Slim, fair, good looking- Score 1!

So, what can an arranged marriage do to you apart from wreck the precious 1 or 2 hours that you manage to steal for yourself after endless hours at office, to watch sitcoms or call up friends by forcing you to go through 'profiles' and 'photos' of guys/girls you don't know?

It can be the cause of complete and total annihilation of your self-confidence.

I am not going to take sides of the male or female kind here because it is an equally humiliating experience for both. But since I have seen and heard more of the latter kind, my source of feeling of angst, sorrow, and misgiving to this whole concept stems from the experiences of the ‘fairer’ sex (what a thoroughly apt term if one considers the first and foremost point in the Basic Checklist for Arranged Marriage for Dummies)

Going by common standards, God save the poor souls who don’t come under the slim, fair and good-looking cadre (the first and foremost point in the Basic Checklist for Arranged Marriage for Dummies!).

Anyone who thought that being an ‘engineer’ is enough qualification for a girl, I’m sorry, you will now be wronged by the mighty ‘MBA’. The girl HAS to be MBA, okay I’ll cut some slack here, a ‘PG degree holder’ by 24.

So even if you have just a 3 point groom specification check list, you might have to cut it short if you’re just an ‘engineer’. So the presentably good looking becomes, not too frightening; PG degree holder becomes at least another ‘engineer’ and able to communicate properly becomes, able to communicate. Why do I limit myself to just ‘engineer’s? Because, most people want a ‘professionally’ qualified girl as their partner (followed by should not work after marriage in some cases, beat that!). Funny fact being, engineers, now that there are more engineering colleges than ‘Nair Tea Kada’s, have long ceased to be professionals.

So the next time your interview panelist asks ‘Why MBA?’, you know you have another reason nagging at the back of your head along with money-money- money as you put on a grim, thoughtful face and begin to bore his brains out with ‘passion’ and ‘destiny’ and ‘making the world a better place’ (yeah, as if!)

And again, it is not an easy ‘Swayamvar’ story for guys either. I’ll have to admit, it’s tougher for a guy than a girl in this road show (for more, refer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kkx04yuJJ80 ). But this post just aims at avenging the slaughter of the confidence of a friend (heh).

I am not against the concept of arranged marriages (I mean, me!, I’ve had some pretty lousy crushes. I, of all people, should be grateful for the existence of such a procedure); but I’m just appalled at the effect that this method of groom/bride hunt has on the people well, ‘victimized’ by it. And rejection at the profile round is not even half bad…I’ve heard worse about rejections at subsequent rounds of selections.

One could argue that so much importance shouldn’t be attached to this rejection- selection game. But then people should stop associating the worth of a person depending on the number of profiles that have rejected/selected that person. This, I’m sorry to notice never happens. ‘already rejected by 50 people.. maybe you shouldn’t be so particular even if he/she looks 10 years older …maybe you should be okay even if you have to go to Siberia, maybe you should be okay even if he/she has a tail…’ and the standards reduce till you arrive at such a low morale that you’re just happy you’re getting married.

Who wants to get married like that?

Oh, and also, where is the love??

Entering this post for an indiblogger contest! do visit: https://www.facebook.com/LoveYaArrange

The end of an Era

I moved in to a new flat last month. It's right on the main road. For the past one month, there has never been a quiet awake moment. It's either the loud share autos, or the blaring Pondi buses or the never ending two wheeler crowd...you get it.
But today, as I was sitting in my favourite spot in my room, looking out of the window, I noticed, that one side of the road was filled with vehicles moving away and the other side completely empty. Not a single vehicle, not even a bike coming towards my side. And I noticed that striking resemblance it had to my present life, however cliched that sounds.
Today is a bad bad day. So was yesterday. Sukdi left yesterday. Monk-ey has been relocated. Bhai will leave this month.
This is a bad bad month.
I've been losing my friends for the past one year. One by one, they left; some from the city, some from my life. And there haven't been anyone coming my way. And now suddenly, my best friend, Monk-ey too; and so soon.

I haven't moved out of Chennai; I won't, for a long time. But Chennai, whatever part of it I had come to love, is slowly fading away.

And so, the story ends...

Apologies for posting this before coming out with the part 2 of Light At The End Of The Tunnel. But, this just had to be posted today.
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Life changes so much in just a few months. Sometimes, a few months, is a lot of time. And yet, sometimes when you think of it, those few months would’ve just flown by.
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He left by the 9:30 train. She knew it would happen so. What was she expecting for? A miracle? If so, what? She was the reason he had left, and she knew the story was over. Things were back to how it should have been and they were leading their own separate lives. Yet, it felt weird to her, that he was leaving town.
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She hoped for something to happen. She didn’t know what, but something! No, she didn’t want things to go back; no, that was silly. But was she happy this way? She was ok. And she knew ok would turn into happy, some day. She thought of all those movies she had seen, where the hero would dash into the railway station, at the last minute and proclaim his love for the heroine, just in time. And she smiled, at the goofiness of her thoughts. Yet, she wished for something to happen. But she knew nothing would.
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And nothing did. He left. And she went to the temple nearby, to pray for them to be happy, leading their own separate lives.

