The White Wedding

" I fail to understand why people have to get married in Summer - that too at the very height of summer.  In fact there should be a law banning summer weddings. And also a ban  on calling the whole biradari ...". This is my Very Disgruntled husband, dextrously managing to drive, grumble and throw 'those looks' at his co passenger - me. In some inexplicable, very male , very husbandish way he has come to the conclusion that I am , in some way,  party to the torture he is being subjected to. That I am looking , and feeling, as cool as a cucumber only confirms his gut feelings and adds to his irritation.

We are  entering the venue of the wedding and finally relenting and taking pity on the husband I say ," Let's target to stay for just about an hour. That should give us enough time to meet the hosts, bless the groom and bride and ...". I  look at him to see his reaction to my offer and find that he is trying to suck in his tummy, fluff his thinning  hair and smile urbanely, no- not at me, but at half a dozen pretty young thingies. The PYT's  are all anorexic thin, fair as in  fair and lovely and dressed in flaming red , short dresses. They greet us with practiced smiles , tika on the forehead and a shower of rose petals.

 The venue is big as in  Huge. In fact everything is huge -  humungous sofas on
 which one can sink and get lost ,  mammoth tables groaning under the weight of an obscene amount of food , colossal number of people and a gargantuan stage. Something feels odd about the stage and I spare it a second look. This is when it hits me that there is no flower bedecked  sofa on the stage for the newly weds to sit on . I look around and in one obscure corner of the venue spot a tiny stage with the mandated sofa. By the time my eyes swivel back to the gigantic stage it is no longer empty. A very pretty girl , different from the PYT's one had been welcomed by,  is gyrating  sensuously to blaring  music . The girl is possibly Russian or Caucasian or European or Brazilian or... but she certainly is not aamchi Indian. She is white and an  angrez.

Things , and husband, begin to perk up now.  One performance is followed by another, the commonality being that all the performers are females, skimpily clad and white. I look around and see most of the wedding guests clustered around the stage, drinking in the sights. Someone gleefully chortles," Till about seventy years back we danced to their tune, now they are dancing to ours", amply demonstrating that for most of  us  goras is still  = to the Brits.

My eyes wander to the tiny  stage. I see a handful of people standing near it. The groom and the bride garland each other.  There is a burst of laughter and applause from the crowd near the huge stage. The pole dance has just ended. The groom gives an interested look at the pole dancer. The bride pouts .I tell the husband it is time we left. Is that a pout I see on his face?