Wedding Videos!

I’m not a quarterback getting ready to play in the Super Bowl tomorrow. I’m also not a star batsman an entire race is looking up to, gearing to open the innings in the World Cup Finals the next day. For the honest-to-God boy-next-door that I am, my version of “being in the spotlight” is something closer to home, the wedding ceremony. In my humble opinion, nowhere else are folks’ focus trained at you like a marksman while you’re gamely going through the motions of marrying your childhood sweetheart (or in some cases, mom’s handpicked choice of “your perfect woman”) The quarterback and Sachin Tendulkar had it easy. At least they had those noisy ads and two piece cheerleaders to distract viewers momentarily!

For what it’s worth, the Hindu Brahmin wedding is a microcosm of several thousand events, functions and formalities, each vying over one another for importance, all of which are written in stone and need to be done in a certain sequence, lest the heavens descend upon the couple and curse them in all their fury. Apparently, no one considered recession or the spiraling housing market… but whatever. And as much as “Nalangu”, “Kasi Yaathirai” etc. are screaming for attention, I’d like to vent my ire just towards the Pièce de résistance, the Wedding Reception, arguably the bitterest ritual in this whole exercise.

Now, if I were James Bond or possessed the physique of a Greek God, I would’ve draped myself in a suit for eternity. I’d have gone to bed in them, rode a cycle rickshaw in them, shopped for groceries in them, played cricket in them, stirred a martini and talked to young ladies in them and whatever else comes to your fancy. In short, I wouldn’t have minded standing in an elevated platform wearing one and smiling cutely to the crowd while cameras clicked all around me. For lesser mortals like me who aren’t Bond and who like to think a Lakers T-shirt and Old Navy cargo shorts are the answer to every fashion conundrum, a suit is pretty hard to convince. Especially when you know,

a. You’re probably never going to give it a passing glance anymore,

b. As much as you’re flexing your shoulders or buttoning and unbuttoning your coat a million times something isn’t right. Either the coat’s too big or the pants are making you look fat.

c. That at least one person in the room is thinking “Geez! He should’ve stuck to a sherwani or much better, a white shirt and black pants like a waiter!”

That means you’re enjoying standing in this elevated platform as much as you enjoy Chinese water torture and have enough fake smiles already that your jaws are read to dial 911 any second. But that’s just the start. The real trip begins when the videographer (who's probably thinking this is his "P.C. Sreeram” moment) starts shining a few thousand watts of brightness in your face. Pray why? To capture these blissful moments for eternity into DVDs, photo albums et al. And we all thought such firepower was required only when digging a bore well or something!

There’s no respite. For the next 3 hours or until the last guest has caught him/herself on camera, whichever comes first. I’ve attended close to a dozen weddings in my lifetime and trust me, it’s always the latter, which stretches the cardio workout to at least 4 hours tops. And it's not like after the first fifteen minutes you can call for the glare to be shut off.

Sir? Could you turn that thing off? I’d really like some darkness now.

No #$%^in’ way! That ain’t happening. Lights on and lights off when the elders decree. And while you’re up there shifting your weight from one foot to another you better be careful. Every yawn, every sneeze, every facial twitch is religiously recorded for posterity. Good luck if you suddenly want to scratch your balls or desperately want to dig your nose. The family’s going to be watching the DVD a few months later for the nth time and all I’m saying is you were warned.

James Bond, I don’t think had to go through any of this. The world would’ve been fixated with his face and the fair maiden in his arms…

But really, what is it about them wedding videos that makes guys duck for cover? Prompts them to unabashedly pretend “Oh! We lost it when we were moving houses” or sometimes drives them nuts that they’d end up recording Super Bowl XLIV or a Seinfeld marathon over it. I’m not putting any ideas here but you know… Why can’t it ever be a short-and-sweet cutesy home video projecting the protagonists in favorable light rather than turning into an endless parade of guests coming and leaving while they wear the same stock expressions? Given this isn’t a Dreamworks or Madras Talkies production, cannot the bride and groom intervene and say “Ok! This is our show and this is how we want it to be laid out…”? I mean, just because we’re paying the crew a busload of money, doesn’t mean they’re accorded carte blanche authority, right?

(Pauses 60 seconds)

(clears throat)

(switches from wailing to normal voice)

I know I know… A salesman would’ve had more success hawking his tupperware to a housewife. From what I’ve gathered the families encourage “creativity” and the crew are more than happy to oblige.

Case in point: Varun and Sunanda.

Varun’s a good friend of mine who got married to his lady love Sunanda two years ago. Brahmin meets Brahmin, Sunanda’s dad is an entrepreneur and his youngest daughter, so the wedding took place with its usual hype and hoopla, though Varun insisted later on that he’d always preferred a simple one and had in fact sleepwalked through portions of it. I was inclined to believe him. A few months back they moved to my city and the first order of business was to pay the couple a visit.

“You’ve got to come for dinner. We can watch our wedding DVD. You haven’t seen it yet” she informed.

Normally if this were some random Jack and Jill something would’ve cropped up. Like my friend was stranded somewhere in Orange County and I had to go jumpstart his car because he didn’t know what AAA was OR our Production system at work had suddenly caved in and I was the only one who could resuscitate it. But Sunanda cooks food that’s out of this world, so I readily agreed. After all how difficult could it be to concentrate on the food while sneaking a few peeks at the TV, I assured myself on the way over.

Both seemed eager to see me and likewise. Initial pleasantries aside I was getting ready to dig into a bowl of piping hot vegetable soup when Sunanda dropped a big book by my side on the table.

“What’s this?” I asked, surprised. The damn thing was thicker than an encyclopedia and could’ve substituted for the 25lb free weight at my gym.

“It’s our wedding album” she smiled. This wasn’t on the agenda! Curious nevertheless, I decided to give it a try.

Oh my God! One look at it and it sent me into a tizzy. It was plain freakin’ obvious the photographer had run amok. The album had every imaginable shot of the couple clutching whatever object came to his fancy. There were doves (a paper mache model, of course), plastic flowers and potted plants, a few round balls (?), them standing in front of all the wonders of the world (a more realistic painting would've helped) and also (God forbid!) some close-ups of the two that would've made any child bawl in fear. And mind you, they’re more-than-average photogenic and presentable in person. There are only so many times you can say "Soopera a irukku" without meaning any of it and I gave up after the first dozen or so pages.

