The Marriage Market and Societal Mirror

I am generally a fan of the Sunday edition of the Economic Times, specifically for its weekend mix of non-economic news. Today, however, was exceptional. Amid the flurry of election-season stories—insightful pieces on loyal party voters and interviews with ministers—a familiar undercurrent of bias in the larger Times group publications remains.

But as I scanned the pages, what truly arrested my attention was the matrimonial section. Under the banner of ‘Elite Grooms/Brides,’ I found seven advertisements each for prospective brides and grooms, offering a stark glimpse into the social contract of modern India.

Invariably, every single ad was a ledger of social and economic standing—which is to say, a clear declaration of caste and net worth (in crores), alongside the usual vital statistics. While the ads were predominantly from North India, a pattern emerged that speaks volumes.

Almost every groom exclusively sought a bride from his own community. The sole exception was one South Indian groom who was open to any community. In sharp contrast, not one single bride sought a partner exclusively from her own caste. The only geographical preference was one girl who specified South Indian men, again, without a caste restriction.

The Conclusions I Draw

The contrast is undeniable, leading to these conclusions about the drivers of Indian society:

 * The Ties that Bind Men: Men remain firmly tethered to the apron strings of their mothers and the purse strings of their fathers. This preference for endogamy suggests a refusal to risk losing either the comfort of the maternal nest or the inheritance of the paternal wealth.

 * Women as the Vanguard of Change: It is women who are the catalysts for genuine social progress. Every significant, positive change we witness—be it challenging dowry or dismantling the caste system—is championed by them. Their lack of caste restriction in these ads underscores their push toward a post-caste future.

 * The Elite Status Quo: Men appear more concerned with preserving their elite status, not just economically, but also socially. By underscoring the importance of caste in alliances, they actively maintain the societal hierarchy.

 * Divergent Aspirations: Women seem to prioritize happiness and pursue goals that fundamentally clash with those of the typical, status-driven Indian man. The profound strife and friction we observe in society today are rooted in these conflicting, unequal aspirations.

A cursory look at social media also indicates how the general public conducts itself on issues of gender and freedom. With such a deeply entrenched love for caste and hierarchy, it is little wonder that the political pulse of the country leans so heavily to the far right, and that money flows so naturally into their coffers and election war-chests. The country, perhaps, gets the rulers it deserves. Education be damned. Ditto social change and equality.

The Accidental Influencer

It was early morning. Not my preferred time to fly, and I was pacing the airport hall, waiting aimlessly for the boarding call for my flight back to Namma Bengaluru. As I approached the gate, looking for any sign of activity, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

A man, perhaps in his mid-to-late 30s, was grinning broadly. "You look familiar to me," he said. "Like I know you so well."

I searched my memory. Nothing. "I'm sorry," I replied, scratching my head. "I don't seem to recall."

"It's fine," he insisted. "Aren't you [xxxx]? I follow you on Instagram!"

The name and handle he used at first didn't register. "Would you mind repeating that?"

"It's okay," he conceded. "Maybe I confused you with someone—[xxxx]—who I follow on Instagram”, and went on to repeat the name and handle of the person he follows. 

We both exchanged polite reassurances. Then he volunteered more information: "These days, everyone is flaunting their grey hair and beard proudly. I was influenced by him to stop coloring my hair."

"That's nice," I responded.

He continued, observing me critically. "It's uncanny how much you look like him. Maybe it's just that every middle-aged man is growing one now."

I gave a knowing, perhaps 'sage,' nod. I bit back the urge to tell him three things:

 * My grey hair hasn't seen dye in over fifteen years.

 * My grey beard is equally venerable.

 * I was indeed the 'xxxx' he followed on Instagram.

Despite the exhilarating, albeit confusing, compliment of being recognized and credited as an influencer (even by just one person), I immediately felt a profound discomfort. I was not up to being fawned over.

We are all creatures who crave attention and the spotlight, yet it's only when we are near that light that we realize how difficult it is to live under its continuous glare. In that moment, a wave of genuine empathy washed over me for everyone in public life—especially film and sports personalities—who are incessantly mobbed, yet panned and dragged through the mud the moment they seek privacy.

*****

I proceeded to board my flight, and soon forgot about this, as I landed and continued with my office chores. Several days later, I was  cleaning up my messages on Instagram, and one caught my attention. 

