-belt movies that would sermonize on vanilla values that were digestible, inoffensive and non-debatable. Even when it came to couples, they never went beyond the tropes of innocent stalking, crass duets, wedding ceremony and the coy first night sequence when the shy camera would pan up at the prospect of below the belt activity about to ensue once the couple were done establishing chemistry over cold milk and ghee sweets. This attitude to over preach sentiments as values and push icky topics below the carpet has systematically percolated from one generation to another to create elders who didn’t respect the post puberty phase of a grown up. For instance If a teenager’s found whispering on landline, the parental instinct would be to launch into stealth mode. Pick the extension from another room and eavesdrop; for it might be a member from the opposite sex. Obviously the nefarious act had to be stopped. You can’t afford to be friends with him and joke about his flirting skills, right. It doesn’t fall under the Suryavamsam family code.

Another dreaded recurring occurrence in most Indian households must be the Sunday morning special visits. That’s when an out of town relative would come unannounced into our life like a pimple. But that or their amusingly large breakfast appetite wouldn’t even form the primary concern. Like a frog run over by a lorry, we would peacefully be sleeping in the safe confines of our bedroom in an awkward position when mom would come to wake us up to say, “hello”. Even before your brain can begin to process, a lecture about how showing courtesy to a guest is more important than precious life would begin. This would go on for several minutes. And it would only be a matter of time before her persistence would take the form of a loud scream, promise of a bad lunch or the most dangerous face expression before emotional blackmail. That’s the time when you would know that you’ve got no way out. Your eyes would detest. Your entire body would resent. But you’ll somehow drag yourself to only say that dreadful, “hello” and go back to bed in the hope of better karma.And just when you thought that the misery would be over with the thirty painful seconds, the relative incapable of understanding body language or silent “fuck offs”, would endeavor to stretch your tenure with one sensitive question after another. By the time he/ she gets done with you, you would start hearing the liver churning bile from within.

The sudden invasion of a dad or uncle into bedroom while generating handmade pleasure is one of the most disturbing things to happen to an average Indian teenager. What’s more disturbing than the ocular exchange between the two, would be the awkward silence that follows, as he contemplates euthanizing and the elder behaves like having walked into a satanic mating ritual. The sexual curiosity of the youth, his coming to terms with his own body that’s looking different with each passing day and his sudden mooning over girls his age is something the elders diligently push under the carpet, courtesy the  Suryavamsam family code.

We in this part of the world never really acknowledge the importance of an individual’s identity. His coming of age, his love, lust, failures, successes and how they shape him as a person. His dreams, aspiration, yearning to create a legacy of his own. His alone time. His spiritual growth. Notwithstanding all this, all that matters is that he has to be married at a certain age. And she has to be married as well by a certain age that often comes a few years before. The dreams can wait, goals can and aspirations…stop joking..are certainly not as important as creating a family at the right time.

Most elders operate with the sole purpose of getting an individual deeper and deeper into the institution of family, drifting him further and further away from himself. Not every flower needs to get into a bouquet, some can look beautiful by themselves. An individual’s privacy has to be respected. His personal space has to be acknowledged after a certain age. And more importantly his values have to be let the place to fashion themselves into something independent, not necessarily agreeable.

 

 

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.