Jodhpur

Getting married is a trivial activity. Full of pretentious celebrations and distant relations all of who have vague sexually aggressive corrupt processes of extorting money at a wedding. There's the boy with a tattoo creepily looking at the bride like she's going to break free any moment. There's the bride herself in her conical bras imitating some Madonna-esque stunt to be married to someone who has no love to offer, only property. It's a capitalist exploitation, said Marx.   

This wedding was going to be no different, the bride's parents had already given away the famous sweets from their home town to every invitee. Every invitee had ungraciously smiled to agreement to block dates and travel tickets. The entire affair was promised to be the most spoken about event nobody wanted to go to in all of Delhi and it was to take place only 300 miles away in Jodhpur. 

On first receiving the invite via mail, the Patels went on a day long rant about how inconvenient everything in Jodhpur was going to be. There were huge boohoos about the earth defying heat, and the lack of an airport at the old, ancient, dying, damned city! Finally, however, an rsvp was sent with Mr.Patel confirming his attendance with his entire family. 

The closer the day of the wedding drew, the lesser the Patels spoke about the hideousness of Jodhpur, they in fact even picked out heat friendly clothes in colours of pink and red and green for the wedding. Yet, secretly each one hopes, that the week of the wedding would somehow be skipped over and they could get away without ever visiting Jodhpur.

On prolonged arrival, via air, road and also camel (because, you know, stereotypes are not to be avoided at weddings) the Patels faked smiles all the way into a hotel so colourless and brown, it reminded anyone entering it of a glass of water - which was provided immediately of course. There were intricate glass details on the ceiling, which would have gone unnoticed, was it not for the synchronised raising of the eyes and head towards it, while drinking a tall glass of water.

More fake smiles and less cribbing got the tired unedifying family into their rooms. One for the parents and one for the children - each exactly the same and internally connected like a secret passageway the hotel slash ex-castle was rumoured to have.

Large curtained windows gave the children a view of a brown expansion of sand filled with white and black dots, in colours of heat, hotness and men smoking beedis. The air conditioned room seemed as much of an opposition to the view outside as the Patels were to visiting Jodhpur. Movement seemed impossible in the sand outside, and sleep was the only effect anyone could feel after prolonged intake of the immense light that shiny sand can reflect.

Having slept, feeling slightly less hot, the Patels joined distant relatives at the grand big buffet snacks of fafda jalebi and chai in the hotel lawn, highly maintained unlike the sand dunes that seemed threatening from far off distances too. Photographs were clicked and camels were hired to give rides to the celebrating tourists all of who got to talking about the generosity of the bride's parents and the grandness of the wedding. At the end of the evening, when everyone's overly done make up was greatly messed up, a family photograph was clicked - to remember and capture all the fake smiles, pretentious talks, and the fake jewellery that each person wore the first meal.

Finally, when the bride was visiting each of the guests' room, to wish them good night and because it is commonly practiced to visit everyone else's room, she came down to the Patels. Gifts were offered, sweets were exchanged and in a moment of secrecy, the bride confessed of her plan to flee the minute she could meet that creepy guy with the tattoo alone. The Patel son smiled and promised he would meet her the next afternoon and quickly hid his tattoo.