Oxymorons !!!!

“Paris”, his father – in – law announced with an air of pride. He was revealing the long kept, surprise honey moon gift to his daughter and son – in –law. “Paris for a week, oh Appa you are the best” his wife said emphatically kissing her dad.

Seeing her excitement he wondered “how weird can girls be ?”. He was always astonished by how girls took honeymoon so seriously. For an average, small town engineer who was brought up in a conservative Hindu family, honeymoon meant just one thing. After all he was never allowed to even have friends who were girls, forget girl friends. Guys like him had to wait for 25 years if not more to be with a girl. That too only after his parents found him grown up enough to be of marriageable age.

“Height and cold drives your hormones better”, his friends had told him. “That is why the newly weds go to mountain tops like Ooty, Kulu and Manali”, they justified. But Paris was not even in the mountains. “At least it would be cold” he assured himself.

He had thought that the time would come on the night of the marriage. But unfortunately the family astrologer had other plans. He prescribed something called the “Shanti Muhoortam” (peaceful/silent moment!), the divine moment for the unity of man and woman. It was the age old South Indian custom that mercilessly dictated the time until which the bride and groom could not touch each other.

Somehow for him the term was oxymoronic. He knew that the divine unity would be divine enough only when the unifying couple shouted and moaned with pleasure. The hundreds of movies that he had seen in various internet cafes along with his friends was a proof of that. Which itself would mean that the moment was not meant to be peaceful or silent. And here was the 80 year old astrologer in saffron clothing and long white beard wishing him exactly the opposite.

The prescription said the date was one week later that too at 6PM. “6PM, that is weird timing” he told himself. He was not concerned about leaving office early. If required he would even apply for a leave on that day. The wait had been too long. But the issue was that none of the members of his joint family would be asleep by then, even the kids. He could not imagine them giggling around just outside his bedroom.

But when he checked the date of the honeymoon he was relieved. Somehow father – in – law was one person who understood his feelings. As soon as the announcement was made father – in – law had asked him not to worry. Now he knew why he had said so. On the auspicious day they would be in Paris away from the joint family. Also when it was 6 PM in India it would be 1:30 PM in Paris.That was four hours after they landed there. Thankfully the astrologer meant 6PM Indian Standard Time. Everything was perfect.

The news of the honeymoon destination earned him great respect among his friends, especially Raju, the one guy who had until now never approved of him. Raju had an air about himself. He was the only one in the group who had a girlfriend (secret of course). He had also been to Europe once and had a long tale of adventures and escapades to tell his friends after he came back. As soon as he heard the news he said “Are tu toh bahut lucky hai yaar. Paris mast jagah hai. Bahut romantic. French kiss toh suna hi hoga tune. You will have fun”. Also Raju gave him a prized possession for his trip, a passport bag that you could tuck inside your pants. Raju advised him to use it. “Passport gum ho gaya toh bahut panga hoga” he had said. “Thank you yaar, tuh hi mera sachcha dost hai”, he replied.

He had always secretly looked up to Raju for anything remotely related to girls. So when Raju uttered the word “fun” it gave a new meaning for the trip. He imagined himself on the top of the Eiffel tower holding her close to him with cold breeze in the air. And then he would kiss her. The French kiss. "How apt", he thought.

When he told his sweet heart that they would definitely visit Eiffel tower she too was excited. Seeing the smile on her face he asked, “do you know what we would do when we get on top of it”. “Of course”, she replied. It was encouraging. He looked into her sparkling eyes and asked “what ?”. She looked back into his eyes. It was as if an AR Rahman tune was running in the background. With a soft blushy tone she replied, “We will take pictures. What else will we do”. “No wonder she comes from a Shanti Muhoortam - family”, he told himself.

The next two days were reserved for packing. The difference between male and female ideas of honeymoon became apparent in the respective list of things to take. She had a long list ranging from the make up kit to matching shoes. On the other hand he had minimal stuff especially after he was assured by Raju that European cities had vending machines in every corner.

Finally the day of travel arrived and they reached the airport. After the usual bidhayi tears of family /extended family members they finally had some solitude. The elaborate functions of the big fat Indian wedding never let the couple be alone in the day. And in the night they had to sleep in separate rooms even after being legally married, thanks to the astrologer’s prescription.

As they sat waiting for the flight they heard the announcement “Can I have your attention for a change”............ “How rude was that?”, he told his wife. But thankfully the Hindi announcement was clearer. It said “Dwar sankhya badlav ke liye dhyan de".

As they entered the airplane he saw an old lady, with folded hands, saying in his granny’s tone “Belcome, have a nice plight”. “She is definitely a Gujarati” his wife said with a smile. With white hair and saggy skin her hands were shivering.

He realized that there were things more oxymoronic than “Shanti Muhoortam”. This “old - air hostess” was a living, rather almost dying example of that. Father – in – law had booked their tickets in a Government airline citing economic reasons. Now he knew that the airline was cost effective because they saved on pension by not allowing their employees to retire at all! As they settled down another old lady with pure white hair shouted “help me no !!!!!!!!!”. She was referring to their hand baggage. She was too old to close the luggage room on top.