“I know it was you who I ran into at the airport. You didn’t have to display so much of airs and deny.  I am unfollowing you”. 

For A Few Hundreds….

A relative passed away while I was in Thailand; my parents attended the last rites. I offered to attend the 11th-day ceremony, hoping to save my parents another trip to Kolar. Since my regular driver was unavailable, I used the Namma Yatri app to book a ride.

The cab driver called: "Sir, would you be booking the return journey too?" I answered in the affirmative. "You'll have to wait a couple of hours, and then I'll return to the same starting point." The app didn't allow booking round trips for outstation travel, but that's what I needed.

"Sir, pay me ₹XXX." The quoted price was about ₹500 more than the estimated cost for two separate one-way trips. I tried to haggle. "Why the extra ₹500? I’ll only pay the cost of two trips." The driver relented. "Okay, Sir. But at least pay me the toll charges additionally." I agreed. The cab soon arrived, and my journey began.

As I sat in the cab, I was immediately racked by guilt. Why did I haggle over a few hundred rupees? I would have paid extra for the driver's meal anyway. I drew him into conversation and told him I would pay the amount he had originally asked for. Relieved, I then settled down with my newspapers.

We reached Kolar, and I quickly completed the formalities—attending the ceremony and speaking with relatives. I also visited my grandmother. At over 100, my mom's mom is still alive and kicking. She has become frail but can still walk with support. She's become a little "cookie," constantly asking which place she is currently living in.

It was time to return. With no books or papers to read, I decided to converse with the driver instead of sleeping.

"Where are you from, C...u?"

"I’m from Hassan, Sir."

"Oh, I thought you were from nearby, going by your name."

"No, Sir. My village is near Shravanabelagola."

"Okay! Where do you live here in Bengaluru?"

"I stay in my car only, Sir."

I was taken aback. The car was clean, with no tell-tale signs of it being a living space. "Don’t you find it difficult?"

"Cannot afford the rentals, Sir. I have a cousin in Kengeri; I visit his house every couple of days to shower and clean myself up."

"You could also live at your cousin’s place?"

"Small place, Sir”. He can’t afford to have me also over”. 

As I drifted into silence, he continued. “We invested all our savings and bought a couple of cars just before COVID. The pandemic played havoc. No rentals, and the EMIs were ₹20,000 a month for each car. I couldn't pay them, and I finally had to sell one of the cars. Now, I’m in Bengaluru, trying to ensure I pay off all the loans."

I felt even more miserable that I had tried to bargain earlier. As I got off near home, I paid some more than his asking price and wished him the best in overcoming his hurdles. I also offered some unsolicited advice about staying away from quick fixes for health and happiness (like astrologers, special poojas, and quacks).

*******

This is one of the many stories of those eking out a living in the big city. People like us—the privileged, unburdened, and comfortable—possibly make up only about 5% of the population. The rest are struggling to make ends meet.

Yet, we bristle when freebies are offered by the government. We want the same struggling people to vote for governmental change while they feel indebted to those who offered them cash and inducements during elections (even as we, the privileged, often stay away from the ballot box).

Next time you haggle with a vegetable vendor, a cabbie, or your house help, remember that you are trying to undermine the earnings of the lowest economic strata. Those few rupees may not make a difference to you, but to then, they do! You want to contribute to the nation’s progress? Then offer a little more. You may not solve everyone’s poverty, but you’ll possibly help one person get out of the drudgery.

The Man Who Was All Heart: Tribute to a Friend

Life has a strange, almost cruel, way of guiding our memories. I was catapulted back into the heart of my past when Facebook, with its digital nonchalance, threw up Bassy’s image, suggesting we connect. I stopped everything and just stared. There was his familiar, radiant smile, the intricate landscape of his tattoos clearly visible on his forearms, and that unmistakable, reckless sparkle in his eyes—the kind he always carried. In an instant, I was back in the past.

Bassy and his sunshine smile

I vividly remember that first meeting. Sanju and I had just started dating, and he was eager for me to be vetted by his inner circle. This was 2013. Prashant, Sid, and Bassy were the trinity of his closest friends. The moment Bassy walked in, I was struck. It wasn't just his open, warm smile, but the pure, unedited essence of him—a no-holds-barred honesty that poured out in his banter. Here was a man who was all heart, all the time. His very first words to me were a classic Bassy move: "Sanjay, I was actually supposed to meet Su before you. But we never got there.” That set the tone for everything. Over the next few months, we were woven into each other's lives—at Sanju's or my place, loud parties, and quiet dinners.