I’m such a fool and I was sitting there expecting to see just a few simple photos of the couple smiling, where each frame would’ve made them look regal and majestic like a king and queen. Like something that they could look at admiringly after a couple of decades and say “God! Weren’t we really made for each other?” I doubt one could say that for a photo of them in an awkward pose in front of a 6 feet paper cutout of the Eiffel Tower.

Certainly that wasn’t a moment to embark on a truth session overdrive. Not unless I wanted to skip the rest of Sunanda’s delicious creations. The soup had made me ravenous and I was determined to polish off as much of the fried rice, sambar and potato curry.

“It’s good. I love it” I said and closed it and pushed it away. “I’m sure you must’ve loved posing for these” I continued. Sometimes I do a terrific job of concealing my sarcasm and this was one of it.

“We did” she replied. “Come, let’s eat now” Thank God!

Dinner was unarguably delicious and I made no bones of the fact that I hadn’t eaten good South Indian food in a long time every time I lunged for more sambar or potato curry. Mercifully the topic was changed to something more current, like football, each other’s work, movies, hiking in the Angeles mountains etc. Varun was a huge Colts fan and I had to interject and remind him that my favorite quarterback the past three years, Drew Brees was equally up there when he went on and on about why Peyton Manning was the best of them all.

“After all Brees won the Super Bowl last year and threw for 5000 yards the year before” I clarified. Sunanda responded with some statistics about the Colts defense that surprised me. You cannot not admire a woman who speaks fluent football and I commended her right away. “The sambar’s awesome too” I added.

Forty minutes of calorie overload later myself and Varun settled on the sofa with a beer when suddenly Sunanda broke through screaming “I forgot the DVD!” and rushed to play it. I looked at Varun in shock. Did he know about this? Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t. But his expression suggested he’d rather go through with it than watch ESPN. I shrugged and switched over to a couch farthest from the TV.

From the frying pan into the fire…

The videographer either had to be the photographer’s brother or was both the same person. Never have I seen a DVD crammed with some many FX not even worthy of a C grade movie. The first part was focused on the couple and that’s the one I found most hilarious. Faces of the bride and groom kept tumbling towards each other at the speed of light from all corners of the screen only to be merged slowly until their enlarged faces filled up the screen. One moment you’d be wondering what a small speck was doing at the bottom of the TV and the next moment you’d be thrown back saying “Wow!” because that just became a flower and Sunanda would be climbing out of it smiling! Two flowers might be swaying in the breeze, then the music changes and lo behold! An entire garden is populated with our hero and heroine! Really, you needed to have at least a PhD in computer graphics to even think of this s**t.

Fifteen years back when I first discovered PowerPoint, me and my friend made a presentation of this sort for a class event, creating havoc on the monitor by going crazy with all sorts of animations on JPEG files. We added a soundtrack of a peppy Bollywood number and thought we’d be the toast of the class the next day. Truth is, I’ve never been booed like that before.

Memo to Cheenu Maama: These kinds of artwork went out of fashion with the psychedelic 70s. And a wedding album slideshow to hit songs certainly doesn’t make a DVD!

I was resigning myself to this video when suddenly the TV went blank and the words started to appear from the bottom of the screen

And now what you have all been waiting for

Dance item by

Sunanda & Varun

I sat bolt upright. What the #$%^ was that? Varun came on first wearing a brown suit and looking dutifully uncomfortable. Sunanda arrived a few seconds later with layers of makeup on her face to go along with her red sari. The latest Tamil hit song started playing and the two people with both left feet began to sway awkwardly to the music. I should’ve howled in laughter right there on the carpet but instead spent the next few minutes biting the hell out of my right knuckles. Dessert (gulab jamun w/ ice cream) wasn’t served yet you see! The entire number was captured by someone holding a camcorder and given the way the picture shook it was obvious he/she was having as much fun as the couple on stage.

Probably as a reward for my good behavior or so, we skimmed through the second part. In one minute I must’ve seen at least fifty aunties with loads of makeup and jewelry on, each making a botched attempt to not appear self conscious when it looked as if they’d paid someone to be on this home video.

I dragged Varun out to the patio as the DVD ended and Sunanda left to busy herself in the kitchen. We hadn’t smoked together in a while and now was the perfect time to let loose my barrage of questions.

“Dude! What the #$%^ was that?” I almost shouted. Varun took a long wistful drag as if he were counting to 10000.

“It was ok. Slightly cheesy but it was ok…” he stammered. He barely made eye contact and knowing him and his old school ways he was anything but thrilled.

“Are you serious? Some of it was ridiculous” I couldn’t believe he was so nonchalant.

Varun stubbed his cigarette and took a deep breath and began to explain. None of the animation bloopers in the DVD were his idea. The disc was mailed one month after his wedding when they were back here. And no! He wasn’t hooting and clapping when he saw it the first time. What about the dance? Well… He kind of realized it was stupid but blame it on his parents and her relatives for egging them on. As the album, that was shot after the DVD. And to quote him “It’s hard to say no when you’re b***s are cut off!”

“Oh man! I’m sorry” I hugged him. I felt really bad.

“If this is the case I’m better off getting married in a beach with just my friends. Anand can be my best man, Shankar can be the priest and afterwards the only pictures we’ll have are those where we are half naked and drunk. That’d be cool” I laughed out loud. Varun glared at me and lit another one.

“Trust me! You’ll go through the same s**t” he warned. I shuddered. That seemed more like a curse…

If you ask me, they can lay ten lanes on each side but nothing shall ever take away the title of “the world’s longest parking lot” from I-405. People will still be stranded ready to tear their hearts out, like today. 11.30pm on a Sunday night and rows and rows of automobiles stuck with no light at the end of the tunnel. Sandwiched between a truck and a bus with nothing to do my mind went back to the events of the evening.

As cool and yuppie a couple Varun and Sunanda might turn out to be, I felt bad for them on some level. Honestly. You get married once and yet you can’t have your memories your way because a few distinguished gentlemen deemed so. How cruel is that? Think about this, fifteen or so years later their son or daughter starts dating, discovers this DVD before prom night and imagine the horrors they’ll be subjected to. Talk about scarring your kids for life!

