Writer's Blogk

Statutory warning: Not for the faint-hearted

Here is a list of five psychiatric conditions, you probably haven’t heard of and would do well to stay clear of.

1) Dissociative Fugue

In dissociative fugue, the affected person keeps wandering away from home frequently. The episodes of wandering are usually brought on by stressful situations. During these episodes of ‘wandering’ the person forgets everything about his life and assumes a completely new identity. The episodes end abruptly and person has no recollection of what happened during the ‘wanderings’.

Agatha Christie was supposed to have dissociative fugue. She disappeared on 3 December 1926 only to reappear eleven days later in a hotel in Harrogate, apparently with no memory of the events which happened during that period.

2) Amok

Amok is usually seen among people in south-east Asia, most commonly Malaysians. ‘Amuk’ means ‘uncontrolled rage’ in Malay. People afflicted with this condition have episodes of uncontrolled rage, during which the person runs around, killing and injuring whoever he encounters. Amok is seen only among males. The English word ‘amok’ comes from this condition.

The English explorer, Captain Cook, first described this condition in his journals. Legends mention a Jodhpur prince, who ran amok in Shahjahan’s court and almost killed the king.

Norse ‘Berserks’ and Zulu warriors used this as a battle strategy. Oh yeah, and so does Hulk.

3) Latah

Latah is a condition seen among women in south-east Asia and Japan. It is precipitated by loud noises. After a loud noise, the affected person goes into a trance-like state, repeating whatever the other person says, imitating the other person’s actions and obeying whatever command the other person gives. Yes. Whatever command! Even a command to kill someone! When the episode ends, the affected woman has no recollection of what she did during the episode.

4) Pibloktoq

Pibloktoq is a condition seen commonly in Eskimo women. It is said to be caused by increased amount of Vitamin A in Eskimos’ diet. The affected woman screams, tears off her clothes, throws herself on the ice in extremely cold conditions and imitates the cry of birds and seals. The person has no recollection of the events when the episode ends.

5) Wendigo

Wendigo is a condition seen usually among native Americans. This condition is precipitated by starvation. The affected person has belief that he has been transformed into a ‘wendigo’ - a horned, cannibal monster.

During the winter of 1878, a person called Swift Runner, afflicted with wendigo, butchered and ate his wife and five children in Alberta, USA.

Mind blown? Okay, I have to go now, its time to sharpen my horns. See you in your nightmares.

I was a five year old kid wreaking havoc at my grandparents’ house. The broken crockery, the scattered toys and my scraped knee were pushing my grandmother’s temper to the edge. She gave me a mango to make me sit quietly in a place for a few minutes. The fruit looked very tasty. It was bright yellow with a tinge of red. Its scent made my eyes go hazy. I took the mango and went outside.

I peeled the fruit and sunk my teeth in the juicy pulp, waiting for the mango’s heavenly taste to overwhelm my senses. But the next moment I was spitting the pulp out of my mouth. The mango tasted horrible. It was over-ripe. I looked at the fruit. A worm was staring at me. I swear I saw it grinning at me and showing its pointed teeth. I decided to teach the worm a lesson for spoiling my fruit. I took the mango along with the worm and buried it in my grandparent’s backyard.

~

Yesterday, I went to my grandparents’ house to give them some medicines. My grandmother gave me a mango and said, “Eat this and tell me how it tastes”. I took a bite. It was the tastiest mango I had ever eaten. The scent and the taste transported me to heaven for a moment.

“Where is mango from?”, I asked.

“Oh, that is from our backyard! A lot of people keep coming and asking me for mangoes from that tree. Unfortunately I can’t eat it myself because of this stupid Diabetes”, she replied.

I went to the backyard to see the tree which produced such amazing fruits. And there I saw, at the very spot where I had buried an over-ripe mango and a worm twenty years ago, a lush green tree speckled with bright yellow mangoes with a reddish tinge. I looked back at the mango in my hand. A worm was looking at me and grinning, showing off its pointed teeth.

~

Recently, I went with a few friends to Ponmudi, a small hill-station near Thiruvananthapuram. After conquering 80 kilometers of pothole-ridden roads and 22 emetogenic hairpin bends, we made it to the hilltop before sundown. The top of the hill was covered with dense fog. We decided to go on a walk along the foggy road. We could hardly see a couple of feet ahead of us. We didn’t know whether any vehicle was coming in our direction or not. We did not know if we had taken a wrong turn or not. Not knowing what was ahead was scary, but looking back, that was what made the trip memorable.

