What a Wedding !

There is a trilling sound somewhere -I turn my head to locate the source and realize it's coming from me. I am having the time of my life. A warm glow suffuses me as I look at the group I  am sitting with. If the makers of the Indian constitution had ever turned in their graves at the travesty of what they had so painstakingly enshrined in the preamble, they could now rest in peace. Our group was keeping the ideals of equality, fraternity, brotherhood(and sisterhood intact).All the ladies are 'bhabiji' and all the 'gents' are 'bhaisaheb'. So if one of the gent says,"bhabhiji", four heads attentively turn in his direction. Ditto for the women-one of us just has to say the magic word and four heads swivel around- stat. It is so much fun-this nameless equality.

 We are at a wedding. I gasp everytime I see an object of splendour-and since I see many such objects I spend the evening alternating between trilling and gasping. There is a huge vase -about 10 feet in height- stationed at every curve and bend. The vases look vaguely familiar- I recall seeing something like them in one of the movies  Jeetendra  made down south .But ,of course, it couldn't be- this would amount to plagiarism and one could certainly not use this word for someone who exhibited so much taste. Plus the vases are  not kept empty- no sire. Each of them has exactly 3 long  and glittering stems coming out of them. And  if I left you puzzled at the words 'curve and bend', let me make haste and explain. The organisers knew that a vast expanse of stone studded sarees and tables groaning under the weight of 15 cuisines had been done to death and so the whole venue had been landscaped to resemble gently undulating mountains (or should that be valleys?- I was always so geography challenged).It is  great fun because whenever one of  us strays , a collective coo of 'bhabhiji' or 'bhaisaheb' resounds.

 And hark !what is that I  hear-the crashing of cymbals and the beating of drums with the strains of 'azeemohshah shahenshah' ?enlightenment dawns - it is the shahenshah, oops groom, advancing to the stage. I first gasp and then trill in delight, restraining from clapping by tightly holding on to my hands because the son  and the daughter are by now giving me those ones- I  mean disapproving looks. Bhaisaheb, don't ask me which one, looks at his watch and says it is dinner time. We obediently rise to our feet and navigate our way through the highs and the troughs to the dining park- sorry, section. I can hear an enterprising mother teaching her child counting by telling the lil one to count the number of dishes.  The child kept stalling at 84- seems the teacher in his class goes off for tea break at this number and so he couldn't count beyond that!
We are almost at the exit (  made of ribbons of all the colours of the rainbow , crisscrossing each other- and almost us)when we meet the host and his wife. I gasp in envy at the layers and layers (and layers) of rope, sorry gold round the hostess's neck . Transpires that they were so involved in crossing  the mountains and valleys that they missed the 'Jaimala', and were now hurrying because they didn't want to miss the 'pheras'.  We nod understandingly and leave.
There is a stony silence in the car on our way home- just because I blurted out that I would  love to  have the same type of wedding for the daughter and the son !