A big FAT bengali wedding...of sorts

Not big enough, nice spacious place and a multitude of people. A good start then.

Early in the evening I was very deterrent about attending the ceremony. I mean, I wouldn’t know anyone there. Except for the bride and obviously she had better things to do that evening than waste her time chatting with some frail guy with a pointy chin, me.

Faces as vibrant as glittering sarees, shimmering with layers of make-up, made the bright lights needless. Men in expensive sherwanis moving about everywhere. I, with my collared and highly informal tee shirt and jeans, looked like a refugee from Cambodia. Instantly, my uncle and aunt had blended with the environment.

Gingerly, I got myself seated on a sofa in the corner of a big hall room. The fan beside me kept messing up my hairstyle. Soon, was joined by a fat bloke with a dicky hip. He was equally annoyed with the fan as his higgledy-piggledy hairstyle was being ruined too.

“Are you from the konya-pokkho”? Bride’s side? He inquired.

“ Yes” I replied.

“Who is she to you”?

“Didi”.

A couple of yards away I noticed a trying-to-be-cool dude was having a rather candid chat with four girls. He had big ears and almost no hair, a comb-over of sorts. He had a goatee. Obviously, he wouldn’t know what a goatee is – I mean, he simply had no beard elsewhere on his face, except his chin. Really, he would’ve looked cooler on a limping donkey with one eye and mange. I was probably showing signs of jealously, I realized.
Another group of middle-aged women were involved in something what sounded like a boisterous chatter. Very fashion obsessed and high on make-up. The obvious topic of discussion among them would be Bengali T.V serials, geomancy, hair and skin care, I guessed.

A tall, fair guy was headed towards me. Hair up to his shoulders, straight with pointed ends.Aah,John Abraham was here. Perhaps hair extensions and day-glow sunscreens was his thing.
“ You can have your dinner now if you want”, he said.

“Ya, good idea”. I answered.

A table of six. Four burly men, one of them sounded like Pavarotti gargling a hammer. Sitting in front of me was a lady in her early 40s. A bloated ugly hog, like Jade Goody. She was staring at the large piece of chicken on my plate and was giving me a derisive smile from time to time.
The food, however, was good. I could find no quintessential Bengali dishes in a Bengali wedding. But I wasn’t complaining. Most Bengali dishes (especially veg curries) are as tasty as lard. So, if you ever find yourself wanting to taste one, jam a corkscrew in to your knee and wait until the feeling passes.
Finally, some chicken briyani and afghan styled dishes. Hmmm, crikey…The lady in front was savoring every bit, eating like a cow. Slower than tectonic movements.

The men beside me were least interested in the food. They were discussing something about politics. Deliberating about the Left’s interests in the Indo-US nuclear deal. Marxism and Mamata Banerjee. And that’s what they do all they. I know. At home, in the bus, in office. No one’s ever gonna sleep with them ‘cuz they’ve such ugly beards and ridiculous principles. If your life's that empty, it's time to take up carpentry or embroidery. Because next thing you know, you'll be worried about global warming and your next-door neighbour, his Land Cruiser’s contribution to the phenomenon. One of them particularly looked disinterested on the political subjects.

“ The fierceness of politics will soon fade away in West Bengal. People are loosing interest”. He beamed.

Others were silent for a moment.

No,no,no - I thought. Politics in West Bengal will still be around long after you’ve succumbed to herpes or whatever it is that you’ve got. Almost said it.

The man with hairy arms was boasting about his newly bought Tata Sumo Victa, and that it could accommodate three persons up front unlike other cars, which had 2 seats. Two things crossed my mind. Firstly, the sumo was designed by a man who only had a ruler. And secondly, just because you have an extra seat up front doesn’t mean you’re going to have a threesome. Summing up, a pretty pointless and ugly car then. But, nevermind.
For me, the party was over. For many others it had just begun.

“Give me the house keys”, I asked my aunt.

“Keno”? Why?

“ Severe bowel pain, I have to go home”. I replied, making appropriate expressions.

Back in the cab I was as relieved as Mr.Haneef would’ve been after he was extradicated.

By 10:15, I was home.