I hate religious functions. Call me a lazy idiot, a freak, an atheist, an uncultured Indian woman, a blot on Indianness or a shame on womanhood, anything. But this is what I am.
And this applies irrespective of whether I’m attending or participating in such a programme.
Let’s first see what happens before attending one. First and foremost, I’ve to bring out that heavy saree and get it ironed.
But even before that, I must try out all the fancy blouses I have – the ones which are made of silk and have a lining plus zari plus some embroidery, all designed to poke and hug and suffocate me and make me melt in the heat they generate. It doesn’t help that I sweat even in an airconditioned room while wearing a light, loose fitting cotton dress. It doesn’t help that most of these functions happen during the summer or in the October heat. Time to realign our stars and redesign our panchangs, I think wearily. Okay, hang me for saying this.
Back to the blouses. As expected, none of them would fit. So I choose the one which is least tight or still has some fabric inside the hem which I can release by restitching. Yes, additional work, phew! I select the sari based on the availability of the blouse, then get it ironed. Of course I have to haggle with both the tailor and the laundryman to get these done at supersonic speed.
Now I’m a boring woman who is least bothered about decking up and doesn’t care about accessories. So this much is tension enough.
Finally, I reach the venue of the function and sit quietly in a corner, bogged down by the weight and heat of the saree and blouse and desperately trying to avoid old aunties who want to discuss the marriage plans of someone’s nine year old daughter decades in advance. Or why that distant relative doesn’t have children. Or what rituals are to be performed by your neighbour so that they can have a second child, even if they’re content with one. It’s another story altogether when they still manage to trace me out and start sharing their opinions. And a dreadful nightmare when they ask me for mine.
Isn’t this enough?
Nah, it’s even worse when the function is at my house and I’m one of those performing the pooja.
Even for the simplest of functions, one has to get up early (groan), have a bath and then enter the kitchen for coffee and cooking. The heat of the kitchen negates the fresh effect of the bath completely.
Three hours later, I am ready with the special dishes and pooja items. My stomach is growling like a tiger. I tell it to shut up. It doesn’t listen. I steel myself and carry on.
And of course, I’m wearing that weighty saree with the supertight, poky blouse. My wet hair is tied up tight so that all the water trapped in it can plot and plan whether to give me a headache or a cold or both.
The function gets underway. I endure the pooja and hours later, it’s finally time to eat. So I think.
Nah, not yet. The men will be fed first. And when on earth since the stone age have men ever been taught to ensure that something is left for the women to eat? They blindly finish off that tasty payasam and even as a whole gang of tigers are roaring in my stomach and my heart is bleeding for a taste of the payasam I had lovingly prepared with my own hands, the men licking the last drops are busy analysing the events of the day, the Modi Government, the US President, bitcoins, the latest IPO and also pointing out how I forgot to keep the bananas for neivedyam or how my bindi is again not visible.
And by the time I finally sit down to eat, the roaring tigers have fainted from starvation.
This was the description of a very simple family function. Anything more means the same thing multiplied by a few times.
I’m a person who believes that I need not worship God by means of elaborate functions. Simply praying in my mind is enough. But I know I’m the hapless minority here. The rest of the world around me thinks otherwise and then I go with the flow.
So now do you understand why I hate religious functions?