The fascinating part about the human brain is its ability to switch from one thought to another in a flash. Of all the options in the world available, it had to settle for “Namma Veettu Kalyanam”! I’d like to lay the blame squarely on the heavy dose of marriage material I’d been subjected to for the best part of the day. Yeah yeah yeah… that’s the same 30 minute drivel on Vijay TV where a hostess in badly accented Tamil attempts to excite interest on a wedding of movie star/TV personality by showing clips of their wedding video and quizzing them on what they went through.

Every bit of their wedding was arranged, so as much as the couple are trying to throw in a few wrenches and make it seem as if they’d moved a mountain, is anyone going to be duped? For certain, no one’s going to be exclaiming after the show “Oh my God! I can’t believe they still got married!” And let’s face it. None of these were red letter days in the nation’s history and the BSE or NASDAQ didn’t skyrocket by any means. So why is this even a program? I can’t think of a single 20something DVRing this and later telling her friend “I’m so getting an interior decoration like what Manickavasagam did. 50s is the new 10s! Woohoo!” So what’s the #$%^in’ point?

(Pauses 60 seconds)

(clears throat)

I know I know… When I finally understand why Karan Johar is still asking inane questions to some Bollywood rejects I'll figure this one out too...

The Banned SOP

So, today I was at work digging through my Inbox searching for some old emails when I chanced upon this. A spoof of my friend’s wife Sasi’s SOP when she was applying for a Masters program at Oregon State University, circa 2007. We’d collaborated to come up with the unadulterated holier-than-thou version, which we presume helped her get in. Two days later drunk and bored out my mind, I read it again and was shocked “Oh my God! She can’t be that smart”. And so I “snazzed” it up a bit peppering it with more honest tongue-in-cheek admissions that surprisingly got a good amount of laughs from her, her husband and friends. That was three years back.

Its 2010 now. With her course and hard work in the rear view mirror she gave me the green light to go public with this, though she left me with a parting shot. “Move away from SOPs, resumes and cover letters. Spoof something better”

Point taken Sasi. Next time I’ll go after the “Declaration of Independence” or “Bill of Rights”

“I can”

Two weird words pasted on my father’s cupboard that have always made me scratch my head and wonder what the hell they meant. I dream of a vacation in the Greek Islands. I believe in Expedia (for great deals) and my dreams.

I was first introduced to the world of accounting and finance during my hotel management course at the Institute of Hotel Management, an institution that prides on admitting none on merit. But Dad likes to think my journey started at a young age when I was penny-pinching and helping my friends and family balance their checkbooks. Their three year intensive course “taught” me the various aspects of hotel management, providing ample opportunities to delve into financial planning. Fed up of all this number crunching, I enrolled for my Bachelors in Business Administration (BBA) at Annamalai University. Followed by a six month internship (read jamboree) at Taj Group of Hotels that provided me with invaluable experience on how to get the perfect tan and how to be a hit on the dance floor, among other things. Of course, Daddy still thinks it meant day-to-day business operations and complementing my course knowledge.

 

I barely managed a passing grade, yet I was one among the seventy students in the country recruited as a Management Trainee by the Oberoi Group of Hotels, a top-tier hotel chain in India. Pinch me! Their two year program with several hands-on projects at their different locations helped me lose my sanity even further. After graduation, I was posted as an Assistant Manager at Oberoi Hotels, New Delhi with a diverse set of job duties. Making me wonder every waking day if I was better off helping mom in the kitchen!

 

I was required to effectively managing several crisis situations at work, such as fire emergencies, flood evacuations and even a workers strike. Of course, I did nothing of that sort, except step aside and take potshots at my co-workers who were doing the job. My “problem solving” and “leadership skills” were noticed and I was quickly promoted to Manager at the Oberoi Group of Hotels, Mumbai. Pinch me! Again!

 

As a manager my primary responsibilities included recruiting and training new personnel, logistics, preparing departmental budgets, to name a few. I was however more focussed on checking out the delicious six-footer hired a week before. As I enriched my “management” experience over dinner dates and movies, I was spurred to expand my educational horizons further.

 

I applied to the Executive Program in Business Management (EPBM) and after several layers of recommendations (dad - neighbor - neighbor’s friend - neighbor’s friend’s cousin) got selected in the top draft at the Indian Institute of Management (IIM), a world renowned business school. Their one year program geared towards working professionals (and also free-loaders like me) afforded a comprehensive outlook on the various facets of business management, supplementing those with intriguing assignments relevant to real world scenarios. My modus operandi was simple. Hobnob investment analysts with discount coupons and free room service and get their case studies in return, which would help channel my efforts on accounting, financial planning and market operations. Not surprisingly, these provided a fillip to “mould my career” in finance.

 

Along the way I also met my future husband, Ananth, who owned a house, a bike, $10000 in the bank and was also reasonably funny. So I thought, “Why not!” and decided to latch onto him.

 

At this juncture, I strongly aspire to further my “knowledge” and “industry experience” into a Masters Degree. I also envision my career as one that will play a definite role in tackling challenges in financial institutions. Shrewdness, conniving, bribery, I’ve got the whole package. When I had to choose the right place for my graduate study, Oregon State University attracted my attention because of the excellent reputation of its MSFA program. I’m just kidding! It’s just 10 miles from home and I can get a free ride every day.

 

It’s a curriculum that caters to today’s fast paced global economy and one which is uniquely tailored to suit my needs. By the time classes start, I’ll have skimmed through it once, I promise. My diverse background and know-how as enunciated above would enliven classroom discussions. I know how to cook the perfect paneer butter masala and can point out the best nails spa in Portland. The eminent list of faculty members with their noteworthy qualifications is another reason I would like to become a part of your distinguished team.

 

"Hitch your wagon to a star", screamed a bumper sticker. I am, but, doing just that by applying for a Masters Degree in Market Analysis at your university. The knowledge and experience I shall gain at your institution will greatly benefit me in my journey along the tortuous, yet memorable path towards success. More so, it will finally get my husband off my back.

 

This is not the end of my statement. Rather, just the beginning. I am determined to succeed. I ought to thank my father for driving me nuts to put up a poster of my own on my cupboard. It reads thus:

 

"I can, and I will."

Greek Islands, here I come!

