One Indian Girl(88)

‘Didi, I can be the centre girl,’ Sweety said.

‘How can you be the centre girl? Are you the bride or what? Idiot,’ Pinky, another second cousin of mine, said.

My mother came up to us.

‘What is happening?’ she said to me.

I stood up. I gave her a tight hug. I cried again. She patted my back.

‘Calm down, my bitiya. Every girl has to leave her parents’ home one day.’

Sure, that’s what she thought this was. I am crying at the thought of leaving home. Never mind I have not lived at home for years anyway.

‘Give her a break. She will do it in a few hours,’ my mother said.

‘But, madam, sangeet is this evening,’ Mickey said in a concerned voice.

‘She will do it later,’ my mother said in her trademark stern, no-more-negotiation voice.

I came back to my room with my mother.

‘Rest, I am sitting here,’ my mother said.

I lay down in bed. My mother opened a newspaper and sat next to me.

‘Mom,’ I said.

‘Close your eyes. Try to sleep.’

‘Mom, I want to talk to you about something important,’ I said.

‘What?’ she said. ‘Oh, did Aditi call the beauty parlour? Their staff should have come. Anyway, what?’

I looked at her face. Where do I even begin with her?

‘Nothing, mom, it’s personal and I don’t know if I should. . .’

‘It doesn’t hurt so much,’ she said.

‘What?’ I said, surprised.

‘Sex. I know you must be tense. It doesn’t hurt so much.’

‘Really, mom?’ I said, my sarcasm not evident to her.

‘Yeah. See, I am not like those backward mothers who can’t talk frank with daughter. I talk frank. That’s what you wanted to say, right?’

‘Yeah, pretty much,’ I said.

‘Good. Rest. And do chittiyan kalaiyan only. No sad tragic songs at my daughter’s sangeet.’



Suraj and his team of decorators outdid themselves on sangeet night. Bollywood posters from movies of every decade adorned the walls. Streamers made from fresh white lilies and deep-red roses filled the entire room. The stage had the look of a Bollywood item number set, complete with matkis and disco balls. It all felt over the top, like every Punjabi wedding should, and it worked. Guests roamed around the function room appreciating the decorations. I wore an onion-coloured flowing lehenga along with an elaborate diamond set. I looked at myself in the mirror.

‘Stunning you look, didi,’ Sweety said. I couldn’t recognize myself after the one-hour make-up session. For a second, I wished Debu and Neel could see me like this. Yeah, that’s how I felt on the eve of my wedding, wishing my exes who waited within bluetooth range could see me dolled up.

After a nap in my room I had gone back for the sangeet practice. Sometimes the only way to calm your mind is to keep it distracted and busy.

I had rehearsed in the afternoon with the doggedness of an Everest climber. I didn’t have another financial model to build. I decided to take on chittiyan kalaiyan instead. ‘You look beautiful, madam. All the best for the stage,’ Mickey said to me in the evening.

Brijesh came up to me.

‘You look. . .’ Brijesh said, ‘very nice.’

‘Thanks,’ I said. I kept a straight face. I had to talk to him. Before I could begin, he spoke again. ‘Actually, more than nice. Beautiful. Stunning. Basically, great.’

‘You look sharp too,’ I said. He wore a cream-coloured shervani suit with a self-design. He had switched to contact lenses for the night, getting rid of his Sundar Pichai spectacles.

Together, we met elders on each side. We touched everyone’s feet enough times to count as two sets of abdominal crunches.

‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,’ Pankaj mama took the stage. He held a whisky glass in one hand and a mike in the other.

‘Welcome to the most beautiful wedding sangeet of the most beautiful daughter of my most beautiful sister,’ he said. Obviously, the most beautiful whisky had already reached his head.

Mickey’s troupe performed two professional dance numbers first. We sat through them and clapped at the end of each. The highlight of the evening, the aunts’ dance performance, came next.

‘Now we have the mamis and buas on either side performing to London thumakda,’ Pankaj mama announced to thundering applause. He did a little jig on stage himself in anticipation.

Eight aunts took to the stage. The LED screen showed a London backdrop with the picture of Big Ben. Each aunt had enough gold on her to make the down payment for an apartment in London. The stage creaked as everyone took initial positions.

The song began. Richter-scale-nine-level pandemonium rocked the stage. The aunties matched the original steps for fifteen seconds. After that every Punjabi aunt’s head, limb and torso seemed to have a mind of its own. Two aunts banged into each other. Another one had her bangles tangled up in someone else’s hair. But they continued to dance. The crowd roared.



Tu ghanti Big Ben di

Pura London thumakda



If the British had seen this tribute to London, they would never have colonized us.

Choreographer Mickey’s mouth fell open. He covered his face with his hands, wondering if he had chosen the wrong profession. Never had his students massacred his lessons to this level.