Letter From My Old Student

 My Dearest Sham Ji,

Do you remember the poem you taught me when I was in tenth class? I still carry it with me—like a bookmark pressed between the pages of my growing-up years. One of them was “Go, Lovely Rose.”

You began by telling me that this was Edmund Waller’s best-known poem, and that it shines because of its structural unity and symbolic depth. You spoke so gently, so passionately, and I—oh, I was all ears, soaking in every single word like soft rain on thirsty soil.

You said the poem was written in the mid-17th century, when ideals of courtly love floated through poetry like perfumed air. To be honest, Sham Ji, back then, I didn’t quite grasp why the poet used “thee” and “thou.” It sounded old, distant. But when you said those words, they felt intimate—almost like secrets whispered between close friends.

It wasn’t until I studied English in my MA that I truly understood. But even now, when I read that ABAB rhyme scheme or trace the lyrical grace of the poem, I hear your voice. I hear you.

You said the commanding mood runs through the poem, with the rose sent forth like a gentle messenger. I remember how you paused, looked at my face, and said, “The poet urges a young woman to recognise her beauty and accept admiration before time steals it away.”

Why did you pause, Sham Ji? Why did you look at me just then? That moment stayed with me—like a rose pressed in a book, its fragrance lingering long after the petals have dried.

You went on, explaining how beauty’s worth is tied to being seen, and how the poem carries a subtle urgency: “Beauty from the light retired” has “small is the worth.” And then, the closing stanza—so tender, so true—about the fleeting nature of all things rare and sweet.

Sham Ji, your words echo in my heart even now. You made poetry feel alive, like it was breathing just for us. I admired you so much back then—your calm, your clarity, your quiet passion. You made me fall in love with literature. And maybe, just maybe, a little bit with you, too.

Happy 25th Marriage Anniversary, dear Sonali & Kamal Ji!

 Happy 25th Marriage Anniversary, dear Sonali & Kamal Ji! May God bless you with all happiness, good health and lifelong togetherness. Loads of love and laughter always.

It is me, Sarla, from Jammu.

Hello!

17th February isn't just another date on the calendar—it's a milestone! A whopping 25 years of marriage! 🎉 That's a quarter of a century of togetherness, tolerance, tea, and... more tolerance! 😄

May your next 25 years be even brighter—with good health, great wealth.🤭

A quarter century of shared sunrise,
Of building dreams with gentle ties.
Through cups of tea and all the unsaid things,
The lasting joy that silver anniversary brings.

May laughter still your daily bread and wine,
With health and wealth, your stars to shine.
And in the chaos, may you always find,
Sweet moments just for your peace of mind.

To Sonali and our dear Kamal Ji,
From Sarla Sham in Jammu, joyfully! 🥂✨

 A Joke -

"Travelling Light: A Barroom Tale of Physics and Punishment"

It was a slow Tuesday afternoon at the Institute for Advanced Studies, so a few of the physics department regulars decided to hit The Quark Bar for a quick bite.

Professor Davies was already at a corner table, chuckling to himself. "You hear about this?" he asked, holding up a dog-eared paperback. "I finally found that book on anti-gravity I've been searching for."

His colleague, Dr. Sharma, slid into the booth across from him. "Oh, the one by that new theorist? Is it any good?"

"It's un-put-down-able," Davies said with a straight face.

Before Sharma could groan, the door swung open and in walked a particle physicist they knew, looking particularly radiant. "Hey, Leon!" Sharma called out. "Grab a seat!"

Leon waved, a bright, beaming smile on his face. "Thanks, but I can't stay. Just passing through." He pointed to his single, small bag. "Gotta travel light, you know."

The barman, a weary fellow named Kevin who had long ago stopped trying to understand his clientele, shuffled over. "What can I get you, gents?"

"I'll have the fish and chips," Sharma said.

"One order of fission chips for the gentleman," Kevin repeated, jotting it down.

Sharma blinked. "No, I just said fish—" He paused, sighed, and waved a hand. "You know what? Forget it. Just bring it."

