December is my most favourite month of the year. I had three of my MBBS professional year-end exams in this month, as well as the maximum salary cut for income tax, hence it is also a month which makes me stronger because I emerge on the other side of the year broke and humiliated and yet, alive. This December I got engaged, and hence it has added another special event to my annual December calendar called ‘You better remember the engagement anniversary or else…’.
As per Bollywood movies, for a nice engagement function, you need a guy, a girl, two rings and two huge families to clap and shower them with freshly devoured rose petals while the couple exchanges the rings. Thanks to my perseverance in my love story, the guy and the girl were available, and thanks to lack of other entertainment options in the 50s and 60s, we had huge families as well. All that was lacking were the rings, and then me and the better half dared to enter Carat Lane by Tanishq. (This is not a paid promotion, but a mere effort at showing off)
Within 5 minutes of our entering into the rings section, two ground rules were quickly laid out:
1. The salesman is interested in giving ‘madam’ the most expensive ring we can afford on the basis of his judgement of our financial status from our clothes and my nervousness.
2. He doesn’t give a damn about the ring I’m going to buy because frankly he gave me a look which, if translated into words, would read “Aisi shakal ke saath tujhe ladki mil gayi kaafi nahi hai ke ab tujhe ring bhi chahiye??”
Ring-shopping isn’t that tough a job for guys. You just got to stand next to your fiancée while she tries about three hundred designs, many of size of metal knuckles used by gangsters to put a stamp on people’s faces. Being the considerate, lovely woman that she is, she would ask the price of each ring before trying it on and then give a quick glance at me to check if I’ve fainted to the ground or not. The salesman would enjoy every moment of this at your expense because this cruel world finds it funny to watch a tall, lanky man sweat like a pig in an air-conditioned showroom.
After she had made her choice, it was time for my ‘dark brown, tendinous, never-heard-of-something-called-manicure with irregular patches of hair on fingers’ hand to try out rings. By then, the salesman and I had developed a bro-code about giving me a signal if the ring was too loud for my middle-class face or too big for my chopsticks-shaped fingers. It took some time, but I managed it without making my better half burst out into a fit of laughter.
We celebrated the event with a cold, happy-hours cheers of Bira White, and promised to exchange the rings soon so that we could flood the social media with the photos because that’s what she was getting engaged to me for.
What about me? Well, I did it for some new posts on this blog.