I’ve that familiar ringing in my ears that follows a raucous shindig, except tonight’s jamboree was no keg carrying red cup affair. I’ve just returned from what in Punjabi is called a Sangeet, or what you might call a sing-song, and the second part of the three day affair that is an Indian wedding. My cousin, which is what we call fellow British Indians whether blood related or not, is getting married tomorrow when I’ll have more to report. Until then I’ll leave you with what you might call a funny anecdote, which in Punjabi means “embarrassing story”: I was sitting at the party tonight when an uncle (or older British Indian male) came over to say hi. As I started to stand to greet him I realised that the wallet chain that usually keeps me looking somewhat ‘street’ (even at a sing song) was caught in the narrow space between the seat and the chair leg. Any upward motion lifted the chair with my derriere, and until I could free myself I looked either rude or the victim of a practical joke.
It wasn’t the first time tonight that I felt victimised at a rouse of comedy: My mum’s suggestion that I look out for a “nice Indian bride”, was initially received in jest, but when I overheard my Grandma suggesting the same, on my behalf, to her senior associates, I saw the serious side. The funny thing is though, if I were to meet anyone at a traditional, family only Indian wedding we would either already be related or soon to be – and if they were British Indian, by association we’d be cousins, right?
More tomorrow night readers, at which point I might be fixed up. In which case, you’re all invited. (No wallet chains.)
No comments:
Post a Comment