His head felt like one of the gongs at the monastery. Especially like those ones, which reverberate under the pressure of a golden hammer and vibrate as if their existence depended upon that sole motion. The only factor which differentiated his head from the single faceted gong was the presence of a nagging headache. He was fairly certain that gongs, whether in a monastery or not never ever experienced anything akin to a headache; leave alone the nauseating sickness of a full—blown hangover. He willed the headache to go away. But it was as good an effort as politely asking the old woman next door to keep her poodle off your front lawn. The headache stayed put.
He tried to sort the mess of incoherent thoughts, flirting with each other, inside his head. Vague memories of the earlier night nudged themselves between his eyelids. The image of a golden clad, dusky—skinned lap dancer was overlapped with somebody dropping ice in his Jack Daniels causing it to splash against the inner walls of his glass in photographic delights.
It had to be a Sunday. He never indulged in ostentatious amounts of alcohol during weekdays or on a Sunday. It was not a hard and fast rule. It was just that he found it rather difficult to summon his scattered wits into making sense of a mundane working day and would rather save himself the effort of doing that if he could. Besides, experience insisted that his hangover would be incomplete without a headache and the lingering stench of alcohol on his breath. Sunday granted him the pleasure of privacy to rinse his mouth with mouth fresheners and recuperate enough to handle a Monday.
So, if today felt like a Sunday, yesterday would have to be a Saturday. He almost felt like sitting upright in his bed and patting himself on the back for arriving at this remarkable deduction within a matter of seconds. But his body, dehydrated by the alcohol from the earlier night, pleaded for moments of prolonged rest.
He was about to give in to this very humble demand, when his mind conjured images of his washer and dryer and his piling laundry. He groaned aloud, knowing nobody would be around to hear him. It was moments like these, which made him wish he was back in Jaisalmer and waking up to the bustling noises which his mother's saree made as she whooshed past him. She would gather all his clothes, have them washed, laundered and ready to wear, without him even voicing such a desire. But miles away in Munich, he would rather battle the hangover and succumb to the demanding laundry than shell half his salary to hire a housemaid who would do the needful. No wonder people around him were getting married left, right and centre. It was the more economic option.
The subtle ache which had so far hovered around the periphery, was now announcing its presence in headlines. His throat felt dry and hoarse. He did what he always did in situations as these, he promised himself never to touch alcohol again.
He normally got carried away with drinking at Bachelor Parties. It was an effort to drown the memories of his glaring bachelorhood as yet another fellowman stood on the threshold of blissful matrimony. He would celebrate the end of the single regime of his friend, or his friend's brother, as they finally ended their twenty something struggles of solitude. He toasted wholeheartedly to their wonderful times of togetherness, which would soon become a very important part of their drunken complaining. But they would at least be complaining about something new! After eons of moping about unsuccessful attempts to woo the right girl, he would finally move on. It was like being promoted.
At thirty—four, Arjun still felt like that back bencher in school, who greeted new classmates every time, because he failed to make it to the next level with his then set of batch mates. It was agonising. He would wistfully hope he would soon be throwing his own bachelor party someday and some lone bachelor would envy him from a distance, while appearing to be the happiest guy at the brouhaha.
The mornings after the bachelor party would invariably be the most difficult. Not only would he be groping with self—tried remedies to soothe an increasing headache while simultaneously contemplating a non—cereal breakfast; but he would also have to deal with the piling, supposedly concerned, questions of his family.
In perfect sync with his thoughts, his cell phone started to ring. Like every other Sunday morning, this morning too he chose to ignore this interruption. Nobody, other than his family would be so caringly inconsiderate as to wake him up at a brutal hour on a hangover morning.
From the dark recesses of his sluggish mind, he fished out an image of his father rocking in the old teakwood chair by the window, glaring at the ancient teakwood clock, willing it to move faster. At precisely one in the afternoon, he would shout for his mother.
"It is nine in the morning in Munich! High time he woke up! Get me the phone!"
His mother would scurry in with the cordless. His father would then fish out his reading glasses and punch in his phone number slowly with one finger. He would hold the phone to his ear and hear it ring miles and miles away. When Arjun still wouldn't answer the phone, his father would mutter something under his breath and resume his rocking.
