The Agents of Disaster - Matchmakers

Put two perfectly independent standalone words together, and you have all the trappings for a potential debacle.

Case in question – the words ‘match’ and ‘make.’

Place them adjacently in a sentence, and the result is guaranteed to induce one or all these symptoms - unbridled squirming in the seat, characteristic awkwardness, cringing, and a flood of painful memories that make you wince each time you walk that path.

The matchmaking is usually done by well-meaning friends and relatives, with the latter of course, wrestling ahead by a clear, authoritative margin. Notwithstanding the high rate of divorce among couples who are clearly not meant to be with each other in the first place, these shining examples of frontrunners, committed to wipe out all traces of singledom from this world, trudge valiantly on this chosen humanitarian mission...

The results are disastrous, to say the least, much more perhaps than a recipe gone awry.

Leaving the matchmaker with guilt, sadness, a red face, and ears that have smoke billowing out of them – thanks to the unparliamentary language they have been subjected to. But the matchmaker in them intact – already spinning the next ‘knotty’ venture...

The quotient of matchmaking increases by leaps and bounds in social gatherings, with marriages topping the list. Almost every single guy or nubile girl who strolls into a marriage is sized up and down, and pounced upon in various degrees of swiftness by relatives - dowagers in particular. Parents are called for, heads are seen bowed together in hush-hush discussions, fingers are pointed innocently to the unsuspecting victim, and winks and grins are exchanged with gleeful abandon.

Those parents who are reluctant to go along with this matchmaking are slyly recounted horror stories about the dejected (and rejected) girl who wheeled in her twenty-fifth tea-trolley to a prospective groom’s family, only to be turned away yet again. Or the crestfallen 30-something guy who had disconsolately submitted to the arms of the friendly dancer with the heaving bosom at the cushy private lounge and the charms of the beckoning-invitingly bottle of heady spirit. The customary shudder post this narration is enough to make even the most assertive of parents think of the ‘no-harm’ clause that this matchmaking illustrates. And give a nod of approval, casting looks of pure gratefulness to the well-intentioned relative that God has bestowed upon them.

Big mistake.

Awkward coffee meetings and drives to the nearest mall are suggested. And worse, organized meticulously! The two disoriented victims are literally bundled into a car, nudges are freely doled-out, and as the car disappears around the bend in a cloud of dust, relatives and family go into a collective ‘Awwww.’ Hands clasped, these relatives go into an orgiastic overdrive about what a pretty picture the two make, predicting happy endings, exchange of wedding rings and garlands, and of course - a brood of healthy children. A few more discomfited meetings are arranged, under the loving eyes of family and friends. All seems to be going well. Just when the candyfloss romance and pink balloons look geared to become a reality, the drama begins –the victims proclaim irrevocable incompatibility, and absolutely refuse to step out for yet another drive. All hopes are dashed in one swift, fluid movement. And while the relatives scream ‘Foul’ in indignation, the victims breathe a little easy, and look up at the sky in gratitude.

Cut to another month – the marriage season is upon everyone again. ‘Pandits’ have red-lettered several days as being auspicious for nuptials. While relatives smack their lips in sheer ecstasy at the prospect of all that matchmaking, youngsters this time are smarter. As they say – once bitten, twice shy.

So while the guy – Victim #1 from last season, swears bitterly about the every-increasing truckload of work that has ‘suddenly’ descended upon his hapless neck, Victim #2, the girl with sparkling eyes who's partial to showing-off her ethnic drapes, makes a mental note to not arrive at any wedding unchaperoned. Help is at hand - in the form of her friend’s brother who (after his palms were greased with a much-sought-after invite-for-two to a hugely-hyped party in town),
performs the role of attentive beau, to perfection. That he just came out of the closet is information that only she is privy to, and she smiles at her very own private joke cum secret.

She’s ready for the wedding season – fabulously armed!

Looking gooey-eyed at her chaperone, she blows him a kiss (knowing that this will send the onlookers into a frenzy). It does! He does the much-practised and perfected sighing-grinning-from-ear-to-ear routine; she blushes, drapes her sequinned scarf tightly around her embellished attire, and walks with her fingers knitted trustingly in his.

