Band Baaja Bedlam

I heard the sound of the fabric ripping, one thread at a time, sending a slow chill down my spine. The shimmering fragile cloth had finally given way after having endured the sheer atrocities that had been inflicted upon it by my flab in the past ten minutes.

I had tried my best to prevent this from happening by patiently holding in my breath, long enough to get into the blouse which was easily two sizes under. My mum had closed the zip with some difficulty, casually passing a stray comment on my steady march towards obesity, in the process.

Finally when I committed the sin of exhaling, all hell broke loose- I looked in despair as the gaping hole widened near the underarm of my ultra-golden blouse. I scratched my head, trying to assess the gravity of the situation and decided that the positioning of the tear could be exploited in my favor, and as long as I kept my hands to myself like a sanskaari naari, I was good to go.

The embroidery of the choli was gently caressing my skin- leaving behind a trail of angry itchy rashes in its wake. I sighed as I checked myself in the mirror trying to ignore the four layers of makeup that mum had imposed upon me- rendering my face and neck at extreme racial disparity. And yet, I knew that this wasn’t even the tip of the iceberg that the evening was going to be.

Why was I being made to dress up like my life and reputation depended on it? Because it was my cousin’s wedding, and who knew, if I looked pretty enough someone there might chose me thereby giving my life renewed purpose and voila! There could be two weddings at the cost of one, I thought to myself, wryly.

The venue was an open ground in the month of June. Smart choice, I thought to myself as I looked warily at the exponentially increasing radius of the sweat patches in both my underarms. My rishtedaars stood at the entrance which had been asphyxiated with flowers; a smile in semblance to a delirious camel’s pasted on their faces. They greeted me with the much anticipated “Arre kitni badi hogayi hai!” to which I responded with a constipated smile and subsequently collapsed at their feet for ashirvaad so as to avoid verbal exchanges for whatever brief spell possible. I could feel a single bead of sweat tearing its way through the dense deposition of foundation on my face and rapidly trickling down.

Finally, after having exchanged far too many unpleasant pleasantries, we entered the ground. We were then blinded by twenty successive camera flashes between earnest pleas of “One more please” by a miniscule, scrawny man wearing a Hawaiian shirt and Bermuda shorts, sporting Anil Kapoor-ishly hairy legs; his peanut- sized face completely eclipsed by the camera which was triple the size of his entire form.

I deduced that he was the Clingy Intrusive Photographer(C.I.P.) for the evening who would be paid heftily for thrusting the lens into people’s nostrils and slaughtering the last shred of their privacy under the facade of “candid shots”. I ran to the nearest table I could find, in a bid to reduce my visibility to whatever extent possible.

From my vantage point I looked around- absorbing the events unfurling in my vicinity. Two obese aunties at my table were deeply engrossed in obliterating every starter visible while simultaneously finding flaws with the arrangements, the food, the fountain, Mrs. Dutta’s tasteless and ashleel dressing sense and pretty much everything in sight. Their pursed lips periodically sprouted adorable phrases like, “Das Ji ne expenses mei kaafi bachat ki hai na”, “Isse acha khana toh mai apne doggy Yogeshwar ko khilati hoon” intermingled with throaty tittering.

Meanwhile, the C.I.P. had brought the bride to a blingy corner of the stage and was suggesting inane poses like throwing her hands in front of her face for aa cut mehendi display which mostly ended up with it looking like a dinosaur’s flared neck fins. She was then nudged to coyly peer from behind her dupatta, between her bangles, behind the throne and the curtains and flowers; and basically every peer-worthy crevice imaginable.

Soon after, her giggling girlfriends flocked around her and started ejecting their lipstick-slathered lips off their faces in the emulation of a pout and thrusting their Chandni Chowk ki backless cholis into the lens. I averted my gaze from the unsightly horrors and turned an entire one eighty before resuming my observations.

A middle aged man from the opposite table had been squinting in my direction for over fifteen minutes to which I had responded with perplexed, vacant looks; but he had looked on, undeterred.

Finally he made his way to my table, with slow, dramatic steps as my heart sank to my feet. I knew exactly what was going to play out and play out it did; brilliantly synchronized with the act in my head. I felt my heartbeat accelerate and come to a sudden halt as his mouth opened to form the two dreadful words “Pehchaana beta?” his sadistic eyes glinting ever so slightly, well aware that I hadn’t the foggiest .

My brain scanned through the blurry images of inconsequential rishtedaars piled up in my deplorable memory from all the unpleasant family gatherings that had ever come to occur, grossly unsuccessful in finding a match. Two uncomfortable minutes of deathly silence loomed over us, with only the blaring music of kajrare playing in the background keeping my pulse rate steady.

Unsurprisingly, this beautiful moment and its butt-clenching awkwardness was very dexterously captured by the C.I.P, who swooped in right about the time my face assumed expressions in likeness to a man who had prematurely ejaculated.

Subsequently random uncleji scratched his dense moustache and muttered in disappointment “Arre nahi pehchana! Hum aapke Kanpur waale mamere phupha ke saale ke chhote bhai hain!” as I mapped out the flow-chart in my head. I fervently nodded my head in the desperate attempt to feign comprehension as he tried to remind me of how we had met when I was three years old, and had peed on his lap; coating my voice with zeal so intense, it was robbed completely of decibels.

When I somehow finally freed myself from the clutches of a plethora of recognition-starved rishtedaars, who thronged at my table, I escaped to the lower ground near the stage, from where I could inconspicuously observe and deride. The density of people who could be potential acquaintances was less here because almost everyone else was either busy stalking the starters or making a dash to the food counter or battling it out for a photo with the couple.

