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 7th 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
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