One memory glows brighter than the rest. When Sanju and I moved into our new, empty shell of a home in HSR Layout, it was Bassy who arrived like a force of nature. "What’s this, Su!" he exclaimed, genuinely exasperated. "You have so many amazing pieces of art and you haven’t done a thing with them!" He didn't just offer to help; he commanded an operation, dragging two other friends with him. He moved through the chaos with purpose, orchestrating the unpacking, finding the perfect spot for my beloved wall carpet, and grounding our new beginning by gifting us our first potted plants. He didn't just help us move in; he imbued the house with warmth and soul.

He was the patron saint of every gathering. Bassy was always the first to arrive, his booming laugh echoing down the hall, and the last to leave. He wasn't just a guest; he was the co-host, ready to cook, clean, or charm. There was seemingly nothing Bassy couldn't do, and he did it all with that signature, boisterous energy. If he was present, there was no silence, no dull moment; only a stream of stories and anecdotes. He truly loved to nurture his friends through food. I remember one party where the food plans had utterly imploded; Bassy, without a moment of drama, transformed into our angel, conjuring up a feast for the entire crowd seemingly out of thin air.

Bassy held a singular, precious place in my heart. Whenever Sanju and he would clash—which they often did, being equally passionate—I would always take Bassy's side. "You can't be angry at Bassy," I’d tell Sanju. "He never means any of it seriously." And it was true. He would promptly forget the fight, a smile on his face, calling again as if nothing had happened. You simply could not hold a grudge against him for long. His loyalty was a force field.

When we made the big move to Hyderabad, who else but Bassy came along for the drive with Sanju and Kadey, our pet? He was a constant, a fixture in our narrative. We shared beautiful, sprawling trips together—he drove down to Kolar to meet my parents, took my aunt around to see the Ganesha idols all around the town during the festival (she has the pic they had taken framed), and our Hampi group trip was one long, glorious cabaret, thanks to his non-stop singing and banter.  

He extended his huge capacity for love to his furry friends, adopting Penny and then Miffy, right after we got our dog. He adored his pets, he loved his friends fiercely, and his family—whose faces were permanently etched into his skin—was his anchor. He lived loud, he loved to party, and he chased life with an urgency few possess.

The absolute best part of Bassy was his singing. When he sang, it wasn't just a performance; it was a revelation. He sang with life, with an unmistakable soulfulness that cut through the noise. No party was complete until he burst into song, belting out his favourite regulars. He was boundless, always ready for the next adventure, be it cycling, running, or a spontaneous road trip.

The more I muse, more memories tumble out. We stayed at his home in Siliguri on our trip to Darjeeling, and spent time with his parents. Birthday celebrations of special friends at his place, the sessions of face painting, and so on. Each of these lead to a lump in the throat too. 

I stayed connected to him until the end of my relationship with Sanju. After that, the thread frayed. His circle shifted, and with Sanju out of the picture, coupled with my own inertia, I drifted away. I invited him to a couple of gatherings after returning to Bangalore, but he never came. I knew then that his world had grown complicated, perhaps dark, and the loud whispers about the weed saddened me. Words of advice seemed to fall on deaf ears. His abode slowly turned into a den of dope heads.

We exchanged messages, the usual "we must catch up," but the only time we finally did was at a friend's party. He had just recovered from surgery and was back in Bangalore. “I’ve found a new job, Su,” he said, giving me a hug that felt both warm and desperately fragile. He promised he was cleaning up his act. We promised to meet properly. It never happened.

Four years ago, a week before his birthday, Bassy bid adieu to his life, leaving a gaping hole in the lives of his family and friends. Even after all this time, the memory of him stays as vibrant and fresh as flowers in spring. His laughter still rings in my ears, and his memory brings that disarming smile to my face, even as it pulls at a raw ache in my heart.

I didn't know that would be our last hug. Bassy has been so much in my thoughts and my dreams ever since. I see that unbelievably disarming smile, and I know he must be smiling wherever he is. It was not his time to go. The only way I can honour him now is by celebrating that fierce, infectious zest for life he shared so freely.

