In-Person Stories (Part - Whichever I Recollect)

I wanted to publish a detailed account of a dear friend's wedding. So I copiously took some notes while going through the revelries, being very much a part of them. Or so my concerned friend thought! But those painstakingly gathered observations got lost with time, people and life.

Majorly disappointed, I thought of giving up on writing this self-anticipated account of a much awaited event in our little lives. I never thought my straight friend would be considerate enough to take a partner. 

Not that he was a misogynist or a misogamist. On the contrary he has gone out of his way to make women feel at ease, whenever he came across one. In casual parlance, he sucked up to people (read girls), especially if he ever got to know one. Even to the discomfort of his friends like me.

He had attended the most number of family marriage functions as the rest of us put together and does so still, dutifully. Although he was, as they say, never 'matrimonially inclined.'

But some trickery, a lot of emotional blackmail and his genuinely obedient nature towards his kin bordering on slavishness, combined into the dawn of his big day in November. 

As it so often happens memory regurgitates random records. Recollections are anarchic by nature, until they are conformed into an intelligible order. But I proceed anyway.

Contrary to expectations, among his few loyal friends' I was the only one to reach. Or about to reach.

As the train slowed down for, let's call the place Lalaland, the winter air glided into the train compartment spreading the chill. It was 10 pm and passengers looked comfortable in their sleep within heavy blankets. Few unlucky souls had to break the cozy hibernation to alight, including me. 

Waiting at the door, a bidi-smoking man with more brown than white teeth sat, more out of the train than inside it. Just as I was about to ask if he wasn't affected by the cold, my mobile rang and slipped out of hand.

Bidi-Brown (some people just invite baptism in my head) caught it before it could bounce out into chilly darkness. I thanked him as I picked up the call drawing his steady curiosity now. My friend, the groom, Preet, sent his neighbour Munna, who was at the station to whisk me away to the wedding venue. Celebrations had apparently reached their peak. 

It was already late so the instruction was to look like one of the wedding people by changing wherever possible, except the venue.

Putting up a little less than embarrassing spectacle for curious Bidi-Brown, I managed to slip into my outfit specially made for a wedding.

This was a deliberate plan. One would assume the heads-up could have come way before. Even amidst the wedding chaos, my friend did not spare the opportunity to pull my leg. In this case pull both legs almost over Bidi-Brown, who I am not sure, took some delight in the views and fumbles. 

I alighted on Platform 3, as my luck couldn't have been super enough to simply walk out out of the nearest, Platform 1. Munna, too, didn't bother to purchase a platform ticket or illegally come down to Platform 3 to guide me towards his car. 

I had to call him four times before our 'Hindi's' became comprehensible to each other to establish a path towards the waiting car. It never struck either of us to simply use the neutral English. Maybe the air of the place conspired confusion. 

After multiple directions and redirections in the cold, Munna came into view. The Communications Manager from What-Were-They-Thinking Corp managed to greet and pick me up as instructed. 

Upon arrival, I saw my friend was too busy to even throw an acknowledging glance my way. Maybe it was part of a plan. I joined Munna and one of Preet's uncles' in the litter of the venue looking for whatever was left of the food. The caterer had run out of servings. I was escorted to some leftover gulab-jamun, nicely melted vanilla ice-cream, a couple of puris which seem to be shouting, 'Eat-us and spare us this tribulation of an evening.' A warning sign for what boredom might befall me.

The look and feel of the Government school, booked by the bride's father, a man half-troubled and half-heavy hearted that day, was the same as his face. Barely standing that evening yet managing affairs for a large crowd with a smile weighing tons.

Munna got summoned and now I was left with the Uncle who trained his curiosity guns fully onto me. 'Mumbai, never cold they say, huh?' 

'True,' I tried to be brief because of an under-fed belly and repetitiveness of this question which has been coming up for ages wherever I go.

'So how did you manage so many affairs right under the nose of your parents?'

'Excuse me.'

He got straight to the point, rather much ahead of the point he had been waiting to ask all evening.

'Preet told me so much about you. A friend who would be coming to the wedding from Mumbai. The playboy or a Casanova of sorts. I don't mind some tips myself.'

'I don't have any tips and to be honest never was I ever likely to get a girl-friend. I think you might have confused me with our other friend. Preet must have misled you. You see, us friends have a putting-each-other-in-a-spot game going around for years. And with due respect Sir, aren't you married?'

Of all that I was going to see and hear that night this conversation was the least weird part.

'In that case, I am sorry for you. You seem like a good person. I am sure you will get one,' he consoled.

Rituals began, lasting for hours into the night. Still no acknowledgement from Preet.

Hours later, I felt like I knew everybody there except the bride and the groom. So much so, that at one point even Preet's brother's wife, whom I met for the first time, started pin-pointing the bride's parents mistakes in hosting the ceremony. To me. 

'Look at the venue. My father would have killed himself before arranging such a shoddy affair.'

'Look at the state of rooms. No A.C in them. My child had a horrible couple of days. Barely slept.'

'Look at what she has worn.' I take it she was talking about Preet's soon-to-be wife. 'My mother would have never 'given me away' in such a wedding dress. Don't know where to loosen the purse strings, cheap-people.'

I was at a loss. Dumbfounded. 

It would be a while before she would leave my side but only because kids from bride and groom camps had got into some fight. Apparently, 'our' camp needed reinforcements seeing how one of bride's uncles' held fort for them. 

Serious war of words ensued on one end and chanting of rituals on the other.

Yet no acknowledgment of my presence by Preet.  Even the bride looked at me with at least a question mark. Everybody except Preet had established some or more-than-some communication with me.

Not even a wave! It was 2am.

Drowsy faces. The fight had subsided to soft mutterings. After passing the mantle of fight to elders, the kids were blissfully asleep next to each other in a row. No camp alignment there. 

Out-of-sync with the crowd, some girls, including Preet's sister, were giggling among sleepy faces. I located the source of their amusement. It was the pandit performing the ceremony. Sitting all around the epicentre, they were analysing his hair, face and his eyes much to his discomfort. 

I am still not sure whether he was mumbling mantras or swearing at them in his mumblings.

Suddenly the culmination point arrived. I realized Preet's Uncle was trying to lift his sleepy face and drooling over my shoulders. It was nearly dawn. The Vidai ceremony. 

After some seriously heavy crying, the groom's party was arranged in vehicles by our Communications Manager. I was accorded a 'privileged ride' with the bride and groom. The reasons for underlining privileged ride are too many.

This car is where Preet talked to me for the first time and continued to do so throughout the ride. I was relieved but soon found out this courtesy was not voluntary. His newly wedded wife was too occupied mixing her tears and mucus with great snorts under her ghoongat and refused to talk to him.

The two hour journey to Preet's place through scenic Central Indian landscape is a story in itself. 

I hope to pen it in some post later.