Thinking about that walk, I realized, Life is also a foggy road. You never know what lies in front of you. You probably might take the turns you never wished to take. You might reach a completely different destination from the one you planned to reach. You never know when the road ends and you find yourself standing at the edge of a cliff. You never know if a car is coming at you through the fog. Not knowing what is ahead is scary, but that is what makes life worth it.

That walk made me look back at my life. Every decision I made was a turn on the road.  Some turns lead to beautiful valleys, some led to pain. Some turns I cherish. Some I regret. Some turns which seemed inconsequential when I took them, led me to a completely unexpected roads. Sometimes, I took a turn saying, “Let me see what is here, I will come back after a few steps”, but ended up continuing in the same direction.

As you walk along the foggy road, you realize that the the road changes you. With every step you take, you change a little. The little changes cascade into bigger ones and finally you are not the same person you started out as. The cheerful traveller with a bag on his back and a whistle on his lips who started on the road, finally turns into a scarred old man with grizzly hair, torn clothes and worn out shoes at the end.

The fog seems to be closing in behind me. The memories are fading. I hold the scars from my journey close to my heart. I take a step forward. I don’t know what lies ahead. I am a traveller. A traveller on the foggy road…

(Walking along the foggy road in Ponmudi)

I think it was Isaac Newton who said. “Necessity is the mother of all inventions”. I beg to differ. In my opinion, Laziness is the mother of all inventions.

Consider the original caveman. All the hardworking cavemen were busy sneaking through the bushes in the hot sun, risking lives trying to catch animals without any tools. But then there was this lazy caveman who thought, “This hunting is too much hard work. I think I should come up with something to make this hunting easy. Then I can sleep peacefully under the tree, instead of getting sunburns for no reason”. So he polished some stones, made them pointed, and tied them to a few sticks. With these new tools, the lazy caveman could hunt easily and sleep for the rest of the day peacefully.

Then the human race developed agriculture. All the hardworking people used to get up early in the morning and go to the fields to drag all the grain back home. But then a lazy farmer said, “I would rather sleep in my hut instead of waking up early and dragging this grain around. I better come up with something to make transporting grain easier”. So he invented the wheel. With the new invention, the lazy farmer didn’t have to get up early in the morning.

The humans, at that time, were mostly wanderers. All the hard working people would pack their belongings, climb on their camels, bullocks and donkeys and keep moving from one place to another. Then one lazy fellow got irritated and said, “You go if you want to go, I am not moving. Wandering about is too much hard work”. So he built a house and stayed put. His children built their houses around his house. His children’s children built more houses. Soon it became a village, then a town, then a city and finally a civilization. So remember, if there were no lazy people, there would be no civilization.

During the Industrial revolution, the hardworking men would go to work on their cycles. One lazy man said, “Pedalling is too much hard work. I will just connect this engine to the bicycle and see what happens”. And that is how, motor vehicles were invented.

In the digital age, all the hardworking people were carrying around their laptops, cellphones, cameras and music players everywhere. One lazy fellow got irritated and said, “Carrying all this things is too much of an effort. Let me combine everything into one gadget”. And thus, he invented the smartphone.

So, all you people getting irritated at lazy people, remember, you are where you are and do what you do, because some lazy person found an easier way to do things. Without lazy people, there would be no technology.

So, show some respect. Okay?

India is a weird country. It is a land with more languages than honest politicians. For some reason, people forget the fact that human race developed languages for communication and not as a basis for narcissist political propaganda.

My boss was telling me of a time before my birth when some mango-brained fellows (Well, the adjective sounds better in Tamil) (Bah! I am missing the point!) in the Parliament decided to make Hindi the ‘National Language’. The plan seemed to make sense, except for the fact that a couple of dravida kazhagams (literally means South Indian political parties, in case you were wondering) decided that it was unfair. They thought, “Dei, who is this new 500 year old language chumma coming and trying to act smart. Our language has been twisting tongues for the past 5000 years. We shall not allow this!” After that people started throwing stones at Hindi establishments. The station names in Hindi were smeared with black paint. The climax of the situation was when someone would walk to the center of the road, pour kerosene on themselves, scream “Tamizh Vaazhgai!”, light a matchstick and BOOM. 

Another interesting drama is being played out by the Shiv-sena/MNS in Mumbai. They say Marathi language is facing threat from immigrants from Hindi heartland. Arey, all you Thackeray fellows, just listen to someone speak Mumbaiya Hindi. You will realize that it is Hindi which is facing the threat of getting killed, not Marathi.

