MILLENNIAL KUMAR GETS MARRIED AT LAST! The story of a pitiable Indian Groom

ISBN: 9798885032841

LAKSHMI PRIYA

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CONTENTS

Contents Preface ............................................................................iii 1. 2015 - Chennai Airport ............................................... 5 2. 1991-1995 (First to Fifth grade) ................................. 8 3. 1996 (Sixth grade)..................................................... 18 4. 1997 (Seventh Grade) ............................................... 25 5. 1998 (Eighth grade) .................................................. 31 6. 1999 (Ninth grade) ................................................... 36 7. 2000 (Tenth grade) ................................................... 45 8. 2002 (Twelfth grade) ................................................ 53 9. 2002-2006 (The college years) ................................. 67 10. 2007-2008 (Post college) ........................................ 78 11. 2009-2014............................................................... 81 12. 2015 - Kumar turns 30 .......................................... 112 13. September 30th, 2015 - The day of departure..... 126 14. 2015-2016 - Life in California ............................... 128 15. 2016 - Home sweet home .................................... 149 16. 2016 - August 10th - The day of marriage ............ 153

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Preface A marriage is a celebration. If there is one festival cherished by all religions and countries across all borders, it is the festival of marriage. Especially in India, this is the most important milestone for a typical Indian family. It is a showcase of status, culture, customs, tradition, religious superiority, and pride in lineage, so on and so forth. Unfortunately, the most important factor that should stand at the top of the list is often pushed to the bottom or even wiped off the list. Love, bonding and compatibility between the bride and groom rarely make it to the top 10. In recent times many changes have crept into the framework of Big Fat Indian Wedding, for both good and bad. Still, there is a lot of room for improvement. There are several books, documentaries, TV shows, short films and full-length movies that have and continue to portray the life and hurdles that a woman faces before and after marriage. But all along, there is another character that has been left out to suffer in silence for centuries. And that is the great Indian groom of today. Two decades ago, there was some dignity to this poor soul who starts out afresh in the marriage market as a potential groom in the bride selection process. But with the invasion of internet teeming with matrimony sites, this society of future grooms has become the laughingstock of the nation. Times have changed and with the role reversal, it is now the bride who has a list of conditions for the would-be groom to satisfy to become an eligible candidate. This book is an attempt to take a dig at that.

Dedicated to all Pitiable Indian grooms.

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1. 2015 - Chennai Airport Why God, why? Kumar gritted his teeth together as he shot a glance at the airport ceiling, eyes shooting bolts of lightning. Weren’t the gods supposed to live somewhere up there? He was sure he had established communication with Lord Muruga through the ceiling. Kumar was peeved. He felt like a puppet on a string, being made to dance for the amusement of divinity. His eyes shot another ball of fire as he burned with the indignity of the thing. He was a smart-looking guy dressed in a casual T-shirt and jeans combo. A pair of frameless spectacles perched on his nose. He wagged his index finger like a spear. It looked as though he was fighting with an invisible force, throwing caution with reckless abandon. Why do you have to send me to a faraway alien land when I have everything right here in Chennai? WHY? He cursed under his breath and continued his monologue with the heavenly presence. Nine hundred and ninety-nine Hindu gods, but not one of you could rescue me from the clutches of this terrible horrible! Betrayal! Yes, you have all betrayed me! I might not be adequately spiritual, by my mother's standards, but I did my due diligence to you. Yet—and this has to be said—you betrayed me! How COULD you!? 5