Matchmakers be damned!

Another wedding.

Thankfully, not her own.

She sighs in relief.

Musings from the girl in the cast

Cooped-up at home courtesy a nasty leg fracture in Amsterdam, I have two unsolicited things to deal with - a lot of free time on my hands and a state of agonizing, seemingly-eternal immobility.

To say that I’m exasperated to the core, would be putting it a tad too mildly. To while away my time, I rely upon diligently leafing through newspapers, pamphlets, magazines, and the odd novel, hoping they would be useful anger tamers. No such luck though! Ample use has also been made of online shopping sites, the largess of family and friends (wink wink), mobile games, neighborhood stores that deliver treats right to my doorstep, half-an-hour pizza or Chinese deliveries, and guaranteed-to-induce-sympathy phone calls - though not necessarily in that order...

Also, how much can one get pampered, without feeling stifled like a mollycoddled pekingese pup? On days when I am at my grumpiest, snarling, most brooding, sulking (did I miss 'most unlovable?') best, it would take a daring person to touch me with a pole. To add to my hyperventilation, the weekly salon visits, that heady rush of entering a swanky mall or that much-favored little square market (as my Mum terms it) and exiting with multi-hued shopping bags that crunch happily together, the weekly ‘spirited’ lounge visits, the spa sessions – seem a thing of the distant past.

My hanging-in-gloom face is perhaps matched only by our dog’s long face, who is most aggrieved and puzzled by the infrequency of his regular thrice-a-week-if-not-more post-dinner drives.

To add to it all – the mercury rising by the day isn’t exactly doing much for the usual ‘sunniness’ of my disposition. While a splash of rain could do wonders to douse the fiery fury within me, the Met Department too looks hand-in-glove and has reported that the fickle monsoons still look a good 20 days or so away. I hope they are wrong!

The last straw was when the doc said today that the cast with which I have been hobbling painfully all this while (and which, may I add, makes me look and feel like a pale pixie lurching in exceedingly constricting stocking and pointy-shoes) – has to be worn for another three weeks.

Oh well – things aren’t really super-bright right now. But I’ll get by. Hopefully soon!

The Dream Chasers

Holed up in a tiny room in Ber Sarai, Ravi came to Delhi a year ago to prepare himself for the Civil Services exam. Along the same lines, Abhishek Kumar came to Delhi from Allahabad to groom himself for the civil services exam and that is when he picked up the habit of spending the evening at the square. After all, after spending twelve to thirteen hours cooped up in a constricting space, this gives him a chance to relax over some chai and catch up with friends.

There are three kinds of people in Ber Sarai—those who are nursing a dream, those who have realized it and those who have lost.

They all come.
They hope.
But they never leave...

For the IAS, CAT, JEE and a hundred other competitive exam hopefuls, Ber Sarai is almost a rite of passage. Almost as much as the mandatory prayer offering at the close at hand Ayyappa Temple.

For the thousands of students who pour in from the neighboring cities and towns, Ber Sarai and adjoining Katwariya Sarai serve as the base for the rigorous and often grueling time till the examinations.

Predictably, Ber Sarai abounds with book stores spilling over with text books and tomes on how to crack these tests and coaching centers. Any available space is immediately appropriated by advertisements for ‘100 percent and assured success in exams.’

However, the most obvious reason apart, the small square also serves as a breather from the long days. And longer nights.

Even on a hot, sultry summer evening, it is almost impossible to find an empty space to plop down on. Every inch of space in the square is lined with idle people. There are some who have finished the whole exam scene a long time back, but are still regulars there. There are also those who work nearby – in the swanky Capital Court Building, Yusuf Sarai, Vasant Vihar & Kunj, R.K. Puram – they too have become victims of coming there on most evening and staying till sundown. They have become compulsive people-watchers.

With JNU on one side and IIT on the other, Ber Sarai has turned into a students’ collective and Kerala Café and the Shri Ram Sweets Centre keep the endless cups of chai coming and conversation flowing.

