Big Fat Indian Wedding

They arrive, swathed in silk and smiles. And fish out a gold embossed thick, red card barely half a pleasantry later. Sometimes they whip out a pen and ask for full names. Uncertain smiles are exchanged, and card duly appreciated, while I try my level best to find out who or what the girl or the boy does, or where or she lives. And mom and dad pretend to admire the thick booklet of a card. Have these people considered that the card, which must have cost a bomb, is after all just informatory and not the work of art it is pretending to be and will be relegated to 'raddi' the very next day? I bet not.

Entreaties of 'You have to come!' and the earnest promise 'Of course, of course!' are exchanged before they leave and I wonder aloud, "How in the world am I gonna survive another get together with so many unknown people who are supposed to be my relatives?"

Mom too has her brow wrinkled, "I think I need to get a few dresses ready for the occasion. Are your dresses in order?" She tried to pass on the choice of attending the occasion on me but I back off quickly saying I will have to see if it fits in my schedule. So the moot question is, should I go? Like the idiot who never learns, bowled over by the anxious entreaties, I decide in favour.

Dressed in unfamiliar finery, one reaches the venue after a long traffic jam compounded by 'baraatis' moving at a speed calculated to shame a tortoise! The singer bells out the old and new songs with abundant panache and the dancing baraatis give intruding cars dirty looks, 'what business do cars have on road when they are there?'

Bypassing them is tough, but clever maneuvering sees us through and we find ourselves inside. The rest is a cake walk. Hand over the precious 'lifafa' to somebody keeping a meticulous list of gifts and walk over guiltlessly to the food side. Meeting or greeting the family? They have already bid us a hurried 'Namastey' before rushing off to tend to more urgent things than the invited guests. Wishing the new couple? The bride hasn't arrived from the parlour yet and the groom is still surrounded by his drunken dancing friends. Food seems to be the only logical solution and we get over the awkwardness of helping ourselves by socially asking some other  guests whether they have eaten. And leading the way to the most crowded part of the place.

Pandemonium prevails here as the service is slow and demand huge. Despite the mile long table and the cuisines on it, its a minor achievement getting a hot roti on your plate and getting out of the mad rush without a kid dropping an ice cream or a dollop of greasy daal on ur dress. The only thing you want by that time is to get out of the place.

Another tussle with the traffic and we are home! But if you think that's the end of your trouble, you have not accounted for the queasiness of the next morning. And cursing the green chutney, the curd - or was it the kulfi?

I remember nostalgically the days when society didn't judge you from the amount you blew on a wedding. Or how many guests you invited. The fresh fragrance of the marigold bedecked doorways and sandalwood adorned brides still linger in the memory, so far removed from the starchy orchids or the beauty out of cookie cutter parlours.

I must be getting really old or rather classical, for I also remember happiness, and not makeup lighting faces around me, the simple sitdown meals served lovingly on huge 'thaals' and people actually knowing their invitees!