Sasikala Ananth

(Bringing more to the table than a Starbucks coffee and a glazed donut)

“Up in the Air”

30000 feet above the sparkling blue waters of the Pacific wafting through the clouds in a Boeing 747 airliner can spur a man to perform one of two things,

a. Sip some Chardonnay, stretch his arms and legs with a smug smile on his face and hum Ace of Base’s “It’s a beautiful life”…

b. Clench his fists in fury and curse inward at anything and everything while simultaneously praying he’d drop down to earth at that instant, parachute or not.

If you ask me, (a)’s commonplace with those folks ensconced in “First Class”. You know, those lucky mother#$%^ers who strut around the world on company’s dime, firing subordinates as they’re lighting up their fat cigars and indulge in insider trading or splurge taxpayer bailout dollars in weekend retreats. Or… as I like to call them, CEOs. And that #$%^in’ Chardonnay? Most likely was forced down on him because the pretty stewardess thought he hadn’t had anything in the last five minutes.

(b) on the other hand is synonymous with the “Economy Class” (or “Cattle Class” if you’re in a bad mood), which I like to believe exists primarily for them honest-to-God blue collared souls (like me) who’re stuck for 16 cruel hours in the middle between a noisy Asian family, forced to ingest raw vegetables posing as vegetarian food and watch half-baked movies on a constantly flickering entertainment console no bigger than the palm of their hand.

Phew! Boys and girls, welcome to United Airlines flight 187 – nonstop service from San Francisco to Singapore.

Sidebar: (a) isn’t just for the high-rollers you know. Lesser mortals like me would’ve still stood a chance if only they’d re-prioritized a few things in their life. Was that vacation in the Bali Islands really necessary when we would’ve been better off dozing to VCDs? Or for that matter remodeling a kitchen that looked perfectly aesthetic to me? What do you think ‘bout that wifey?

For all my bluster, I knew I wasn’t going to be serenading on a magic blanket or something as I lazily picked up my boarding pass. Coach #37D. In bold too. There’d be no mistake. Any dreams I’d of Flight 187 being a Saudi Prince’s harem-on-wings I’d have to trash them now. Along with that stale coffee I’d been holding since morning.

Myth: My travel agent forked $2000 for this ticket. I’d be treated something close to business class.

Reality: Don’t matter a s**t. Even if you’ve donated a few body parts for this ticket. If yours says “Coach” you’d be lumped together with Joe Public in Economy Class in a heartbeat. That means if he’s miserable chances are you too are about to slit your throat.

As ridiculous as it may seem, every time I’m boarding a flight I fervently pray that the seat(s) next to me should be empty. Like the folks who were supposed to be travelling suddenly woke up that morning and decided “Hey! Let’s make Siva’s life easier. We won’t fly today!” Pfft! #37D wasn’t a window nor an aisle. Smack dab in the middle of a 4 seater, three of whom had already seated and chattering away unconsciously in some language I didn’t understand. I could summon all the Gods I knew and hope for a miracle but that family wasn’t going nowhere. I threw a weak grin and somehow managed to squeeze myself into the middle.

Continuing with the ridiculousness, I also pray for the flight to take wings the moment I’m settled. “Let’s go Frank. We’re running late” like it’s my personal limousine! Half the passengers hadn’t arrived yet and the safety videos were still to come. An excruciating 30 minutes passed before the attendants started waving their arms with a foolish smile on their faces. Maybe the Chinese (I think) guy next to me had thing for the videos or thought the movies were about to begin, I swear I’d never seen anyone so fascinated by these. But what irked me more was his console which was left on the flight navigator channel. You know… that irritating thing that shows the flight progress. Why they even have these is beyond me. It moves slower than a snail and whenever you switch it on it’s always like there’s at least 6 hours or more to your destination. Moreover this isn’t a train journey where you can predict your ETA on the stations you’ve crossed. We’ve just passed Cantonment. Be ready to wave to your uncle anytime now. So why #$%^in’ bother? Heck! If I spoke Chinese or were his brother I’d have argued such. Instead I had a sick feeling it was going to stay on for the entire flight. #$%^ I sighed heavily and rested my eyes. The plane started taxiing out of the gate. Hell, I figured was just beginning her opening credits…

Actually the first thirty minutes after we’re in the air isn’t bad at all. Like a kid who’s licking his lips at the array of candies in front of him I’m still awestruck and fiddling with my entertainment console eager to check out all the fun stuff I hope’s going to keep me from losing my sanity. Thirty movies! But… I’d seen most of them while some others simply didn’t seem to resonate “Wow! Now you can watch me”. Same for the TV shows. Other than the few “Friends” and “Two and Half Men” nothing else was worth a laugh. Heart skipping a beat or two, I nervously navigated to the international section.

“I don’t believe it” I let out an audible sigh. No Tamil movies! I love Tamil, all right? As much as a flag bearer I am for its cause I’m probably the first one to stand on rooftops and proclaim 90% of them movies are pure tripe. On land, that is. Up in the open skies, I deem every frame Oscar worthy and want to soak up every bit of that drivel. Bollywood, I accord similar treatment too, except I couldn’t locate any. There were a bunch of French movies that for some reason pissed me off even further. I have a theory about French wine, French food and French movies. And almost all of them involve the use of the word overrated multiple times in the same sentence. “Iron Man 2”, “Avatar” and “Prince of Persia” for the nth time, I sighed again…

But scrambling for movies is just the first part. The second and most important one is food. Undoubtedly. For reasons best known to the airlines, they’re determined to feed you the moment the plane’s reached cruising altitude. Never mind that you’d just polished a king’s feast before boarding or aren’t in the mood for empty calories. I was on a Lufthansa flight once that left Chennai at 3.00am and they were serving breakfast thirty minutes later! Today I hadn’t eaten a morsel since I woke up and my rumbling stomach was ready to scare the s**t of the next few rows any moment. Heart skipping a beat or two (for the second time in ten minutes), I nervously pressed the “Call Attendant” button.

Myth: My travel agent specifically requested a “Hindu Vegetarian Meal” for my comfort and convenience.

Reality: No she didn’t. Maybe she’s Syrian Orthodox and for all I know the only Hindu meal she’s ever come across is a ‘Chicken Tikka Masala’ at some Indian restaurant.

“What do you mean you don’t have a ‘Hindu Vegetarian Meal’?” I gasped.

“Sir, you didn’t order that and we don’t have any. We’re completely full. I can check to see if we have something vegetarian” As taught, she was equal parts firm and polite, neither of which was helping. I wonder if my poor stomach heard that. Stupid innocent me, I was patting the travel agent last night for doing a wonderful job!

