Of Wedding Bells And Hospital Bills

Not another invite,” I groaned, picking up a thick cream and red colored envelope.

- Lakshmi Palecanda

I could practically feel the weight of the tree that had gone into making it. The names of the bride and groom were embossed on it in gilt letters. “Okay, you’ve got money,” I got the point. Inside it nestled the invite which was almost packing material thick. “Hope your marriage lasts longer than this invite takes to degrade,” I thought. The next instant, however, I was appalled at myself. Since when had I become so cynical?

My family and I moved back to India seven years ago. Having been extremely isolated from family doings in the state of Montana in America, I was ripe for schmoozing. I would be there for family, I thought. By that, I meant weddings, funerals, baby christenings or “naming ceremonies” as they are known here, for the “head-shavings,” and “ear-piercings.” Mentally, I had images of myself decked to the “sevens” (even in my dreams, I haven’t been able to be decked to “nines”) meeting group after group of family members, introducing little ones around, reminiscing about our shared past, enquiring after their families, oohing and aahing over little ones who were all “growed-up” and talking about what the future holds for us all. In short, I would snuggle back in to the bosom of my family.

When I got my first invite, I was all set for the start of my Back-In-India-and Ready-to-Integrate scheme. However, I’d not reckoned witht a very important group —my own family. I showed my daughters the invite, explained the far-fetched family connection and explained in detail how we’d been brought up together. I also revealed my ace with a flourish: “Guess what, it’s on a weekend. You needn’t take the day off from school, either!” Then I sat back, beamed, and braced myself for the “Yeah, let’s go’s!”