See you, Bassy. Loads of love to the most life-loving person I have ever known.

Kailas Yatra: Your True Guide to Moksha!

 Your Concisely Chaotic Guide 

So, you want to do the Kailash Yatra. Excellent choice! My inbox has been flooded with questions—Which package? How much? Will I eat dirt?—and I realized I needed to condense this wisdom.

Brace yourselves. This is the Sharp, No-Nonsense, Slightly-Humorous-Because-We’ll-Need-It guide to keeping your sanity (and your knees) intact.

The Tour Operator Dilemma:

There are scores of operators out there, all offering a package that looks suspiciously similar. (Yes, even Jaggi Vasudev offers one, complete with extra-cost, mumbo-jumbo meditations. You decide if spiritual enlightenment is worth the premium.)

Here's the secret: most operators book the same hotels, hire the same cooking teams, and probably even buy their identical numbered duffel bags from the same shady warehouse. Honestly, there's little to choose one over the other based on logistics alone.

 * The Government Route: The cheapest and arguably best-organized is the Government of India Yatra. The catch? It’s 22 days of serious walking, and your participation is determined by a computerized lucky dip. You literally need to win the lottery to walk 22 days. Choose wisely.

 * Private Operators: Based on observation, look into Jai Manas Holidays (our crew), Namaste Nepal, Max Holidays, and Nature Wings. Their rates are typically within a few thousand of each other—it's less about the price and more about finding a group you might not secretly resent by Day 3.

Jaimanas Holidays offers you packages from Kailash Vision Treks (based in Nepal) and it has perfect 5 rating on google reviews!

Cost and Inclusions: The Wallet Shock

We paid ₹1,35,000 INR and $1,400 USD. Was it steep? Yes. Was it because we were a tiny, precious group of 14, less than half the standard 30? Also yes.

This covered our journey from Lucknow and back. Think of it as a starter pack for sufi-walking.

What the money includes:

 * Logistics from Lucknow to Lucknow (Innova, flights, and the necessary helicopter drama from Simikot to Hilsa).

 * Hotel stays in Nepalgunj, Taklakot, and Darchen.

 * Basic stays (read: shared everything) at Mansarovar and Parikrama halts. Don't expect a spa.

 * All meals from Nepalgunj and back. (Yes, you will survive the food. Strictly veg. Usually tasty, but short on variety). 

 * Visa charges (They call it a travel permit, because China is keeping us on a very short, sacred leash).

What the money does NOT include (aka the hidden costs):

 * Getting yourself to Lucknow. (That’s your first hurdle.)

 * Weather Calamity Fund: Extra hotel stays if the weather decides you need a few bonus vacation days.

 * Pony or Porter: Consider this a necessary investment. Porter-cum-pony is about $600. A porter alone is $180–$200. Seriously, read the next section before you get macho.

 * Emergency Exit Vehicle: $70/person. For when you realize the sacred walk is also very long.

 * Carry Chinese Yuans for your local requirements as your cards may not work. Also, exchange at even Taklakot works. Do not buy yuans in Nepal as you’ll not get a good exchange rate. 

The Non-Visa Visa

China doesn't give you a fancy stamp. You get a Group Travel Permit—a literal hall pass only for the Yatra route. You cannot wander off to buy souvenirs in another province. Or imagine that you can also club a quick detour to the Potala Palace, Lhasa. The entire group on that permit must enter and exit together. Think of it as a very intense, high-altitude field trip where no one can ditch class.

Packing: This is a Pilgrimage, Not a Photoshoot

Rule 1: Leave your excess baggage (and your drama) at home.

This is not a fashion trip. Wear your clothes multiple times. Your goal is to limit your entire kit to 15 kg. Why?

 * You ditch your main luggage in Nepalgunj and only carry the operator's numbered duffels. And their backpacks. 

 * Those small flights will weigh your bags. You pay for extra kilos. Don't be that person holding up the plane for a fifth pair of shoes.

The Layers of Survival (High-Altitude Chic)

High altitude means cold weather and thin air. Layers are your salvation. Two thin sweaters beat one thick jacket every single time. I wore four layers up top and two below.

Upper Body Layers:

 * The Four Layers: Base thermals - Long-sleeve T-shirts - Long-sleeve sweaters - Outer Jacket. 