Recently one fellow called Dhanush sang a nonsense song called ‘Kolaveri di’. Ironically, that song in broken Tamil/English did more for the Tamil language than all those dravida kazhagams combined together. Which brings me back to my original point. Languages are for communication, not for showing-off.

Adios.

P.S. In case you are wondering, my mother tongue is pink.

The window in a train is not an ordinary window;
it is a window to the richness and diversity of India. How
vegetation, terrain, people change effortlessly as one passes
through the country in a train is an amazing spectacle. Nothing
provides a more complete panorama of India as the window of a
train does. And of course looking out of the widow has other
advantages. It tells you that you are getting closer and closer to
your love.
 - Tushar Raheja

The loo winds were raging. The summer heat was frying the Gangetic plains. I dragged my suitcase onto the crowded station. ‘Kanpur Central’ said the pan-splattered, once-yellow, signboard. The thought of traveling in a sleeper class for around 50 hours at the peak of an Indian summer sent a shiver down my spine. But then it was my fault. It was all because of that bet.

The summer vacations had started. The obligatory trip to my grandparents’ home near Kanyakumari was impeded because my dad didn’t get leave. The weather was too hot to go out and too hot to sit inside. So the only thing I could do was sulk.

I was sitting on my bed and reading a novel. A short, bespectacled boy came in and said in his unusually shrill voice, “Abey, what plans for today? Come lets go outside.” Aravind was my neighbour. He was studying in my school and a year younger to me.

I tapped my head and said, “Oye, are you mad? Its hot enough to make omelettes outside”

“Its not that hot. Definitely not hot enough to make omelettes”, he said and sat on my chair.

“It is. Bet.”, I challenged.

“Bet”, he accepted.

Five minutes later we were breaking eggs on my dad’s car bonnet. Needless to say, I lost the bet. Needless to say, my dad lost his temper and packed me off to my grandparent’s place. Alone.

Sigh

Someone tried to pull my suitcase away. I snapped out of my thoughts. It was a coolie.

“Chotey Saheb, why are you tiring yourself out. Give me the suitcase I will take it to the train and drop the luggage on your seat. Only 20 rupess”, he said with his pan-filled mouth. I wrestled my suitcase back from him and waved him away.

Indian Railways is almost a mythical entity. The chaos. The noise. The crowd. Trying to decipher the announcements blaring on the outdated loud-speakers, while being distracted by the cacophony of vendors trying to sell trinkets. Beggars asking for alms. Kids screaming. But somehow, the chaos befits it. The Indian Railways are the heart and soul of India, cutting across the entire length and breadth of the country.

‘For the kind attention of the passengers, Train number 2630, from Gorakhpur to Thiruvananthapuram central, Rapti-Sagar Express will arrive shortly on platform number 2”, said a monotonous, crackling voice from the speaker. That was my cue. I went to platform number 2.

I stood on the platform, waiting for the train. I looked along the tracks and saw a tiny speck growing bigger and bigger. The menacing engine passed me by, the heat from the engine complemented the summer heat and I felt myself evaporating. Behind the engine, the red bogeys of the train followed. It looked like a millipede on a million roller-skates.

I looked at my ticket. S6, berth-51, it said. I got into the compartment with S6 written on it tried to find my berth. When I finally reached my berth I couldn’t believe my eyes.

An entire village was inside the cubicle. They had come to send off a family. I tried to push and shove to reach my berth. I saw big iron trunk was occupying my berth. The train sounded a whistle and the entire village scrambled to get out of the coach. When the train started, I was standing inside, with my hair ruffled, and my glasses askew. I surveyed the occupants of my cubicle who had received the grand send-off.

A bald, potbellied man was sitting on the lower berth, scratching his armpits. He was wearing an old dhoti and a hole-riddled baniyan. His wife was squatting on the floor cooking rotis on a kerosene stove. A couple of kids were swinging like monkeys from the top berth. A saree was tied between two berths and being used as a cradle for a screaming baby. In one corner there was a full length almirah. The top berth was occupied by stacked up firewood.

I felt something was tugging at my pant. I turned around and saw a goat. The sagacious beast had found my pants tasty and was making a meal out of it. I tugged away from the goat and said to the pot-bellied man,”Excuse me, could you please move your trunk, this is my berth”. He looked at me, spat out the paan in his mouth and said those two words which every train traveler dreads.