Davies, meanwhile, was staring intently at the saltshaker. "You know, I've been thinking about absolute zero. It's the ultimate limit."

"Cold subject," Sharma muttered, trying to get the terrible puns out of his system.

Just then, a man they didn't recognize shuffled in and took a seat at the counter. He was so still and expressionless, he seemed to radiate a kind of profound stillness. Davies nudged Sharma. "See that guy? Heard he's a bit of an odd duck. Apparently, he was recently cooled to absolute zero."

Sharma squinted at the man, who hadn't moved a muscle. "Really? He looks... fine?"

"He is," Davies said. "He's 0K now."

Sharma buried his face in his hands.

To change the subject, he pointed to the TV hanging in the corner, which was playing A New Hope on a low volume. "You know what I can't stand?" Sharma said. "When people get the physics in that movie all wrong. It's not 'May the Force be with you.' For a physicist, it should be, 'May the mass times acceleration be with you.'"

Davies nodded sagely. "Much more practical."

The door to the bar flew open with a bang, and in walked two of the institute's most famous—and most eccentric—professors: Werner Heisenberg and Erwin Schrödinger. They looked flustered.

"We were just pulled over!" Heisenberg announced to the whole bar, his hands trembling.

Kevin the barman leaned forward. "Did you know how fast you were going?"

"No!" Heisenberg exclaimed, his voice rising with panic. "But I could tell you exactly where we were!"

A police officer, who had followed them in, stepped forward, holding his ticket book. "I can tell you, sir. You were doing 200 kilometres an hour!"

Heisenberg threw his arms up in the air in exasperation. "Great! Now we're completely lost!"

The officer, trying to regain control of the situation, cleared his throat and looked at Schrödinger. "Sir, is this your vehicle? Do you have anything in the trunk? Alcohol, weapons, anything I should know about?"

Schrödinger thought for a moment. "Just a cat," he said calmly.

The officer's eyes narrowed. He walked outside, and a moment later, they heard the trunk pop open. A few seconds after that, the officer stormed back in, his face red. "Hey! You said there was a cat in there! That cat is dead!"

Schrödinger slammed his palm on the bar, making the saltshaker jump. "Well, he is now!"

The entire bar fell silent, save for the faint TV audio. Professor Davies slowly lowered his copy of the anti-gravity book, a look of profound respect on his face. He looked at Dr Sharma. "You, see?" he whispered. "It's not just the universe that's governed by quantum mechanics. It stops, too."

The Great Birthday Caper: When Love (and Strangers) Came to Call Sham Misri

 The Great Birthday Caper: When Love (and Strangers) Came to Call Sham Misri

Today, the universe decided to remind me that I’m an octogenarian. Yes, it was my birthday. Now, in our household, this day isn’t just a date on the calendar; it’s a high-octane, multi-course culinary event. My wife, Sarla, operates under the ancient and unshakable Kashmiri wife’s decree that her husband’s birthday is the most important day of the year. And let me tell you, at her age, she hasn't lost an ounce of that stamina. The woman can still out-cook a five-star hotel. To add to the pomp and circumstance, it was also Ashtami – a goddess’s day – so the universe itself seemed to be in on the secret. The menu was set: a vegetarian festival was about to begin. My first task? A noble quest to the market for vegetables and paneer, the essential building blocks of this edible love letter.

We had kept the guest list small and exclusive, mainly because most of our relatives live in places like "Outside Jammu" – a far-off land that requires a passport and a week's notice. But as I was to discover, the best-laid plans of mice and men are no match for the mischief of a beloved nephew, Er. Suneel Ganju.

I was out on my errand, chauffeured in my car (because at eighty, even heroes deserve a ride), blissfully unaware of the storm of surprises brewing in my living room. I had been dispatched for the critical mission of procuring curd. I returned home, a humble container of yoghurt my only trophy, and walked into my drawing room to find... chaos. Two utterly unknown faces were beaming at me from my sofa. Before I could ask, "Have you come to read the meter?", the room erupted.

