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Indian weddings, oh the clichés!

Decorations going overboard, having more guests than you expected, running out of sweet dishes and kebabs because the aunties forgot they're diabetic and obese, the drink's counter perpetually occupied with uncles who have a never ending stock of philosophical tales and their own expert view on politics, little kids wailing and the slightly older ones running around in the pandal, the pandit ji asking for some new type of leaf or flower for some 'really' important custom and the list goes on.

Steering through the crowd was always a challenge; and I tried to do just that; along with trying to focus on not tripping on my lehenga too.


I turned around at being called.

"Yes aunty?"

"Marigold. He wants marigold flowers. They're out there in the basket. Can you please...?"

"...I'll get them." I said before she could complete.

Mala aunty was my best friend-Disha's mother. And as is obvious from her stressful request, it was her daughter's wedding.

Disha and I had been best friends for longer than I could possibly think. We met in the tenth grade and had been inseparable since then. Mala aunty was thus, like a second mother to me and my involvement in the wedding was way beyond just as a guest.

As I pulled up my lehenga and started steering through the crowd I tried extremely hard to duck my face and just blend in with the crowd in general; for obvious reasons. A traditional Indian wedding was the centre for matchmaking.

I could simply stand and spot at least five such groups of aging ladies who were out there either scrunching their nose at the wedding preparations; flaunting their own child's extravagant wedding; or sitting and match making for the youngsters.

I'd already gotten three such proposals; as per Ma; who'd found all of it absolutely ridiculous.

"Mrs. Mehra's was the best." Ma had laughed once.

"And what did she say?" I'd asked out of curiosity to have her say with air quotes;

"Your daughter's twenty five and still single? Hayo Rabba!." I'd laughed at Ma's amazing mimicry as she'd continued; "Good that my son is coming back from Canada. He's an IT professional and could give Hrithik Roshan a run for his money! They'll be an amazing match!"

I had had to roll my eyes at the cliché; and of course; hide myself from Rishab Mehra; the Canada return son of Mrs. Mehra throughout the course of the various ceremonies.

"Aditi!" I heard my name again, this time from a different voice, but certainly that of another aunty.

Dear Lord.

I rolled my eyes, for I was well aware what was coming next.

"Namaste aunty." I turned on my spot, forcing a grin and joined my hands in greeting as a random aunty who claimed to have known me since the time I was born, cleared the crowd and walked towards me.

Considering it was Disha and Arjun's wedding; the two of my best friends; and that all their relatives were attending the ceremony; her declaration of knowing me since my birth made absolutely no sense. But then again; if I was looking for logic in this stupid hobby of matchmaking; then I was the idiot.

Her pumpkin sized bottom dangled with each step she took and her extensively draped sari almost mopped the floor.

I never got the whole concept of wearing an outfit one can't carry; but never bothered to ask anybody anyway.

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