Thanking a woman, who, thankfully, wouldn’t be reading it

She thinks that I’m a virgin. For sure, she has got a lot of faith and confidence in me. She believes that I’ll remain as one till I get married. That’s what I would call overconfidence. Or rather, an overdose of overconfidence, to believe that I will get married, in the first place.

If I ever get married, and if the then-happily-married-to-me wife somehow didn’t get pregnant in three months, she is going to think that I’m impotent. She’s always too demanding. And in the occurrence of such a going-smooth-as-a-river situation where the wife gets pregnant and deliver a human baby, and if, the newborn doesn’t have a pair of big ears, or big eyes, or at least a big nose, she is going to doubt the wife’s fidelity and my virility at the same time. She’s one hard nut to convince.

She thought I would never learn to count to ten. She’s a natural sceptic. She thought I’m never going to clear my nursery exams, leave alone the secondary school! She’s a tad too much of a sceptic.

She wanted me to become a bank clerk, or a schoolteacher. She’s one with high expectations. She dreamt that I could even become a bank manager or a college lecturer, and reach home before six in the evening; but she knew that’s just a dream. She’s a practical dreamer. She thought high of these professions only because of the convenient working hours. She’s, literally, a practical one. She knows those fixed working hours are convenient to look after a patch of land and a few cows, and a few goats, and a few pigs, and some poultry. She’s practical minded to the minute detail, even to the extent of being calculative.

When she cooks anything that has no fish or meat in it, it tastes nothing but fresh turmeric, and she blames it on her husband, who won’t eat anything that looks any shade of white. She’s the spice of her home, the only woman among four savage men!

She hates FTV, because they don’t show anything she can wear; and she loves newsreaders, because they change sarees everyday. She knows her taste. And every day she wonders why don’t Tamil and Hindi actors get chronic back pains! She sure can see through the glitz and glamour. She hates serials and complaints that her husband doesn’t allow her to watch the comedy shows. She got a weird sense of humour. She likes Deepika more than Manorama, because Manorama publishes more non-catholic obituaries. And she will feel disappointed on a day, if at least five people she knows didn’t die. She can’t live without being empathetic.

She got married to the first one who agreed, and the first one her father approved, which could possibly happened in the reverse order. She’s a god fearing, convent-educated girl. She believes her great ancestor had got baptised by none other than St. Thomas in AD. 52! She got good faith. Her husband thinks it must be in AD 53 or 54, because her family just can’t be older, and thus better, than his. He doesn’t know that her faith is unshakable. He thinks she's impossible, and for once, I agree with him.

In July that year, just a couple of months after her marriage, along with the generous south-west monsoon that came with droplets as big as coffee beans to play drum rolls on the tiled roof of her room, came an embryo; and that parasite made a good home in her womb. She’s a good host. No neighbour came to retell her Luke 1:42, and she knew the sucker she’s got is a little devil. She’s good with omens. Albeit, she was pretty happy for her growing waistline, because that let her to leave her husband for six months and be back in her father’s home. She’s one good daughter. Her husband too was happy, because his idea of a perfect job is something that is done with the minimum possible time. And the little sucker was too happy, because he was a sucker, and knew he will remain as one for many years to come. That’s how a happy family was born. She’s a good homemaker.

And the time had come to pass, and the little devil was out to learn new vices. Giving her the pain of her life. It was about this hour and exactly thirty years back that the most horrible hours came to pass her. That little devil remembers her with gratitude, about the pain she endured for him, on this very day in 1977, and every day after that.

23^rd of April is also:

St. George’s feast. The saint who protected a country for a sexy chick, and who protects the land and livestock of Syrian Catholics in Kerala for a good chicken… err… rooster. The legend is that he was the Knight of Cappadocia, in modern day Turkey, and killed a dragon, which was troubling the people of Silene, thought to be in today’s Libya. He later was executed by the Roman Emperor Diocletion on this day in A.D. 303. He’s the most venerated saint in Oriental Orthodox Churches, and is the patron saint of Canada, Catalonia, England, Ethiopia, Georgia, Greece, Montenegro, Portugal, Serbia, and the cities of Istanbul, Ljubljana and Moscow. The Roman Catholic Church has reduced his to an optional memorial in 1969, since there are no available historical evidences for his legend. In Kerala, his feast is also known as Kozhipperunnal (feast of the chickens), for the tradition of giving the best rooster among the poultry to the church on this day. He’s believed to protect the livestock from ailments, and the land from natural calamities, and the people from snakes and wild animals. If he’s pleased with the chick, that is.

