Men and marriage!

"God help the man who won't marry until he finds a perfect woman, and God help him still more if he finds her"

Marriages may be well made in heaven, the man and wife brought together at a matrominal website, their relationship solemnised in a church and consumated behind closed doors, They are definitely broken on this earth, very much in public.

When Newton said, "Every action has an equal and opposite reaction", he was possible referring to the reason behind me writing this blog. :-). All thanks to my Swedish colleague who asked me a question, "Can Indian men choose not to marry at all?". Good quesion.. isn't it? Well, all good questions have no answer.

On a very normal day , the daily dose of conversation was chugging along at snail's pace over the lunch table. As is the practise, we Indians and the dutch colleagues would be enjoying ( enjoying.. ahem... almost. I would not suggest the name of our caterer for the party at your place.) the delicatessen together. My swedish colleague asked me if Indian men (I vividly remember he asked me only about men and not women) opt not to marry at all. He questioned me on the right of Indian men to exercise their choice in a sane mind and not as a victim of circumstances viz troubled childhood, divorced parents, impotency, etc. I was not sure why he had picked me up to shot to this question at. Well, I do not look like a connoisseur on the art and science of Indian marriages, I have never been married, I am not advocate of bachelorhood err spinsterhood, I am not a product of an estranged couple (Well, my parents celebrated their 25th wedding aniversary on the 2nd of May), I am not a from-the-roof-top screaming anti-marriage feminist. I think it was the proximity... I was sitting right next to him.

The question was bolt from the blue. I began cautiously. I kept chewing on at the cutlet, pretending to be contemplating an answer, cleared my throat in as if I am on the way to deliver a rhetoric.. Let me confess, actually, I was only buying time.

Even if men choose not to get married, there are factors that may not allow them to exercise this right. Being a country, where social norms dictate ones life to a large extent, where family plays a major role in the key decisions. These decisions can range from personal, financial, marital to filial, etc.Which man can stand for long the lamenting mother, the quiet father ( Quiet, because the mother does all the talking), the inquisitive realtives, etc, etc, etc. It was hard for me to believe any man to be let without being forced into a wedLOCK, unless until he publicly proclaimed that he was queer, leading to the family severing its ties with him. In fact I thought all good men are married, or become good after getting married, which ever occurred first. So, is it the family pressure that forced a man to get married?

One of my acquaintances(Hmmm, he was a friend once upon a not so long time ago) had seen 55 girls. Not "see" as in dating, but formal girl-seeing ceremony. I must apologise here, as I am not really sure on the name given to this "boy - see - girl" ritual. Well, he had seen 55 girls before he decided on one recently. Phew, I know what you are thinking, "55 gals! Holy ghost! What was so different between them?".

Anyways, He had a huge list of qualities that he was looking for in his to-be wife. I am not sure if has a prized catch now. Or maybe it is just his age that was ticking faster than the fossil on his wrist. He was 28 going on 29 this July. So was it the ticking age that was his achilles heels? Did he realise that 56th one was the same as the 2nd or 34th and that he had been utterly duh in trying to find the difference between them?

He once complained to me that, most of his friends are already married, settled with kids and wife in tow. He visited his friend in amsterdam recently. Now this hunk was his peer. The friend guy was married, boasted of a handsome salary and a face, a cute princess and a queen at home, a couple of trips to the US of A. To make it more envious he may even own house in mumbai! His life seemed perfect, like a picture to be framed in a gold rimmed holder. For my friend, this life seemed secure and content. So, is it the peer stigma attached to an unmarried male that lead him to decide on the 56th lady as his wife?

Recently I read an article on the WebMD website on "Age Raises Infertility Risk in Men, Too", which boke the myth that men could father children as easily at 78 as they could at 18. As men age, so do their milt. Perhaps he realised that he cannot walk around like he did when he was 18. The article proved with statistics that, as men age, the probality of his offspring being born with autism, down's syndrome, schizophrenia increases. Maybe he read this article? Whatever the reason, he said, "I do". So do we attribute this as the reason for him to marry?

These are few of the reasons that I volleyd at my colleague.There are many other inherent, sustained and proven determinants, namely, the need for a man to have a wife, his intention to bear his children in a secure, stable environment within the confines of a marriage, the man-women union that forms the basis for the generations to come, the life-long companionship that one strives for, the strong need for a man to be wanted and loved, the happiness that he drives from his own family, etc. I have not dwelled upon these.

As a last note, one recent study of 17 developed nations found that "married persons have a significantly higher level of happiness than persons who are not married,". Maybe he read this article as well.

