The wedding.

I went back to Calcutta for three days at the end of December for the wedding of one of my oldest, dearest friends.

Here's an extract from a post written nearly ten years ago. Sort of captures our friendship a little.

"I didn't have a Last Assembly. I was late for school and I had to stand outside with a lot of people. Tanvi was one of them. Appropriate maybe because it was the tail of her dress that I clutched when I walked into Assembly for the first time." 

Funnily enough, my first memory of Tanvi is of her not being there. It was the first day of school. Lower Nursery. I was barely three years old. (By all accounts it was a spectacular day. Apparently I cried so much, I threw up. Twice.)

I remember being held by my mother and scanning the white-washed, high-ceilinged room, looking for Tanvi. We were already friends from the Miranda Hall pre-school days - although I only have vague memories of that.

The crying started when I couldn't find her.

I was a needy child.

Anyway, so she was getting married and I went for the wedding. Just about managed snatching leave for it. I landed the night of the Sangeet. My mother picked me up at the airport. She was late as usual. So I gave her a cold kiss instead of the usual crushing hug (she was seriously late, ok, and I TOLD her to be on time. ) But, as usual, five minutes later, I'd forgotten that she is the most maddening woman I know, and I felt the home love kind of love wash over me. 

The point I'm trying to make is by the time I reached the Sangeet it was nearly midnight. I was so excited, I rushed into the place in cargos and a leather jacket, forever cementing myself in the eyes of those who saw me as Cool. Until I changed into a beautiful, ethereal Greek Goddess kind of gown, and spent the rest of the night tripping over the hem and trying in vain to contain the cape behind me from billowing like Batman's. (I love Batman, but I didn't particularly want to look like him just then.)

I spent the rest of the night downing shots, dancing reluctantly, and dragging poor Pandey out to one of the little lawns so I could sneak a smoke without Tanvi's parents seeing me. Strange, that. I'm perfectly ok with my parents seeing me smoke, I really don't bother hiding it from most people, but her parents - I don't know, it's just weird. 

Anyway. 

The next day was the Mehendi. I was going to put some on, but then I realised what it looks like when it starts coming off. Like skin disease. But I couldn't say that to the people who kept coming up to me and urging me to join the throng. So I said I was allergic. 

Allergies are so useful, man. I'm going to start saying I'm allergic to seafood, instead of telling people I don't like it. It will cut down on some of the judgement that is passed on me, as it is on us all. It's weird though, I really have tried to like it, and some things I'm okay with. Like sushi and sashimi. I love good sushi and sashimi. I also like Windsor Pub's crab rasam. And the Aunty-in-Goa's fish cutlets. 

Back to the point. 

Actually, I'm quite far away from it, so I'm going to skip ahead - past the haldi (that was emotional, man, that was so emotional, it was the first time the emotional hit me), and straight to the wedding on the third day. 

I was supposed to meet the bride where she was getting ready. After two people (Mum and Briho) wrestled me into my saree (oh my god, it was my Thakuma's, and it was yellow silk, and so beautiful, I'm going to wear it again at my wedding, if I ever get married), I sped off to the wedding venue. 

Got there to realise that she wasn't getting ready at the wedding venue (ITC), she was getting ready at the Taj. Why, I don't know. 

So I sat in the lobby for the next two and a half hours and stalked the following people on Facebook:

1) Exes and past crushes

2) Teachers from school

3) Ex colleagues

4) Random people I haven't thought about since school 

I managed missing the groom's arrival, and then, the bride's - and I only just rushed out in time to join the procession behind the bride, as she was escorted by her brothers to the wedding mandap. 

Saw the ceremony. (Wonder of wonders, my mother arrived in time for it.) A little bit of weeping happened. A lot of weeping would have, but I made myself think of work instead. I did still feel like weeping, but it was a different kind of weeping. On the inside. The tears, at least, dried up.  

Just after the ceremony, I was chatting with Tanvi's ayah, Chachi. Chachi is a delight to us all - when we are not the ones facing her bullet. For instance, I don't think Tanvi's mum was delighted when Chachi hid the keys to her cupboard after they got into an argument about something. I certainly wasn't delighted by the following conversation I had with her. 

Chachi: So. They're all married now. Tanvi. Avantika. Sonal. Roli.

Me: Yes. 

Chachi: When are you getting married? 

Me: No clue. 

Chachi: *eyes widening* But you have a man in your life, don't you?

Me: *shrinking visibly* No, Chachi. No man. *Pause* Not even a boy. 

Chachi: WHAT ARE YOU DOING? YOU'RE GOING TO BE THIRTY IN THREE YEARS. GET A MOVE ON. 

I told Tanu the story later and, in doing so, dug my own grave.

It was time for the Vidai - which is the going away ceremony. Technically, the bride was only going to her hotel room and then going back home for dinner later, but no one was thinking of technicalities then. Most of us were howling. I thought about work, I thought about fat puppies, I thought about other unmentionable things to distract myself. But all I could think about really was the little girl, often mistaken in school for my twin, whom time and distance had never been able to fade for me, not even a little bit. 

So yeah, man, I was sobbing away to glory when she turned around (she was sobbing too) and called for me to go up to her.

There is a tradition where the gold jhinguts on the bride's wrist are shaken over the heads of unmarried girls. If a piece breaks off on one of the girls, it's her turn next. 

I was, unfortunately, the only unmarried girl singled out. 

No gold piece, predictably, broke on my head. 

But Tanu didn't give up, oh no. She thrashed the jhinguts on my poor head until a piece gave way. It had no option. It was no match for her. 

Man, that was hilarious and embarrassing. 

And reassuring. Because if I ever want a husband, I shall just shake it, and one will appear. At some point. Apparently.

I'm going to stop telling this story to everyone though.

The other day, I was recounting it to a friend's flatmate who told me, very reassuringly, "don't worry, you will get married." 

"That's not the point," I said, annoyed. "I don't want to get married, I've never really cared about getting married." 

"It's okay," he said, not realising it had been okay until then. "I can tell. You'll get married. One day."

I kept on trying to convince him that I wasn't telling the story for reassurance, I was telling the story because I thought it was funny. 

But no. 

It is going to be okay. 

And there's nothing I can do about it.

Us. Dec 2008.

The yellow silk saree. Oh, and Mum. Dec 2017.