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6.30 p.m.
Purva’s family was given the front row, a stage was set and the music blared from every corner.
I felt excited as I munched on bread pakoras, all the while texting images of my sangeet to Anu.
7.20 p.m.
As men with trays of delicious fried food made sure everyone was fed, the masis and chachis (known to not get along), in an exemplary show of solidarity, danced to ‘sasural genda phool’. They missed steps, looked around sheepishly, but finished the song to thunderous applause.
The momentum had kicked up!
8.00 p.m.
Friends from B-school, who had travelled from across the country to be in Delhi for my wedding, performed an absolutely crazy dance to a medley of songs that had everyone wanting more.
A chachi, who wanted to sing a ballad about a daughter leaving the proverbial Babul ka Ghar but had been told not to because we had all collectively decided to not make my wedding a teary affair, showed her rebellious side and sang ‘Disco Deewane’. Dadi almost spasmed in shock and I doubled up in laughter.
The wedding photographer went mad and took about four thousand pictures.
8.30 p.m.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ bellowed my mamaji, who was hosting the event. ‘For a girl in her parents’ house, her sister is said to be her confidante. When she weds and goes to live with her husband’s family, it is the devar, who takes the sister’s place!’
Shouts of ‘Yes! Yes!’ from the now very animated crowd.
‘What happens when the sister of the bride and brother of the groom get together for…’
The thunderous cheering that followed drowned his last words, as strains of ‘Waah Waah Raam Ji’ from the epic Hum Aapke Hain Kaun began trickling in, much to the delight of everyone in the hall. Nothing like a good old Bollywood song!
And in front of our delighted eyes, onstage appeared Vikram, clad in a white kurta-pyjama and brown sleeveless jacket. Next to him stood Mili in a brown lehenga. The bride’s sister and the groom’s brother. Our very own Madhuri and Salman.
I yelped in delight as the two swayed to ‘Bhaiyya Aur Bhabhi Koh’. The two were good dancers and swayed effortlessly to the music, imitating steps from the movie. The cheering that started when the song was announced did not stop even during their performance.
10.15 p.m.
Friends from AIIMS, Purva’s batchmates from the various courses he had done, friends from my B-school and engineering college, neighbours and family members, all set aside pride and dignity and danced with abandon to Bollywood numbers for hours.
The night, already a big hit, reached its crescendo when Purva and I were dragged onto the stage and surrounded by enthusiastic aunts and uncles who insisted we jiggle to the beats of ‘Daaru Desi’.
‘And so,’ said Mamaji as Purva and I s
ettled back into our chairs and awaited the announcement for dinner, ‘the night comes to an end…’
I cheered along with others, mildly surprised at how much I had enjoyed my own sangeet. I was getting up when I realized that Mamaji was not finished. A few more words to wish me luck maybe?
‘But before that happens,’ he said, smiling broadly, as three microphones were brought and placed about five feet from me, ‘maybe we all have time for one last performance?’
Everyone, except me, cheered.
Who was going to perform now? Hadn’t everyone already been onstage? I looked at Purva, who shrugged, looking puzzled himself. A lot of cousins were missing, I realized with a start. Were they eating already?
‘Amay on the tambourine,’ boomed Mamaji as Pitajee got up from right behind me, tambourine in hand, a smug you-have-no-clue-what-is-coming-your-way grin on his face.
‘Vikram on the guitar,’ said Mamaji, as I gasped.
‘Purva, what’s going on?’ I hissed at him, but he looked as lost as I did.
‘And the lead singer, Dr Purva Dixit,’ Mamaji hollered, to thunderous applause. I was stunned, as Purva, who had been pretending to be as bemused as I was, winked and slowly got up to stand behind the microphone.
