After my show on Sunday, a friend asked me, ‘What plans?’
I said, ‘I’m hungry. I’ll eat and sleep’.
He said, ‘Why don’t you come with us to Shoaib’s wedding?’
Now this has happened before. And my usual answer is always a full moral science essay. ‘I’m not dressed right’. ‘How can I go uninvited?’ ‘What if they ask me to leave?'
But I am in a slightly less overthinking phase now. Also, I knew the alternative. I would go home, open the fridge, stare at leftovers and create some sad fusion dish like curd rice with yesterday’s curry and emotional damage.
Here, there was a Muslim wedding. Which means I could go, eat and be merry.
So I said yes.
Three of us went on bikes. Two of them were on one bike. I was alone on mine. Which is when the waves of uninvitedness started creeping in.
But by then, I had already reached Manikonda. And Manikonda is the Suez Canal of Hyderabad. Once you cross it, you don’t go back.
I reached the wedding hall following the other bike. And there I was. In slip-ons. With a neckband around my T-shirt. A messenger bag hanging from my shoulder. Standing among men wearing shiny shoes, well-lit shirts and blazers bright enough to guide flights during landing.
I hadn’t even set my hair. At that point, what was the point?
Then I saw Shoaib bhai.
I knew him. But not enough to be invited to his wedding.
We made eye contact. I waved at him the way people wave to close friends, as if to say, ‘You thought I wouldn’t come, but here I am. Finally made it’.
Now, once eye contact has been made, you can’t just go and eat. You have to go and wish.
So I stood in the line and observed people doing the classic wedding hug. Right side, left side, right side.
Right. Left. Right.
I practised it three times by hugging an imaginary person while I was waiting in the line.
Then I noticed something.
There were two grooms.
For one second I thought, wow, has Old City progressed this much?
Then I realised two weddings were happening on the same day. Same stage. Same hall. Same food.
Well, Modi ji said use less oil, so maybe they were following that.
Once the hug was done, there was a photo session. I felt bad for the photographer. He took three or four shots, asking us to put our hands here, stand there, look this side.
I wanted to tell him, ‘Bro, don’t put effort. I am not even supposed to be here. If the album has fewer pages, this photo will be the first one removed’.
Anyway, I had completed the formalities. Now I was waiting for the main event.
Food.
I asked my friend Rehan, ‘Where is the food?’
And it was right there.
Usually, wedding food is in some separate section. You have to walk, search, ask two uncles, cross a generator, and then find the dining area.
Not here.
The food was inside the main hall.
Which makes sense. When food is the best part of the wedding, why hide it?
And slowly, the real festivities began. Hyderabadi green chicken. Red chicken. Haleem. Rumali roti. Apricot dessert.
I looked around and thought, this is a very honest setup. Eating bakra while watching the bakra who got married. That was new.
And somewhere during that meal, I got over an age-old fear.
Nobody cares about you at a wedding.
Sandesh
@msgfromsandesh
(This comedian is here to tell funny stories about Hyderabad)
(The writer’s views are his own)
