Mixed up.

Last week, i took stock of the sarees i own. There are a lot. And at least 6% of them are brand new and never worn. No, i'm not giving them away. When i saw them, i realised that i needed occasions to wear these sarees to, and if there were none then i would create them just so i could wear the sarees and strut about. Opportunity came knocking last evening in the guise of our ex-landlord's youngest daughter's engagement.

So there i was, all blinged up, sitting and waiting for the engagement to begin, amidst rows of elderly women in Burqas and with the intent of figuring out if i was single or too old. In the middle of all this, i also tripped on a wire, had to keep adjusting my aanchal to prevent the men from getting more than an ample view of my bosom, and raise the pleats of my saree a little so i could walk easily. If there's anything that can teach you to multitask, it's a saree, i tell you.

As i sat staring ahead at the decorated red and gold chair awaiting the warmth of the bride-to-be's a**, feelings that lay dormant decided to surge forward and i realised again how much i love weddings. How much i love the lights, the glitter, the stress, the excitement and the anticipation and giggles and rituals and flowers and smiles. It all seems like magic. I love being a part of the celebrations, and more as a participant - running around, taking care of guests, doing small chores and the like - than a spectator. (I've always wished that i could see my own wedding without being the bride, but that's an impossible feat.) Sometimes, i've even tried to imagine myself in the bride-to-be's shoes and feel what she must be feeling. I can guarantee you that the gamut of emotions leaves me breathless; such a big risk, such a big chance, all on blind faith but with the hope that it will all work out in the end.

Yesterday, waiting for the engagement to happen, watching the lights flicker off the sequins on the pendal, i started dreaming again. Dreaming of what i would wear for my wedding (Khada Dupatta), whom i would designate to take care of guests (Gujju, R, G, my cousins), keep my father in check (Sister K and PK), shuttle people and run around (Geek Boy and N) and to keep me calm (everybody else!), what food i would like to have (traditional Hyderabadi fare complete with Sheermal and Chicken curry swimming in deliciously flavoured oil, Haleem, Qubani ka meetha, and other vegetarian stuff), what time of day i would like to get married at (night, definitely), and how large it should be (closed group of people); what expression i would be wearing, how my eyes would shimmer with tears because i would see the guy i wanted to get married to standing on the sidelines as a spectator and not the groom, how i would try to be strong and stop my heart from pounding, how i would swallow the grief like a bitter pill...

Next thing i knew, i was sitting in front of a plate piled high with Biryani. I served myself some (okay, a lot) and ate hungrily, all thoughts and dreams beaten to a swift retreat by the grains of sumptuous, aromatic Basmati.

Good thing food came to the rescue!