This is an article published in the Hindustan Times a few years ago. The article written by Samrat Chaudhary is a nice satire on the problems faced by unmarried people & how the whole society works day & night to get them hitched in the matimonial bond.

My way of life is in grave danger. I am surrounded by hostile forces, but I battle valiantly on. There is no safe haven anymore, except my secret lair in Delhi where none but the most intrepid of my relatives may venture. They are out to get me hitched- it seems I am hurtling past Marriageable Age.

The carefree days of my receding youth flash upon my wordsworthian inner eye (not to be confused with ‘inner voice’) every now & then these days, the coming home piss drunk at odd hours of the night, the saying ‘good night’ to neighbors out for their morning walks, the not having to worry about going anywhere or doing anything because the only consent required is mine.

Marriage, of course, would end all that. I don’t have any weakness for bondage. However, all the people who get into this marriage thing want to drag more people into the groupie. It’s their way of feeling mainstream. This adds up to a lot of pressure groups all working to get single people married.

So, there are pesky relatives who call up & ask my parents only one question: “when is your son getting married? Should we look for a girl?”

Then there are family friends & neighbors. They accost my parents on roads, at social gatherings, even at funerals, only to ask the same question. It’s really too much. My parents who are not entirely blameless- they are also married- have been influenced by all the propaganda. This time, when I got home on vacation, they called a family council where I was subjected to intense interrogation & persuasion.

Worse was to follow. After they were convinced that I had no wives tucked away in Delhi, they began whipping out photos of strange girls. I’d be drinking tea & suddenly my dad would sidle up to me &, with a flick of the wrist, produce a photograph of some prospective bride. It was all very disturbing.

I’ve been thinking of defensive measures. Apart from escaping to some faraway place, or going underground, I can’t think of anything. A friend had once taken the precaution of shaving her head to avoid marriage proposals- & it worked. A bald girl is a definite no-no for most prospective in-laws. I don’t know if it would work as well for guys, but it’s worth trying. Apart from sacrificing my hair, & showing would be in-laws my paycheck, there are other measures of civil disobedience that I have in mind. I could plead insanity. Or maybe I could start wearing nail polish & air-kiss everyone regardless of gender.

In case all this fails. I’ll be stuck with the hara-kiri ritual that is a Bengali wedding. Everyone knows what is happening, & so there is much weeping & wailing. The man sits with a thermocol hat on his head. The topor- has the ring of ‘torpor’ to it, doesn’t it?- it’s conical like a dunce hat should be. The woman usually gets lifted on to a wooden plank & is carried around the man in the middle. In case she weighs too much, the priest says, ‘bad idea’ & everyone goes home.

Now there’s an alternative escape route! But what if that fails?

* I'm happy & glad.......

   then I realize I'm mortal........

   & then I realize I'm a pessimist.

* We live life at the edge of a cliff. Death just pushes us over.

* Early bird gets the worm.

   Late worm SURVIVES.

Following is a two part series which I am posting here to tell you all about my recent experience of being under the knife. Operation or surgery has always been a great dilemma for a middle class family like mine. But i guess my experiece wasn't so bad with it & i hope to recover fully in no time.

I always remain confused what the opening line should be. So you see that I have dedicated the first two lines addressing this problem (problem solved actually!). Anyways, I had an ACL tear in the left knee last October. ACL tear? What’s this? You might ask. Well, ACL stands for Anterior Cruciate Ligament. It’s a muscle that keeps the thigh bone & the shin bone together at the knee joint & aids pivotal movements.

I got this injury in such a casual way that I still can’t digest it. My mother tells me that when things have to happen, they happen anyway. A jump for a smash over the net was blocked by an opposing team member (if u still don’t get it, I was playing volleyball). I couldn’t handle the recoil & fell backwards awkwardly. In the process putting all my weight (It has to be around 90 kgs.) on my left leg (Poor thing. Who wouldn’t break at this amount of pressure?).

Resultantly, my thigh bone started slipping over the shin bone & jutted out whenever I applied weight to my left leg with excruciating pain & immobility of the joint. I didn’t realize that it was an ACL tear until I reached home in Diwali holidays where a visit to the orthopedist almost had me nauseating. “What have you done, Beta?” he said, putting his spectacles down on his table after examining my leg (that included dislodging the joint himself. I assure you; he showed no pity on my screams). “This requires major surgery” he added, looking at my shocked mother. Sweat started dripping out of my hair. Major Surgery? Oh My God! What have I done to myself?