And beyond the umpteen grainy green glasses, some make it over the threshold while most just dream a different dream.

(Picture Courtesy - The Web)

The Venice Voyagers

Many years back, I’d seen a legendary Bollywood actor croon sweet nothings to an actress (known for her famed portrayal of an embittered hippie), while on a Venetian gondola. The image stayed with me all these years, ensuring that Venice remained a much-dreamt-about locale for me.

So it was only expected that when hubby and I were short listing possible vacay spots to bring in one year of wedded bliss, Venice came up trumps.

The second week of April set in, bringing with it much excitement and fervor. After a brief stopover at Paris, we landed at Marco Polo airport, Venice’s main aeroporto.

From the minute we stepped on the cobbledstones, we were hooked by the allure and magic of this architectural masterpiece that is Venice. By far the singularly most appealing and charming thing about Venice is that it is an entire city built on water – to be precise, 118 islands, 117 canals and the most majestic of all – the Grand Canal, some 360 bridges, including the famous Rialto and the Bridge of Sighs. Add to this a place where you see no automobile in sight, and you have all the trappings of a charming, quaint place. Of course, it didn’t hurt that Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie were also in Venice the same time as us, accompanied by their brood of children.

The water transport is incredible, to say the least – Gondolas, Vaporettos, Traghetti, and water taxis sail at various levels of speed across the length and breadth of this floating city. Even hubby, the staunch believer in the all-European-cities-look-alike-philosophy, had to take his words back, and admit that it was a place unlike any he’s seen before (and he has travelled a lot). Waterfront houses, palazzos, bistros and trattorias – all vie for space, their pictures doing no justice to their actual splendour.

Our home for the next few days was a charming B&B – Fujiyama, whose review I promptly posted on TripAdvisor here. After a hearty breakfast, we would set out for strolls, taking in the sights and smells. There were also the unforgettable Eurostar journey to Milan – a fashion paradise, the Murano island - famed for its exquisite glass, the equally gorgeous Burano island – known worldwide for its delicate lace, and the Lido island – home to the Venice Film Festival every September, when the likes of George Clooney and his other A-lister friends descend upon it, at his sprawling villa near the island.

But, coming back to Venice, the sights were many, the smells most appetizing. Each trattoria after another had tantalizing smells, and I can safely say that we have had some of our most delectable meals here – pizzas, ravioli, risotto, gelatos (favored most by me on account of my overtly sweet tooth), pasta, spaghetti, brioches, cannoli, Granitas, Tiramisu, Gnocchi – the works. The spirits were aplenty too – hubby and my personal favourites the Merlot, Campari and Bellinis. The concept of Aperitivo is a fantastic one – where, if you are buying cocktails at a bar, you can go through the buffet line as many times your tummy desires. And the spirits keep getting cheaper!

Burp! After that gastronomic’s delight above, perhaps I should also mention the repeatedly-etched-in-pictures-and-portraits – San Marco Church at St. Marks Square. Our online research capabilities proved very helpful, because we were able to beat a serpentine queue outside the Basilica, thanks to a free-fifteen minute pass we had looked up online. Near St. Marks Square, it was a wonder to see the likes of Chanel, Gucci, Armani, Salvatore Ferragamo, Valentino, Bvlgari, Prada, Fendi, Miu Miu, Max Mara, Versace etc hobnobbing with their humble streetside counterparts. Of course, the shopping paradise was Milan – with its quadrilatero d'oro (The Rectangle of Gold), where I stood agape for a few seconds, before hubby dearest reminded me gently that people had started looking.

So while I have ticked two out of the three fashion capitals of the world, it waits to be seen now when I do the third….

But till then, I will sing songs about Venice being the ultimate honeymooner’s paradise. A place for languorous strolls, lazy tides, delightful tratorrias, gondola rides, sparkling wine, and some quality time with your mate. It should top every honeymooner’s wishlist.

It wasn’t just a coincidence that it is Casanova’s land.

And while I still remain a Paris loyalist, I also proclaim - Ti Amo, Venezia!