Years ago, after an incident involving a hair dryer and a three-year old child that I prefer for legal reasons not to name, I made a vow to never attend generic weddings. The only exception, I told my uninterested parents, was if I had known the bride or groom well enough that at least one of us could recall an embarrassing incident pertaining to the other. This has served me well, and saved me from having to attend the nuptials of overbearing relatives and their armies of fat kids. (“No, Harris, I don’t remember you from when we were kids. You could die tomorrow for all I – wait, what do you mean bar? What bar?”) It also means that when I do actually attend a wedding it is because I want to be there out of a mark of affection, and not because the buffet might be thrilling (well…not just).
My first week back in Lahore I found out that two people I know and (in a rare alignment of the stars) that I actually like were marrying each other. Well, mazel tov! Of course I had to go. My family, unused to seeing me enthused about attending any public event, treated my declaration with bemusement dipped in disinterest. Having attended so few Lahori weddings of late I think my excitement got the better of me. It wasn’t until several days into my daydreaming about a dramatic and well-timed entrance into a massive tent followed by thunderous applause and sporadic fainting in the crowd that I realised there was not going to be a mehndi after all. What’s the point of that? Without a mehndi a wedding becomes just a corporate summit of people dressed in sequins staring at each other over steaming plates of biryani. If I was going to go out I’d rather it be for something super fun. But an oath is an oath, and so I dusted off an old sherwani I had at the back of my cupboard, all black as a mark of protest.
I walked in with an expression that said "Look at me!" and "Are there appetisers?"
I left for the hotel where the wedding reception was being held, myself looking like a well-fed vampire, my dark robes billowing in the wind behind me as I marched with an a strong but completely fictional purpose towards the three lit-up tents. I strode confidently past a rather large group of people milling outside and walked into tent number one. The carpeted entrance was very empty, which, considering I was there fashionably late, I took to mean I could strike my entrance pose unencumbered. And so I did: one hand on hip and sporting an expression that said both “Look at me!” and “Are there appetisers?”
Once my eyes adjusted to the flashing lights I saw two lines on either side of me with people holding garlands of flowers and trays of rose petals. They were all looking at me with an expression of profound confusion. My confident pose faltered slightly as I scanned the faces of kids and adults and realised that I didn’t know a single one of them. I didn’t even know anyone in the tent. Which is when it occurred to me that I might actually be in the wrong wedding. So I smiled a sheepish grin that I hoped now said “I’m sorry to intrude” and “you all look real nice!” in dulcet tones, gathered my black robes and turned to flee.
But there, right behind me, was a bride, her father, and a whole coterie of her friends and relatives – all wondering who the hell this funeral-parlour stranger was and why he was standing in front of the baraat. I didn’t know what to do, so I tried to pass through the baraat with small whispers of “scuse me…so sorry…my bad.” It was so embarrassing. At one point I actually asked the bride to step to the side as I slid under the canopy her brothers were holding up so that I could get out of the tent as quickly as possible. Once outside, I shook off the horror of that awkward encounter and tried to regroup.
The author had quite some trouble finding appetisers
The sign outside of tent 2 had ‘Ahmed’ written on it, which is the bride’s family name. Finally, I thought, straightening up, let’s get this party started. Again, I strode in. Again, I struck my pose. Again my expression spoke volumes. And again did I hear a resounding silence as a sea of bearded men dressed uniformly in white shalwar kameezes and green turbans looked at me like I had dropped in on a stripper pole yelling ‘tada!’
“You have got to be bloody kidding me,” I thought as I retreated in defeat. By this stage I seriously considered throwing in the towel and going home. But from a distance I could see yet another tent, and an oath being an oath, I walked over to tent number 3 with scarcely any will left. Peeking ever so slightly from behind the curtain I could finally see faces I recognised, but the damage had been done. I had no fight left in me. My stride was a faltering stroll, my expression droll, my black robes limp and languid as a squid’s tentacles. I walked in surly and sour-faced and sat in the corner unnoticed for the rest of the evening, behind the ugly cousins from Faisalabad that no one talks to. The appetisers were finished and someone else was wearing a better sherwani than me. In the battle of life that we are all fighting, that night was not a win for me.
The night taught me two things: One, I hate weddings. And two, my oath now includes a sub-clause that demands a hand-drawn map, because there is no way I’m going to go through another night of Goldy Locks and the Three Tents of Judgment. Without appetisers.