 Well, the story above was the cause of my recent visit to Delhi. For the purpose, we (that included me, my mother, my sister, my paralytic father & his attendant) hired an Innova (that insured a comfortable ride & a regret of being seated in a gas guzzler). The ride was a bit jarring (I love bumpy rides. What I didn’t know that I’ll start hating them on my way back) as the Delhi-Dehradun highway was under construction. Felt sleepy for most of the voyage (yup, I was on a ship) but the sleep vaporized, once we entered Delhi. Delhi is CAPITAL….. The look is CAPITAL……roads are CAPITAL……..buildings CAPITAL……..number of people CAPITAL………..so traffic CAPITAL. It’s easy to see that Delhi is the heart of our country and people flow like blood in it so it pumps in the cultural values, integrity, patriotism & feelings of a nation. One more thing here, don’t know if it happens to me only or it’s the case with everybody but it takes me awful lot of time in finding places in Delhi. Firstly, it’s not like other parts of the country so bafflement causes confusions. Secondly, even local people remain confused as to which road to take for a particular place. So, (here’s a travel tip) never hesitate in asking directions frequently. This ensures you reach the right place in time. Coming back to the story, we did reach our destination (the doctor’s clinic) in time for our appointment. Doctor Rajgopal’s cabin wasn’t as lavish as I had expected. He looked confused as he was unable to pinpoint his patient (my paralytic father dragging self or me limping around). My mother was in all tears as she recalled my problems & her fears of the operation (in a typical Indian middle class family, a surgery of any type is indeed a major concern). Doctors you know, handle patients all day long. He assured my mother that there was nothing to worry. “There is nothing to worry. This type of injury though requires operation but is quite common. I operate upon at least three people in a single day” he said. But nothing can provide respite to a concerned mother except for the sight of her happy & healthy children (I was neither happy nor healthy). I was admitted the same day & the surgery was expected to take place in the morning next day. The first blood was drawn with my blood test (they checked my blood sugar level etc.). And before I could look back or reconsider, I was allotted a room.

The surgery scheduled for the morning was postponed to the afternoon. No matter how much you may try to take your mind off it you always fail. It’s that constant churning in the stomach, the butterflies. You simply can’t help it. “You will not eat anything after 8 till the operation” announced the nurse on her way back (after checking my Blood Pressure and temperature). And the endless wait began. After 5 hours of fasting, some attendant of the doctor barged into the room. “This is it” I thought. “Wear this” he said authoritatively & placed a piece of folded cloth on my bed. I was shocked when I unfolded it. “What?  Gown?”  A silent nod from mamma ensured that I had to wear it. The person was ready with a razor and some liquid in a bottle by the time I wore that ‘Gown’. What? Is he going to do it? Right here...

“No. I’m here to shave your knee only” he said providing relief to my hyperactive senses. The two knees never looked more different than now (In fact they were different in terms of ability to twist & gyrate before). Now the wait had become tougher with me wearing the gown & stretching it to cover my legs (interpret as the attempts to cover my modesty). After another hour or so, 5 or 6 people came in with a stretcher. “Don’t worry mamma. Everything will be fine” I said to my mother clutching her hands & in a voice sounding as brave as possible (I can easily recall that my heart had probably jumped to the throat and was pounding like a piston of an engine) the roller coaster ride on the stretcher (they did let me fall freely on slopes) had me nauseating even before I reached the Operation Theatre.