Poignancy in words - One of my favorite paragraphs

You are free to imagine the events preceeding this mail. I have also taken the liberty to conceive the occurences leading to this mail. Picked it somewhere in the world wide web.

You are the master of objectivity. Your mail spoke about every'thing' and some'things'. If you did not get what I mean here, read your mail again... you spoke without a subject and referred to things.

Life would be simpler, if we were as inanimate as the 'things' you spoke about in your mail. As a reminder, we are speaking of humans and their emotions here.

It is very difficult when I wake up each morning and I have my feelings staring at me in the face, waiting to be acknowledged or done away with. In as much as I try to get them away from me, they are a stuck with me. Instead of running away, I deem it healthy to acknowledge them.

Whoever said, 'Time heals', was gifted with a bad memory. A calvinistic view indeed. To my chagrin, I am not gifted.

I do not want to be assosiated with you for life. Somethings, in life, are not meant to be. (Am glad about this).
But It is about what i feel for you. This is what I am wrangling with.

You mentioned that we must move to a different plane of seeing each other. I do not believe in changing angles, with the same rate that one changes skirts! Maybe, the degree of what I feel towards you may wane away with time (hope the big ben moves faster), but the quintessence remains.

Though the visible symptoms of pain today wil be replaced by something else of tomorrow, the dent cannot be mended. From what I know, guys cannot understand abstractness. Let me state an allegory for your soul.

Read on.. If you get a chance, watch the meteor impact on national geographic. Observe how the meteor impacts the earth by surprise and melts away without a hitch or a remorse, leaving the terrestrial body to grapple with the tangible after-effects. Yes, the earth should have had a shield.. Well, it did not. "I" did not. Blame the earth for its vulnerability.

I cannot pretend on what I feel. I cannot do as you do. Maybe I am wrong here. It is just another event in your life. You know (you do not know this either), I miss you so very terribly. Reality lies beyond the ordinary world of protagonists. With the escapist/defeatist attitude that 'one' adopts, they will never garner the courage to get to know this, neither reality nor how much I miss you. While reading your mail, I may even sob in tears because of the melancholy of nonsensical circumstances that I have put myself into... Well, I think you just smiled.

You are the third guy in my life.. from whom I am hearing the following sentences (Yes, I am dissecting your mail)

1. I would definitley want to be someone whom you can count on in life .
2. I always wish you well and look at it as a privelege to have been associated with you in the past and hope to be in the future too.

I see them as la personification of 'The cliches of their life'.

Regarding the mature decision that you want me to take, that will decide how we will see each other in a longer term.. I am not in a state of mind to do anything akin to that. Pain always searches a reason to attribute the inherent wretchedness of itself. It can metamorphose into hatred, pity, sheer indifference. These results depend on the intensity of the woe. Anyways, none of the 3 results translate into any palpable association between us. You know (I know you don't, as you do not read philosophy), In Kafka's story, a person metamorphoses into a bug. And I prefer the third result - indifference.

We think and feel simultaneously. Now when I grasp the absurd particularities by "thinking" and the catastrophes of the protagonist(read me) by "feeling" , I realise that my energy is directed towards an unworthy entity.

Vist to the British embassy

Among my top 100 many complaints in life, the one that riles me up each day when I wake up in the morning is this, "During the day, we keep ourselves busy with many(seemingly fructuous activities), the day passes by me at the rate of the movement of an extra lazy sloth. However, when i wake up in the morning, I feel the moment I wake up and the moment i had fallen asleep, is the just a few seconds apart. The effective distance between these 2 second is the time that I consumed before I fell asleep...". Why is this?

On one such mornings I woke up, having hardly slept the previous night. I had to visit the UK embassy for an appearance to get the British visa stamped in my 'Oh , so new passport'. I will be travelling to city that where Leadenhall street exists. All this hardly seemed to excite me. The moment I stepped out at 7.00 am in the morning, I wondered which seemed worse, my mood, weather or.. well... my mood again. The walk to the metro took me exactly 8 minutes.. felt like a lifetime in reverse gear. The ride to the visa cell was as event less as the sleepless night was. Nothing extraordinary. I had to change to another tram at Leidsaplein, a locality in the heart of amsterdam. Amsterdam did not seem very inviting in the wee hours of the morning. A rather quite beginning to another day. Ladies with and without husbands, ladies with and without dogs were making the rounds of a local park. I am not sure why I am writing dogs and husbands in the same breath.