Let the record state that I’m a pure vegetarian in all forms of the word. Never have I glanced at meat or seafood and the most I’ve transgressed is egg, that too not on holy days, Fridays and any other days the wife deems “Not today”. I enter a Subway and demand the ‘sandwich expert’ change his gloves before making my veggie sandwich overstuffed with lettuce and mayo. “For the $5 you’re paying I’m shocked you aren’t asking him to cleanse himself with Holy Water!” my friend K would snicker every time he saw me eating a Subway product.

That’s me, so obviously any beef/chicken/salmon entrée with some fancy sounding French name was a no-no. Ten minutes later an attendant handed me a tray and I almost jumped at the delectable chocolate brownie with frosting on top. The rest, two breads with cheese and margarine spread, baked beans and cut fruits, I barely glanced at those. Even a cow would’ve demanded something better!

“Would you like anything to drink?”

“Yes please. Two glasses of wine” Bring me the #$%^in’ bottle you bitch. I shaved off the breads and hung onto every last bit of the brownie, while more wine came my way. If I wasn’t going to be satiated might as well pass out drunk. Exactly what transpired after an assortment of cheap wine and a few glasses of Jim Bean went down. I started playing “Just Wright”, a B-grade movie about some basketball star who got injured and waited to be drawn into a rich dreamful sleep…

“Hi! I’m Siva. And you must be?”

“I’m Catherine. But please call me Cath”

I was literally counting the seconds until the fair maiden sitting next to me would be distracted from her laptop and headphones and here was my reward. Finally!

“Cath it is. Nice name. Where you from?”

“Oh! I’m a lawyer from Oakland. I’m visiting friends in Singapore for a week. How about you?”

“I’m an Application Process Engineer. But I’ll be the CEO the next day.”

Did I just say that? I mean, did I just say that? Oh my God! That didn’t even sound funny in my head!

“Actually I was just kidding. I’m just an engineer. I hope to become manager in a year. But CEO? I don’t think so” Silly joke that required a serpentine recovery. I hoped my hollow laugh helped her understand that I don’t do this often.

“Hahaha! Funny” Lawyer smarts or not, Cath did know to give out the most polite laugh for the most dumbest joke. Which instantly made me comfortable.

“So what’re you reading there?”

“This is a deposition of a case I’m handling. Pretty interesting stuff really” Why was I thinking that it’d be a Danielle Steele novel, I have no idea. I desperately wanted to say something back intelligent like some legal jargon but clammed up. Where the #$%^ was John Grisham when I needed him most?

“I’ve read John Grisham awhile back and found it amazing”

“He’s good. But most of what he writes is over simplified” I nodded vigorously. Of course Cath, whatever your Highness says.

“I agree. If someone wrote about Application Process Engineers I’d be thinking myself ‘That’s not all we do’” I hesitated. That set the cat out of the bag.

“Hahaha! Funny” 100 to 1, that laughter was all genuine. I sat bolt upright now. Daddy was on his way…

Cath spoke at length about some of her past cases and I listened attentively like some star struck teenager captivated by her dimples and the way she brushed her hair after every few sentences. If I’d been watching my Sex and the City’s and subscribing to Vogue, I would’ve said something like “Hmmm! Prada Spring 2009. Wow! Manolo Blahniks. Nice!” She looked like nothing, except a fashion model in my eyes. Did she dip her voice in honey too or was it really sweet? I’m a sucker for long hair in women and the angel in front of me knew how to wear it. Parted in the middle, braided (or was it plaited?) some of it falling in front over her shoulders. God! Didn’t she realize what she was doing to me?

“Would you like something to drink?” I gently interrupted.

“Sure” I beckoned my favorite stewardess for more mine.

“If this were a Château Margaux ’60 and we were having beef bourguignon followed by Crème Brûlée I swear I’d think we were in paradise” I volunteered. If I was going to project ‘classy’ I figured French would be the perfect way to go about it.

“I agree. But I’m more of a burger girl. I love burger and fries”

Stop teasing me! Was she for real?

“I love them too! You know what I love most? In-N-Out Burger. Officially the best flippin’ burger. Ever” I concluded my speech and slammed the headrest for added effect.

“Gosh! I soooooo love them” We were now almost squealing like schoolgirls and I grabbed the opportunity to high five a few times. Silky smooth skin! Petite fingers! Thank you God for such a wonderful creation. We both agreed that we’d do anything to lay our hands on one right now and took turns bashing the worthless airline food.

But Cath isn’t someone whom you just talk inane stuff with. Push the right buttons and the girl’s the most eloquent and charming Barbie doll you’ve ever seen.

“Do I like history?” The question threw me off guard. “Yes I do. I was a pretty good student in high school” wondering what she was getting into.

“Did you know that the Germans…” Cath has this unique way of looking into your eyes with a trace of smile across her lips when she’s all pumped up before starting a conversation. However long it was I don’t know, I sat back enthralled as she enriched me with facts about German warfare, allied deception etc. Not once did I feel like I was listening to Wikipedia and that’s saying something.

“You speak so well. Please tell me no jury has ever lost you a case”

“Awwww! Thank you. You’re so sweet. But I’m not handling trails until next year”

“Damn! Too bad! You’ve just gobbled your opposition” That part was certainly true. More so, if I were the opposing council. I’d be just standing up saying ‘No questions’ and preparing to get her number after the trial.

“Why don’t we take a walk?” I asked. Last time I checked we were still holed up inside an airliner and not in Central Park, but change of scenery didn’t hurt, right?

“Sure”

And so we trekked the economy class multiple times sidestepping a few daddies putting their kids to sleep, stewardess going about their business, folks waiting in line for the restroom and what not. I might not be no lawyer or historian but gosh darn I can be funny when taking potshots at random people. No seat was left unturned and pretty soon I was in a groove coming up with my theories, analyses most of which I was pulling out my you-know-what. Cath played the perfect Robin to my Batman giggling, laughing and stoking my ego. Jerry Seinfeld, Chris Rock and all those dudes could take a hike. There wasn’t no better joke teller at 30000 feet than me.