The stage reminded me of the Rajiv Chowk metro station at 6 pm; the flaying limbs and stray blows inflicted upon unsuspecting competitors, the obscene lust to reach to the bride and groom’s thrones for that one photo, the gut-wrenching concoction of sweat brewing, and the occasional expletive whipped out with “Bhaisaab aankhein beti ke dahej mei dedi kya, dekhke chaliye. ” And then there were of course, those who stood at the edge, with the sole purpose of their existence directed at mocking the bride and groom’s physical appearance.

I swatted away the pesky kids who were flying around like bats, making it their life’s purpose to collide with every wall or human being possible; while the uncle whose scalp shone like the backside of a chamach which had freshly been rinsed with Scotch Brite, mused to his partner in crime, “Ladki toh fir bhi theek hai, lekin dulhe ka itna sa muh hai ussi mei sab kuch hai, aankh, naak, honth; thoda bohot makkhi jaisa lagta hai, nahi?” His companion nodded in agreement, as I tried to identify the comparison; and surprsingly, it was spot on!

Just when all hope was dwindling, I spotted a group of females from the corner of my eye, who had been laughing maniacally for the past fifteen minutes straight. A tiny spark of hope lit up in my heart that I might have found my squad, who shared my anti-wedding beliefs and were mocking the frivolity of the whole affair; right up until the moment I saw them strategically following the C.I.P, in a bid to procure candid shots of their dainty laughter. My brief mental orgasm fizzled out to pave way for a paralyzing migraine.

By now, my patience was running thin and I had severe trust issues owing to the fresh wounds that my could-have-been squad had inflicted on me. As a cherry on the cake, my makeup had smudged beyond redemption and my kajal made me look like a Gabbar Singh rendition, whose eyes was brimming with alacrity at the prospect of murder.

My stomach growled uncouthly. I decided that now would be the ideal time to move on to my singular motivation for attendance to the shaadi and made my way to the food counter which shone like pure gold at the distance, seductively beckoning to my rumbling gut. On my way to the food counter, I stopped in front of the dance floor to catch a glimpse of the diverse ecosystem it proffered.

Bilaspur ke door ke chacha had downed the entire contents of the bar and was grooving like an overturned cockroach flailing its feelers. He then moved on to the signature uncle’s step of drawing out imaginary hankies from his crotch while hopping forward like a locust. I looked on in earnest amusement from a distance for a while and fled when I thought he would hop on and strike me with his naag fangs. C.I.P. made it a point to capture him at his unflattering worst, adding fifteen chins to the pre-existing three.

The food counter looked like the ticket counter of a Salman Khan Movie, when inundated with rickshawallahs. The plate had the dismal 5 centimeter radius while the number of dishes were close to 5000. I respectfully oscillated between Gobhi Gangadhar and Paalak Prithviraj for 15 minutes, eventually swallowing my self resect and dumping 4 servings of both on my already overflowing plate. I carefully carried the plate to the only vacant seat in sight.

This table was occupied by a bunch of people who I had absolutely no memory of; but they seemed inexplicably pleased to see me, I realised, panicking. I threw around a safe namaste to everyone on the table, but my heart skipped a beat when my eyes reached pados wali Babita aunty and her annoying daughter. She was relentlessly droning on about said overachieving daughter, who was unapologetically stuffing her face; the algae-like palak paneer smeared all over her jaw.

Suddenly, Babita aunty’s eyes lit up at the prospect of a real time talent show, as she declared, “Meeta lagawe lu lipistick pe dance bohot acha karti hai beta karke dikhao” she urged. Meeta got up reluctantly, still eyeing the palak paneer lustily; nearly fracturing my nose as she whipped out her small, lumpy arm to demonstrate the most hideous shimmy I had ever seen in my life, which looked like an insect had been let loose on her. Before I could get any further injured, both mentally and physically, I got up and fled for my life with the timeless excuse that my mum was calling me.

I finally found a seat somewhere on a table far away from any acquaintances, in proximity to bushes and sexually deprived couples, but even that wasn’t going to stop me from fruitioning the purpose of my attendance to this wretched shaadi– eating the godforsaken food. I dove into the food, face-first, as did all my neighbours at the table; detached from all petty concerns such as judgement.

The auntiji sitting next to me who was drenched in makeup, jewellery and sweat, tore apart the chicken leg with her canines, simultaneously employing her molars to chew the previous morsel of Shahi Paneer that she had hurriedly shoved in her mouth, unperturbed by the clashing of palettes. The uncle in front, slurped back the Butter Chicken gravy which trickled down his mouth, briefly stopping to pull out the pesky bhindi fiber which clung to his teeth and then resumed chewing violently.

After having derived motivation from the noble souls around me, I too wiped the translucent baingan bharta around my mouth with the backside of my hand. I then gathered a morsel of chawal dal and chicken between my fingers and uncouthly deposited it inside my mouth. At that fateful moment, I was surprised with a faint, “Smile Please” two inches away from me.

I warily turned around and was stunned by countless camera flashes, as the C.I.P. dutifully captured my disastrously futile attempt to smile gracefully with a mouthful of food. The dal dribbled along the sides of my mouth, cutting its way through the residual layers of foundation as he meticulously zoomed in on my gluttonous face, exposing me for the unfed monster I was.

I grunted in exasperation. And then a wave of brilliance struck me. I turned towards the camera, unabashedly flashing my dhaniya patta riddled teeth as wide as I could to the C.I.P, as he stumbled backwards in newfound horror, redirecting to adjacent table; as I triumphantly resumed attacking my beloved chicken leg.