<p>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.<br /><br /></p>.<p>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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />Her dowdy blouse has puff-sleeves, the neckline sternly reaching her clavicle.<br />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.<br /></p>
<p>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.<br /><br /></p>.<p>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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />Her dowdy blouse has puff-sleeves, the neckline sternly reaching her clavicle.<br />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.<br /></p>
