When your sister is getting married, the first thing you think of this “Whoa! Wait a sec! She is grown up?!”
And then “Oh Yeah! She is just one year younger to me.” And your other self interjects: “Yeah! And you are a mature woman, a mother of a three year old, right? Right?! Oh wait!”
So, yes, it was more difficult for me to handle my sister’s wedding than mine. For one thing, it meant that I could no more pretend that we were all still girls. Womanhood. Remember when you were little girls dressing up like your mother and aunts and pretending to be grown ups? Now, we put on layers of make up, go to the beautician and get the latest style in an attempt to stop looking so adult like.
But I digress. For I am talking about a wedding. Organising one, to be precise.
And I am all about organising. Or planning, to be realistic. Implementing plans have always been my passion, as long as someone else does the hard work and I be the brains.
So my wonderful cousins and a couple of beautiful wonderful friends (thank you Kaushik and Karthik for being so good, and actually letting me bully you guys around) helped with it. But I was absolutely knackered, remember when things can go wrong, they can and will. Especially at weddings.
Like for example, your nine yards saree slipping and falling off on the dias just when the mangalsutra is going to be tied on your sister. And you are trying to grin and move slowly backwards and hoping against hope no one wonders who the Draupadi is.
Or like being asked to pose with your three year old and realising that he has pulled your saree off without your knowledge down your neck and the photographer is trying to hint at you, oh so politely.
Or else wishing like crazy that you had invested in some water proof mascara as you try not to go all teary eyed.
Or else like pretending to recognise every person who walks up to you and shake your hands saying “Oh wonderful! Of course I remember you! How could I forget?”
And when your cousins ask you who they are say “Well, they are very important relatives. I am shocked that you do not know your own family! You younger generation!” and run off with a swish of your saree before they realise you did not name these important relatives.
Remembering to breathe. Because there is that handsome looking hunk smiling at you so tenderly. Blast he is married, Oh wait, that is the Man. Then some cousin comes and asks you to please not letch at your own husband in public and you give a knowing glare at her hand entwined with her husband’s “Atleast some of us let husbands have some space”.
And then the running. Oh so much running. Until someone comes up with the idea to wear a salwar underneath your saree to make it easier and you thank them for the rest of your life.
And then dancing. And giving into the dance and feeling bad that people have already become tired.
And the Man coming up and putting his arms around you saying, “Enough Dancing Sweetheart. I don’t think the others can keep up.”
And hoping and wishing on a falling star that my sister’s marriage is as blessed. And as loved.