“Adjust karo.”

Not wanting to argue with a guy who owned a goat with two sharp horns, I adjusted and sat on the trunk.

As the train raced across the barren plains of Bundelkhand, I remembered one important thing. I hadn’t had lunch. My stomach was making weird noises and the rats inside were playing kabbadi.

It was the time before Indian Railways had pantry cars, so one could get something to eat only at a station. The next station, Jhansi, was hours away. My head started spinning because of the hypogylcaemia. The woman cooking hot hot rotis didn’t help my endurance one bit.

The pot-bellied man looked at me eying the rotis.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

I was caught between two minds. My head was telling me to say no and my stomach was telling me to say yes. Finally my stomach won. I nodded my head. His wife smiled at me and gave me a couple of rotis with aaloo ki sabzi. I ate to my full. The spiciness of the sabzi killed all the rats in my stomach.

The pot-bellied man then got up and moved his trunk. I smiled and thanked him.

A few hours later, the evening sun peeped into our compartment, the sunlight saw us sitting together, chatting and laughing.

I think that is the queerest effect of the Indian Railways. It somehow breaks those social barriers that divide us. It makes even the most unlikely people, friends.

“I am sorry. There is not much we can do. The cancer has spread to his liver and lungs. He doesn’t have much time left”

The doctor’s cell phone rang at that moment and he walked away. Eleanor felt the floor disappear under her feet. She held on to Mark for support. A tear quivered at the edge of her eye.

The nurse opened the ICU door and said, “Who is Eleanor? Come in. The patient in Bed 5 wants to speak to you”. She wanted to yell at the nurse. He was no ‘Patient in Bed 5’. He was her dad. But her voice choked. She started slowly walking towards the ICU.

She remembered the time her dad had dropped her off at the school for the first time. She remembered the day of her graduation, and how he was sitting in the auditorium, next to an empty seat, beaming proudly at her.

She remembered the first time when she saw him cry.

She was standing in the church next to the altar. Mark put the wedlock around her neck. The priest said those magical words - ‘I now pronounce you man and wife’. She turned around and saw at her dad sitting on the front row. He smiled at her and wiped a tear from his eye.

*

Taking every breath seemed harder and harder. The pain was killing him. He couldn’t even scream because of the breathlessness. The oxygen mask was very uncomfortable. He tried to take it off. The nurse yelled at him and told him to put it back on. She said it was for his own good. “The pain is unbearable”, he whispered to the nurse. The frown on her face was replaced by a look of pity. “Try to think of something else”, she whispered.

He remembered the first time she saw him cry.

He was standing next to the door of the operation theater. They had wheeled his wife in labour in there. The doctor said she had something called ‘Severe Pre-elampsia’. He didn’t understand what they meant, but he was scared. After a couple of hours, a nurse came out with a tiny bundle and gave it to him. It was a girl. He smiled at her.

“How is my wife?”, he asked the nurse.

“The doctor will come and explain”, she said and rushed back inside.

After a few minutes, a doctor came up to him, “I am sorry. We couldn’t save your wife”.

He felt the floor disappearing under her feet. He held on to the wall for support. A tear quivered at the edge of his eye.

The big, black eyes of the girl in his arm, wrapped up in a bundle, looked at him.

He took a deep breath and whispered, “Eleanor”.

*

“Dad, I am here”, she whispered and sat on the stool next to his bed.  Her big, black eyes looked at him. A smile crept along the border of his lips.

He took one last breath and whispered, “Eleanor”.

The evening sky was overcast. The dark clouds hovered menacingly. Ajay walked towards the bus stand dejected. He had missed the college bus and now had to catch an overcrowded town bus. He was regretted staying back after the lecture to ask a doubt. He kicked a stone on the road.

Marvin was taking his bike out of the parking lot when he saw Ajay walk past.

“Oye!”, he yelled. Ajay turned around and waved at him. “Missed the bus kya?”, he asked.

Ajay nodded his head.

“Come, I’ll drop you off”, Marvin said, offering him a ride.

Ajay thanked him for the favour and waited for him to start the bike.

Marvin had an old Yezdi bike. When it first saw daylight, the British were still trying to figure out how to get rid of that Gandhi fellow. The bike was famous for its mood swings, sometimes it ran, sometimes it spluttered, sometimes it just refused to budge. It was not used to modern unleaded fuels and ran only on pure unadulterated petrosene. Marvin huffed and puffed and dragged the bike out of the parking lot.

