The eternal hunt

I am not the most practical of all people - but when its time for the girls to tie the knot, they come to me for advice (the ones I know, at least). No, I do not even know how to start listing down qualities for a 'perfect' groom. What I do is simpler - I only help people to get away from the prospective ones their mothers dump on them.
And all this knowledge comes from experience. My mother has wanted me to get married from the time it was the legal age to get me married(or was it much earlier? ok, no dirty linen in public). I am talking about a time when the shaadi.com or the bharatmatrimonial.com weren't that popular. In other words, my mother hadn't heard of them. So where did the boys come from? My aunt's neighbour's second daughter in law's cousin brother's brother in law. Or on those lines. Whew! So in the case I don't like the boy - once I am done explaining it to my mother and convincing her that there is no way I am considering the boy, I have to call my aunt's neighbour and apologise to her. I usually hate such conversations - not because they are difficult. Only because I lie, almost always. What I am telling them is why we are not compatible - his job, my continuing state of education...blah blah. What I am not telling them is that he is an insufferable bore who couldn't get past discussing the weather in Dubai and the food in Dubai and the people in Dubai. Did I mention Dubai?

To a generation of parents, aunts and uncles who married the boy or girl their parents found apt, this is Greek. "So what if the boy speaks about Dubai only? He likes the place. That IS communicating right? What do you mean compatible? He is educated right?"

Yes athai and periamma, he is educated. Like all the boys I studied with. How are we not considering them? Rule 1 that I learnt from experience - logic seldom works with parents bent on getting you married. Watch out for determined mothers especially, and that nagging aunt.

Rule 2 - You are not as bad as your mother portrays you to be. Its actually a brilliant strategy using your ego. They first deflate your ego, then stomp it and right when you feel like you are the size of a pea (a fat one - don't ask me how they do it!), they will drop the boy in your lap. So at this point you will feel grateful towards anything that remotely likes you. And suddenly, you are married. And now that my friends, can make even the pea smaller at times!

Rule 3- There is no such thing as a perfect groom. Because, face it, we don't know what we want. So do away with the lists. You Have to meet a few guys who want to make you run before you come across the one who you want to see grow bald.

And after alllllll this, there is still a likely chance his mother doesn't like you or your father thinks his job has no growth prospects and is likely to be overlooked as a prospective. Now for that, there is Rule 4- Go for it! Fathers and mother- in -laws are easier to deal with than being married to the wrong man.

Travelogue sans visuals
Chennai-Mumbai-Ahmedabad-Mumbai-Chennai.



Heart-broken
I see the train.
I see the train move.
I see myself running to beat the train's pace.
The beginning of every travel story of mine.
Today, however, the train beat me.

The tracks with their forlorn look didn't seem as appealing, sans the immediacy

They were there to stay, but I didn't feel grateful.
I turn back, always seeking the fleeting.


The key to the bag
A lot of hustle and a bit of bustle
Some shoving and a show of grumbling
He finally finds a place for himself and his lil' red bag

He steadies himself and pulls a lock out of it - the very size of the bag.
As he secures the bag with the lock to the seat, I can't help but wonder:
Is the bag for the lock or the lock for the bag?
My idea of a perfect love story.




Florence in Andhra
I remember bending over to see the lovely hills and the floating clouds of the Tuscany sky through a train window in Italy
At that precise moment, the beauty of the sight before me overwhelmed me.

Another train, another window. But this time, closer home.
And yet, I am overcome by the same sensation- watching the rain-washed plains pass by.

Has my memory fizzled out? Or has Europe's advertising had its desired effect?