"Happy birthday! Happy birthday!" The walls echoed, the ceiling reverberated, and I’m pretty sure a picture frame wobbled in surprise. For a solid, confused moment, I thought old age had finally short-circuited my brain, and I was hallucinating friendly strangers. But then, from behind this dashing couple, popped my beloved nephew, Suneel Ganju, with a grin as wide as the Chenab River.

The mystery was afoot! It turned out the unknown couple were not friendly ghosts, but Anil Kak and Neelam (Thusoo) Kak. As Neelam introduced herself, the fog cleared. "I'm Neelam Thusoo," she said, "your neighbour from Dadikadal, Tankipora!" And just like that, a lifetime of memories came flooding back. In one go, I could see our old lane, the chatter, the familiar faces from a life we left behind in Srinagar. This unknown couple had brought with them a suitcase full of nostalgia.

But the surprises were just getting started. The Kaks, it transpired, were not just chance visitors. They were part of a full-blown conspiracy. My nephew Suneel, desperate to be here, couldn't get a flight from Noida. So, he did what any self-respecting engineer with a flair for drama would do: he roped in his friend Anil Kak, who had just flown in from Canada for a wedding, to be the advance party. The plot? To give their "Mammaji" (that's me!) the surprise of his life. It was a covert operation with more planning than a bank heist, and the prize was an old man's joy.

And then came the cake. Oh, the cake! Anil Kak and Neelam Kak presented me with a magnificent creation. The first look was awesome. Now, I’m a man who has walked the streets of London and the avenues of the USA, but I had never, in all my years, seen a cake like this. It was a 'Red Velvet Cake'—a crimson tower of confectionary art. I stared at it, half expecting it to start singing. We made our friendship official on the spot, accepting a Facebook friend request. From unknown visitors to dear friends, all in the span of a single, red-velvet afternoon.

But wait, there’s more! As if one architectural marvel of a cake wasn't enough, our dear Simmi (Aima) Raina swept in with another contender: a 'Chocolate Fudge Cake' so decadent, so sinfully rich, it looked like it was made by the gods themselves. The cake-cutting ceremony commenced. I, Sham Misri, wielder of the knife, prepared for a dignified slice. But Sarla, my wife of countless years, had other plans. With the speed of a striking cobra, she snatched the first piece and—shlap—shoved it directly into my mouth. And then, for the grand finale, she smeared a generous portion of it on my clean-shaven face. In six decades of marriage, she has never attempted such a sugary assault. It was a first. It was shocking. It was... strangely wonderful. Does old age increase love, or just the urge to publicly embarrass your spouse? I leave that for you to ponder. Simmi, not content with two cakes, also produced tinned biscuits of such exquisite promise that just looking at the package made you want to devour the entire thing in one go. It was all love, pure and delicious.

The gift-giving began in earnest. My nephew Suneel Ganju handed me a magnificent bag. "What's this?" I asked. "A present from your sister, Behna," he said. Inside? A treasure trove of almond kernels and—oh my gosh—a whole lot of money. Her absence was a physical ache, but her love had travelled in that bag. Then, Suneel Ganju and his wife, Sugandhi (whose name truly means 'fragrance', and she lives up to it), gave me a dazzling shirt. 'O, what a glamorous one!' I thought. I wanted to wear it right then; my heart was already donning it.

And the love kept flowing! Sarla’s brother, Suneel Gurtoo, arrived with a bag of wonders. It contained the most honoured 'Atta hoar' – a sacred, twisted dough ornament, so auspicious you're supposed to hang it over your ears (don't ask, it's a Kashmiri thing). His wife, Basanti, brought a hoard of 'bagirkhani' – specially made flatbreads that were devoured at teatime in a frenzy of buttery delight. They even presented a matching suit for Sarla and me! I thought that "his and hers" fashion was a Western conspiracy, but no, it has clearly reached Jammu. The colours were perfectly coordinated. Their dear Anju Gurtoo was there too, and her husband Sanju sent his love in the form of a giant envelope of premium Afghan almonds. "Taste some, Gasha Ji," they urged. I did. Oh, they were yummy and full of love.