My first person look at the OT (Operation Theatre) flooded my mind with a number of thoughts. First there was a definite dip in temperature (that makes sure that the only fluid comes out of the body is blood). Secondly, I was in praise for Bollywood (& some television shows) for such a vivid depiction of OT. I was familiar with every thing from ‘beep’ of the heartbeat machine to the circular lights. The moment I was transferred to the bed in the OT, some attendant wrapped the Blood Pressure measuring belt on my left arm and attached a clip (was it for heartbeats? I don’t know) to the ring finger of my right hand (in a way they made sure that I don’t run away after they’ve done all the preparations). A needle that has a tap like structure (I have no idea what it’s called) was also pierced in my right hand. “Are you afraid?” someone asked from behind. I tried to twist my head round to look for the speaker. The man discovering my dilemma came up to me. Middle aged, moustache, average built & a big smile on the face. The man needed no introduction. The only person who is authorized to put on a smiling face in the OT is the Anesthetist. Then a flurry of questions came by my way. “How did you get this injury?” “Whom were you playing with?” “Are you in the college team?” “What problems do you have due to the injury?” I responded as briefly as I could with him administering the anesthesia in my left leg any moment on my mind. To my disbelief, he left the room after the questionnaire without doing anything. May be the surgeon isn’t here yet, I thought. My MRI scans were now being put up on the lighted boards on the wall in front of me (as if being put on exhibition). Couple of minutes more & Dr. Anesthetist was back again. “How much should I give it to you?” he asked trying to tease me a bit. “The amount that will cause no pain Doctor” I replied. The next thing that was on my mind was what if he belonged to the Gurjar community & decides to give me half the dose in protest? “The protest is over you idiot” my inner self said. The Doctor was successful in distracting me as he injected a white fluid in the needle on my right hand without getting it noticed by me. I managed a quick look but suddenly the world around me started fading. “Doctor I’m going unconscious” I yelled. “Cool down boy. You are going into a new world” were the last words I heard before losing senses.  The next thing I remember is being transferred to a stretcher with a painful burning sensation in my left knee (that I didn’t know then that it will persist for days to come). For the next 4 days I slept all day, waking up only to take in food & medicines and experienced intense pain on any type of movement of the left leg. I was discharged the fifth day and the horrible ride back home (in which every pebble on the road aided in exponentially increasing my pain) made me regret any good feelings for the bumps. I gave sigh of relief on coming back home but who knew that the pain isn’t over yet. The Post Operative Trauma, physiotherapy, itching stitches & other allied problems will make me remember it all for the rest of my life.       

Oppurtunities come down the drain.If u won't pick them up, somebody else will. So if u can't pick them up, make sure THEY DON'T FLOAT.

If you want something then just let it go free.

If it comes back to you, it was destined to be yours.

If it doesn't, you wouldn't have got it anyway.

I know I am partially responsible for the fact (owing to my mysterious behavior) that people don’t trust me. My acts of kindness are often scrutinized to my disbelief & agony. The subtle variations of my ex-pressions are observed in fear of deceit & tyranny. A faint smile at pressure moments is misunderstood as an act to extract pleasure out of a hidden mischief. For instance, during the recently concluded examinations I was looked down upon many a time by the people whom I went up to for help. They thought that I already know what I have come asking for & I was there, just to ridicule them.

This phenomenon is not recent in origin & goes way back to my early school days. As a kid I used to remain ill most times of the year & rarely went to school. This habit of mine carried on to my subsequent years of schooling (All credit to my doting mother who never forced me to go to school & who sometimes even suggested skipping school for the day. Anyways, thanks Mom for those wonderful & blissful holidays). So for the few days I attended school I was scolded by the teachers for not being regular & incomplete homework. Obviously, I asked some of my classmates for their notebooks. To my horror not even one of them was willing to part with his notes. “What if you won’t come tomorrow?” retorted one of them. Their case was strong. I didn’t argue much. Finally someone did show some pity & agreed to give me his notebooks on a promise that I will make it sure to be present the next day. Unfortunately, I forgot about this the next morning & skipped school. But the poor guy was fortunate enough as I realized in time my responsibility (my father returned the books back on way to his work). From that day on, I didn’t even try asking anybody. So, I used to spend the Zero Period at school updating my notebooks while everybody else chattered and gossiped.

In 12^th standard too some series of incidents (excursion to Mussourie & related events) made sure I was given names such as RVD (Rahul Vig Dhokhebaaz) & DTRV (Don’t Trust Rahul Vig). Can’t judge whether it was my forgetfulness or something else, that made me break promises or commitments. But the tag still hurts me as if it has been mercilessly engraved on my forehead. So, it’s a request. Please take it seriously……..”TRUST ME!”

