There was/ a girl/ so tall/ so thin/ so fair/ her wedding was hit by a monsoon/ yet she laughed and laughed and laughed/ and didn't worry about the frizz in her hair

Three weeks ago, I got a text from an unknown number: I'm engaged!

I said: To whom? Congratulations!

This I thought might reveal who the person was.

But then the reply came: same guy, Ankit:) and I couldn't keep up the charade.

Listen sorry, I don't have this number, who are you?

You idiot, it's me, T..
Shriek time. I had to call.

~

Two weeks ago, the invitation landed up. People saving paper is a good thing. But I miss non e-cards. I have all my married friends non e-cards tied in a bundle, possibly for keepsake, possibly as reference for my own wedding invites.This wedding was in Mhow. I wasn't going to go.

But then ten days ago, T bride in question started bombarding me with have you booked your ticket, have you booked your ticket type messages. Couldn't ignore them anymore. Figured it might be fun. Decided. Booked ticket.

One week ago, I told my boss I'm out for the weekend. He said ok, send HR a mail. I sent HR a mail. The guy called me. Ma'am you've just joined, you can't go. But I've booked my tickets. I'm going to go. Okay, ma'am. But only on medical leave. Okay, Sandip, I'm falling sick on Thursday, by Monday I'll be flu-less again. Ha ha, Maa'm. Ha ha, Sandip.

~

Mhow, July 7th- July 10th

The mandap with a tin roof was drizzled on and that sounded a bit strange with the pandit chanting away, but it looked especially lovely in half an hour from when this was taken

I have to admit I felt special doing all of the following petty tasks for my now newly-married friend

• Being the official brandisher of a rolled-up hand towel and dabber of T bride's forehead sweat at her mehndi ceremony,
• the official answerer of calls and texts as the mehndi was on her birthday ("tell him I have three men working on me!") and
• the official reliever of her facial itches and ticks and push-backer of stray hair strands that would fly on to her temples when she couldn't move use her hands -- all of it made me feel important.

Also, at the wedding (she got married at home), when she was walking from her room to the porch toward her husband-any-minute-now, he of the killer smile and firm handshake, I had chunni duty. This made me feel more special than the two-bit attention men at weddings will pay you.

So, the chunni was a big square of tube roses (rajnigandha) plucked from the garden and woven into an obviously divine-smelling net that was held up by four brothers at the four corners. Bride walked in the centre, under the net roof of tube roses. And because she's so bloody tall, me beside her, with my one arm holding up the net and the other arm lifting up my sari so I don't wet it or trip. And oh the flashbulbs! I walked beside her for all of three minutes, and murmured instructions under my breath (hopefully inaudibly to the people lined up on either side admiring her) : easy..watch your step..demure, look down woman! no, don't smile for the camera! coy, coy, fool! You're smiling too much! No wonder your bloody sister in law's been giving you dirts!

End result: giggle fest + contorted expressions of the bride from folding her anyway thin lips and biting the corner of her mouth. Can't wait for the others to share their photos.

 "Three men working on me.. send him a message, no? Ha ha!" 

So that was fun.

Her baby brother was more fun, in the way baby brothers, who you don't see forever turn out okay, mad even, and equipped with frequent easy laughs and a sense of humour that can swing from pedestrian-but-not-crass to very bad british accent in five seconds flat. I met this child after 14 years. We talked about school days and ugly girls and how he hated kho kho -- " ha ha ha.. randomly sitting in the sun on my haunches waiting to be tapped". No longer such a baby, though, this brother is now a graphic designer and such a talented cartoonist! At 25 and 6'2, he has a large stuffed toy called 'Captain' -- "Teddy Bear Extraordinaire". Cause of much mirth. Once again, the realisation- nothing beats self deprecation - not generosity, not kindness, not tube roses.

Baby brother also got me stoned three days in a row and one day made me walk barefoot on the road in the rain. It all seemed so funny, the talk of kho kho and the.. oh god.. T bride even had time to pester me, Marry him, no, n? Please ya, what's the big deal? I want a better sister in law than that sour puss. Me: Hahahaaaaa, he's damn cute and funny and all that but NO, stop it!! Speaking of which, this is my new profile picture on Facebook, originally the spare me look.

"No, ya.. please, ya.. my eyes look drunk ya!" (This is me).

Besides the humidity, there was an infectious hysterical dementia in the air.I loved it! I have fresh recollections of moving barefoot on the dance floor with mad Sindhi aunts of the bride and brother, in their animated voices and classy pearls and understated, non-bling clothes, passing around beer glasses, being expressive and exaggeratedly pouty to bachna ae haseeno and Raghav's oh teri baaton mein. Did I not say I had a very good time? 

These women went and did the whole hide-the-groom's-shoes thing 

and counted me in on splitting 6 ways the cash-for-shoes

even though I was just faffing around, shooting blurry pictures

All friends of the bride, including the just-met ones were great company, 

even at the mandap when you're supposed to be serious and ideally, praying for the couple

~

For old time sake, I forced myself to wake up early one morning and, despite the clouds and remnants of the previous night's eyeliner still shadowed along my inner lower lid, wear my walking shoes and take a round of the teeny place that growing up, I spent a year in. And sure enough, there was the other downpour, all those memories of .. oh man, rabid barky Pomeranian of the neighbour... my new red scissors I dropped in a manhole and cried for .. going to watch Khalnayak in that open air theatre and Divya not wanting to go to the loo alone because she was scared Sanjay Dutt might turn up...some boy called Rajat at the back of the bus who was in the 9th and therefore a 'senior' trying to bully me.. fancy dress competitions at that almost second home on post office road (as Miss Universe in my swimming costume with red hearts and a silver crown made of chart paper, and as a Hawaiian girl - with streamers tucked into my cycling shorts or pedal pushers as my mother called them) -- and oh god, as always, my mental maps in how close they are to the real thing, the solid brick and mortar venues, fascinate me to a point where I want to either choke or run faster.

Those images are my thirty five decks of cards lying scattered across the living room floor that need a certain dedication to sit the hell down for twenty minutes and sort the mess. Then we might have some order. Then I might have a system. Then only can I pull out one card at a time and dealt with the inscription and colours. This attack of the random memories, as if upturned and emptied from a desk drawer, can really set me back a breath or five. I've noticed it before. It's like I'm being a prefect to myself, badge and all, enunciating all over again: can you please just form a straight line and enter one by one so I can address the postcard nature of each at my own pace, if that's not too much to ask, thank you?!

But nooo.. monsoon weed + memory deluge = as good a reason as any for a post and all these carefully-cropped, time-consuming upload of pictures. And as you can see, I'm doing a fine job of being caught up with myself. 'Sup wid you?