Then my Babi, Tosha Ji, hugged me, kissed my forehead, and handed me a colourful bag of dry fruits. My eyes got wet. In that simple gesture, I was a young man again, and the years just melted away.

Through this whirlwind of family and food, Neelam Kak, my new/old friend, quietly intervened. She had apparently seen my YouTube videos where I recite Lal Vakhs, the ancient mystic poetry of Kashmir. "Recite one!" she begged. And so, extempore, surrounded by the happy chaos, I spoke. Anil Kak was thrilled. Neelam was excited. "Make us your Facebook friends!" they exclaimed again, and we sealed our newfound, decades-old friendship in the digital world.

Just as the sugar high was peaking, Sarla, the general of this domestic operation, pronounced, "Lunch is ready!" The dining table, with its six chairs, became a command post. The six men attacked first. "So delicious, so delicious," was the only phrase uttered between mouthfuls. It was a symphony of flavours, a taste of home we hadn't experienced in so long. Then came the ladies' session, and they cleared the decks with equal efficiency. Finally, tea arrived with fresh, flaky 'Katlam', and we all sat there, stuffed, content, and buzzing. It wasn't just food we were sharing; it was only LOVE. Love that had travelled from Noida, from Canada, from across the globe in phone calls, and most importantly, love that had filled our quiet home to the brim, turning an ordinary birthday into an extraordinary, unforgettable caper.

Sham Misri

 

Wedding Story Part-IV

8^th Feb. continued

Reception &Dinner

Venue: Air Force Auditorium, Subroto Park, New Delhi

As the final echoes of the sacred hymns melted into the afternoon air and the last of the blessed flower petals settled gently on the ground like nature's confetti, a curious transformation began. The mandap, which moments ago had been in the solemn stage for seven lifetimes of vows, suddenly found itself demoted to a mere spectator. For now, the real action was shifting gears—from the spiritual to spectacular, from the blessings of Agni to the blessings of the buffet.

The guests, who had been sitting with the composed dignity of temple-goers, underwent a remarkable metamorphosis. Eyes that had been moist with emotion were now scanning for familiar faces. Hands that had been folded in prayer were now subtly checking watches. And stomachs that had been silent witnesses to the pheras began to murmur among themselves, discussing important matters like whether the dal makhani would live up to its reputation.

 The Jest That Echoed Louder Than the Mantras

With the sacred fire still smoldering and the echo of the pheras fading into a blessed silence, the newlywed couple finally rose. They moved as one, a constellation of two, beginning their first circuit as a married pair—not around the fire this time, but around the sea of waiting faces. It was time to meet the guests, to receive their blessings, and to turn the formal ceremony into a celebration.

As they glided through the crowd, a slow procession of silk and shy smiles, they reached our little enclave. This was the corner where the air wasn't just thick with the scent of kahwa and roses, but with the promise of mischief. Here stood Sham Misri, an octogenarian, his eyes twinkling with the wisdom of a man who's seen it all, flanked by his usual companions-in-crime. And in the center, holding court, was the inimitable Dr Ajay—part physician, part philosopher, part surgeon, and full-time comedian. His prescription was always the same: a heavy dose of laughter, guaranteed to cure any ailment, especially the solemnity of a wedding. There were others; excuse me, I don’t remember all the names.

As Diddon and his bride paused before us, a silent cue was given. Dr Ajay leaned forward, a sly grin spreading across his face, and delivered a couplet in his native Kashmiri, his voice pitched just loud enough to carry:

Aenh "Oara aav Jjja Ji khochan khochan,

Youra drav gonchan var devan."

A beat of silence followed, the kind that precedes a storm. Then, a ripple of knowing smiles broke out among the Kashmiri elders. The couplet was a perfect, affectionate jab, a two-line masterpiece of wedding humour. A translator, quick as a flash, leaned into the groom's ear and whispered the meaning:

"He came as a groom, nervous and uncertain, his steps faltering with each pheras.

