Invitees Only

The reception is at the Turf Club lawns, the setting for many a grand nuptial bash over the years. The game plan—smile pleasantly at almost everyone. But I’m still a little edgy. Earlier in the day two colleagues had looked on incredulously when they heard the idea: ‘‘Didn’t you go to college in India?’’ they demanded. It seemed everyone had one wedding gatecrash story.

But I was going through with the mission alone, without the collective strength of the royal ‘We’.

No one from the family is manning the entrance—a welcome surprise. There’s only a board that says Gurbir weds Puneeta. Punjabi enough, but I confirm that this is the Bedi wedding with an elderly couple who are making an early exit. I stride down the seemingly endless red carpet, which opens up into the large open-air bash.

And find myself in the midst of a crowd of about 700 guests. A quick survey shows: the stage is overflowing with well-wishers, bejewelled aunties have dropped their guard and are sizing up the buffet, and a large number of suited men are thronging the bar. Tables occupied by chattering families line a large section of the ground. It’s like a fair full of high-rolling Sikhs.

So I head to the bar and order a scotch, where I’m witness to a string of bear hugs and guffaws. No one is eyeing me suspiciously, guess I’m passing off as a shortish, shorn sardar.

I walk up to a group of three dapper Sikhs, and ask if any of them has a light. ‘‘Sardars don’t smoke,’’ says one with horror.

Just then Neeraj, our photo editor, walks in. He’s palpably relieved to see me, but he’s also the only photographer in our fearless paper willing to take on this potentially humiliating assignment.

There’s some instrumental music playing—which galvanises not a soul to their feet. The DJ is probably following strict instructions: ‘‘No Bhangra’’. The real party is at the buffet, where guests are getting down and dirty—wolfing the lavish spread like there’s no tomorrow.

The wedding pandal looks empty and Neeraj decides it’s time for me to pay my respects to the couple. Gurbir and Puneeta look relatively relaxed, surrounded by a handful of cousins. Most well-wishers have done their duty and have made their way to the buffet.

There’s a big smile on my face as I skip on to the stage. The family is sharing a joke, and Puneeta is adjusting her outfit. I wait for half a minute at their side, not sure whether to interrupt.

She spots me and nudges the groom. I offer them all my pearlies and heartiest wishes. Gurbir can’t place me, but goes with the flow, and accepts my congratulations with a sincere handshake. Puneeta gives me a polite smile. I place the envelope in Gurbir’s hand, which he scans briefly and thanks me for. Then we pose for photographs, first the three of us, then larger group pictures. My smiles are one hundred per cent genuine, and Neeraj clicks away—much to the bewilderment of the official photographer.

I want to leap off the stage, but try and maintain poise. But when we meet a few minutes later, Neeraj has disturbing news. He thinks the other photographer is on to him and wants to beat a hasty retreat. He scoots.

I blend into the real party at the buffet line, joining the ladies inspecting the tava mutton and men waiting for the skewered pomfret. A scoop of vanilla ice cream in a waffle cone is also ingested. But my conscience doesn’t prick: the contents of the envelope covered my meal and single malt.