Hence Betrothed!

Not wanting to bombard a lot of walls on FB, I am writing this blog on the one day most girls feel elated to be joining hands (well, almost) with the love of their life.

31st August’14


I watered the plants and checked the colour of my Mehandi. It was a little disappointing for it wasn’t the red I expected. The fun and frolic with the RAMAN gang the previous day was way too much to have paid attention to this. My parents along with my grandMom were beaming and glowing. I, on the other hand, felt nothing.


“Drag me to Hell” was playing on TV. I was so engrossed in the old lady and “LA-MIAA” that I didn’t wanna get ready. My grandMom’s behind was hiding half of the TV as she was doing her Jabam. What’s the point in having a 32inch TV when I can see just 10 Inches, I wondered. I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to watch the climax but all that my mom was concerned about was the colour of the bananas. They were a wee bit black. Fans do that to fruits. But nobody cared. She wanted to buy new ones. I thanked her attention to detail, in the later part of the day.


With my hair done, I was waiting for the rest of RAMAN to arrive. As they did, I wore the saree and started to put on make up. That was when I realised, the make up reacted with my skin and let out more sweat. “The make up will blend d” one of them said. It looked like I rolled on flour. There was no time to alter anything. The photo clicks began. Nexus 5, Moto G, Sony Digi cam and iPad captured our beautiful faces. And the van honked. It was time. Still no feeling.


I expected a tempo traveller. I saw an old Mahindra van approach. It meant more sweat. I recalled a line from Mary Higgins Clark- “Men and Horses sweat, Women glow” and smiled to myself. The van journey was interesting for I watched my aunt evaluate my girlfriends for the vacant daughter-in-law position.


A huge crowd was waiting to receive us. May be because I was bitten by a dog, I get very difficult to handle when I see a lot of people and above all that, there was approx. 100 pairs of eyeballs on me. Again, more sweat. And my Bindi fell off. Some philanthropic aunt offered hers and I stepped in. The Aarthi was taken. Fear kicked in. My eyes met his for some support. He was shitting in his Veshti (he wasn’t wearing pants).


Vedams were chanted. I found myself a place to sit and that was on his house’s showcase. Classy and comfortable it was. Fear had faded away. That’s when hell broke loose. My betrothal saree’s blouse was at home. We had left the whole bag behind. I didn’t mind wearing a non matching one. After all, photos and people commenting on my blouse was the least of my worries. But if a black banana gets so much importance, imagine the blouse. A team of uncles with a car was sent back to collect the blouse.


Namaskaram panindu sit down, the Iyer said. He had grown cute over the years, I thought. I had seen him as a kid. The love of my life was wearing the FabIndia red kurta. He seemed less handsome than the day he had tried it on. May be cos of the garland around his neck and a battery of bare-chested Iyers. In a way he resembled a scape goat. Since there was no ring exchange, there was no chance of “a second longer than necessary”. Even eye contact was being watched.

Now that’s a traditional betrothal.


I boarded the same van and it felt nothing different. All credits to the RAMAN gang, the black banana and the left behind blouse. If there was supposed to be a feeling of elation, euphoria and fear, I had nothing.

May be it was a blind confidence on that cute smile of his.


Hence Betrothed!


The 1

“What’s your bike’s cc?” were the first few words I spoke to him. It was one way of bragging “I ride a gear bike too, you know?” and he understood. I didn’t listen to what he said for my mind was busy processing his image, side by side preparing the next few questions to ask. We worked for the same company and one fine morning, I saw him at the parking lot. My heart was jumping in joy for I was going to keep my bike next to his. Being pathetic at math, I couldn’t recollect his number plate. There was 8 and 6. But his image along with the bike got plastered inside my head. His strong jaw, always-2-day beard (classic Mallu style), his long legs and perfect ass; Ha, what more would I’ve asked for. Impeccable eye contact, slight lisp, loud laugh, light attitude and cute smile were the icing on this cake. Have I really found the one, I wondered. And the rounds began.

Marriage is every girl’s dream and nightmare. May be because it is so confusing, some girls start the selection process from childhood. As a firm believer of *Footwear and husband are the most difficult and important decisions for a girl*, I started with the guy I played *doctor-doctor* and *teacher-student* with. He lost points after he grew permanent teeth.  Also because I joined a cooler school where I met my childhood sweetheart. It lasted longer than I thought for the guy got cuter each year! I changed school again, thanks to the RAMAN gang. Everyday cycle rides were combined with Hanuman Chaalisa on the lips and a silent prayer to accidentally run into him. And I did, 8 years later, just to learn he had moved on to an high school sweetheart.

Every guy went through this rigorous evaluation process in my head which was more complicated than Google’s. There was just seeing, seriously seeing, just talking, friends, good friends and close friends. Or, it took a diversion from talking to flirting, going out, dating, relationship and serious relationship.

Generally, moms play a major role in this process. They read minds and voice their opinions out loud. You follow a guy with your eyeballs till your sight can reach and she knows. Even the slightest of the smiles you try to hide on hearing his name, leads to an hour long questioning. And by chance your opinions on the guy don’t match, hell breaks loose. Mine was no exception.

Yet, somehow, this guy slid through all the rounds with ease. Influencers (read: Parents) were convinced and the buck stopped with the RAMAN gang. “Machi, please marry him”, they said. And I am.

Except for the increase in the Malayalam accent in Tamil and English, one year has gone by without boredom and regrets. I really had found The 1.

Happy first year to me.