I too am invited in MehraJi's only daughter's wedding . It's going to be one of the memorable moment. Civil lines of the city is exquisitely decorated. After all, Such much-awaited weddings are not the part of daily, or to say yearly, routine.
Allahabad- the historical city of Kumbh- always puffs its chest for the gems such as Amitabh Bachchan and first PM Jawaharlal Nehru. Besides the quiet city speaks a lot when it comes to delicious ambrosia.
Mr Vishwas Mehra does not need any formal introduction - at-least in Civil lines region of the city. His sangfroid but savoir-Fair ability undoubtedly justifies his position of a jury.
And Renuka- I believe- will be unmatched bride. I saw her last time 3 years back before she departed to US for her masters. ' Time Flies' I mutter.
'What should I wear? ' Actually I am wee bit concerned to my own esteem - I am just a teacher indeed- but I should be wary of Mehraji's reputation . Of all but not-so-many options , I doubtfully pick the blue suit .
With variegated imaginations in my mind - as colorful are the horticultural plants in front of Mehraji's bungalow - I reach the rendezvous. Eau de Cologne has strong smell . I can't figure out the provenance though, perhaps it was many-where excluding my own wardrobe.
Acquaintances are willing to be friends and friends have already inextricably blended into the family kin , that is -more closer , more good- is the idea. And, Such is the beauty of these parties.
I am happy, I should be happy . Anyone who is invited on such special parties are special . Ain't?
Happiness is a kind of communicable disease . It imprints everything around its provenance .
I am sipping a expensive-in-first-sight liquor. It's expensive and so is essentially tasty . I don't want to know what it is. I am trying my best to camouflage myself in the dignitaries. We are being photographed , I am being photographed.
Dayal is feverish, but is content. He didn't demarcated days and night for this wedding's preparation. The razzle-dazzle of Mehra's house are reaching to his red bricked hut too - house is big and inapt word for his residence. He is one of the neighbors of Mehra and his ancestors have proven their loyalty while working in Mehra's Bungalow. Renuka is like her own sister, in case if he had his own. Who will not be happy when his sister is getting married? His entire family is busy since many days for the wedding preparation - The feverish Dayal, his wife and his mother.
Groom fraternity has arrived with full band and music. Euphoria is in air,Curiosity is in the eyes and strands of lips are moving- of course the words of formalities are being thrown and accepted. So, all mouths have got either of the two business - wine or grapevine.
Amid all the inexorability, the connoisseurs are arriving to the dining hall. It's an integrated part of wedding. It's hard to notice who is from bride's side and who is from groom's. Such is the camaraderie of this wedding. Among the countless ambrosia, one made up of sesame is making people lick their fingers . I too am appreciating it very much . Everyone is hovered near the table . Now when party is full fledged , I surmise that this particular delicious item is not in everyone's luck, it will short. But, I know Mehraji won't let it happen. I am sure.
Bad luck and good luck don't share the equal probability of occurrence, and former between the step-brothers arrives more sooner.
The sesame sweet could not bear the demand. The irony is that it requires manual crushing of the warmed sesame seeds to refine powder . Dayal's family had done this for many days . Who knew that this will get short? Mehra ji is worried. After all , how can a daughter's father like him can compromise his reputation for such a trifle thing? I see him sending his mercenary for Dayal to wake and start powdering the sesame. I feel pity - both for Mehraji and for Dayal.
I surrender the gift to the busiest Mehra Ji and exchange a beam - not sure of its authenticity though- before I return. As I come out , I listen some unfamiliar sound from Dayal's hut. I sneak through. I am flabbergasted.
Mehra's men are beating Dayal- the sick loyal Dayal. Perhaps he could not make the sesame powder because of his sickness. I know he wouldn't have refused. But , who wants to know the reason?
There is no cursing, no screaming, no pleading, no surprised yelps, only the systematic business of beating and being beaten, the thump, thump of something solid repeatedly striking flesh, something, someone, hitting a wall with a thud, cloth ripping.
They showed their manhood and Dayal is lying in the arms of his old mother- when the former couldn't even cry . It's blood all around on the floor Now that I have seen the situation, my morality pushes me to go inside the hut. While bringing water for him and making phony consolations, I mutter 'Too much loyalty is dangerous'. He tries to guzzle the water . An hiccup and a good amount of flesh comes out of his mouth. Dayal heaves his last sigh with a burp.
It's dawn . I am sleepy but my left morality is pushing me out to arrange for Dayal's funeral .
I see in the dogs surrounded near the garbage to eat the left over - it seems they have got a good feast as this was a grand party .
I can see Renuka - a bride looks fairy in her sapphire gown- bereaving her parents and leaving to the groom's home. All eyes are watery with mixed feeling of happiness of wedding and pain of bereavement.
Another two pairs of eyes are watery - one for her lost son and another for her husband.
I look into the sky and ask the God, whoever and wherever He might be- Why? Why did you make me such an eunuch?