Perhaps we’d been walking a long time, because Cath suddenly grabbed my hand and said “I’m tired. Let’s go watch a movie” I’d been talking a lot so I definitely appreciated being taken over. I reached for my bag above and pulled out my kicka** laptop, the 19” Dell laptop. My prized possession at work, it had so many cool features, like an array of processors and RAM to run my simulations. But the only thing that mattered to me was the VLAN movie player and two dozen high quality DVD ripped movies that I’d surreptitiously loaded from my colleague.

“That’s a huge laptop” she gushed.

“I know! The damn thing’s heavier than a rock. It’s a better weapon than pepper spray”

Cath selected the chick flick “Legally Blonde” and I made no attempt to mask my excitement. Cath aside, one other blonde I went bonkers over was Reese Witherspoon.

“You too look alike in so many ways” I observed prompting more laughter. Not done with the gadgets yet, I pulled out my dual ear Bose headphones and handed her piece. One ear is enough, I assured her for soaking in all the sounds.

Memo to self: Cath isn’t just a history buff. Dame knows about movies, fashion trends as much the critics in the business and puts it forth with equal verve as the world wars and civil wars.

Halfway through the movie Cath leaned on my shoulder to “get a better a look”. At which moment my spaceship zoomed from the troposphere into somewhere near Pluto’s orbit…

“Sir! Would you like anything to drink?”

What? Ohhh… “No… I’ll have some more wine.” Where’s Cath?

“Sir, I have just tea and coffee. We don’t serve alcohol for some more time”

And then it hit me. That was just a dream. A #$%^in’ dream. “Please… I need some drinks. I’m having a terrible headache” I couldn’t plead any better. I gulped down the bottle as soon as it arrived desperately wanting to get back into dreamscape to continue talking to the angel. Catherine? Cathy? Cath? I’m coming! After an hour or so of twitching and twisting I gave up. Cath had vanished into the ether and wasn’t coming back, even if I’d consumed an entire liquor store.

In retrospect, that’s what great dreams are. Undeniable joy when they last and heartbreak when they end. But then it wasn’t just a dream, you know. I’d just translated my most thrilling and erotic fantasy into vivid high definition color with the prettiest heroine I could ever find. Did I feel any guilty about it? Definitely not. For Christ’s sake, any other red blooded guy’s fantasy would’ve been similar, except instead of Catherine it’d have been a long legged lingerie model whose every orifice he’d have diligently explored while rolling around in First Class. Mine was simply more vanilla and down-to-earth. Holding hands, rubbing shoulders (once) spiced with ample laughter and thought provoking banter. Again, are any of these amoral? Abso-#$%^in’-lutely not! If I ever I’m in God’s court or the wife’s chasing me around the house with a frying pan, I’m sure all of the above should suffice for my airtight defense.

Instinctively I took out my wallet and prised open my favorite picture, my wife standing in our kitchen smiling as-she-were into the camera. She just blew me away. I love you honey. Always. I changed position several times in my narrow seat until sleep took over for the second time. Goodbye Cath…

I don’t recollect how long I was passed out, but I suddenly became aware of strange smells and a murmur of chatter around. “Breakfast time” someone in the previous row announced. I wasn’t exactly hungry but I’d woken to a steady headache and thought maybe the flight attendants had something that could take care of it. I shouldn’t have bothered. Veggies always get the raw end of the stick.

If you must know, omelets in my hometown are made with at least three eggs and the cook going ballistic with onions, salt and pepper beating the s**t out of it with metal sticks, so much so that an entire street driven by its aroma lines to gobble it up. Omelets on my flight meant just eggs. Yes, they were hot, but that was about it. I couldn’t find any vegetables but I had three packets of salt and pepper. Yippee! The rest of the menu didn’t hold any promise. Apparently United Airlines was so concerned about your waistline and cholesterol that there was no chance in hell you could go off the deep end. Not unless you went crazy with a multi-grain bar and cut fruits.

I spied a look at my Chinese friend next seat and found his console still on the flight channel. Big $%^&in’ surprise! “Maybe you should give this guy half his money back. Dude’s been watching nothing but the flight channel” I so wanted to wisecrack at one of the attendants. But… getting my medicine was a better proposition so I buzzed her again. My favorite fairy appeared in a flash with a bottle of wine and Jim Bean. Sheesh! What if I’d wanted some coffee really? I sheepishly grabbed them and settled back to watch Johnny Depp and his pals kick some police butt in “Public Enemies” There’s nothing more endearing to a battered ego than watching Depp show some attitude and #$%^ with the law. I couldn’t take my eyes off his pretty heroine. Ah! Those luscious red lips. Move over Jolie…

“… We’ll be making our final descent into Singapore” This time it wasn’t some pesky stewardess that shook me up, rather the captain confirming that absolution was less than an hour away. He could’ve given an impassioned speech about the trials and tribulations of maneuvering an airplane earlier but it’s funny what the ears hear they want to hear. I had half a mind to spend a fortune and call my wife to tell her that I’d be home soon but held back at the last instant. I wasn’t landing after spending a year on the moon or something, just arriving in an airliner with a few hundred people, so why bother my alter ego reasoned. I concur.

One last ritual dance that everyone’s got to perform is completing those lame immigration and custom forms. I could fly around the world a thousand times yet can’t seem to remember the 8 character word that is my passport number. If I had my way they should be doing away with these, visa and a whole array of forms and just determine if we were a psychopath or a model citizen (like me) by capturing our eye and thumb prints. That’d be my first order of business when I become Master and Commander of the Free World. Take that to the bank. Right now I would’ve given my left arm for a pen, peacock feather or any other writing instrument. Fifteen foolish minutes later when all around me had gone through multiple revisions, I managed to get hold of one and scribbled mine complete. The flight banked left and I let out a satisfied smile as the top of some familiar skyscrapers came into view. Daddy was homeeeeeeee

What's in a name?

“Shrinkage”

Seven years back one of my close friends Bharathkumar Leelakrishnan got his first job in a Fortune 100 company. Now nobody advised him such, but on the first day, struck by a brainwave he decided to introduce himself to his manager as “Brett Lee”, only one of the premier fast bowlers Australia has produced. Positively shocking, considering it was from a chap who cared for cricket as much as say… curling. A far worse travesty than claiming that he was the son of the Indian President or he was composing a symphony over the weekends. I could so imagine myself snapping at some guy, who jaywalked to me at work and said,

“Hi! I’m Brett Lee. Can I have a database extract?”

