POV: You're The Ambanis' Golden Retriever

Hi, I’m Happy. No, not happy, just Happy. Actually, I’m happy, too, because I’m Happy. Chances are high you already know about me; chances are high you crave my life; chances are high you loathe me. Who wouldn’t? I’m rich. I’m famous. I’m cute. Still confused about who I’m? Ambani, Happy Ambani, Anant’s dog. Yes, a literal dog, a Golden Retriever, unlike you metaphorical ones. (LOL, sorry, a low blow, but I couldn’t resist.) I hope you don’t compare me with that loser Pluto from Dil Dhadakne Do—simplistic philosophy is not my thing—and I’m too classy for that mawkish meathead, Tuffy, from Hum Aapke Hain Koun. I’m a world unto my own and, like Salman bhai, I only expose when the script demands.

Over the last few months, many commentators have balked—or barked?—at my master’s extravagant and expensive wedding. They can’t stand it. They can’t see it. They can’t unsee it. What do they want? Freedom. Freedom from this vulgar, unending spectacle. The freedom to not watch, or think about, something that offends their senses, sensibilities, sensitivities. Listen, you pauper philistines, this wedding was like (Gujarati) Hotel California: You can check out but never leave.

But I don’t think that explanation would suffice. So today, making my journalistic debut (in an as-told-to piece because, like a proper seth, I’m too pricey to write one), I want to set the record straight. More so because our own news channels are good for some things but none of them involve facts. So here I’m: to wire your brains, to scroll down your complaints, to change your outlook, to make you step down from your caravan of high horses, and to tell you—simply, quickly, easily—the real story of India today.

Sure, the wedding lasted for a bit too long, so much so that in temporal terms, dog years feel more appropriate. But look at the brighter side. Look at me. I’m the very embodiment of India Shining: someone who lounges in a Mercedes-Benz, graces a tycoon’s family portraits, acts as an engagement ring bearer, wears colour-coordinated sherwani, and makes journalists salivate like dogs. They call me “adorable”, “pawdorable”, and “the viral furry sensation”. (Perhaps the only thing left is a New Yorker profile?) So if a dog can make it, why can’t y’all? Mind you, I say all this because I’m patriotic. So patriotic, in fact, that even if I were a German Shepherd, I’d still be an Indian Shepherd.

Now let’s return to the wedding. I’m sick of reading articles, tweets, and memes slamming the event. They use all sorts of 10-dollar, GRE words to describe it: Ostentatious! Outlandish! Obscene! They highlight income inequality, unemployment, servile celebrities, the airport’s appropriation, the traffic’s diversion, and the freedom from this suffocating shaadi. Cute. It’s cute that you think you even had a choice; it’s cute that you think you were ever free. And what’s so wrong with a jail anyway, especially for those who don’t have homes? We’ve done y’all a favour: bow your heads, accept your gifts, swig your wine (along with your self-esteem), and move on. And for the plebs at the back, flip the philosophical thought experiment—If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?—to: If you think you exist but weren’t invited to the wedding, do you even exist?

Now, let me tackle the accusations. First, income inequality and unemployment: hah, a joke so funny you’ll have to remind me tomorrow to laugh at it. Did you notice how many people toiled for the wedding? Chefs, carpenters, servers, drivers, decorators, ushers, photographers, videographers, security guards, make-up artists, costume designers, tantrum managers—the list is so long that I’m already breathless; maybe some Acqua di Cristallo Tributo a Modigliani will calm me down. We even gave employment to Rihanna didi, Justin jeeju, David daadu (sorry, Guetta sir, but you are old). We CREATED (sorry for the caps, just got excited) so many jobs that even LinkedIn would have squealed, “Bas kar pagle, bhai ko rulayega kya?” I don’t know about y’all, but me—personally, honestly, morally—I’m not a fan of poor people. (I don’t even use the word “poor”—I just call them non-rich—though I’ll make an exception for this piece.) This wedding, however, changed my mind. I was so moved by their relentless labour: their poor bodies, their poor sweat, their poor desperation, their pure doggedness. One evening, it got to me so much that I slipped in my bed—a Gurkha Royal Courtesan cigar dangling from my lips—and watched a movie by Money Kaul.

Which reminds me of our Bollywood guests: so beautiful, so obedient, just looking like a cow. Celebrities who make the whole country dance to their tunes, we made them dance to ours. Celebrities who are stars, we made them extras. Celebrities who feast on narcissism, we made them serve food (this happened at a different family wedding, six years ago, but I couldn’t help flex). We should have called some indie low-lives as well, dumped them in a tent—sponsored by a skin-whitening cream—and called their pity party, “Marx se no Marx”.

But my absolute favourite was the long list of Instagram influencers, gossip portals, and news channels: They came; they saw; they shared—and we conquered. There too, people cried: We can’t not see this tamasha; we don’t have a choice—Ambani ke shaadi mein, hum sab diwaane—and so on. But that was the whole point, wasn’t it? And wait, what was that nonsense about the wedding hijacking your social media feeds? You need to do some soul searching, brother: The misfortune of modern life is not that algorithms control us, but that we were so predictable that we allowed algorithms to control us. Maybe, all along, I’ve been trying to tell you this: We, the rich, are like the sun; don’t battle our light and warmth—you can’t dim it, only bask in it.

Oops, I forgot to address income inequality. My God, did they cry a Ganga over it or what? They pointed to its unprecedented levels, even citing a report that claimed it was worse than the British Raj’s times. First of all: What’s so wrong with royalty? For a civilisation ravaged by foreign invaders, homegrown royalty is bliss. It’s good, nay moral, that we lord over you and not someone from outside. There was also some hand-wringing about the country’s hunger index (that Bharat ranks 111th out of 125 countries and what not): I never got what the fuss was about. If you’re hungry, then eat. Or, I don’t know man, just Zomato or Swiggy it—or, if you’re like me, just ring a bell. Wasn’t there another quote on similar lines: “Give a man a fish, and you feed him for a day; show him a Michelin-starred restaurant and you feed him for a lifetime”?

I only have one complaint though: He should have attended the wedding, like his socialist friends. He who? Rahul, naam toh suna hi hoga? We even sent a personal invite. So much attitude and all—as if he, and not us, owns the world—I don’t appreciate. But he can still make amends: by coming to my wedding. I haven’t locked the dates yet, but I’ll let him know. I hope he won’t decline, as he’s a big dog lover and, of course, I’ll call his Pidi and Yassa. That’s my final goal, my final frontier.

I can barely wait: the unending parties, the endless fawning, the celebrities, the hangers-on, the display of might, the distortion of time, our grace, our benevolence, our generosity. And like Nero, I’ll fiddle through it all, to the tune of taka tak, taka tak, taka tak.

(This appeared in print as 'Pomp and Happiness')