The surest sign of ageing is not wrinkles or baldness. It’s nostalgia. That, too, for something you abhorred when you were young. For me, that’s weddings. Of the traditional South Indian kind.
Whatever happened to the South Indian wedding, dammit? Can someone tell me why the wedding of Chi. Sow. Pranitha, daughter of Varadarajulu and Kanakavalli, both hailing from Bapatla, a town in Guntur district known for its rice mills, needs a baraat ? Or a sangeet ? Or a mehendi ? Especially considering that the groom is one Sai Suresh, only son of Pulla Rao and Ratnamma from Karamchedu?
This is not a one-off case, mind you. It is the same with the Krishnamurthis, the Kempe Gowdas, and even the Kuriakoses. The Varadarajulu do is just one horrific example of a trend that no one seems to be opposing.
In the name of all that is decent and aesthetic, it’s time someone blew the whistle.
First and foremost, the gear. Tell me, why does Varadarajulu need to wear an embroidered achkan , a chiffon dupatta knotted rakishly around his neck, and a pair of size 13 sequinned mojaris that look like they belonged to Ali Baba? Witnessing not just him, but the entire male contingent of his family all dressed like they had raided the costume department of Dharma Productions, is not something the human eye was designed for. Take it from me as a South Indian male, if you leave out Prabhas and Mahesh Babu, the average South Indian male body type is best suited for being clothed in kaftan or thobe , and staying at home.
The food, next. Imagine Wolfgang Puck and Sanjeev Kapoor having a head-on collision. Then imagine their semi-comatose bodies being revived partially by the head chef of Murugan Idli Shop. Now, imagine the three of them sniffing a glue stick or two. And then cooking. In fact, it was only after I was force-fed vegetable au gratin, bisi bele bath , missi roti and American chop suey followed by sojappam mixed with chocolate mousse that I decided to write this piece. Now, the decor. On our way to the sangeet , the venue was decorated wall-to-wall with what looked like a slew of big-budget film posters. Closer inspection revealed they were actually re-enactments featuring the bride and groom and their out-of-condition parents in several cinematic poses. There was one of Sai Suresh and Pranitha in the DDLJ pose; another of them doing Jeetu and Sridevi from Himmatwala , brass vessels and all. Then came Varadarajulu and Kanakavalli à la Gone With The Wind with Smt. Kanakavalli in the Rhett Butler position. Not to be outdone, Pulla Rao and Ratnamma were in what looked uncannily like an interpretation of a Sunny Leone vehicle whose name escapes me.
Finally, the dancing. While the unmoving two-dimensional posters did give me a trailer of coming attractions, the entertainment in store outdid all expectations. The couple, their respective parents and a host of arrhythmic cousins, their mojaris and dupattas entangling periodically, misstepped non-stop to a medley of Bollywood hits on a quivery stage. The hapless guests watched like death row inmates waiting for a last-minute presidential pardon. The reprieve finally came when Varadarajulu’s churidar came off during the seventh encore of “ Tera pyaar, pyaar, pyaar, hookah bar” , bringing sanity to the proceedings.
But I must confess that there is one welcome change to the traditional celebrations of yore, something that’s become de rigueur at all weddings. The booze. So what if it is patently fake Black Label. It does somewhat anaesthetise the trauma of seeing Varadarajulu with his ethnic pants around his two left ankles.
Krishna Shastri Devulapalli is a satirist and humour writer. His latest novel is called The Sentimental Spy .
