The advantages of being short sighted!!

It all began in Flury's(Park Street) Kolkata

I was a shockingly perverted seven-and-a-half year old who loved playing doctor-doctor and had become the centre of attraction thanks to a new pair of spectacles. I soaked in every minute of it. Lovely young seniors in full blouses and pithy skirts patted me around. “Look how cute he looks in those big glasses!” they said while I grinned.

And contrary to what you’d expect, the perks didn’t stop there.

With great power came greatly reduced responsibility. I’m visually incompetent, sire. Can’t serve in the armed forces. Not supposed to have foresight. Can’t join the search party at the bottom of the swimming pool looking for the fat lady’s lost ring. Can’t help now ex-girlfriend puking all over HRC due to lack of face recognition software (or contact lenses).

Being short-sighted prepared me for a life of sinful debauchery. Waking up with someone I didn’t recognize was never odd. So while others remained dazed and confused, I capitalized on morning wood. Forget acid, I grew up on blurred outlines and merging colours, a daytripper of sorts.

And I remember how this Goan chick felt flattered when I called her purple haze (I was merely referring to my version of her colourful lingerie).Bad vision couples beautifully with wild imagination. When sex got boring I could put faces on bodies. The possibilities were endless.

A fortunate friend was blessed with a squint along with a heavy dose of myopia. Oh what fun he had ogling at lovely assets while victims believed the seemingly innocently stare was into empty space. I hated him.

My sweetest myopic secret is that once the glasses come off, I don’t remember. Maybe some ambient sounds, but nothing of any significance. This succinctly explains how I dated a Karan Johar fan and anUday Chopra fan. Enter theatre, convince her lenses are on and you’re good to go. In fact, I don’t think I recall anything. Too much face substitution maybe.

And having found a partner whose lenses are twice as thick as mine I must confess, love isn’t blind, it’s just terribly terribly short sighted.

Hindu wedding..tauba tauba

1 Most of them are “Pure Veg.” If I want daal and paneer, I’ll stay at home, thanks.

2 The theory goes that women are hornier at weddings. That’s absolutely no use, since there is a line of uncles, brothers and wannabe husbands (who describe themselves as brothers) carrying out CCTV-esque surveillance of the cholied ones.

3 Given that 90% of the men getting married were virgins dying to get it on without getting arrested, you would think the ceremony wouldn’t start at 2 a.m. after all the couple’s energy has been sapped.

4 Brides enter the hall/garden with their posse of friends and favourite theme music, ruining the DJ’s flow. At my wedding I’ve decided to walk in to Stone Cold Steve Austin’s theme showing everyone the finger and crushing some beer cans.

5 The initial gift exchanging ceremony – where even in peak summer, faux Chinese acrylic blankets seem to be the norm as reluctantly chosen family representatives on either side size each other up, lick each others tears, pose for pictures and make sheepish “why am I here?” expressions.

6 The distant relatives who crowd around in groups, annoyed at not being made a closer part of the preparations, cribbing about the snacks being oily while vetting the couple harder (and better) than John McCain’s Vice-Presidential candidate committee.

7 The serving staff - each trying to grab hold of a tray serving the most popular snack while looking down on their colleagues confined to serving technicolour drinks with twirly Hawaiian umbrellas (later used as toothpicks).

8 The single most ballsy and expensive repeat hijacking in the history of the planet – something that would make the Lashkar head honchos proud and responsible for 45% men turning into Rahul Mahajan - money being demanded for the grooms stolen shoes. You might as well leave your credit card at a go-go bar in Thailand.

Why would anyone go through such a ridiculous exercise steeped in useless tradition, obscene expenditure and self-flagellation? Two words: Facebook photos.