Right....one small-medium veggie lunch and one Nimulid later, I'm in some sort of typing state (this post may, however, suffer from grammatical errors).

It's Sunday, and an exceedingly slow one at that....I have spent a large part of my waking hours this day fighting off a particularly nasty headache and a turbulent GI tract, the kind usually associated with an excessive intake of myriad types of alcohol followed by too much sleep….I would appear that I’m hung-over!

Which is odd, considering I've not touched a drop of the good stuff in, let's see now, almost 60 hours. Oh well, I suppose hangovers don't discriminate between users and non-users.

Also, my general sense of…er…well-being, was somewhat exacerbated by what seems to be becoming the flavour of the week, month and year for Sunday morning discussion topics with my family....

....WHEN is Crowley boy going to take the plunge?...walk down the aisle (or around the mandap, as the case may be)?

Now, I really have nothing against marriages. I hope that someday I will, too, be drowning in holy matrimony (I wonder if it’s like drowning in the Holy See?).

On the other hand, there’s no real rush now, is there? Certain arguments in favour of marriage (shelf-life, biological clock etc.), in my opinion, are a lot of poppycock. Certain arguments against marriage are also very tempting (the need to be “settled” in life….I’m getting there, but not quite yet). But, someone explain that to my parents. An example:

Crowley: Ok, folks, I’m off to work.

Mama Crowley (who resembles Ursula, minus purple skin and tentacles…real ones i.e.. Metaphorically, some mothers do ‘ave ‘em): Oho, you’re running off again? Why don’t you spend an afternoon with us? There are things we should talk about.

Crowley (with polite, yet exasperated, smile): Such as? I’ve just spent the entire morning helping you pull out woolies, made masala chai for you, even had lunch with you, and I don’t remember getting a word in edgewise! (Looks to Daddy Crowley for assistance)

Daddy Crowley: Yur! Grmph! (He means, “Whatever, leave me out of it”)

Mama Crowley: Uff, what I meant was, tell us (her) about your ‘future plans’.

Crowley: Um…I haven’t given them much thought. I’ll let you know when I’m done, eh?

Mama Crowley: But listen, you can’t go on being single like this. You’ve got to get married at some point…um…soon. At least ek girlfriend toh pakad le!

Crowley (long mental sigh): I’ll take it under advisement.

Mama Crowley: Will you quit the lawyer talk for once? You don’t fool me, you know.

Daddy Crowley (primordial litigator instincts momentarily aroused): Hmmm?! I object! (Returns to his reading of “The Practical Lawyer”)

Mama Crowley: I mean, just look at all my friends. Their kids are getting married one by one. Even Daddy’s friends are telling him “Ladka toh ab bada ho gaya hai. On his way to becoming a successful lawyer, yaar. Shadi kara de”.

Daddy Crowley: Oh dear, look at the time. I’ll be late for my meeting (scoots out of room…turncoat…ditching his F & B in a time like this).

Crowley (remembering that the best defense is a good offense, sits down): Really now? If I remember correctly, many of your friends don’t actually have kids to marry off, because, oh my, they never got married in the first place!

Mama Crowley: Oh. Um. DON’T change the topic! We’re talking about something else here.

Crowley: Like what? World peace? Somalian refugees? GM food? What?!

Mama Crowley: Look, don’t act difficult now. See, you can hunt for a suitable girl by yourself. If you find someone you really, really like, then great. We’ll have no problems at all. BUT, since we all also agree that you’re too picky about women, and you also procrastinate like nobody else, we’ll also, you know, rattle the bushes a bit, see what falls out? I mean, you needn’t meet them or anything. But, at least, photo aur profile hi check out kar lo.

Crowley (thoughtfully): Dead leaves and abandoned birds’ nests.

Mama Crowley: Kyaa?

Crowley: Er...that’s what you’d usually get if you rattled bushes, no?

Mama Crowley: Stop being a wiseass.

Crowley: Who’s ‘we’? (Please note clever use of cross-examination technique – shifting subject on the fly)

Mama Crowley: Eh? Who..er..

Crowley: Like you just said “We’ll also rattle the bushes”. So, who’s ‘we’?

Mama Crowley: Er. Your family. Your clan. It’s rather large, if you’d care to remember (sniffs).

Crowley (sensing onset of yet another emotional blackmail session, but not really giving a rat’s arse): Riiight. So, a bunch of people, who I rarely meet, who don’t really know me, or what I do for a living, or even how old I am (“You’re 25?!?! God, you were such a bachha when I saw you last!”), are going bride-hunting for me? C’mon ma, I’m sure they have better ways of spending their free time. And they have kids to marry off too, no?

Mama Crowley: Hmph. No, YES! Erm, whatever. It’s pointless talking to you.

Crowley (smells victory, and moves in for the kill): And, see, what’s the big rush? I mean, wouldn’t you rather have me peacefully single and getting on with life? Look at Scooby. He’s spending more time fighting his own case in divorce court than he is fighting his clients’ cases!

Mama Crowley (haughtily): Scooby picked the wrong girl to marry. He should’ve waited for a bit longer.

Crowley (AHA!): Ye-es. He should’ve waited a bit longer to marry the girl he dated for 6 years, so that she wouldn’t walk out on him 6 months after they got married. What you’re saying makes no sense, ma. If it has to happen, it’ll happen. Don’t worry yourself over it. Case dismissed. Can I go now?

Mama Crowley: *Sigh*

Crowley: And look at what’s happening to kids who’re getting married in a hurry. They’re getting topped off or arrested or seeking police protection. I can live without all of that, don’t you think?

Mama Crowley: But what will I do with all this jewelry and..and..all these nice saris that I’ve been stocking up on? Who will I pass them on to? Can’t you be a little considerate?

Crowley (there, see? The other shoe just dropped): Huh? What do I look like, a pawnshop owner? You do what you want with them, ma. Melt them. Give them away. Give them off to your daughter, for crying out loud. And, anyway, considering you’ll probably outlive all of us, I don’t see you palming off your jewelry etc. to anyone in the near future, haha.

Mama Crowley (shocked whimper): Hey bhagwan! What do I do with this boy?

Crowley (sugarysyrupysweet): You let him get on with work.

Mama Crowley (administering what she feels would be the coup de grĂ¢ce): Oh, to hear the pitter-patter of little feet in this house again. I’m imagining it already *SIGH*.

Crowley: You’re not imagining anything, mother dear. There are rats in the house.

Mama Crowley (injured, you-popped-my-dream-bubble, snarl): Out….OUT…GRRR!!!

Crowley: Tsk, tsk (actually, hee hee hee).

So much for attempts to get me married, though I’m sure this conversation will happen again.

In other news, I was ‘pleasantly surprised’:

Crowley: Hmm hmmm hmm….I’m on the outside, I’m lookin’ in. I can see through you, see your true colours. ‘Coz inside you’re ugly, ugly than me…..

Super polite intern (who calls me ‘Sir’): *Koff koff* Sir, you sing really well.

Crowley: Oh. Erm. Hehe. Why, thank you.

Lately, quite a few people have been telling me this. I wonder why. I have a flat voice, and a fear of microphones…..odd.

1 Scallywags have walked the Plank |:

Purely Narcotic said...

WHEN is Crowley boy going to take the plunge?...walk down the aisle (or around the mandap, as the case may be)?

Or just sign in the papers and hand 'em in? :P