As Marvin was playing tug-of-war with his bike, a drop of rain made contact with Ajay’s face. He recoiled. He looked up and saw the more drops coming down. First one, then two and then in a torrent. Before the minute had past, Ajay was drenched from head to toe.

Marvin cursed the skies and tried starting his bike. He kicked once. Twice. Thrice. A million times. The bike refused to start. He cajoled it. He tilted it to the right. He tilted it to the left. He tried starting it again, but the bike refused to come to life.

A part of Ajay wanted to leave Marvin there and find some shelter from the rain, but how could he ditch a friend in a moment of need. Especially when the aforementioned friend had offered to help him just a few moments ago. So he stood there, in the pouring rain, praying for Marvin’s bike to start.

Marvin had given up caressing and cajoling the bike. He kicked the engine. He kicked the silencer. He kicked the wheels. He also gave a Bruce Lee flying kick to the fuel tank, but the bike refused to start. He started to curse and swear at the bike.

Ajay was slowly losing patience. The tear between the two thoughts in his mind was getting bigger and bigger. The temptation to leave a friend in need was getting stronger. He shook his head and stamped his foot. He would not leave a friend in distress.

Marvin’s efforts bore no fruit. He was wet from head to toe in the rain. The bike refused to start. He percussed the fuel tank. It was half full. He gave up and started pushed his bike along the road, trying to find a mechanic shop. Ajay took off his wet glasses and helped Marvin push the bike.

It was raining cats and dogs. Ajay later also confessed seeing cows and elephants falling down in the rain. The clouds looked down with mild interest at the guy with a stubborn bike and his true friend in need.

After pushing the bike along the road for 50 meters. Marvin stopped and smacked his head. He fiddled around his pockets for a few moments. He took out a key and inserted it into the bike. One kick and the bike spluttered to life. He looked at Ajay apologetically and said, “Sorry, forgot about the key”.

The last strand of Ajay’s self-restrain snapped. He gave Marvin and his bike one last parting kick and took the overcrowded town-bus to hostel.

This is my first ever New Year post (and probably my last if the Mayans are right). Its the time of the year when I look at the personality overhauls/ plans I made in the last week of the previous year, realize they are bogus, tear them and throw them in the dustbin. I am a cynic by nature, and don’t see the point in making resolutions and breaking them by Pongal. Better to not make any resolutions at all.

My cynicism if further consolidated by recurrent tricks of fate. Two years ago, I stepped into the New Year, doing CPR for a patient who had a cardiac arrest when the clock struck 12. The year just went downward from there. Last year, I crossed the threshold of the decade trying to convince a drunken guy who fell off a bridge that he had broken bones that needed fixing. How did the year turn out? Well, *shudders*

Over the last few years I have always managed to keep my New Year resolution successfully. Its the same resolution every year - To not make any resolutions. That way I don’t have to live through a year with the added an guilt. A win-win situation from a cynical point-of-view.

Being cynical about the coming year has an added advantage. When you are always expecting the worst, things either turn out as you expected, or better. As a wise man once said, ‘There is no light at the end of the tunnel, its just an oncoming train’.

Some people say that every dark cloud has silver lining. Silver lining. What is the use of that silver lining I ask you? It only good to look at. It doesn’t nothing to make your life brighter and does nothing to stop the downpour which the dark clouds bring. Useless silver lining.

Be strong and of good courage, they say. Be brave, they say. Bravery is just an emotional need for humans to show off. An ego massage. If someone jumps in front of a train to save a kitten, people will clap. Some journalists might even write a article in a local magazine about you. But when you have to pay for your prosthesis because the train ran over your leg, all the applause and adoration will disappear into thin air.

Tcha, I went on a complete tangent. I should get back to writing about the New Year.

I have nothing against people celebrating New Year. You want to party? Good for you. You want to hang out with friends? Good for you. But don’t leave your brains at home when you do that. Drinking and driving might be cool in the heat of the moment, but remember, there are poor souls sitting in hospital ERs and police stations praying for a peaceful New Year. Don’t make life difficult for them. But on the other hand, having 1/1/12 does look cool on a tombstone. And remember, seat-belts and helmets are not accessories for the oldies and nerds. They save lives. My shattered helmet and intact head are proof of that.

