Wednesday, March 21, 2012

Arrival of the wed

If there is a skill my mother has -- even though she will resent the implied, hypothetical singularity of that one credit -- it is her ability to mix with the plebs. To win them over and to enjoy herself in the process. She can do this. She's an un self conscious winner of plebs. My father, me, my brother -- not so much. Of us remaining three, and by mere fluke of gender genetics, I come next -- in this winning over of plebs. If I want to I could. I can. But I'm sure as hell not un self conscious about it.

My one "jungli cousin" and his bride are coming over to dinner this evening. He's a second cousin with whom -- without meaning to come off as a repellent snob --  I believe, I have nothing in common. When we were little, my brother and I named them jungli cousins (the freshly married one, his brother and his first cousins -- all of whom were our second cousins) because that's what they were. "Heathens", we also called them. God knows where we picked that up from. Heathens, junglis, anything else that was more than marginally pejorative, was automatically them. Why? Oh because they broke my watch once.. and mumble mumble.. But anyway. Let's not hold 16-year old grudges against the newly wed JC. So, with age doing its bit to up the maturity etc, when we now meet, two maybe three times a year, I like to believe, there's some good-natured small talk that is neither strenuous nor totally jungli.

He got married last month, JC1. I attended. When I hug-congratulated him and asked how he was surviving, he made a crack about being the victim. His wife, I met too. I thought she didn't look young. I didn't care for her sari. But then I don't care for maroon. She, Mrs JC1, I felt, looked unenthralled by the fuss, the proceedings, the being a bride-ness of it all. As if marigold- no marigold made no difference.  I could, of course, be entirely wrong, pissed off as I was then that the vodka was not behaving like vodka in my skull usually behaves.

Anyway, so today my mother has reminded to be home on time. It doesn't look nice (if I'm not). She told me this a week ago -- be home on time on the 21st. Plus it doesn't look nice. They're coming to dinner; my mother's cousin brother, his wife, their son and his wife. And newly wifed as she is, a present is to be given and she is to be fussed over. Poor thing, having to do all these rounds of bore family show-facing; automatically she extracts some empathy from my marrow, the depths of my smirky being.

I can't imagine ME doing all this. I'm not saying I dread it, or that I'd be bad at it. It might be fun. But I just can't imagine me bowing my head, touching feet, saying haan ji, nahin ji, three bags full ji.  I never touch feet. It's just not something I've been brought up to do. Humare yahan nahin ladkiya nahin kartin -- girls don't touch feet in this hood. New sis in law bridey, I guess, might. It always amuses me when someone assumes my mother 'senior' enough, L'oreal hair dye or not, whose feet are to be lunged for. She fumbles with these blessings she's supposed to dole out. It's expected of her. Place hand on bridey's head and emit a genuine-ish murmur of the god bless kind. It's hugely entertaining for me. I guess in time, I might have to grow into the role of blessed fumbling murmurer, too. But till that happens, all I'm required to do is be home on time. It doesn't look nice.

6 comments:

The Unbearable Banishment said...

Your mother's superpower is the envy of politicians around the world.

No one has ever said your name and the words "repellent snob" in the same sentence, I'm sure.

I asked a girl to touch my feet once and she said it would cost an extra $10.

I still really like your posts.

Nimpipi said...

Oh, there's been a cow or two who once in a way has called me a snob. Between you and me, I make it difficult for them to not - this by way of entertainment. Such sad lives we lead, UB. And I'm so bored at work, I think I might do another post.

Love that you're still reading. <3

P.S: Tenner saved is a tenner earned. :)

Anonymous said...

oh touching feet is awesome, especially if you haven't done it before.

I have been in your shoes, well sort of anyway, and been made to touch feet. My parents were suitably amused, I was suitably embarrassed, feet-touchee's were suitably happy.

It was a most suitable evening. Even if there were no lawyers around.

*runs*

- k

The Soul of Alec Smart said...

You know what's really awkward? When you get married and your new husband is lunging for all the feet he can see, someone nudges you to join him and YOU go - "nahin hamaare yahaan ladkiya nahi kartin". A moment and their horrified expression later, it gets awkward.

Anonymous said...

I always just bend down and touch my own feet

Nimpipi said...

K: I'm sure I might go through the motions if and when the time comes. Also, I didn't get the lawyer jibe. So you can stay.

Alecy: helloo helloo; i can't even imagine, ya. "new husband" is alien to me. but let's wait. :)

Anon: hah, yea, I do that too. But it flies only at yoga.