The biography of the 'shaadi' staple

It's that time of the year again. Yes, it's wedding season! The only recession-proof industry (besides Ghajini's historic BO collections, that is!) that has cheered up every
business from the couturiers to the caterers and even the priests in this otherwise bleak season. And my columns are no different. The life of the urban singleton can never be fully represented unless I keep revisiting the unique and memorable wedding experience . . . . of others of course!

While earlier I have written with scorn, sarcasm and amusement at the lavishness and hypocrisy of the big fat Indian wedding, the feelings lately have given way to resignation and wonderment. Yes resignation, because if one has a fair bit of experience in wedding attendance as I do, having travelled the country (and the globe if you count hen nights in Budapest and NY) to attend the nuptial celebrations of various friends, one knows that after a point a single friend is a wedding staple, much like the purple orchids framing the dais at the reception. Since single at 28 somehow conjures up words like footloose, fancy-free, bindaas and 'happening' we singletons are sought-after wedding features and often booked months in advance, usually wearing our slinky sarees with backless cholis doing a ‘number’ at the sangeet.

All protests are brushed aside; after all it’s the role of the bride’s single friends to create raucous ruckus at weddings and keep the banter and bawdy jokes flowing. No wedding is complete without it, as has been decreed by decades of Bollywood extras doing the 'dulhan ki saheli' act! And while initially the role-play was mildly amusing — even a wedding gift to my friend in a way — after eight years it just an exhausting routine since being single isn’t a novelty and neither are cookie-cutter weddings.

And then there are the legitimate rituals where the single girl has to be present at a wedding viz. the kaleera jangling at Punjabi weddings, the bouquet throw at church nuptials and the ae buro bhaath at Bengali weddings where the bride’s last meal at her parent’s home involves feeding all her unmarried friends and siblings! I am sure in the bygone days these rituals had a lovely meaning and all that but in present day all they do is draw attention to the ringless finger and have aunts, family friends and even absolute nobodies cackle and declare that ‘it’s your turn now beta’! Really, like I didn’t know!

I for one am much happier attending a wedding when there is a concrete task to accomplish. Like getting the bride’s blouse from the tailor an hour before the wedding or ensuring that the naughty cake for the hen night has a shot of sambuca hidden inside the sugar penis. It totally beats sitting around vela because trust me, sans the odd pre-wedding cocktail party or an informal sangeet no wedding ceremony is actually any fun for the attendee. The friend one is there to show solidarity towards is usually layered in pancake and jitters and too busy going through the multifarious ‘say cheese’ motions to give you much attention except to keep asking if you’ve eaten. And unless it’s a wedding from within a homogeneous group of friends with plenty of shields — aka other friends  —  to gossip with about this one’s saree and that one’s husband, weddings are a just a vast stretch of lawn with squishy mud to ruin your high heels, busy buffet counters, and an animated discussion with strangers over the rising popularity of pineapple raita in wedding menus!

But ever so often there is a quiet moment of reflection as well. And it usually occurs during the part of the wedding that is of least interest to guests; the actual ceremony. I sit watching these two people up there who range from college sweethearts to surprise lovers to cyber-mates, going through this extremely poignant and true moment and wonder, when does this moment of promise and connection turn into all the marriages I see around me coated in lies, indifference, arrangements and bitterness? Where does the love go?

Big question. Whose answer I don’t have . . . I am a columnist not Nostradamus after all! And I don’t have the time to ponder over it either. The pre-paid taxi is waiting downstairs, you see, to take me to Nasik. To my Vasundhara Das-lookalike friend who's having her very own Monsoon Wedding, but in winter!