The birthday of William Shakespeare. There are no records for this either, but according to the baptism records he was baptised on 26^th of April 1564, and is assumed that this is done three days after this birth according to the tradition in those times. But somehow he managed to die on the same day in 1616.

Death anniversary of Miguel de Cervantes. Though by records, the famous Spanish novelist, poet, and playwright died on 23^rd of April, 1616, it was not the same day Shakespeare died. Because, Spain was following the Gregorian calendar, and England the Julian one. Though they both had died on the same day of the same year, Shakespeare had actually died after ten more sunsets. Anyways, 23^rd April it is.

The birthday of Vladimir Nabokov. The Russian-American author of the highly overrated work Lolita, which has only two qualities – the shock value in the 50s, and his natural mastery over wordplay. He was also a lepidopterist (one who chases butterflies), and never had learnt to drive a car.

The birthday of Maurice Druon, Manuel Mejia Vallejo, and Halldor Laxness. People I have never heard about before. Maurice Druon is a French novelist, and was a Minister of Culture for a couple of years in the 70s. Vallejo is a Columbian writer and journalist, and was in exile for 7 years after the publication of his first novel. Halldór Laxness is an Icelandic novelist and the winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1955. I would like to read to some of his books. Got the hint?

The World Book and Copyright Day. Observed by UNESCO to promote reading, publishing, and protection of intellectual property rights through copyrights from 1995. The tradition actually started by the booksellers in Catalonia in 1923 as a way to honour Cervantes who died on that day – the feast of their patron saint, St. George.

The birthday of four other people I personally know. And I’ll tell you, all these four people have as different characters as chime, chalk, cheese, and charcoal. And I have my invincible army against the myths of Zodiac in them.

Of a reason why I can’t afford a marriage

When it comes to economics, I’m more at lost than Ms. Sawant is in elegance. What I know about the subject are some simple facts. Like it’s stupid to pay a bottle’s price for an ounce of drink in a pub. Or, that you can’t buy something when you can’t afford it. Complex things like why a credit card is being offered only when you have more than enough debit, flies fast over my head. And I am very well amused when I hear or read about funny amateur theories of economics.

Since the day my country got a crush on global economic development and started embracing so-called progressive liberal economic policies; amateur economic experts have been spawning up here and there. Almost every one who has more money than enough to make the ends to meet became a self-proclaimed authority in economics. Just like almost every literate belongs to proletariat assume of being a profound communist thinker in Kerala.

It was one report about a assembly discussion happened in Kerala, and a self-proclaimed freakenomist’s comment on it that provoked me to think of my ignorance in economics now. I was entertained by the same economist’s observation that increasing prices actually helps to fight and to a certain extend eliminate individual greed, on one earlier occasion, and had mentioned it in my last post.

The Kerala Assembly recently had got together to condemn ostentatious weddings in the state and came out with suggestions to curb wedding expenses. The leftist state government believes it should intervene to curb extravagance in marriages, wants to come out with a law to limit marriage expenses. The opposition is too in favour of this, but not the above-mentioned economist. This very funny economist states that the motivation for such a move is pure jealousy than sensible economics. Sensible, arguably, is the funniest adjective that I know of, and it can make almost every noun look oxymoronic.

The theory presented is not new, but the same ghost of the ugly liberalisation fairy. If the state promotes lavish weddings instead, it will pump more money into the economy, and will provide employment to related industries. It sure does pump money into the economy, but pumps from where? And why does this economist call it stupid populism when it actually cuts down employment of economically lower classes? Just another accidental paradox? Or the legendary lack of human insight natural to people who are too comfortable in their chairs?

A middle class wedding in Kerala is not as extravagant as the adjective suggests. It doesn’t last for a week, but only a few hours; and it costs only about Rs. 1-5 lakhs. And this amount is only a part of the expenses for the bride’s family, irrespective of cast or religion. In Hindu communities, the bride’s family organises the wedding; in other communities, the dowry is handed over in advance. And the expenses for the marriage ceremony is a percentage proportional to the dowry offered.

There of course are laws against dowry; and it has been surpassed by the legitimate will of the parent to ‘gift’. If the government comes up with another law to put restrictions on wedding expenses, that too might be surpassed with some other logic. But that doesn’t mean the government should encourage it, if it can’t eliminate it. And if the law is enforced, it’ll be easier for the parents to ‘marry off’ their daughters, but could be bad on banks and in turn, the thriving economy.

