The bride is supposed to outshine the guests. You have had your shot at being a bride many many years ago. Have the grace to leave a few of your necklaces behind in the locker. Cant have the guests pull on sunglasses being so dazzled by the walking mountain of gold.
The stage is not the best place to start reminiscing about the time you dandled the now groom on your knee. The bride is not interested. She is hot, uncomfortable and tired. The groom is waiting for it all to get over so he can get straight down to suhaag raat activities. The rest of the guests in line are growing beards and roots waiting for you to get off.
The owner of the three year old who insists on being on stage and posing for photographs regardless of being wanted in the frame, kindly take possession of said three year old. The bridal couple might not appreciate the cuteness of your child, not when he’s in every second photograph in their album.
I know you are hungry, and the line at the buffet is long, but please refrain from elbowing me in the small of my back to get me to hurry up. I seriously cant do anything about the pace of the folk in front of me serving themselves, especially when they are making detailed enquiries about the ingredients and the recipe of every item on offer, and then engage in lengthy debate with each other on whether said item is worth ingesting.
You, yes, you with the plate that reminds me of Hanuman bearing the mountain, you do know you can go back for seconds dont you. Dont mind if I watch you pack away all that is on your plate. It is a performing art. You deserve an audience and much applause and handshaking when you’re done. After you’ve washed your hands, of course.
Why are you wearing a dupatta? And why is it draped so delicately around you? Why are you wearing embroidery on your clothes? Why are you fidgeting incessantly with said dupatta in a manner I hitherto only associated skittish teenaged girls with? Is that a hint of gloss on your lips? Lord help us, where have the men gone?
When you meet me after years, do not comment about my appearance unless it is to say something positive. A simple you are so happy to see me would suffice. Comments about nonexistent hair, expanded waist and such like will not endear you to me. I might be tempted to stab you with the fruit fork and drag your remains under the draped buffet tables. You know.
Yes, this is my child pulling at my clothing, trying to wriggle out of the conversation. Only acceptable comments about him are on the lines of “Oh how cute he is!” With the exclamation mark. Not, repeat, not statements on the lines of “How do you manage him?” and horrified gasps accompanied by inching away to safer zones where spills from icecreams being ingested by child onto your silks are not possible.
You in the corner, I’m counting the number of icecreams you’ve taken. I really am. Cross my heart. I’m praying for your voice box.