Bharat weds Tinku on a sparkly thermocol heart near Worli. I am in a cab that had been held up in honour of this happy occasion. They are standing there surrounded by women in florescent colours and men in scratchy looking kurtas.
Tinku is caked with make up; Bharat looks rather thrilled. In the middle of heavy evening traffic, he climbs on and navigates a white horse. The horse protests but gives in soon enough. Friends cheer loudly. Tinku's friends nudge her and giggle. The city loves marriages and the drama that it whips up but it loves getting home in time more. The coy look in her eyes and the grin on his face fail to soften the irate home-goer at the end of a long Tuesday. He has just about made peace with the festivals that block the city's streets every couple of months. He doesn't need to be a part of someone else's wedding.
Bharat the bridegroom gets off the horse and a younger cousin dressed in the brightest yellow that the human eye can handle, runs with a box of crackers. On cue, the band plays about Munni's defamation and everyone dances to an additional background score of honking cars and screaming drivers.
Someone from a cab a few feet ahead of mine gets off to have a serious conversation with one of the shiny relatives. The man shouts out what he has to say to be heard over the music and taps angrily at his watch.
The situation takes a confusing turn when the shiny relative procures a box of eerie looking orange laddoos dripping with ghee and offers one to the screaming man. He offers some to a few other drivers and passengers near by.
The passengers are still displeased but atleast they have refreshments.
Between the scarily decadent sweets and the screaming at traffic jams, we are headed for the dreaded cardiac arrest either way.