On Wednesday, following an afternoon pakhawaj lesson with Mohan Sharma in Badarpur, I changed into my golden kurta (the first time I'd worn it since purchasing back in February) and hopped into his SUV, along with a backseat full of family members--mostly children. With Panditji at the wheel, we fought our way westward out of Badarpur through Delhi rush hour, south across the border into Haryana, and eventually reached Surajkund--the site of a tenth-century reservoir that is now home to a number of resorts and bougie hotels.
We arrived at the Rajhans Hotel shortly after 8 pm--still early by Indian standards--which meant the massive outdoor reception area remained relatively empty. But to my delight, the food was already on full display. Though I can't be sure, I'm pretty sure the extravagant culinary offerings were a big part of why I received an invitation in the first place. When Panditji initially asked if I'd be free the evening of July 6, he commented on how much excellent food would be served.
I'd learned earlier that afternoon that 2000 guests were expected at the reception. The exhaustive buffet of chaat, classic vegetarian entrees, fresh Indian breads, oven-baked pizzas, countless sweets, kulfi, and made-to-order ice cream sundaes suggested the figure was not an exaggeration. Accompanied by Chirag, Panditji's adorable four-year-old grandson, we set out to peruse the chaat first. After downing a small plate of aloo tikki, doused in all the customary chutneys, followed by some small dosa-like creation, I worked my way towards the entrees, where I was careful not to overdo it. With so many desert options, it would be a shame to fill up on paneer masala and vegetable curries.
In the process of sampling the extensive selection of dishes, the humidity became a factor. Feeling myself starting to sweat through the kurta, I looked up at Panditji and saw he was similarly perspiring. He suggested we check out the AC hall, which prior to that moment I hadn't even known to be an option. I didn't need to be asked twice.
That first taste of AC made it difficult to head back outside, particularly as servers continued to roam the hall with small plates and glasses of assorted fresh juices. I braved the outdoors in short bursts, specifically for a plate of sweets and a handmade kesar pista kulfi, but the remainder of my evening was mostly spent chatting in the crowded air-conditioned hall.
A rather intense ten-year-old lad named Jagrit consumed the majority of my time and attention from that point onward. Having seen me chatting with Panditji in English, he approached as soon as he saw me sitting alone sensed an opening. Eager to befriend the lone foreigner, he bombarded me with questions. At first it was endearing, but after an hour or so I found myself searching desperately for an exit strategy. Even as I attempted to chat with other people, and tried to shake him with the occasional trip outside for cold refreshments, he continued to attach himself to me. Convinced he'd made a best friend for life, and telling me as much, he asked repeatedly for my phone number, which I provided somewhat reluctantly. Neither of us had a pen, and he didn't have a phone, so as we meandered in and out of the hall, he repeated my phone number out loud to sear it into his memory. Inevitably, he'd forget something, or misremember, then ask again. By 11 pm, full of sweets and tired of dealing with the overly inquisitive youngster, I said my goodbyes to Panditji and called for an Uber home. By midnight, I was comfortably back in my bed in Hauz Khas. Thus far, no calls from Jagrit.
The following evening, having slept off most of the gluttony, I set out to meet my friend Karishma (a fellow Fulbrighter and Delhi-based journalist) who had invited me to tag along along to what she called an "aam aadmi" (ordinary man) wedding. She reasoned I would probably have plenty more opportunities to attend rich people's weddings but that a wedding of this nature may not come along for me again. In hindsight, I also think she didn't want to brave the journey into JJ Colony Madanpur Khadar, a dense government resettlement colony on the southeast outskirts of Delhi along the banks of the Yamuna, alone. Glad to be asked, and not one to turn down a new "cultural experience," I had accepted her invitation.
I knew we might be in for some unforeseen complications when the Uber driver we'd hired from Alaknanda, where Karishma lives, wouldn't take us all the way into JJ Colony. At first he demanded an extra two hundred rupees, to which we agreed, then he apparently had second thoughts decided the trip wasn't worth the extra cash. He dropped us a few kilometers away in Sarita Vihar. We tried to hail autos, but no one wanted to fight the traffic into JJ Colony. To my amazement, Karishma--who is slightly more shameless than I and more fluent with her Hindi--recruited a nearby police officer to our cause. I would never consider doing such a thing. The less the Delhi police know about me the better, and I stand out enough as it is. Eventually we found a generous autowala through Uber who, for an extra fee, agreed to drive us as close to the bridge into JJ Colony as he could get us. He explained that if the traffic was completely jammed then we'd be better off crossing into JJ Colony on foot.
Seeing the stationary traffic jamming the narrow road, we paid the autowala, bid him farewell, and set out across the bridge spanning the canal that separates JJ Colony from the rest of South Delhi. The road, just wide enough to accommodate two vehicles side by side, left no room for foot traffic. During breaks in the oncoming traffic we walked on the pavement, but as soon as any vehicle wider than a scooter came along we had to balance atop a large drainage pipe and walk alongside the passing traffic and blaring horns. Like so many of the small, extraordinary moments that slip by undocumented, I wish I'd taken a video, but pulling out the phone at that moment would have compromised my safety.
Safely across the bridge and through the traffic jam, we hired another auto to take us the remainder of the way. The contrast with the previous night's reception was stark. Karishma's friend Viru, the groom-to-be, came out to the street to greet us and led us into a narrow alley where a catering tent had been erected towards the back. Rugs had been spread in the ten meters or so between buildings, covered by a festive pink and red canopy, and a group of teenagers DJed from a laptop through a loud makeshift sound system. We followed Viru into a humble dwelling where we sat and met with a few family members, including his two-year-old niece, whose pet name is "Ladoo" (a type of Indian sweet). Everyone was in the process of making preparations and getting dressed for the party, including Ladoo, who would soon be wearing a silver sequin dress with matching footwear.
We stayed long enough to mingle and eat a simple, satisfying dinner. It wasn't quite as hot as the previous night but every bit as humid. On top of that, there was no AC hall. I kept hearing stories about the crazy dancing at the family wedding Karishma had attended before covid when Viru's brother (Ladoo's father) had tied the knot. Alas, shortly after dinner Karishma started to crash from the heat and we made our exit before a proper dance party could materialize. We said our goodbyes, thanked Viru, and made for the exit. Not to be denied the rare opportunity to party with a well-dressed foreigner, one of the uncles approached and started to dance with me as I made to leave. I obliged. At that moment, no one else was on the dance floor. We must have been quite a spectacle. In any case, it was enough for Karishma to pull out her phone to document the incident. The video can tell the rest of the tale.
No comments:
Post a Comment