Maybe it is time I sought shelter with Mr Jesus or Mr Allah or Mrs Mary. Or was it Miss Mary? He glared at the false ceiling, half expecting Lord Muruga to emerge and smooth all his troubles away. A pure breed of Chennai, with his youthful vigour overflowing at 30, Kumar belonged to a typical South Indian middle-class family. He loved his Chennai so much that the thought of parting with it for the next few years overwhelmed his mind and tortured his soul. He and his family had tried out every plausible alternative so that it would not come to this, but the Gods had failed him. His Chennai failed him. Oh Muruga! Kumar sniffled. THUD!! Kumar looked down, startled, as an eight-year-old boy fell flat on his face over his pile of luggage. The boy shot to his feet like lightning, mumbled the mandatory ‘Sorry’ through a wide grin, showing a gap in his teeth. The gap was enormous enough to poke a drinking straw through. Pure mischief twinkled in his eyes. Before Kumar could respond, the boy continued his sprint, weaving mindlessly through the concourse, a boarding pass clutched in his hand. His hassled mother was in hot pursuit, screaming for him to stop. One expected the maternal nostrils to emit scalding flames, scorching the errant progeny’s tushy. Alas, she was too far and her offspring too nimble. The boy’s father, a resourceful thinker, brought in a couple of airport security guards to capture the loose cannon. Just before he reached the elevators, the guards grabbed him by the collar and handed him over to the parents. The recovered boarding pass looked freshly extricated from a pile of refuse. 6

With the mother and father holding the boy’s hands on either side, the family plunged through boarding gate, seconds to closing. The flight staff had a tough time validating the crumpled piece of paper that had barely any barcode image left for scanning. His parents smiled sheepishly, pointing at the little one. He turned his head and winked at Kumar before being shoved through the boarding gate. Kumar signalled a small salute to the boy as a mark of respect. There was something very intoxicating about the excited child, which made Kumar forget about his grouchy session with God for a while. A smile passed over Kumar’s face. He saw himself in that child. Hmmm, how I wish I was eight again! He straightened out his luggage and looked at his watch. Only two more hours before the boarding gates open and the irrevocable deed was done. Slouching in one of the uncomfortable airport chairs, he moaned and closed his eyes. He let his mind wander down a 25-year long memory lane. ***

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2. 1991-1995 (First to Fifth grade) Kumar was not a regular six-year-old. He had superpowers and he knew it even if his family did not. In his mind, he wore a red towel around his shoulders as a cape. That towel was the source of his superpowers. Nobody could touch it! He wore day and night. Telling him to sit was like trying to tell fire not to burn. His every muscle needed to move, jump, and dance. Everything tickled him as funny and if there was one idea coming out of his mouth, there were seven more queuing up in his mind. His eyes had a sparkle that could never be subdued. Located just two streets away from the buzzing shopping streets of T. Nagar, Kumar’s house in West Mambalam vibrated every five minutes when a bus trundled past. The narrow streets looked narrower with houses squeezed together such that one could never identify where one house ended and the next began. Alarm clocks were obsolete in that area. The metro water corporation performed that job diligently and consistently. Having given everything that she could, the earth lay barren of water. There was nothing left, not even a drop. All those years of sucking out the ground-water mindlessly with thousand-feet-bore-wells had finally brought on the day of reckoning. The area became completely dry. The only source of water was the water tanker.

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Every citizen’s call for awakening was at 4 o’clock in the morning, courtesy of a high decibel, strident horn of the water tanker lorries. It was not an ordinary sound like the warning siren of the ambulance or an alarm bell of a fire truck. The sound was a battle cry reminiscent of the resounding tones of Lord Vishnu’s conch blown before the Kurukshetra War, calling the soldiers to war. “Hey Kaakaa (crow in Tamil)! Wake up! Let’s go!” Sundar yelled at the top of his voice. Kumar sprang from his bed as soon as he heard the war cry from his ten-year-old brother. With his fair complexion, Sundar was the ‘Arvind Swamy’ of the family, in sharp contrast to Kumar. He called the darkerskinned Kumar as Kaakaa. His calm and obedient nature reflected in his well-oiled hair while Kumar’s wiry, thorn like hair, standing to attention like a porcupine’s quills, indicated his propensities. “Veda, open the gates,” Kumar’s shriek had the desired effect on her. Kumar ran to the kitchen to arm himself and emerged bearing all the empty buckets and pots the household could provide. Veda, the five-year-old and the only daughter in the family, woke up calmly. She freshened up and rushed to the gates to lower the bridge… err… open the locks. She was neither dark nor fair. A chubby little girl of few words, she loved observing people. People captivated her more than toys. In the train, in the park, in the shops, people just fascinated her. Maybe that was why she was wise and mature beyond her years and understood people just by looking at them.

