Sepia-tinted delights

She sits gingerly on a Chippe-ndale, while he stands by her side like a petrified prisoner.

Nothing tickles my funny bone more than this musty black and white monochrome photograph I pick from the family album. It is that of my uncle and his young bride soon after their wedding during the last stages of World War II.

As per the custom in vogue those days, she sits gingerly on a Chippendale, the like of which are found only in palaces turned hotels. The coated, booted and turbaned husband stands by her side like a petrified prisoner in the gallows, his hand resting furtively on the arm of the steel chair as though a lethal dose of electricity may pass through it any moment.

What had turned off the love light in their eyes was the wedding that took place during evacuation in Madras that was under a bomb threat. The poor, slender bride, weighed down by solid gold jewellery had faced another bombshell in the form of a warning from her mother-in-law that her mate had a fiery temper and vitriolic tongue to boot. And moments before they left for the photoshoot in a horse-drawn cart, my belly-worshiping uncle was brusquely told that his wife cannot cook – not even prepare hot water.

Yet another sepia beauty that drives my blues away is a snapshot of a motley group of six south Indian gentlemen in surveyor hats, standing behind a European sporting a walrus moustache. What had irked and irritated that bald-headed Britisher can only be conjectured.

The south Indian gentlemen are in white Glasgow mull dhotis and alpaca coats over silk shirts with strangling collars. All of them are wearing sparkling ear-studs with the exception of the Britisher. The tall, sharp nosed gentleman standing right behind the London boss is looking at him as if he were a winged angel descended on earth with a walrus moustache. The rest of the standees scowl at him or glare through their half-moon glasses. Possibly, the Britisher had promoted the tallest among them, after a quid pro quo deal, overlooking the rest before quitting India on urgent summons from London.

The third one that keeps me in stitches is a glossy still depicting a love scene from a movie shot decades ago. The tubby hero is in a velvet sherwani with eighteen buttons. His moustache curls up at the ends giving him a lecherous look, though there is a prominent religious mark on his broad forehead. The bosomy heroine is covered fully, from top to toe, in a shiny silk saree with a golden belt at the waist.

Her dowdy blouse has puff-sleeves, the neckline sternly reaching her clavicle.
The duo stand away from each other like two heads of different religious orders, meeting reluctantly for a common cause. The lovers’ eyes are locked, silently speaking volumes while a dosa-shaped moon peeks at them through fleecy clouds. Taking a dim view of this photograph, my choleric grandpa – also our family censor – ruled it as obscene and banned it. My cousin, who had smuggled it in, was punished with a dozen stinging slaps on his bare fundament.