The Biyah Tales Episode 1: The Holy Ghost

“I once loved a woman, a child I am told. I gave her my heart and my soul.”

“I once loved a woman, a child I am told. I gave her my heart and my soul.” – Nonsensical Nemo (with apologies to Bob Dylan)  

Paul Simon once wrote: “The words of the prophets are written on subway walls.” That’s only partially true because the words of the prophets – the gospel of universal truth – can also be found in every single scene of Anurag Kashyap’s Gangs of Wasseypur.

For example, when one sees smoke bombs in Parliament, one instantly remembers Sardar Khan’s promise to fill a neighbourhood up with smoke while mocking his political rival with a Mithun-lookalike.  When an MLA shoots an opponent inside a police station, one is instantly reminded of Sardar Khan slapping his bete noire’s beta in a similar venue.

There’s the key scene where during a moment of utmost turmoil as he worries about his filius’ well-being he can’t find his car keys that puts an ontological spin on life screwing us by pointing out: “Gaa** mein dal liye ho kya chaabi?”

And of course, there’s the Biyah Scene, one of the greatest romantic moments onscreen where a topless Manoj Bajpayee asks a fiery Bengali woman: “Biyah ho gaya hai? Itna bada ho gayi ho. Abhi tak biyah nahi hua?”

It has been a running joke in my household, and whenever I ask my better half the same question, she’d reply: “Nahi. Kya karein, koi kar nahi raha hai.” Well, all that’s about to change now.

But first, a little walk down memory lane.

For the longest time, as far as I can remember, I have been opposed to the institution of marriage and the charade of conspicuous connubiality that accompanies it. Maybe it was because of the childhood trauma of attending a thousand weddings that’d entail sharing beds with unknown cousins or making small talk with relatives you see once a decade who would greet you saying: Koto bodo hoye geche (You’ve become so big). As if Einstein’s General Theory of Relativity states that time will slow down when two relatives haven’t met in a while.

And I’ve long supported same-sex marriage (or whatever alphabet wants to have socially-sanctioned coitus with whatever other alphabet), simply because I believed that it was unfair that only cis-hetero people had to live a life of legally-sanctioned monogamy.  

For starters, why does one need God’s or the government’s sanction – it’s hard to tell one apart from the other these days – to solemnise one’s love. I also wondered why society felt the need to reward people for their ability to find a mate when evolution has hardwired it in our genes that we are programmed to propagate our seeds and go forth and multiply. I mean unless, one’s a mechanical engineer and doomed to a Bhishma-like existence, is that something to celebrate?

Sadly, like Thanos, marriage is inevitable, except for Salman Khan of course. But first, since a lot of people will ask (or have asked): How did we meet?

The Saturnalia Miracle

Readers of Nonsensical Nemo know how I met the love of my life largely thanks to two individuals from opposing ends of the spectrum: Donald Trump and Ravish Kumar. But before I explain how, here’s a short trip down memory lane:

It was the day of Sir Isaac Newton’s birth anniversary in 2019 (right before a virus would forever alter our lives), when I matched with a lassie on Hinge who happened to be a Godfather fan.  (Fun Fact: She also matched with a prolific RTI activist who went on to become a Rajya Sabha MP.)

 We connected instantly. There was no small talk. She knew more about Harry Potter than me.  She was better read and smarter. She didn’t have a blank stare when I talked, understood most of my references and even learnt to appreciate Bhojpuri music. On the other hand, she introduced me to the joys of Telugu cinema (though now that means I can no longer listen to AR Rahman in Hindi in the house anymore).  She was the first girl I ever introduced to my pater, and we soon had a WhatsApp group where she was bestowed the sobriquet the Holy Ghost (Father, Son and HG).

But I wouldn’t have met her if it wasn’t for the man who has given a million and more pageviews: Donald Trump. It turned out Donnie’s boy’s anti-immigration rhetoric and a particularly racist boss (I imagine life is a little tough when you are the only non-white person without a penis in the room) had led her to swap New York for New Mumbai.

The second person who played cupid (or wingman) was the great poet who coined Monumania.

During a brief time when we were in different cities (and on a break), I decided to dip my toe back into the online dating pond. It was like speaking to a foreign species that was conceived after a Vice article humped a Buzzfeed listicle.

But what really made me sure that I was done with dating and wanted to spend my life being haunted by the Holy Ghost was a young woman I matched with on Bumble. A PhD scholar from one of India’s leading liberal arts institutes – who was working at the intersection of gender, caste and fighting fascism (thankfully, not on taxpayer’s moolah) – told me without a hint of irony that Ravish Kumar was India’s Bob Woodward. When I jokingly said that would mean I was India’s Franz Kafka, the PhD scholar took great umbrage.

This particular exchange made me realise that I was done with my childish Don Draper-meets-Barney Stinson Lothario fantasia and it was time to grow up.

We got back together and moved in, in December 2022.

After a year and more of living in sin, we decided it was time to get our union solemnised so that society (read: my mother) could finally stop worrying about who would inherit her gold if I remained wife-less. As an aside, for years, my mother has asked me: “What will happen to all my gold?” And my reply that I’d wear it like Bappi Da, was not an answer my mother considered appropriate.

But we soon realised, that wanting to get married and getting married are two completely different beasts. Getting one’s marriage solemnised in India without pageantry (and the least number of relatives) is harder than getting the three Khans to dance together in unison.

I neither have the funds, nor the inclination for a big affair (though I do have a friend who might do a Rihanna at the wedding). What I wanted was the antithesis of an Ambani wedding, a small painless affair involving the least number of people with a minimal passing acquaintance to Mammon. If it was possible, I would hit a switch and get married. But that’s absolutely impossible as I realised. Or to use a line from my favourite Indian writer of English, Jug Suraiya: “Expecting to build a house without pain and suffering is like expecting your nurse to have labour pain on your behalf.” The same goes for marriage.

So, I present a short series titled The Biyah Tales and hope that it doesn’t turn my marital life martial.

Next up: The Biyah Tales Episode 2: Temple Run and the Search for the Ring

Edited by: The Holy Ghost, soon-to-be Mrs Nonsensical Nemo.