"He must be sleeping," his mother would attempt to explain.
At this his father would bellow at her, as if it were all her fault. "Who sleeps till nine in the morning? As if we never worked in our lives and we never had a Sunday off! We used to get up at five in the morning and help around with the camels! But no! King Arjun wants to be sleeping!"
Right now, he so badly wanted to be sleeping. The headache seemed to be beating a retreat. He pulled the covers off him and let the cool breeze blow over him. He tried to focus on whose bachelor party he had attended yesterday. He remembered seeing a lot of Indian faces; maybe it was one of his Indian connections in Munich. He must have had a little too much to drink, because floating amidst the sea of faces, he remembered seeing the familiar dark—skinned apparitions of his cousins and uncles. Did Alcohol induce hallucinations?
He was over cautious at any Indian bachelor party in Munich. Besides, the building pressure from his family to wed a suitable bride, the match—making brothers and uncles at these kinds of parties would zone in on him with unfailing determination. His inbox was filled with alleged matches from India, scooped up from various matrimonial websites. Once every two weeks, a big fat envelope arrived, via snail mail, containing photographs of prospective brides referred by their family pundit.
While doing his laundry, he would return the call from India. His mother would begin her conversation with, "How are you? What are you doing?"
"Nothing much. Sunday laundry!" He would reply, trying to juggle his clothes basket as he dumped his clothes into the washing machine.
"See? If you were married by now, my daughter—in—law would have done all this through the week and you would be resting like the rest of the world does on a Sunday! What do you hold against a marriage?" She would ask him exasperatedly.
He would just mumble something. He had no clue how to begin to explain to his mother that her definition of a daughter— in—law did not match with the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. His mother would then proceed to question him as to whether or not he had liked any of the girls from the pictures sent to him. Then he would also have to come up with why he did not like them and what exactly was it that he was looking for.
His father would take over from his mother and after berating him for waking up after nine in the morning; would tell him in no uncertain terms that thirty—four was not an age to be choosy. The conversation would last till the clothes were swirled through the dryer and carried back upstairs.
"You are thirty—four! You can't gallivant around on the streets of some foreign land pretending you are eighteen. You have to come back! You belong to India, to Rajasthan; this is where your future is and where your responsibilities lie. Looking after your elders! Your dadaji has one foot in the grave. What is he waiting for? That his grandson will return and present to him his beautiful bride, so that he can look forward to playing with his great grandchildren before he leaves us for good!" His father would always conclude, making him wish that his father would for once treat him like the thirty—four—year—old he was.
He sighed heavily and decided to coax his lethargic senses into some action. Aspirins would quell his headache, he knew. That would at least give him enough strength to make a strong
cup of coffee. He spread a blind hand in the general direction of the bed side table, to rummage in the drawers for the familiar bottle. His hands just grasped thin air. He groaned and probed a little further. Still Nothing!
He knew something was wrong then. Very slowly and with painstaking effort, he opened his eyes to a slit. He watched the golden dust dance in the morning rays, filtering in through the huge open windows. They made him think of meditating models. He smiled to himself as he remembered how they would artificially try to create the effect of a bronze sunlight and swirling mists. And here he had a natural abundance of it, complete with the cool breeze which was caressing his bare—chested existence.
Cool breeze? Natural sunlight? It definitely did not sound like a December morning in Munich! Something was definitely wrong. He sat up straight in bed, and waited for the room to refocus its glory.
The flimsy white curtains billowing in the breeze, gave the entire room a dream like quality. A plush diwan rested against the wall in front of him, adorned with throw pillows of various shades and patterns. He did a double take, when he saw his picture sitting smartly on the secretary near the main door of the room. Belatedly, his memory rose to greet the morning.
With a groan, he collapsed back on the bed. No, he hadn't been drinking too much. It had been his uncles and cousins at that party last night. And it was not 'that' party, it was his party! His Bachelor Party! Exactly the one, he had been planning all those times he had been getting drunk in Munich. It was nothing like the ones he had planned, but nevertheless it had been his! He was reeling from a hangover of his very own bachelor party!
