“Wear a ghagra choli. All the girls will be wearing one.”
This is Delhi in end January. The temperature is dipping lower than Mahima Chowdhury’s neckline.*
I state the obvious. “And freeze my ass off?”
My aunt looks at me like the goo that got stuck to her slipper when we walked the streets of Karol Bagh in search of the perfect matching gota purse.
She turns to my mother, pity written all over her concerned face “ Hai N, teri beti badi practical hai.”
Practical? Its 4 degrees, you can get pneumonia if you wear any less than two sweaters and she wants me to go to a wedding, at a mehrauli farmhouse, in a skimpy ghagra choli.
This is two years back. I never went for the wedding, which is good because the couple split up in five days anyway. I would probably have spent more time in hospital for frostbite.
Now the thing I was dreading the most is happening. My brought up on a staple diet of dilwale dulhaniya le jayenge cousin is getting married. And the same masi called me yesterday. You could hear the glee in her voice all the way to Vaishnodevi.
“ Fishtail design is the latest. And we kept your pneumonia in mind, the wedding is in August.”
Freaking hell. Twelve days of wedding frenzy, hundreds of relatives, non-stop havans, sister of the bride in a fishtail ghagra choli.
I’m getting ready to channelize my inner Karan Johar.
*please watch Kudiyon ka hai zamana. and don't blame me for suicidal tendencies displayed after that.