Allahabad- the historical city of Kumbh- always puffs its chest for the gems such as Amitabh Bachchan and first PM Jawaharlal Nehru. Besides the quiet city speaks a lot when it comes to delicious ambrosia.
Mr Vishwas Mehra does not need any formal introduction - at-least in Civil lines region of the city. His sangfroid but savoir-Fair ability undoubtedly justifies his position of a jury.
And Renuka- I believe- will be unmatched bride. I saw her last time 3 years back before she departed to US for her masters. ' Time Flies' I mutter.
'What should I wear? ' Actually I am wee bit concerned to my own esteem - I am just a teacher indeed- but I should be wary of Mehraji's reputation . Of all but not-so-many options , I doubtfully pick the blue suit .
With variegated imaginations in my mind - as colorful are the horticultural plants in front of Mehraji's bungalow - I reach the rendezvous. Eau de Cologne has strong smell . I can't figure out the provenance though, perhaps it was many-where excluding my own wardrobe.
Acquaintances are willing to be friends and friends have already inextricably blended into the family kin , that is -more closer , more good- is the idea. And, Such is the beauty of these parties.
I am happy, I should be happy . Anyone who is invited on such special parties are special . Ain't?
Happiness is a kind of communicable disease . It imprints everything around its provenance .
I am sipping a expensive-in-first-sight liquor. It's expensive and so is essentially tasty . I don't want to know what it is. I am trying my best to camouflage myself in the dignitaries. We are being photographed , I am being photographed.
Dayal is feverish, but is content. He didn't demarcated days and night for this wedding's preparation. The razzle-dazzle of Mehra's house are reaching to his red bricked hut too - house is big and inapt word for his residence. He is one of the neighbors of Mehra and his ancestors have proven their loyalty while working in Mehra's Bungalow. Renuka is like her own sister, in case if he had his own. Who will not be happy when his sister is getting married? His entire family is busy since many days for the wedding preparation - The feverish Dayal, his wife and his mother.
Groom fraternity has arrived with full band and music. Euphoria is in air,Curiosity is in the eyes and strands of lips are moving- of course the words of formalities are being thrown and accepted. So, all mouths have got either of the two business - wine or grapevine.
Amid all the inexorability, the connoisseurs are arriving to the dining hall. It's an integrated part of wedding. It's hard to notice who is from bride's side and who is from groom's. Such is the camaraderie of this wedding. Among the countless ambrosia, one made up of sesame is making people lick their fingers . I too am appreciating it very much . Everyone is hovered near the table . Now when party is full fledged , I surmise that this particular delicious item is not in everyone's luck, it will short. But, I know Mehraji won't let it happen. I am sure.
Bad luck and good luck don't share the equal probability of occurrence, and former between the step-brothers arrives more sooner.
The sesame sweet could not bear the demand. The irony is that it requires manual crushing of the warmed sesame seeds to refine powder . Dayal's family had done this for many days . Who knew that this will get short? Mehra ji is worried. After all , how can a daughter's father like him can compromise his reputation for such a trifle thing? I see him sending his mercenary for Dayal to wake and start powdering the sesame. I feel pity - both for Mehraji and for Dayal.
I surrender the gift to the busiest Mehra Ji and exchange a beam - not sure of its authenticity though- before I return. As I come out , I listen some unfamiliar sound from Dayal's hut. I sneak through. I am flabbergasted.
Mehra's men are beating Dayal- the sick loyal Dayal. Perhaps he could not make the sesame powder because of his sickness. I know he wouldn't have refused. But , who wants to know the reason?
There is no cursing, no screaming, no pleading, no surprised yelps, only the systematic business of beating and being beaten, the thump, thump of something solid repeatedly striking flesh, something, someone, hitting a wall with a thud, cloth ripping.
They showed their manhood and Dayal is lying in the arms of his old mother- when the former couldn't even cry . It's blood all around on the floor Now that I have seen the situation, my morality pushes me to go inside the hut. While bringing water for him and making phony consolations, I mutter 'Too much loyalty is dangerous'. He tries to guzzle the water . An hiccup and a good amount of flesh comes out of his mouth. Dayal heaves his last sigh with a burp.
It's dawn . I am sleepy but my left morality is pushing me out to arrange for Dayal's funeral .
I see in the dogs surrounded near the garbage to eat the left over - it seems they have got a good feast as this was a grand party .
I can see Renuka - a bride looks fairy in her sapphire gown- bereaving her parents and leaving to the groom's home. All eyes are watery with mixed feeling of happiness of wedding and pain of bereavement.
Another two pairs of eyes are watery - one for her lost son and another for her husband.
I look into the sky and ask the God, whoever and wherever He might be- Why? Why did you make me such an eunuch?
Disclaimer : I am learning to put my imaginations in words . The metaphors might not have reflected the background of the incidents as apt as they should.~ Sumit
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