 * Pro Tip: Wrap a stole or a muffler around your neck unless you enjoy the unique agony of high-altitude spondylitis (stiff neck).

Lower Body Layers:

 * The Two Layers: Base thermals - Trousers.

 * Pro Tip: Leave the denim at home. They retain cold and make you look like you're trying too hard. Use other trousers that retain warmth.

Footwear:

 * Socks: Either use two thin pairs or go for woollen socks (I preferred cotton due to allergy to wool directly on skin).

 * Shoes: Needs a good grip! If you're doing the full Parikrama, get snow-friendly, non-insulating sport shoes (Decathlon/Columbia). You want light support, not sweaty feet.

  * If you feel you have any discomfort in your knees while climbing, buy a pair of knee sleeves and wear them while walking. 

Essentials Checklist (aka The "Don't Forget"):

 * Sunglasses: Non-negotiable. Sun + Snow = Instant Blindness.

 * Cap: Must cover the ears (or a jacket hoodie). 

 * Raincoat: Because mountains love sudden, dramatic showers.

 * Snow Walking Stick: Buy one on the way before the Parikrama — it’s an altitude-induced miracle worker.

The Toiletry Kit (You will be dry and chapped):

 * Sunscreen: Your #1 cosmetic. Slather it on. Seriously.

 * Lip Balm: Unless you enjoy the rustic look of bleeding, chapped lips.

 * Moisturizer: For the constant dryness.

 * Wet Wipes: Your best friend in crowded, shared facilities.

Warning: Avoid washing hair daily. High altitude + wet hair = dizziness.

Edibles (The Guilt-Free Calorie Zone):

 * Carry chocolates and snacks for the Parikrama. (I carried small protein bars). 

 * Buy local for other times.

 * Bonus Karma Tip: Share what you carry with those doing the tougher kora (full circuit). You’ll earn goodwill, and your bag will get lighter. Win-win.

Breathing and Acclimatisation (It's Not a Sprint)

You are now entering the realm of thin air.

 * Practice: Deep, slow, long breathing. Do it now. Do it later. Keep doing it.

 * If you’re a smoker, remember to leave your cigarettes back home until you’re back from the rigours of mountain climbing. Else, the cigarette might just smoke you up.

 * Diamox: This pill usually helps oxygen absorption. HOWEVER, some people (like me!) react badly. Do not take it without knowing the side effects. If you feel funky, stop immediately. Do not self-diagnose your brain and your body.

 * Walk, Don't Run: Practice gentle walking at Taklakot. Do NOT run. This is not the time for an impromptu jog.

 * Discomfort: If anything feels off during the Parikrama, TALK TO YOUR GUIDE. They are there for a reason. Do not ignore symptoms or, worse, become your own mountain doctor.

Behaviour: Don't Be That Indian Tourist

This should be obvious, but after years of travel, I'm required to state it:

 * Be Nice: The guide and catering team are literally working to keep you alive and nourished. Tip them if you can afford to. Smile.

 * Be Quiet: Be respectful. Not everyone is there to hear your phone call or your life story.

 * Be Clean: Do not throw trash everywhere. Leave every place cleaner than you found it. We are representing our country. Let's make it look less like the inside of a municipal dumpster.

 * Make Friends: You might need them to drag you up a hill. Having each other’s backs is more important than having a perfectly packed bag.

Porter and Pony: The Humility Tax

Listen carefully: If you are older, less fit, or have any health concerns, HIRE A PONY or A PORTER.

Our group suffered because some people struggled, thinking they could manage without help. This isn't a test of willpower; it’s a high-altitude endurance event.

A pony lets you ride when you need to rest. A porter frees you from carrying the operator’s suspiciously heavy duffel bag. Humble yourself. Hire the help. You're there to complete the Yatra, not to star in a low-budget mountain survival drama.

Camera Gear

If you have a decent phone, that's often enough. If you’re a hobbyist, choose a lighter camera (like a mirrorless). Weight is everything. Every extra gram is a personal insult to your knees on Day 3.

Final Wisdom

The Kailash-Mansarovar trek is surprisingly easy on the joints (comparatively). But grab some knee sleeves just in case.

I think I’ve covered everything. If you have any further queries, reach out. I'll answer readily.

Aum Namah Shivay! (And good luck with the altitude.)