LoveStruck

I have no idea what was going through my mind when I wrote the following load of crap. But since it is Valentines day and I don't want to be behind the rest of the blogging world in writing something dripping with love and mush and insanity, (don't know about the first two but there's loads of the last one), here I present, what is to follow :P
You swim in a yellow candy floss sea.
You drench in a shower of confetti.
Under a merry green sky above,
the purple waters of the calmest sea
rise in tides and rain over the trees.
While the ice cold sun blazes black and blue,
it melts the rocks into sticky glue
that sticks to you and your muddled mind,
bringing close a world you want to be in
and the crazy world that wont let you in.
You smile at the kid who let the butterfly fly
and watch it zig zag up into the empty sky.
The clouds now they fill the voids above;
Your mind wanders onto things unknown.
And you, caught atop clouds of love,
Wonder, has sanity left you for good?
And with a slight shrug you walk away;
A blissful smile adorning your dreamy face.
photo courtesy: flickr.com

Faded Colours

His life wasn’t all bad. But it was not exactly what you’d call extraordinary. He went to college, like everyone else; was an average student, like everyone else; had a decent number of friends, like everyone else; went out for an occasional booze party, like almost everyone else; all in all, life was good. But at times he felt there was something lacking. Something told him that his life could be a lot more colourful had it not been for that missing element. And he couldn't understand what it was.

He talked about it to his best friend. Well, best friend because he spent most of his waking hours with the person, and not really because he confided everything in him. His friend suggested maybe it was because he had no girlfriend. Most of the people his age had girlfriends, not any of his close friends but that was just because either they were not interested in the daily drivel associated with relationships, or preferred booze to girls or well, they had no takers. But him? He just had not felt that way about any girl. He didn’t have the so called Greek God looks but he was fairly good looking, presentably so. He had loads of friends, but none so intimate that he thought he could spend the rest of his life with or even attractive in that sense of the word. He considered this possibility for a while… well, it did sound plausible but then he was not the lovelorn types so he dismissed the idea almost immediately. Yes it would be wonderful to have a girlfriend, to have someone you found attractive, charming, loveable, smart, and all that, all at the same time. But that couldn’t be the reason for this void feeling. That was stupid.

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And that’s when he met her. Social networking sites have proven to be better at match making than matrimonial sites of late. As the trend goes, it worked for him as well. It was not love at first site (or first chat). It was a feeling that grew gradually and beautifully. He didn’t remember when it first hit him that he was attracted to this childlike yet occasionally mature whimsical girl. She was not ideal; she was not without flaws. But he couldn’t see them. He was the laconic, subdued guy and she was the animated, chatty girl. He was the guy who always obliged, never got on the wrong books of anyone, never hurt a fly while she was the girl who always spoke her mind. He was the patient listener; she, the vivacious speaker. He was the level headed bloke; she, the spontaneous spitfire. She filled his life with music and colour. She talked about places he had never seen, people he had never met, tunes he had never heard and cultures he had never known. He was amused by her endless stream of topics and her inexhaustible energy. He fell in love with her love for life. He knew then what had always been missing in his life. No, it wasn’t a girlfriend. It wasn’t just any girlfriend. It was her. It was her zeal. It was her presence. Was he in love? He couldn’t tell. For he knew not, what was love. But for now, he knew she was the single most important thing in his life. It was like his life had a renewed meaning now that she was in the world. He did not feel the void anymore. Nights were filled with the sweet tone of her voice; dreams were filled with the hues of her moods; and morning was another reason to talk to her, to see her.

And so they remained, for quite a long time- inseparable. He suddenly discovered a talent in him that he had never known existed before. He took to painting. He was, unlike her, the kinds who did not pour out his feelings to his near and dear ones, so he found another way to vent out his feelings. The sunshine that she was shone in his paintings; yellow and orange a beautiful mix. The night skies in his paintings lighted up with silver stars that were her laughter. It burst onto the trees as cherries in his next. Her hair ruffled in the wind that blew the scarf off the little girl in his painting. He listened to her as she spoke and he drew her in his paintings. He listened to his paintings as they spoke to him. A time came when he knew not what he loved more, her, or his rendition of her. Love, is such a beautiful thing.

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But, somewhere down that beautiful cobbled street, he failed to listen to her completely. Mesmerized by all that she was and all that he wasn’t, he did not see it. He did not see that she was the butterfly who went from flower to flower, giving it reason for existence. The flowers bloomed, bore honey and coloured the bushes in wait for the butterfly; it gave them a purpose, a meaning to life. The flowers lived when it was graced by its touch. It meant no harm, but it could not stay on forever. It had its own reasons perhaps, or maybe it didn’t. But the flowers had to live on.

