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