And now he leaves the mandap, a conqueror, twisting his moustache with pride—though he has none to twist!"

The effect was instantaneous and magnificent.

It was the image of it all. The contrast between the shy, slightly terrified boy who had circled the fire just an hour ago, and this new, Zamtur (Son-in-law) "man" who, in his mind, now had a magnificent, handlebar moustache to twirl with bravado. The humour was gentle, grounded in the shared experience of every groom who had ever stood in those embroidered shoes. It wasn't mocking; it was a loving, "We see you, we remember being you, and looking at you now!" You are our Zamtur, most respected one.

The bride and groom’s faces went through a beautiful transformation. First, a flicker of confusion as the Kashmiri words landed. Then, a dawning comprehension as the translation sank in. And finally, an eruption. Their laughter didn't just escape; it exploded. It was a deep, hearty, unstoppable roar that shook their shoulders and brought happy tears to their eyes. He tried to stifle it, raising a hand to his mouth, but it was no use. The dam had broken. For several glorious seconds, he was lost to the world, his laughter a pure, joyful sound that was more infectious than any virus Dr Ajay had ever studied. The bride, catching the spirit of the moment, hid a smile behind her dupatta, her eyes dancing with mirth above the silk.

In that moment, Uncle Sham Misri, with damp eyes, thought that the formalities were over. The sacred mantras had bound them in duty and devotion, but this impromptu couplet, this jest from the heart, bound them to us. It was a reminder that a wedding isn't just a union of two souls, but the joyous, hilarious, and deeply human beginning of a shared story. And what a perfect first chapter it was, sealed not with a vow, but with laughter that echoed louder and lasted longer than any chant.

 

To be continued

Sham Misri

2-17-2026

7th February 2026-Mehendi & Sangeet

 

Part-II

7th February 2026-Mehendi & Sangeet

Venue: The Ganvas Farms, Chattarpur, New Delhi

The morning after. Brimming with happiness—and, if we are being honest, partially fuelled by the remnants of last night's chai-and-chatter hangover—the family contingent billeted at the CRPF Guest House began stirring. The mission for the evening was clear: descend upon The Ganvas Farms, Chattarpur, for the Sangeet.

A delicious rumour was floating through the corridors, lighter than the morning mist. Word had it that only the youngsters would be taking the stage tonight; that dance and masti were strictly for those under a certain age. The line of demarcation, however, remained frustratingly invisible.

“Am I invited?” whispered a sprightly 45-year-old guest to another. [Both Sham Misri’s relatives]

“What about me?” replied the other, adjusting her spectacles. “I am technically your junior by eleven months.”

This existential panic hung in the air until it drifted towards the corner where the 75-plus guests were seated, observing the chaos with the serene detachment of saints. “We are safe,” one of them declared, folding his hands. “We have no tension. Surely, they will send us back to retire with our pillows.” After all, the over-75 club boasted a meagre membership of four or five. They looked almost disappointed by their own immunity.

But murmurs have a way of growing louder. Soon, the universe course-corrected. A decree was issued, swift and democratic: Everyone. Is. Invited.

“Dress up! Dress up! We shall be late!”

And just like that, the CRPF Guest House transformed into a bustling artist's workroom. Everybody prepared for the long journey south, towards the farmhouse in Chhatarpur.

The truth? The planners had never intended to leave anyone behind. But what is a family function without a little manufactured suspense?

…

But first, the dressing room became a battlefield.

A Conspiracy of Silks

Everybody emerged in their fantastic finery, and it was immediately evident that a quiet, undeclared war had broken out. Each guest wore a costlier outfit than the next. The saris were competing in an invisible Olympics. The lehengas whispered, ”I cost more than your car. The sherwanis gleamed with enough zari to reupholster^*1 a small aircraft. Even the uncle who usually wears cargo shorts to weddings had surfaced in a handloom masterpiece, looking vaguely uncomfortable but triumphantly festive.

It was, in short, an arms race.