It was late when he saw the signs. Her laughter did not sound so merry anymore. The colours started fading. His paintings started a transition from yellow to brown. The night skies became pitch black. The morning sun had set and the eerie moonlight cast ghostly shadows in the deserted alleys of his paintings. The bright sparkling waters became dark and still. The bells didn’t toll. The music stopped. The little girl in his painting had tears in her eyes.

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There was a note where they had found him lying- still as a rock and cold as a stone, bathed in a resplendent blend of colours. His palette lay beside him, upturned and empty. There was only one line in the note – ‘my paintings; they stopped loving me.’

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And somewhere a girl lost her laughter, silenced by a cruel fate.

pics courtesy: lizzy forrester

The Impromptu

'Bitch', he called her
and she reeled around in shock.
'You fucking bitch', he shouted
and she kept staring at his hollow soul.

'you don't know anything', he screamed
and she wondered what he meant.
had she not shown enough care?
what bout all convictions she had bent?

she knew he had loved her.
respected him she had too.
but she had warned him it wasn't forever,
he knew it all too well, didn't he?

then why the drama now she wondered
she had made everything clear
she was trying her best to cope with
all the mess created in blithe.

or blithe she thinks it was
and had turned out not too pretty.
but she had not been a fake or phony
for him to be at her mercy.

she had not hid what was true from him.
he had run away from what he knew was true.
and after all they've been through,
he blames her for all his hurt.

true she was confused;
she is all but human
wasn't he confused too when
he said it was all off hand?

but he was in love; never once casual;
and lied to her to pacify her fear
can she call him a liar? she can!
but the world sees her as the whore.

free will she said and she meant the same
free will for him to decide his stance.
he chose to go ahead her way
a no looking back, no strings attached way.

his options were clear, enjoyed every moment
and so did she; he became most important.
but separation, it did beckon as predicted
and he couldn't bear her loss, he was addicted.

can she blame him? no she can't!
he was in love; can that be helped?
who can blame one in love?
the world sees him as a saint.

can he blame her? no he can't!
she warned him of what was to come.
but is that good enough? they ask.
maybe not; after all he was in love!

and so it settles, she, crowned the bitch.
yes she was true but not true enough.
yes she had constraints; not good enough.
and as she cries in haunted disbelief,
'Fucking bitch' he shouts once again.

pic courtesy: picasa web albums-esther

Old Lauril

Perched atop Mariner’s hill,
is a house named Old Lauril.
Creaky doors and rickety stairs,
the walls have bricks popping out in pairs.
The roof is cracked, the fences hacked,
the curtains are torn, ruined and ragged.

When the wind whoosh by, the windows clatter,
the glass comes down to the ground and shatter.
The front door garden is dry and pale,
once fragrant flowers now are frail.
In the moonlight, scary and bright,
Old Lauril is such a fright!

Spirited, ghostly, cursed and haunted,
with names as such the house is taunted.
But old man Billy, toothless and bowed,
loves Old Lauril as he always told.
“It ain’t no haunted,” he would often say,
“Old Lauril was not always that way.”

“Its walls were painted peacefully white.
The front rose garden was such a merry sight.
The light breeze as it swept a by
tickled the curtains and made them fly.
Gleaming, it stood in the morning sun
and the neighbours gloated, one by one.

But the joy and happiness of Old Lauril lay
in the man and his bride who, there, used to stay.
Graceful and lovingly, her every touch,
brightened Old Lauril ever so much!
He, with his affection and manly hard work
made Old Lauril so perfect and perk.

Together they made a home in the house,
until, alas! hard times arouse.
The army was prepared, the borders surrounded,
the war had begun and the alarm sounded.
The man so left, and his bride was alone.
Days crawled by but no one came home.

No letter, no news, nothing at all,
as his bride waited from dawn to nightfall.
Weeks and months; the war had long ended,
so did the hopes, which, on it, depended.
And not long before, his bride did leave,
Old Lauril was deserted- ‘twas hard to believe.”

“And now it stands”, said he, wiping a tear,
“all in ruins and utmost fear.
‘Twas such a fine house”, he said with a frown.
“Can’t believe it’ll be torn down”!
Yes, indeed his words are true,
Old Lauril’s days are finally through.

“Me loved it like the angels above,
in it, lived my lady love.”
As he said so he had a last view
of Old Lauril- “Ah! such houses are few.”
That very day was Old Lauril’s last,
as it stood there, quietly narrating its past.

Passed a month, now Mariner’s hill
looked bald and barren without Old Lauril.
But old man Billy, still toothless and bowed
Loved old Lauril as he always told,
“Perched atop Mariner’s hill
was a house named Old Lauril.”

she.... in blue....

She rises again
as the moonlight glows blue.
Her cry is music,
played for a love that won't come back.
Beautiful her face; fragile her heart.
Broken, it lies in her grave.
Grieving for lost love,
but it wont come back...
Lost for ages in silent solitude.
Her tears frozen in the cold of the night.
Her soul plays the symphony of sorrow,
calling out to lost love but it wont come back...