As I waited for the next tram, tram 2 to nieuw sloten to take me to Emmastraat, my mind stopped thinking. Someone had once told me, 'try keeping your mind idle..'. They had challenged me with such gutso, that I had believed them to true. However, at that moment in time(wish I had noted it down), I realised that, I had not been using my mind at all. I was in a state of prolonged hibernation. Maybe this is how a computer feels when someone sets it an hibernation mode and prevents it from using its microprocessor. But here, it was an involuntary action. As the tram arrived, the dutch guy on the wheel, seemed so content with his job. Doing the same rounds everyday, day after day. The tram seemed like it had been borrowed from the past. Not the bright blue interiors, but a dull green. This added to the woes that I had deeply buried myself into. I had ridden a tram in Basel with the same green color. Felt like a flash from the immediate past. As i tried to make myself comfortable in the comfortable seat of the tram, I was scared that I would fall asleep. I tried reading the faces of the co-travellers. I could fathom nothing.

Emmastraat held its place in a beautiful and scenic surroundings. A huge lake, fallen leaves, a green creeper hugging a tree, the branches of the tree forming a hallow over the lake... pristine and virginal sight for the eye to behold. If I was a poetess, I would pen verses after verses on this feast to the eye. But I had to find the embassy. I looked around to ask someone. Not a soul in the distance of a few feet. I dismissed the thought of asking someone, and started walking in a direction. It did not matter whether it was right or otherwise. Lost in nothingness, I chugged along the well kept path, lined by immaculately maintained garden on one side and Renaults, Nissans, BMWs, merces, Peugeots on the other. Tiny drops of rain that had kissed the leaves all night were glistening in the morning light.

I checked the address on the slip of paper I had written it on, koningslaan 44. Ok, I had to find the 44th house. I could see the union jack waving in the zephyr. 2 guards at the entrance, were at the gate. I checked the address. I need to sit somewhere and sleep. Walked to the end of the street. On my left was a huge opening. Men, women and children in dozens were driving in from the gate to the enclosure. I turned over and sprinted in the opposite direction. Amsterdam domestic localities are bound to have parks dotting the area. I sat down at one such. Wanted to fall asleep on the bench. The thoughts kept wandering. I re-lived my life since last October 28th. Seemed like yesterday. But so much had happened, to have changed my life, at least at the surface. I was lost in the past, when my present jolted me out of my reverie. It was time to walk back to the embassy. 8.45 am. My appointment was at 9.00 am. As I walked in the direction of the cell, I spotted an Indian walking in the parallel lane. Another tourist to the queen's haunt, I thought. As the seconds wore on, I stood in the queue to gain entry into the cell. I had thought that the 2 security personnel were British. They spoke queens English with me, but conversed in dutch with each other.

The edifice of the embassy was impressive as any building in Europe can be. The imposing structure of the building on the exterior was a let down, once I could run my eyes in the interior. A narrow staircase led me to the mezzanine. 2 innocuous looking counters greeted me. As I made my way to the waiting room, I scanned the room, with the intent of making myself comfortable in the surroundings. As, i sat down on cold seats, flattenning my heavy jacket under me, I wondered when the number beeper would show 92. I was not alone in the waiting lounge. A musalman lady in a pair of crocodile skin shoes, an Indian olding on to C n A carry bag, a south asian - rather indonesian lady, and a Indian looking, but Indonesian man sat around me in a quiet distance. They kept me company with sheer aloofness. When ever I glanced over to look at the lady in crocodile skin shoes, she gave me a warm smile... I wondered whether she was trying to reassure me or herself. Within minutes the room was filled with people of varying sizes, shapes and color. A stout man in a pair of baggies, a thin lean mean looking guy, a family - husband, wife and too pretty, but restless kids. Now when I write this blog, I wonder what mended my lousy mood that day. I think it was the Young kid, a boy barely in his 5th year on earth. He kept glancing at me repeatedly... I could not help but smile at him. His face broke into a naughty grin, as though he was caught in an act of stealing cookies when his mama was asleep. This exchange of smiles and giggles continued for the next 15 minutes, till my number was beeped. I was in much spirits now, than i was, when i first got in there. The kid had helped me smile.

As I walked over to the counter, I pulled out my document from the folder. As I handed them over to him for scrutiny, I felt like was sinking into a labyrinth. I was not sure if i why I was travelling to London. Tourism? Friends? To meet Sir? or plain just like that, what the heck?Before I could reach a consensus on the reason, the embassy personnel asked me to place my left hand at the finger print scanning machine. He asked me apply force to the scanner. My hand started shivering. I was scared that the crowd me could see it. The shaking stopped when I pressed my other hand. The process ended faster than it had begun. I was asked me to wait for my passport. As I went back to my seat, hunger pangs kept me busy. Within 15 minutes, I was out of the embassy. The return seemed brighter than the journey to the embassy. It was nearly 9.45 am. Within 45 minutes I was taking the spiral staircase to the 5th floor. The day had begun.

