In a Delhi home this evening, there’s a girl debating whether or not to open the door which has been knocked upon for the zillionth time in a week. In the constant flurry of people – helpful neighbours, laundry-delivery, flower-men, decorators – she takes a moment to breathe and document the madness. Getting married is a marathon task.
The wedding season has already seen Delhi grapple with traffic jams that daily set new world records for being menacing and indomitable. The markets have been abuzz with haggling crowds and stubborn shopkeepers peddling sarees, lehangas and jewellery. The amount of money that is being spent is insane. There remains the constant anxiety of being sure everyone has been duly invited, all loose ends have been tied, and no feelings have been hurt. Amidst this craziness, they absurdly expect the bride to look like a million bucks.
I am being told to take rest, sleep and eat. Indeed, they have queued up no less than four lunch events in the week before the wedding. I intend to invest in some digestive potion and refuse second helpings of everything, no matter how insistent. If anyone is willing to share the food and take some load of niceties off my tired shoulders, I am only a shout away. On a serious note, however, I plan to utilise whatever time I now have available to sleep, take deep breaths and try and be at peace.
The next time we meet, “Saddi Delhi” will have moved back to “Of Paneer, Pulao and Pune”. Choley bhature will transform into pau bhaji, Lajpat Nagar into F.C. Road, rush hour in the Delhi Metro to morning chill in Pune. R and I will be man and wife and I will write from a desk in our home together. I promise to share all the madness of the wedding as soon as I find myself some quiet and peace.