“Oh yeah? I’m Shane Warne. I bowl leg spin. I don’t do no extracts. Bainchoth!”

Perhaps I’d have renounced the expletive at the end but my indignation would’ve simmered. Agreed it isn’t a pretty sight watching your colleagues squirm and go through muscle spasms when attempting to pronounce your first and/or last names,

“How do you say this? Leeeee…laaa…kreeshh…naan?”

Dude! It’s just a #$%^in’ name. You don’t have to act like you’re having a heart attack!

but then what else’s a man’s got to do except grin and bear, right? Especially when your dad’s gone all creative cramming his village’s name (and other irrelevant details) into yours. Unless you’re one of them fortunate ones who’s blessed with a first name like Joseph/Robert/Bala that naturally lend themselves to an easy-on-the-lips Joe/Bob/Bala/Balki you don’t got no business shrinking them to something that makes no sense. If nothing, that’ll at least ensure simpletons like me don’t get their hopes up when their barren-than-the-rocks development team gets an email from “Janet” only to realize later that it’s none other than plain Jane Janaki. That too from the same borough as mine!

“Paging Dr. E”

“Janet”s and “Harry”s aside, pray, what on earth does someone do when he’s been bestowed with a name like Ehiyoruonahmenh Oghagboun. Let’s find out now…

While I’m not exactly splitting the atom at work, one of my many requirements is to moonlight as an administrator, which means I’m involuntarily copied on close to a hundred emails a day on servers being restarted, releases installed and patches applied on systems that I didn’t even know neither existed nor cared for in the first place. Even though I’m itching to shoot of a response like “About $%^&in’ time” to at least one of those emails, my reaction has always been passive. Select then en masse and dump them onto my Outlook trash. I would’ve done so that day except an email from Ehiyoruonahmenh Oghagboun caused me to sit up to rapt attention. No, he wasn’t our new CEO taking over our company. Simply put, yet another administrator like me who was going to install the latest Microsoft OS patches on some VM servers. At 6pm MST.

“Ehiyor…” I tried valiantly pronouncing his first name for a minute before I started howling “What a #$%^in’ tragedy”. Blame it on the extra caffeine or diet cokes but I felt a sudden dose of impunity creep through my veins and declared that I was going to hear him say his name. Which I wasn’t sure how, since E didn’t leave no contact information in his email. Perhaps to shield himself from specimens like me, I surmised as I tried calling the Data Center who were equally clueless. Would I like to page the Tier 1 Escalation Support? Sure. Let’s wake up the President if we need to! That proved to be the trick and less than a minute later I heard E’s cell phone ringing sending a tingle through my bones. The same reaction that’d net when one’s managed to track down their high school flame after a decade. Just saying...

“Hi! This is Ehiyoruonahmenh” No cuts, no chops, just like it was spelt, except it was rattled off faster than a bullet train that I couldn’t figure out a darn syllable. Could I manage to hear it one more time?

“Hi! Can I please speak with Ehioru…?” I started off slow, soft and sincere as if asking him for a loan.

“This is he.”

Oh no! “I got your email about the MS patches on the VM servers. Will they cause any downtime in RIO?” Obviously I wasn’t calling him for a dinner date. I had to cook up something and was lying through my teeth praying my giggling wasn’t too apparent.

“No.”

E’s forte wasn’t small talk. E was also not going to address himself in the third person anymore during the call. I’d got the response I wanted, thanked him and hung up.

“Ehiyoruonahmenh” So that’s how it was said. Maybe over a beer or two he’d throw some light on his name while I’d pat him with “Great job! Holding your ground and all”…

“What do I call my baby doll?”

It was just another day at the gym and I was sweating it out like a pig on the StairMaster conducting my nightly battle against the bulge. Someday I dream of a physique carved out of oak but… never mind. Right in the midst of one of Deva’s gana songs my phone rang rudely interrupting me at the 30 minute mark.

“Her family wants me to name her Shanthi Bala. What do I do?” screamed my friend Prashant Kumar into the earpiece. The first “her” was his wife and the second was the baby girl they were expecting in a couple of months. Lately the task of finding a perfect name for his girl was having him in knots.

“What? Why?”

“I don’t know! Their family astrologer said that was a lucky name” I could feel his irritation throwing a vase or something across the room anytime now.

“That’s bullshit man!” I snapped causing me to miss a step and almost topple over. “That’ll never stick. Don’t worry!” I comforted him before reminding him that I had 15 more minutes of hell to suffer through and I’d talk to him later. I wasn’t entirely sold on my reassurance but “Shanthi Bala”? Puh-lease! No way was that going to stick.

Now I love dishing out “life truths” at the drop of a hat and here’s one more from my stable (after my heart rate returned to normal and I’d caught my breath back). The worst thing you can do as a Dad to your kids is not cutting them out of their trust fund. Rather ordain them with a name that’s so uncool that he/she shall be cursing you all the way through teenage.

Case in point: à la Deivasigamani and Kumudavalli. Agreed, these two names are dripping in divinity and probably paying homage to half a dozen Hindu Gods. But let’s take a deep breath and analyze these headlines, first for him,

“Deivasigamani, Casanova of the Eastern World ushers in the new year with a wild party in his swank 300ft yacht. Host snapped with topless Miss USA, Miss Venezuela and Miss Puerto Rico.”

“Sparkling point guard Deivasigamani scores 30 pts dishes 14 assists and shreds the Lakers defense in comeback victory. Starting gig is certainly his!”

“Dr. Deivasigamani, professor of Computer Science at SUNY wins ‘Researcher of the Year’ from Intel for his contribution to Wireless Sensor Networks.”

and then for her,

“Kumudavalli graces Sports Illustrated 2012 cover with Chanel’s new summer bikini line”

“’Yay! I’m getting married!’ An ecstatic Kumudavalli at Beverly Hills with George Clooney showing off her thick engagement rock”

“Noted Obstetrics & Gynecology surgeon Dr. Kumudavalli to address AIIMS class of ’13 today in New Delhi”

Hand to heart, which one of these did you naturally gravitate towards? And how much of that was influenced by the name? C’mon man! Humor me please, will ya?