“What is love?” Kuldeep asked with a mischievous tone. I knew he was putting the question to me. I acted as if I didn’t hear what he said & started moving my lips as if I was too deeply entrenched in my book. He knew what I was up to. “You don’t know the definition of love. Do you Mr. Love Guru?”  This remark took its toll on me & drops of sweat condensed on my forehead. After all, my contribution to social work was in question. “It’s a game of chess. You lose to win.” I didn’t look up but my face wore a broad smile. It was a definition I was proud of. I remember filling in the same in all slam books at school time. “You lose to win. So eventually you get to win. You win & your partner in love loses. Is that so?” Pat came the reply from Vinod who was sitting next to Kuldeep. Damn it! I said to myself. So much for the definition. I shouldn’t have said it in his presence. He’s a canny customer. Vinod has this special ability to turn your grey matter into vegetation. So much for tomorrow’s control system end semester examination, I thought. Let’s ruin it in a special way. “So what’s your definition Vinoo?” He closed his eyes as if he was directly connecting to God. “Well it depends.” He said with a raised eyebrow.” It depends what type of relation is it? Father-son, mother-son…….” He was going way beyond the boundaries of the topic so I had to stop him. “No wait. I’m not asking for love in blood relations. I guess it’s easy to understand in what context Kuldeep asked the definition.”

Pankaj, who was sitting next to me probably didn’t heed my words or he was just trying to aggravate my discontent to the morphing of the context of the debate. If Vinod had the ability to turn your mind to vegetable then I have no qualms in saying that Pankaj is an expert in deep frying that vegetable. “Yeah, right! I had read about this mother-son love in philosophy of sex & there they had written that…..” That’s it, I thought. This is not the way I wanted it to go. “Oh come on, you morons. Didn’t you hear what I just said? Relate to the topic please. It’s really serious.”

“So what’s your point of view, Ajay?” I made an attempt to delocalize the conversation and tilted sideways to look at Ajay as ‘THE PILLAR OF CONFUSION’( which stood right in the middle of our triple seater room serving as a divider & also as Ajay’s cupboard) was blocking my view. He must have rued the fact that I dragged him to this stupid debate.” Ask the one who started it all.” he said with a dry smile. All heads turned to the culprit of the day. “Why do you think I asked it? Really, I don’t know.” Kuldeep said defensively, as if he was pushed to the wall. For a brief moment everybody stared at the gravity of our ignorance. Ajay had a flash of light, “Hormonal Imbalance.” I heard somebody applauding the definition. Others authenticated it with silence. “Hmm…. Riveting!” I remarked. I really had no other words to say. Could have given another one relating love to control system but dropped the idea as I looked up to find everybody groping in their books. Kuldeep met my gaze in the process & smiled. I reciprocated his ex-pression & turned my thoughts to the book again.

This song is a favourite of mine since I was thirteen. Back then the reason was the presence of my favourite boyband 'BOYZONE' in the video of the song. Now the lyrics bear more relevance.

My love throws me like a rubber ball
Oh oh oh, the sweetest thing
She won't catch me or break my fall
Oh oh oh, the sweetest thing
Baby's got blue skies up ahead
But in this I'm a rain cloud
You know she likes a dry kind of love
Oh oh oh, the sweetest thing

I'm losing you
I'm losing you yeah
Ain't love the sweetest thing

I wanted to run but she made me crawl
Oh oh oh, the sweetest thing
Eternal fire, she turned me to straw
Oh oh oh, the sweetest thing
You know I got black eyes
But they burn so brightly for her
This is a blind kind of love
Oh oh oh, the sweetest thing

I'm losing you
Oh oh oh, I'm losing you
Ain't love the sweetest thing

Blue-eyed boy meets a brown-eyed girl
Oh oh oh, the sweetest thing
You can sew it up but you still see the tear
Oh oh oh, the sweetest thing
Baby's got blue skies up ahead
But in this I'm a rain cloud
Ours is a stormy kind of love
Oh oh oh, the sweetest thing

A strong winter wind blew as I strolled through the garden. I moved around, digging deep in my own thoughts, trying to soothe my feelings with the cold weather. But suddenly my gaze fell on a red rose. Almost panting to keep intact, and trying to hold on in every gush of the wind. It looked old, as I could see the dryness at the edges of the petals. I kind of enjoyed the way the red rose battled with the weather. But why was it struggling to hang on. It has to give away sometime or the other when it becomes too old to hold together. May be its the rose’s destiny. Everybody lives to die one day. But this world will come to an end if we won’t struggle for life. It’s the way of the life. Where there is death there is birth too. We are all born to die one day but before that our purpose of life must be accomplished. The petals had a purpose, they were there to fulfill it. A strong gush of wind followed my ideas and with a nasty blow the petals scattered all over the place. I gently picked up all the petals I could trace and kept them together. I sprinkled some soil on them so that they don’t fly away with the wind. After this gentle burial as I turned away, my gaze fell on a bud in the same shrub. I strolled back as the cold wind was making me shiver. I had a smile on my face that read ‘Life goes on’.