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A silent spectator rather than an active participant, she would give all her toys to her brothers and her friends and enjoy watching them play. The three children took their positions at the centre of the hall. “Commander ready?” asked a stern Sundar. “Aye sir!” came the reply from Kumar with a high burst of energy. “Soldier ready?” Sundar glanced at Veda. She replied with a slight nod. “Take positions!” The trio reached their gate, armed and battle-ready, waiting for the signal. From every household on the street, trained soldiers and combatants assembled at their gates. The contestants in the arena were middle-aged aunties and bald uncles. They were ruthless. There were no rules to play by and it certainly was not for the weak-hearted. Kumar and Sundar were the trained personnel representing their family at war. Veda, who was still under-training and therefore not battle ready, was set on point a few metres away from the main arena to take away the buckets after they were full. This was her field training in real time. She watched the masters and learned from them. The family expected her to become a commendable warrior they could be proud of. “HONK! HONK!” There came the familiar sound from the water tanker as it travelled across the narrow street. A sound that connected directly with the soul, sending a jolt of electricity running 10

up the spine of every member of the family. The vehicle had a yellow coloured front with two bulbous headlights and an oversized blue colour cylinder at the back. With another honk, the tanker truck entered the street, snout first. “CHAAAAAARGE!” Sundar’s voice pierced their eardrums. From all over the street, soldiers rushed in with full vigour, leaving dust storms in their wake. The two brothers sprinted like they were dodging the police, giving Usain Bolt a run for his money. The tanker truck stopped right in the middle of the street. Both brothers placed all their buckets and pots as close to the tanker tap as possible. The next ten minutes were very crucial. Buckets had to be guarded until filled. “Kumaaar! Look out!” Sundar alerted his brother just in time and he ducked a push gracefully. Sundar elegantly tackled a shove from an oversized aunty. Everyone ignored the ladies screaming at the top of their voices. They could not be distracted and were dedicated to their mission. The brothers procured six full buckets of water and walked towards the house with their head held high. Veda’s eyes widened and her lips formed a silent wow as she saw her stopwatch. “It is a record today. Six buckets in nine minutes! WOW!” She clapped her hand. For a moment her feet twitched as if she would break into a dance, but the moment passed. The little one ran towards her brothers and they wrapped her in a bear hug.

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“I am going to mark the calendar today with the timing! You have surpassed everyone’s record in the neighbourhood. The closest second is the cat lady next door with a score of just five buckets in ten minutes!” Their success was hard earned. It required months of meticulous planning and rehearsals to optimize the process. They realized that even a second’s delay could throw anyone out of the game. They set up the production line to maximize results. Kumar guarded the buckets from the crowd, Sundar filled them with water and Veda helped carry the filled buckets with her mom. This was the daily ritual for the family. Better than any professional training, this daily routine made the three musketeers tough and street smart. * “Time for breakfast!” Padma’s high-pitched voice reverberated inside the small house. Wiping her face with the pallu of her sari, she screened the hall to find Sundar sitting on the sofa with his neatly ironed uniform and perfectly polished shoes. Beside him was Veda wearing a green floral skirt with a cream shirt, waiting for breakfast. “Where is Kumar?” As Sundar shrugged his shoulders, she caught a flash of a movement from the corner of her eye. Her forehead creased when she saw Kumar whiz past the front door, running to the terrace screaming, “I don’t want to go!” Kumar hated the daily routine of attending school. He never got the knack for it. 12