In my humble opinion with a name like this you can’t go around in tuxedos saying “shaken… not stirred” without sounding unintentionally funny (Ok! Maybe if you shrink it to “Daniel”, but still got to lose the “Mani”) nor sashay on runways to Chanel or Versace. In the same breath, not dribble a basketball between your legs and throw no-look passes nor sleep with Matt Damon. But before you go ballistic and all preachy on me, note that I’m not mocking them or their kind or much worse, consigning them to be bottom feeders. No sir! Definitely not. Humble and respectful all over again, I’d like to note you’re more likely to encounter his publications when browsing through IEEE journals or rush to photocopy his latest textbook on the eve of your semester exams. Just like newly minted mothers all over the country will be tom-toming to their counterparts “Oh! We managed to get an appointment with Dr. Kumudavalli after 6 months”.

Fate isn’t a cruel mistress after all. Three months later I became the proud Godfather of “Manasa”, a cute bubbly bundle-of-joy with a million dollar smile. “Santhi Bala”, “Annai Abirami”, “Krishnaveni” and their ilk thankfully never saw the light of the day. Unless of course, Prashant Kumar’s in-laws were thinking of theatre names in Chennai!

“The Prasanna Situation”

And speaking of names designed to throw you off kilter, here’s an intriguing tale from the memory bank. Confusing names and confounding sexes never got better…

It was one of those bleak dreary Monday mornings when I was trying in vain to savor every minute of sleep before the alarm started howling intent on jerking me into consciousness and dragging me back into reality, when my dad called me out of the blue and said something to the effect of,

“Son! Her name’s Prasanna. Here’s the email address. You better get on you’re a** and contact her right away!”

Of course, Dad never sounds like a four star general barking orders at his troops. Instead in his customary soft, smooth, yet no uncertain and non-negotiable voice, he informed that she was his friend’s daughter and I needed to touch base with her, like yesterday. An executive order to initiate long distance matchmaking delivered to critical acclaim.

Being the selfish prick that I am, I’d have paid lip service to his sermons, hung up and snuggled deep into my comforter eager to make up for those lost minutes. But something wasn’t right.

“Wait! Her name’s Prasanna???” I repeated slowly highlighting “Prasanna” the second time around disbelievingly.

“Yes and here’s her email address…” my dad started off again from his script forcing me to cut him off irritatingly in mid sentence.

“I got her email address. But is her name really Prasanna?”

“Yes”

Followed by the most uncomfortable 30 second pause of my life. That pause could’ve been replaced with a lot of things. Dad could’ve said “Joking! Prasanna’s my friend’s name. She’s Preethi” or even gone with a tamer version of adding a “Kumari” or “Lakshmi” at the end. Nothing! I figured I should’ve rolled off the right side of the bed for either of those to happen. Instead I was saddled clueless with an email address of a “Prasanna” and my dad had hung up ensuring that irrespective of whether that name gave me the kicks or not I was going to throw the first pitch. #$%^

Caught-between-a-rock-and-hard-place moments like these call for a sounding board and mine was my friend Murali, a fellow who specialized in “calling a spade a spade”, especially when it came to me and women. Considering my sleep was shot and heralding the week with a stiff dose of reality couldn’t hurt, I texted him,

“What do you think about a Prasanna?”

Nothing happened even though I kept staring at the phone impatiently for the next few minutes and even shook it a few times to get something out. Wearily I woke up to freshen up. Thirty minutes later all ready to roll I found it blinking and wisecracking with “Dude!!! When did you start batting for the other side? LOL” Real mature!

Obviously he too was thinking that Prasanna referred to nothing except a guy, which made me squirm even further. What the #$%^ was my dad thinking? More importantly, what the #$%^ was her dad thinking when he coined this “brilliant” name? What on earth did he have against names like Preeti, Pavitra and Priya? Questions questions questions… All of which formed the backbone of my introductory email to Ms. Prasanna, though I toiled through multiple drafts to ensure the contents evoked mirth and weren’t downright throwing her dad under the bus.

The next 48 hours were officially a mess, primarily because Ms. P hadn’t emitted any signs of life, which made me almost certain that I’d gone over the top. Which is when I committed my first blunder. Instead of researching on Google like any sane person would do, I leaned on a few scatterbrained (looking back, that is) colleagues and friends (sample size – 10) to figure out who actually held sway over the name and the answer was universal. “We don’t know any damsel named Prasanna. A Madhu maybe, but no Prasanna” Anand even went one step further wondering why I kept saying her “brother”’s name when asked for hers!

Which is when I committed my second and biggest blunder. Letting my evil alter ego conjure up rabid situations packing me off on a crash course to self doom. I’m not a “honey” or “sweetie” guy, so what was I supposed to affectionately address her as? “P” (eww!), “Pras” (yuck!), “Prassy” (???)” when I couldn’t even bear to say her name. And somewhere sometime outside a marriage hall would read “Me weds Prasanna”. Christ! Might as well have added “What a shot in the arm for gay rights!” Almost an entire day of negativity and it was taking its toll on my fast approaching project deadlines. I just couldn’t take it no more. Sigh! I pulled up my laptop and shot out an email explaining why I couldn’t go through with this because I was being transferred to an office in South Korea and hoped she’d understand. How? Since when was South Korea cut off from the rest of the world? Pretty, cute, next biggest supermodel or not, I’d come to realize that she could never be my Ms. Right. Especially with that first name and nothing afterwards…

Fate IS a cruel mistress after all. At least in my case. Less than 10 minutes after I’d dispatched that ill-fated “shoot myself in the foot” email she’d added me as a friend on Facebook. Jack Nicholson would’ve deemed the “Oh my God! Is that really her?” and “Oh my God! What the #$%^ have I done?” expressions written across my face instantly as Oscar worthy. Too late, I swore to myself biting my lip. Closure was achieved less than a couple of hours later when she summarily indicated that she had no enthusiasm in pursuing a long distance relationship (#$%^in’ Korea. Couldn’t I have said South Carolina?) and she’d like this matter closed. Silver lining? NFL was in full swing. Talk about dropping down to earth gently…

Epilogue…

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet."

Immortal words from my main man Shakespeare, regurgitated verbatim from Romeo & Juliet. All of which have made a more contrite me emboldened to go after the next “Sreenidhi”, “Kamal” or “Snehal”. Kidding!

Adios!

P.S.: All names have been changed to protect privacy. Of the author, that is. After all who wants a thousand curses and hexes flying their way, right?