Now it triggers the freakenomist hormones in me. If the government brings up a law to make it mandatory that every wedding should be lavish for the noble purpose of pumping more money into the economy, there would be lesser marriages arranged and excecuted by parents in the state. That may not help the economy much, but might force people think a little more sensibly, and humanly, when it comes to a marriage. But then that is not populism or sensible economics. And therefore won’t be having any takers.

If only she had loved herself, as much as he loved himself

She asked him to write. She asked him to write more. She asked him to write more about him. She asked him to write something about her. She, who doesn’t like asking.

He said no. He said no again. He said no yet again. He will say no for one more time. He, who knows what an unwanted yes is, and still, cannot tell it from a wanted one.

She thinks he is too good to be true. He thinks she is too good for him. She and he don’t know one important thing. It is also true that it would be too bad if they don’t have each other.

This piece is not about her. It’s not about him either. It’s about everything else. It’s about everyone except him and her. That’s because, she thinks, everything else is more important than him or her. And that’s also because, he thinks, it’s not right to tell her that she’s wrong.

Right is one of the most ambiguous words. It means many things and it’s seldom right. One doesn’t feel the right to define it, or when one does it’s either wrong, or loses its direction. I am writing this knowing that he and she will read it. He and she will think it was not right to write about it. Still, I have the right to write it, for he’s mine as much as she’s mine.

Owning is a feeling that is most difficult to rely on. One can’t own a thing unless everyone else approves the ownership. But one can always go around it and redefine the very concept of ownership. That is what I would do, because, it’s easier than trusting everyone for a thing I own. The only thing I have to do is to deny every one else. This philosophy is priceless; as it makes me own anything I want to. Thus, I can own myself, him, her, and everyone else. At this moment, I want to own only him and her. I own them. So can and does, anyone, who wants to own him and her. And, to my trouble, there are many who want to.

Every single self is selfish. Only a few are aware of it, and even few among them respect its existence. It’s with the rest – who doesn’t know the existence of their selfishness, and thus, are selfless – I have to fight for my rightly owned ownership. Then, it becomes a fight between a lonely selfishness and a huge mass of selflessness. Ownerships, naturally and in the name of virtuosity, switch sides. Right is being redefined, as usual, with wrong virtues. Selfishness loses the self, and joins the veteran loser, named me. They beat me with my rules. I am, once again, ridiculed for my selfishness in contrast to their selflessness.

Now, it’s them who own her and him. I am here to approve their ownership, by letting him to lose her, by letting her to lose him, and me losing both. I should be happy being the best loser, owning nothing but my own selfishness. Losers with nothing more to lose are a desperate lot. They will never let the last thing they own – their selfishness. My selfishness is bruised from the lashes of their selflessness. And my selfishness wants its blood to ask for vengeance. It has only me to go to ask for help. It’s the only thing I own. We have only each other, and no one else.

That is reason why I stand by my selfishness and decide to put up a fight against them of the selfless. My fight is for him and her, whom I want to own forever. My lonely battle is to save my selfishness from its loneliness by gifting it the company of him and her. I know they don’t love her or him. That won’t win me my war. Because I also know, they love her and his ownership, selflessly. Selfishness has seldom won a battle against selflessness, and even on the rare occasions when it did, selfishness had to lose its self in the effort. That prompts me to have second thoughts. If I have to lose my selfishness to own him and her, the same him and her I want to gift to my selfishness, is it a battle worth fighting? Yes, it is. If I couldn’t win him and her from them, still I will have my selfishness with me. He and she are worth more than my selfishness, after all.

Those have his ownership will hate her, for losing his ownership. Those have her ownership will hate him for losing her ownership. If they lose their respective ownerships, they will hate him, her and each other. They will have to hate in the name of their selflessness. Poor them. When they lose they won’t even have their selfishness to console them. It’s not a battle they can afford to lose, or they should lose. They will dress him and her in armours of their selfless love to fight against me. Him and her, my selfishness loves. Him and her, I want to own at the cost of my selfishness. It’s not him or her I can fight with, but the rest. He and she can defeat me without a fight, and they will.

I am lost before the fight. I walk away without looking back. Blaming the ones who love his ownership, and hate everyone who come to claim it. Blaming the ones who love her ownership, and hate everyone who come to claim it. Blaming her for putting on that armour of selfless love her owners offered for fighting against me. Blaming him for not respecting his selfishness and not listening to its commands. And feeling guilty for worrying for him and her, when I should have been content with company of my selfishness. Only if, he had given her what she wouldn’t ask, or she would have asked what he wanted to give, I would have been sleeping peacefully tonight. It’s already too late, she had told him.

This piece is written by a demand from a very dear friend of mine, and is dedicated to that invaluable friendship.