Last year taught me quite a few important lessons, and I hope to carry them into this year. You can forget your New Year’s resolutions, but never forget your old year’s lessons. I learned that your family is your most important asset in this world. I had always taken my family for granted and sometimes looked at them with contempt. But when storms in life rage, they are the only shelter which is always there. Families are like safety-nets, they might not be comfortable, but they do save you form hitting the pointed rocks below when you fall.

Working in a cancer center, I realized that the only certain thing in life is death. You might go screaming, you might go smiling and if you are Bhagat Singh you might even go singing, but you always go. Plus, the bike accident I had last week, showed me how unpredictable and fragile life is, and that somehow makes it even more beautiful. I have realized that death doesn’t take people apart, but brings them closer. I have seen brothers united after a family feud for ages at their parent’s deathbed. They say live everyday as if were your last day on earth. I say, show people kindness and compassion like you would if it were their last day on earth.

I have also realized that nature is the greatest anti-depressant / anxiolytic on the planet. No matter how down-and-out you are, looking at the sunset, or taking a bare-foot walk on the beach, letting the relentless waves wash your heartache away, always work.

Well, I think I should conclude now.

Have a great year, have fun and may the Mayans be wrong.

Recently, I was talking to a friend about PG admissions. He told me, “Paying and getting a PG seat is so expensive. It costs more than a crore now. If I don’t get in somewhere this year, I think I should get married and ask my father-in-law to get me a PG seat as dowry”.

I couldn’t believe my ears. How could a well educated person, belonging to upper-middle class, plan to get a dowry?

The dowry culture in South Tamil Nadu has reached ridiculous propositions. I’ve heard that the ‘going rates’ for a doctor grooms range from 1 crore to 5 crores. Plus a compulsory high end car. The rates are higher if you are working abroad, or studied in a good college.

One of my friends has just got engaged. He now spends most of his waking hours browsing through car-catalogs, trying to select a car which he can demand from his would-be father-in-law.

It disgusts me to be part of a community/culture which treats people like they were some cheap commodities.

Men, I ask you, aren’t you even a little bit ashamed to ask for a dowry? You think you will get some cash and all your problems will vanish? From what I have seen, definitely not. Most families which give-take dowries rarely have peace. Either the grooms side keeps pestering the bride’s blackmailing for more dowry, or the brides side keeps blackmailing the groom saying, we gave you so much money, do such-and-such thing for your wife.

Someone I know had a daughter of a marriageable age and he wanted to get her married only to an NRI husband. He finally found a NRI groom, sold most of his ancestral property to give dowry and married his daughter to him. After marriage, he told the groom to resign his job abroad and find a job in India because he couldn’t bear to be far away from his daughter. (Why he would go around looking for an NRI groom if he wanted his daughter to stay in India is beyond my comprehension). When the groom refused, the bride’s father said, “I have given you so much dowry, you better do what I say”. I ask you, how will that couple ever live together happily?

A peaceful marriage is priceless. Is the dowry worth more than a happy family?

Free money never sticks in your hand. It will fly away before you can even spell D-O-W-R-Y. Plus it will always come back to bite you in the backside.

Men, it is always easier for you to say no to dowry. If a girl says no to dowry, in the present cultural situation in my place, she is a ‘black mark’, an ‘outcast’.

A family friend of my dad had a daughter who said no to dowry. She said she would remain a spinster all her life but would never marry a guy who asks for a dowry. Her father got her married to a guy and gave dowry in secret without telling her. When asked him why, he said otherwise his family honour would have been lost!

Family honour? Traditions? Forsooth! I ask you are they more important than your daughter? Are you people willing to go against the law of the land for family honour and traditions?

Another person I know was betrothed to a guy from Nagercoil. The groom told the girl’s family before the engagement that he wanted no dowry. But after engagement, the groom said, “I don’t want any dowry, but my family members want some items”, and gave them a very expensive list including a car and house. The bride’s family called off the wedding.

When I hear stories like this, I recoil with disgust. Yeah, most of you will think I am mad and need psychiatric evaluation to kick age old traditions out of the window, but this is one tradition I just can’t digest.

My mom once called me into a room and said, “Son, your dad and I have decided not to ask for any dowry when you get married. So far whatever we have needed, God has provided, sometimes even more. Then why should we ask things from some other family and put them in financial troubles. I hope you agree with our decision”. I nodded. I love and respect my parents even more since that day.

P.S. All you guys out there, try to act like mature men and say no to dowry. If you can’t take care of your wife with your own money, you don’t deserve to get married. You don’t deserve someone to spend their rest of their lives with you.