The 10 hour journey promised to be a definite pain in the ass thanks to the wooden seats covered only with a thin cloth. They were harder than the seats in any desi auto rikshaw.

After waiting for an hour after take off they were shown slight mercy when another lady brought them a bottle of water. He was so thirsty that he drank the whole bottle in one gulp. And when he asked for more the lady gave a stare and said “Penised”. “Excuse me”, he said. She replied “the water is penised”. “Another Gujju”, he told his wife.

The best part of the journey was that the cabin crew kept the Indian flavour intact. The whole atmosphere was a replica of any Indian railway platform. Unlike in private airlines where air hostess came to each passenger and asked politely if they wanted tea or coffee, the ladies here were walking around shouting at the top of their voice “Tea..... tea ...... tea....tea”.

Thankfully the airplane landed with just a shiver and an unusual screeching noise. The 10 hour journey was extended only by 3 hours. They stepped out of the airport into one of the most beautiful cities in the World. The icy wind of Parisian winter gave a soothing touch to their numbed asses. “French kiss” he rememberd.

They checked into the hotel room at around noon. This was the auspicious day. He was excited. After taking bath and spraying Parisian scent all over his body he put on a new T shirt and a black trouser. His wife was still busy unpacking all the stuff. He did not want to sound too desperate, so he waited. As she cleaned up the luggage she noticed the passport bag. “What is this?” she asked.

His wife was not very approving of the bag, especially because it was a used one. Though slightly torn and faded , was strong enough to hold the 50 page document that had the French Visa stamped on it. So he decided to demonstrate its utility.

“The idea is to keep the passport as close to your body as you can. So that even if you are mugged you will not lose the passport” he boasted as if he had invented it. He was giving a live commentary as he showed how to zip it and tuck it in. “First you have to put your belt through the bag’s loop. And then once you have worn the belt the bag dangles over your pant just below the loop, like this”. He laughed as he shook his hip.

“Then you have to turn the small bag inside”. As he said this he pushed the bag inside his pants. It did not help that the pant was too tight. So he had to push it harder. So hard that the bag went not just inside his pants but also the underwear. But he was so focused on the act that he could not feel the chill of the metallic zip on his skin. He continued to push it down and then came the disaster. He had not zipped the bag completely. As he pushed it harder the skin of "some" part of his body got stuck in the gap in the zip. In his enthusiasm he did not notice that his skin was moving along with the bag. In the heat of the moment he gave a final push to the bag and simultaneously cried out loud.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah”. He could feel the blood drops. The bag had completely gone inside but as it went down it painfully stretched "some" vital part of his body. Rather one of the most vital for a honeymoon.

“Oh my God. What Happened? Are you OK” she asked. He could barely speak. He just managed to squeeze out some words from his mouth “Nothing. I am Ok. I just need to go to the loo. Can you help me ?”. Since he could not stand upright she put his hand on her shoulders and he slowly limped to the bathroom. He got in and shut the door. The pain was killing him. He had to remove his pants to get the bag out. So he unbuttoned it but the belt was still on. He had to remove the belt. Sadly the loop through which the bag was hung on the belt was just as wide as the belt itself. So everything was stuck. His belt, pant, the bag and his skin. He thought of trying to tear the bag with a knife. But knife was too dangerous to use. It could damage things permanently. So he tried hard to pull the belt loose. But the bag clinged on too tightly to the belt.

After about 15 minutes he heard his wife’s voice. “Should I call a doctor?”. Calling a doctor would be too embarrassing. This was like many of those great points in life when one has to face things all alone. So he shouted back “No need. I am alright. Will be out in two minutes sweety. Moreover we do not have any insurance. It is mandatory in Europe”. "This would calm her down" he thought. Instead she said “You do not sound very well. I will at least call the reception”. He could hear her footsteps fading. He had to do something, else it would be the greatest embarrassment of his life, that too in a foreign land, in front of foreigners.

So he closed his eyes, prayed for a second and with one violent rush pulled the belt. Unfortunately, he had called on the eternal bachelor in Hindu mythology, Hanuman. Probably he bestowed what he thought was the best thing for a man.

It all happened in a flash. The belt came off. But along with it, it brought the bag and some bloody skin with it. He shouted “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah”.

His pants had turned blackish red. He could not even touch that part of his body. But the agony and the pain did not stop him from hearing the cuckoo clock in the honeymoon suite strike 1:30. It was the “Shanti Muhoortam”.

He was rushed to a hospital. Things were stitched and bandaged as he cried with pain and the French nurses giggled. Before he left the hospital the doctor advised “do not wet the stitches for a week.” Seeing the puzzled look on his face he came near him and whispered in his ears with a French accent “you know what I mean”.

He overheard his father in law on his wife’s phone. "Do not worry I will ask him when the next Shanti Muhoortam is". “Ok Appa, btw we will go to Eiffel tower tomorrow” she said.

That is when he realized what the doctor meant. The next one week was to be more oxymoronic than “Shanti Muhoortam” or “old-air hostess’. He was on a “sexless honeymoon”.