Kya love story hain.

My friend decided that all of team must go and watch the movie, 'Kya love story hain'. The reason the wise chap gave was, You have to watch her movie. Who is she?? What is her name??.. let me think, Hmmmm the lady with a constant smile, a pout, a la Sadhna style coiffure, pretty much swollen cheeks and a ludicrous looking anatomy....

My memory fails me once again. I give up. I do not get her name. Now, I am not able to recall her name... and my one wise friend, decides for all of us that, "we must watch her movie". Ok. We all agree. If you think, we had no choice, you are not right. But you are absolutely right, to the core of being awarded the nobel 'judging' prize. (Ahem.. If there is one).

So a troop of beaten technical geeks(not sure if we are one, but it sounds cool), board the metro 54 to reach the almost deserted bijlmer station, walk up the bend to enter the pathe, present our 'unlimited' movie pass to the terribly-bored lady at the counter. I thought her looks said, 'Oh, you guys are back'. You see it was my guilt speaking, as I managed to watch a movie on each day, when the Islamic brethren held their weekly congregational prayer - Jumu'a. I am referring to a Friday.

Popcorn and dubbel friss are a must as a run up to the movie. After some jabbing at the stairs of the well-lit movie theatre, we enter the 'show' room. This heralds the death of sanity and the birth of palpable senselessness, which grows over the next 150 minutes.

The appearance of the name 'Lovely Singh', hits me terrible hard. The movie has been directed by a sardar/ni. I am not sure. As the staleness enfolds on the screen, I see realisations being pushed out from a 9 month old womb. The bearer of the womb feels no pain... I am referring to Lovely singh. I feel tortured at the sight.

The movie is tepid and graceless. The corniest of the lot. As I squirm at my seat, alternating my attention between the huge screen in the movie hall and small dial of the fossil on my wrist.. the unfolding of the crass reminds me of an anaemic model walking down a ramp in spain and collapsing dead.

The movie is string of un-deserved and 'un-worthiness'... Pathe deserves better movies. Tushhar kapoor does not deserve to be in movies. The voluptuous female form is not worth either of the 'tight jawed males'. I deserve better value for my money. And my wise friend deserves to be trashed.

PEP

Let me keep the expansion of PEP to the more creative minds. Or maybe, I can feed your imagination a little:

Python enchancement project... Ahem
Politically exposed Person.. tut tut
People Exposing Power... this is the crudest of all.

Well, it is the name of the project which I work in. It is enchancement project. For a kind of person that I am, this suits me to the hilt. Kind of person that i am... "I like to break away from the shackles of monotony, repetitiveness induces the feelings of mild angst, I get bored of events at a rate of my pulse"..

But in PEP, nothing is stable or constant. Planning is a loss of electricity, as we make use of computers running microsoft excel(thank you Bill clinton - Ooops Gates) to record what ever we have discussed in the electrically heated meeting rooms. We jam the company mail server by sending mails to the offshore communicating them of the plans, discuss endlessly of the possible back-up plans that one may need ICE (not Inter city express that gallops to Germany, but In Case of Emergency) , ... We squabble over the cable phone lines to the offshore.. cos we have only a single line to connect us to the land that harbored the indus valley civilization, decide on who will be at the forefront of the firing line on the D day, discuss with all the xternal interface teams what needs to be done, blame the 'other' team for the goof ups made, diligently follow the CYA principle(Cover You @$$) ..... but nothing materialises at the end of the tunnel. Given a brief description of what we do with each other and of the planning that we have made.... At the end of the day, nothing works as we thought as it may! There cannot be a sane explanation to the unreasonable events that we encounter.

Think of a possible event: Someone with a foresight, decides that this patch will be implemented to the production system on a particular date. Now we do not refer to any almanac to fix this date. There is ALWAYS a rational explanation to why the patch could not be implemented. The show stopper is always a legitimate cover story. Hmmm...

The functioning of the PEP can be ascribed to the Garbage Can Model. Courtesy - wikipedia. As a tangential thought, I wonder when google will make a bid to buy wikipedia.

And this uncertain madness suits me like a well made cat suit. I wake up in the morning and sprint to the workplace, with the list of actions that I may(not Will) complete... each day i follow the same pattern... and I never get bored. Amen