Mangal Dhun, cheesy Bollywood numbers and dohoris dominate airwaves in ornately decorated party palaces. Newlyweds tirelessly greet guests that come in hordes with bouquets and gifts. Young ladies in scant designer blouses defy the winter chill. And the free booze, the fat reason why I’m here, comes with an upsetting realization and a haunting past.

May 23, 2020

Mangal Dhun, cheesy Bollywood numbers and dohoris dominate airwaves in ornately decorated party palaces. Newlyweds tirelessly greet guests that come in hordes with bouquets and gifts. Young ladies in scant designer blouses defy the winter chill. And the free booze, the fat reason why I’m here, comes with an upsetting realization and a haunting past.

It’s that time of the year… the entire town is getting married. Close to half a dozen weddings of cousins and friends came with joy and merry brought on by all-I-can-drink beer, wine and whiskey drunk to old times and a happy future. An occasion to indulge without trepidation – that of blacking out or of a beer belly. Nothing came between me and the free flow of beer. Even grandpa’s well dreaded look of disapproval failed to deter me from celebrating, my already tarnished image brought on by my drinking habits notwithstanding. Receptions came as a godsend to break my budget-induced drinking hiatus. And with that, my liberty in revelry knew no bounds in a series of weddings.

Except this particular one which, like a mentally stigmatizing experience, like a splinter in the back of my mind, shook my foundations.

I’ve always had a thing for wedding receptions. I remember years ago during my teetotal high school days, I’d given my old bicycle to a party palace guard. The alliance was forged for a rather strategic reason: to crash weddings at the venue. He’d call me whenever there was a fancy party going on and I’d waste no time in getting into his guard jacket and queuing up in the buffet line. I was young and the thrill of conning my way to free food was all lighthearted, all in good humor.

Fast-forward a decade, and I stood there at the party by the bonfire, tipsy, downing one glass of Belgian beer after another. I socialized with the people around the fire, half of whom I didn’t know. Perhaps they were from the dula side, I wondered, but under the influence, I wasn’t even a little hesitant to brag about my drinking capacity to whoever I could. As I got more drunk, I lost focus of what the others were saying and just stared into the flames, unwary of the conversation.

Like a freight train, without a warning, it hit me – Nothing was lighthearted anymore! Folks I played guccha and hide n’ seek with were getting married. The burning realization that time had gone by in a jiffy was simply unbearable. I cringed and a small part of me silently died. I had to clear my mind. In a single gulp I bottomed the glass and, trying not to stagger, made my way through the crowd to the bar for a self-medicating round. I distracted myself by watching a couple of inebriated gentlemen take the lead to set the dancefloor on fire. Lungi Dance had gotten their bellies and bums to shake uncontrollably, which got a good laugh out of me and fellow spectators.

This was an instant fix I felt, and just when the fiery show seemed to put my drunken ponderings to rest, as if things couldn’t get any worse, out popped an army of gossip aunts from the crowd. A session of pulling my cheeks later, they got right into business: “Now it’s your turn! We’ll find a nice girl for you. Or have you already found one? What’s her caste?” Kill me! It was neither the best time nor the correct state of mind to be harassed and pestered. They were adding insult to my injury. I needed solace from this misery and stormed away for dinner. Even as I darted away, along came their intimidating last ditch cry, “Coming Mangshir!”

My system was now precariously hanging at the edge of being smashed, perhaps just a glass away from joining the Lungi guys. I knew the dinner was my last chance to pull myself together. Seated alone in a corner, I started hogging down everything I could fit on my plate, and went for more servings – the second as big as the first, and the third as the second. I couldn’t afford to skip the dessert so, still with some space for Gajar ko Haluwa, I stood in line for a plate.

I noticed someone familiar in front of me in a designer blouse and, in what was the most awkward of moments, came face to face with my ex-girlfriend (who I wasn’t on speaking terms with)! It hadn’t ended on the best of notes, for she had called off the wedding that was the supposed reason for our break up. Before I could even react, in an unprecedented psychological trauma to befall on me, the group of gossip aunts appeared once again and, pointing to my ex, said, “Anuj, have you met [name redacted]? She’s your age.”

So the party ended for me with a cold reminder: Beer is a diddly squat of a solution when time catches up and your hairline recedes, or when you’re surrounded by gossipy aunts and a forlorn ex.