I hate Delhi in all its seasons. I hate it in summer because of the scorching winds and temperatures in the high ‘40s. I hate it in the clammy winter with its smog and freezing cold. But, above all, I hate it in the wedding season, with the noisy processions, traffic holdups and assorted miseries.
In peak wedding season, even fairly antisocial people like my wife and I receive invitations to a whirl of functions, sometimes as many as four in a week. This number isn’t too large, considering that on some so-called auspicious days as many as fifty thousand weddings take place in a single evening in Delhi.
Earlier we got letters or simple cards inviting us for weddings. But now we get bulky folders with pullouts and several sheets and QR codes and even meal tickets for drivers! Each invitation presents a profound conundrum for me and the missus. From simple mysteries like: ‘Who are these people?’ and ‘Why have they invited us’ to more complex dilemmas – ‘Should we attend or not?’ ‘Should we give cash or gift something to the newlyweds?’ ‘How much ‘shagun’ would be appropriate’?’ And for the missus it is often an existential stumper, ‘What should I wear?’
I meticulously respond to every invitation. I make a note in the calendar and always warn the missus a day ahead that on the morrow we have a wedding to attend. And I prepare as if for some battle. I get my good suit ironed, seek out the bright red pocket square that goes so well with it, polish my shoes and, on the appointed date, I am ready much before my planned departure time. But the missus, born and brought up in Delhi and quite familiar with the laid-back attitude of the natives, leaves just then for the beauty parlour. She returns an hour later, by which time I am fretting and fuming because we are getting late. When at last we leave, I am usually seething, and she is sullen because of what she terms as my nagging.
We drive through the evening smog in hostile silence, which is broken only when we reach the wedding venue. “See, smarty-pants? We are the first to arrive!” says my annoyed darling.
My assertion goes unheard – “We are on time. Everyone else is late. Again!”
Having reached early, I have to park in a remote dark corner. As a matter of principle, I never entrust my fourteen-year-old Maruti to a valet service. I don’t want some scamp masquerading as a driver to scratch the paint on my as-good-as-new car, even though it is just one year away from the Supreme Court mandated euthanasia.
No matter whose wedding it might be or where it might be – from shabby community halls to classy luxury hotels – there is an eerie predictability about the events that follow. The moment we enter the venue, we are ambushed by a photographer. Since neither he nor his sidekick know our unimportance, we presume he clicks us for some sneaky purpose. It could be to identify us as the culprits if some thief pilfers a silver spoon or someone filches a wedding gift.
Our mugshots taken, the old girl and I bash on to the ‘stage’ but must join a serpentine queue of guests waiting to bless the couple and dump whatever gifts they are carrying. This queue isn’t just a line – It is a test of one’s patience, bladder control, and one’s ability to indulge in small talk with complete strangers who have nothing in common with them – except an invitation to the same wedding. We finally reach the dais, where the newlyweds stand with a rictus of a smile. The proud parents of the groom or the bride (we never know which; not that it matters) wear a fatigued, bemused expression and are too polite to ask us who we are. I start to mumble something about love and togetherness to the new couple, but we are pulled and pushed into position for the obligatory photograph and then jostled off the stage by those waiting behind us.
The rest of the wedding reception is a familiar blur. Heavily made-up matrons with coiffed hair kiss the air above dowagers dripping faux diamonds; portly men slyly pull their jackets closer to hide bulging beer bellies and nubile fashionistas display vast expanses of alabaster backs – sufficient to land a helicopter on if needed. Unidentified brats, wearing improbable bow ties, chase each other, screaming and shoving and pushing, causing a doddering uncle to drop his chaat-papri in his wife’s lap. And all the while, instead of the dulcet notes of a shehnai, we are blasted off our feet by bhangra music blaring from the amped up DJ.
After tolerating the torture for an eternity, my wife and I slip out inconspicuously, eager to return home. We reach our car only to find that it is hemmed in by cars of other guests who are nowhere to be seen. So we sit and fume in the dark for an hour or more, bickering and quarrelling till we, once again, resolve never ever to stir out from home in the wedding season.