The Great Car Conundrum

Enter Sanju—the bride's uncle, the designated Minister of Transport and Logistics, and a man whose personal garage boasted a machine so magnificent it probably had its own Instagram following.

Sanju stood in the parking lot, clipboard in hand, surveying his fleet: a collection of brand-new Indian cars, gleaming like loyal soldiers. They were not German. They were not British. But they were ready.

Then the guests arrived.

From the left: An American cousin, accustomed to SUVs the size of small islands. He eyed the seven-seater with the cautious optimism of a mountaineer assessing a foothill.

From the right: A guest from the Middle East, who is used to travelling in a Land Rover, had arrived. He stood quietly beside a car, politely not mentioning that his car had more horsepower than our entire fleet combined.

And in the centre: Sanju himself, whose fantastic big car sat idle, because every single seat was needed to ferry the family.

Sacrifices were made.

The American squeezed in. The Middle Eastern guest folded his towering frame into the last row. Sanju, resigned to his fate, climbed into the jump seat—the one that faces backwards, the one that makes you feel like luggage.

There were no BMWs. No Mercedes-Benz.

But there was LOVE. Love, love, and more love.

And for that, nobody minded sitting in the last row.

For that, even the jump seat felt like first class.

…

A Mirage in the Dust

The approach road was rugged, testing the suspensions of our vehicles and the resilience of our hairdos. But then, we turned a corner. At first glance, it seemed we had accidentally driven into a painting. The Ganvas Farms stood before us, not merely decorated, but reborn. The entire farm was drenched in the colours of a thousand flowers—fragrant, defiantly cheerful, and utterly magnificent.

Scattered across the lawns were culinary outposts catering to every persuasion: vegetarian, non-vegetarian, and those simply hunting for the nearest cold drink. Each table was laid with enormous steel plates, gleaming like armour. I stared at mine, then at the modestly sized serving spoons, and wondered, What epic feast are we expecting to contain within this tiny perimeter? It was a mystery for the philosophers.

Performance: When Families Compete

To the left stood the stage. And then, the Boys' Side unleashed their dhamaka.

Short skits, long laughter. Punjabi beats melted into Hindi classics. But the true showstopper? The bridegroom's father, who decided age is just a number and rhythm is a birthright. He rocked the stage with his wife, their chemistry a gentle reminder to the youngsters that romance isn't patented by Gen Z.

The bridegroom himself played it cool—literally. He took on a calm, composed role in one skit, standing amidst the chaos like a monk who accidentally wandered into a discotheque. It was, by design, the perfect foil.

Then came the retaliation. The Bride's Side refused to be outdone.

Pranav, the bride's brother, took the mic with the confidence of a seasoned emcee, stitching the evening together with flair. And then, Vikram Didon's father rose to speak. We braced ourselves for pleasantries. Instead, he delivered a stunning, heartfelt address—narrating, with wit and warmth, exactly how a love affair had matured, against all odds, into a marriage affair. For a few minutes, the dance floor fell silent. Everyone was listening.

The Long Ride Home

At around 6 pm, the last note faded, the last spoon was set down, and the flowers began to shiver in the evening chill. We piled back into our faithful Indian cars—still no BMWs, still no Mercedes, but somehow feeling just as grand.

The American cousin had made friends with the jump seat. The Middle Eastern guest was discussing mileage with Sanju. And Sanju himself, Minister of Transport, was smiling.

Back to the CRPF camp we went, carrying with us the scent of marigolds and the satisfying exhaustion of having danced like we were all under 25.

Age, as it turns out, is just an invitation.

And luxury, it turns out, is just love with good company.

Sham Misri

P.S.

Hi,

I received a call from an unknown person. He was telling me that he was a great fan of Sham Misri. He needed some clarification on my 7^th February post. What does Reupholster mean?

My reply

*1-Reupholster means to repair, replace, or renew the fabric, padding, and springs on a piece of furniture, like a sofa, chair, or car seat.

For example: "This old armchair is torn. I need to reupholster it."