Veda smiled at her mother and moved towards the front door to climb up the stairs to pacify Kumar. Padma let out a deep sigh and rushed into the kitchen to plate their breakfast and pack their lunchboxes. “Padma, is the breakfast ready?” said Sekar, the man of the house. The father of the trio posed the rhetorical question every morning. A modest officer at a nationalized bank, Sekar was a typical South Indian husband and grouchy father with the least contribution in household chores. Only after complaining about the sluggish GDP growth in India and the health policy of the United States for half an hour every day in the morning, did his breakfast get concluded. He left the house at eight thirty in the morning and returned home only at eight in the evening. His participation in bringing up children was limited to a kiss for his daughter and a pat on the back for his sons. He scanned the dining room and hall. “Where is Kumar?” Padma pointed her finger to the top. “Not again!!! I cannot deal with this now. I am already late for a meeting.” Sekar shook his head and placed his plate with a bang on the dining table. He gulped down the food in seconds and fled to his two-wheeler—the legendary Bajaj Chetak. “Veda, I am leaving.” “Bye-bye Appa!” Veda called from the stairs. She blew a flying kiss to her dad as she was climbing down from the terrace, one hand holding Kumar. Padma, who was hiding 13

near the front door, leapt like a lioness waiting for her prey and caught hold of Kumar’s shirt to drag him inside the house. She force-fed him Pongal. “I WANT IDLI! I WANT IDLI!” Kumar’s muffled screams struggled forth through mouthfuls of Pongal. The family was accustomed to them. Every day was a struggle and every meal a battle. The boy was mad about idlis. He would NOT eat anything else for breakfast. After stuffing the last mouthful of Pongal into Kumar’s mouth, Padma signalled Sundar. With an efficient tackle, she flattened Kumar to the floor. Sundar got hold of his legs and Veda his hands. Just as they wrestled him into his grey uniform and black shoes, the school van arrived. The siblings hopped into the van as Padma waved a goodbye and returned to her house. She let out a deep groan, clasping her hands over her head. The house looked like a war zone. Kumar’s presence filled it. The hall had dirty clothes strewn all over. Traces of Pongal on the dining table had invited a swarm of house flies. A heap of toys covered every square inch of the study room. A dump yard must look cleaner than my house! She grumbled to herself. Every day the clock chimed 11’o'clock in the night before she hit the bed. She spent all her energy on Kumar. She thanked god that the other two kids led such a silent life that she often forgot they existed. Had all three been like Kumar, she would have breathed her last long ago. * Kumar terrorized his family during daytime. But his dad would avenge him during the night. The whole family 14

crammed themselves into the one and only bedroom of the house. In just five minutes after hitting the bed, his father let out guttural snoring sounds of various frequencies. This would continue throughout the night. Kumar stuffed two balls of cotton into his ears before sleeping. He buried his face deep into the pillow to soundproof himself. It worked out most days, but some days, Sekar upped his game a notch. The high decibels issuing from paternal nostrils set the windows and Kumar’s bones rattling. Why is it that the ones who snore always go to sleep first? On such days, his father’s snores scared his slumbers away. Kumar would sit by the windowsill observing the calm street outside his house. He would day dream in the middle of the night. One of those days, Veda saw his silhouette pressed against the bedroom window. “Kumar, aren’t you sleeping?” “With the power saw going full blast over there, how can I? Even freight trains would ask him to pipe down!” Veda chuckled and said, “Come with me.” She pushed the chairs in the hall to a side. Collected the sofa cushions and placed them over the edges of the dining table. She threw in a soft quilt over the table. With one pillow for his head and one to keep between his knees, she created a makeshift bed in minutes. “Here is your bed. I’ll close the bedroom door. Since the dining table is farthest from our bedroom, you won’t hear a thing. Now go to sleep.” Kumar kissed Veda on her cheek and uttered goodnight. From then on, the dining table turned out to be his resting 15