For one moment, he wanted to jump out of bed and whoop for joy. He felt that he had accomplished something big in life. The next moment, he wanted to curl and go back to sleep and not wake up to face the day. As he turned in his pillow, he came face to face with his cell phone.
He eyed the elegant model as he tried to figure out what was nagging him. When it hit him, it had the effect of an avalanche hurling itself on a small hunting fire. His phone had been ringing earlier this morning. But if he was in Jaisalmer in his bed, it was not going to be a phone call from 'his family in India,' which had suffered his ignorance.
He muttered an oath and reached for his cell phone. Sure enough, the display of his cell phone screen flashed 17 missed calls and 21 new messages. He let out another groan and punched the show button.
All of the 17 missed calls were from Babie. He lovingly called his fiancé, Babie. As to why he called her Babie, is yet another story. But right then, he could almost smell trouble for not answering a single of those 17 missed calls, that too, just two days before their wedding!
With a sense of increasing dread, he began to read the messages.
Date: 23rd December 2007 Time: 20:06
Text Message 1/21
From: Babie
Hey honey! Have a blast! After all, this does mark the end of your bachelorhood: P
Date: 23rd December 2007 Time: 20:10
2/21
From: Babie
No reply! Looks like you are having loads of fun ;
Date: 23rd December 2007
Time: 21:30 3/21
From: Babie
Don't get so caught up in fun that you forget to have dinner ok? Love ya.
Date: 23rd December 2007 Time: 22:45
4/21
From: Babie
Was waiting for a reply, but looks like you are too busy ;
Call or text when you can!
Date: 23rd December 2007 Time: 23:15
5/21
From: Babie
Have called you like a million times! What are you so busy with?
Date: 23rd December 2007 Time: 23:33
6/21
From: Babie
I know bhai had arranged for some lap dancers! Didn't think you would stoop that low!
Date: 23rd December 2007 Time: 23:45
7/21
From: Babie
Don't let your lap dancers make you forget that you have to be presentable for the mehendi tomorrow.
Date: 23rd December 2007 Time: 23:58
8/21
From: Babie
This is ridiculous! I have better things to do than wait to hear from you all night!
Date: 24th December 2007 Time: 00:22
9/21
From: Babie
Why are we getting married again? You obviously have no sense of commitment!
Date: 24th December 2007 Time: 00:52
10/21
From: Babie
If three days before OUR wedding, all you can think of is other women, why do u need me?
Date: 24th December 2007 Time: 01:03
11/21
From: Babie
I don't know why I am trying to call you, when I know u won't pick up!
Date: 24th December 2007 Time: 01:21
12/21
From: Babie
I am sleeping. Very discontented. This is not the guy I love and want to marry.
Date: 24th December 2007 Time: 01:43
13/21
From: Babie
I don't believe I am still awake and waiting to hear form an insensitive idiot like you.
Date: 24th December 2007 Time: 02:35
14/21
From: Babie
I am going to be the only bride in the history of India to appear at a ceremony with dark circles and bags under her eyes and it is all thanks to you.
Date: 24th December 2007 Time: 02:52
15/21
From: Babie
I don't even want to be a bride anymore.
Date: 24th December 2007
Time: 03:02 16/21
From: Babie
How clichéd but true – all men are horny bastards.
Date: 24th December 2007
Time: 03: 17 17/21
From: Babie
Give me one reason why I should still be in love with you?
Date: 24th December 2007
Time: 03:24 18/21
From: Babie
Give me one reason why I would still want to marry you!??!
Date: 24th December 2007
Time: 03:37 19/21
From: Babie
Why am I still trying to get in touch with you?
Date: 24th December 2007
Time: 03:46 20/21
From: Babie
That was my last call to you. If it were up to me alone, the wedding would be off! Good Night!
Date: 24th December 2007 Time: 04:02
21/21
From: +919883456098
So, you are finally getting married huh? Congratulations! – Anita
Despite the twenty messages earlier, he found himself smiling. Anita…