In the context of my line:

"The sherwanis gleamed with enough Zari to reupholster a small aircraft."

This is a humorous exaggeration (hyperbole).

It means the sherwanis had so much heavy gold embroidery (zari) stitched onto them that if you removed all that fabric, you'd have enough material to recover the seats of an entire aeroplane.

It's a playful way of saying: The outfits, the dresses were unbelievably lavish, heavy, and extra.

Sham Misri

8-2-2026

6th Feb, 2026-A Global Gathering Glitters: Didon’s Grand Wedding Mela

 

A Global Gathering Glitters: Didon’s Grand Wedding Mela

The sixth of February 2026, dawned not just as a date, but as the opening act of a spectacular family mela—a vibrant celebration where love was the main attraction. From every corner of the globe, the clan converged upon Delhi, a tidal wave of affection washing in on different flights and dates.

The honour of the first arrival went to the esteemed patriarch, Uncle Sham Misri, and his delightful wife, Sarla, jetting in from Seattle with suitcases full of warmth. They held court with the extended family from the 3rd to the 10th, setting the tone for the reunion.

They were swiftly followed by a joyful diaspora:

·        Santosh, Sandeep, and Manesh Misri, representing Dallas and Seattle with gusto.

·        Dr Ashish Misri, with his wife Sheeren and their two bright sparks, Arman and Anaya, bringing wisdom from Boston.

·        Sanju and Shuyanti, adding European flair from Holland.

·        The jet-setting Nikhi Misri, on a marathon route from California to Amsterdam, to Muscat, and finally home to Delhi.

·        Pankaj Ganju with his dear Rita, arriving with Dubai’s elegance.

·        Rakesh Ganju, accompanied by the lovely Pretty, from Muscat’s shores.

·        Dr Vibha and Naveen Ganju, making a spirited dash from Bikaner.

·        Uma Misri (Sapru), Shadi Lal, and Minto, flying in from Bombay’s bustle.

·        Sonu and Vishal, bringing Chandigarh’s cheer.

·        Bushan Kaul, Daisy, and family, joining from Poona.

• And from just across the city, Renu and Ashwani arrived from Noida, their presence a familiar comfort and a bridge between the far-flung and the home-grown.

And, turning the glamour dial to maximum, Sughandi and Suneel Ganju—Vikram’s beloved Poftur Boi—made their entrance, sprinkling stardust and style over the already glittering affair.

The masterminds behind this joyful chaos? The indefatigable Dolly and the ‘silent diplomat’ himself, Vikram. Their meticulous planning was laced with delightful surprises, unveiled at every turn to keep the family on their toes and in constant smiles.

Sanju, Vikram’s younger brother, and his wife, Shuyanti, were cool organisers. Skillfully, Sanju managed the transport of all, with Dolly providing all facilities.

The stage for this grand performance was the impeccable Vishranti CRPF Mess in New Delhi—a sanctuary of order, security, and astonishingly prompt service. The food appeared as if by magic, the rooms were havens of comfort, and the spotless facilities were the subject of much happy approval. It was service so seamless, it spoke in a language of its own.

The first major surprise? A live orchestra struck up, transforming the elegant space into a scene of rhythm and revelry. With music flowing, drinks of every choice followed—from Uncle Sham’s refined Glinfinch to Vikram’s spirited lemon juice—fuelling an atmosphere of pure, unadulterated masti.

Then came the ceremony of henna. Led by the radiant Dr. Vibha with her ‘Manzi Dul,’ it became a ritual of laughter and bonding. As intricate patterns were drawn, musical notes swelled—a mix of soulful jazz and booming Bollywood anthems that set hearts vibrating. The delightful climax saw dear Veena Ji, comfortably ensconced on a sofa, showering blessings and a generous shower of notes into Vibha’s hands, with Pretty expertly playing treasurer.

It was a day, an evening, a celebration where affection was the dress code, joy was the soundtrack, and the union of Didon was the beautiful, beating heart of it all. A global gathering, perfectly pitched between timeless tradition and unforgettable fun.