I sat in my armchair idly flicking through the TV channels with the polythene bag covered remote control. I noticed that all the Muslim channels seem to have solemn people reciting the Q’ran or discussing the Q’ran, and all the Hindi channels seemed to have young sweaty people gyrating to loud Bollywood music. The social and political implications of this went straight over my head as I settled on a channel with an overweight Singh with a crew-cut beard like mine dancing in a sea of females. Well at least he seemed to think he looked really cool!

It had been a hectic few weeks and surprisingly the matchmaking of Rekha was well underway. I had asked around my yaars parents and passed around a few carefully doctored photos of Rekha.We had then put an advert in The Sikh times “Beautiful Jat Sikh girl from a well to do family, slim build, good looks, good qualifications and home loving is looking for a Jat boy with good prospects” , and as luck would have it a potential match was found, and they were all coming over to our place so that the girl and boy could check each other out.

Now being the bachola is quite an important job, as long as I played my cards right I would get praise and pampering from both sides, ‘mutthi-chappy’ as they call it. Pritam Kaur was busy in the kitchen putting the finishing touches to the plates of samosay, pakoray, aloo tickies, chukra, gutthia, searni, barfi, ladoo, ras gullay, custard creams, and that was just with the tea, the roti bit comes later. Not that the guests will stay for roti, they will politely decline with lots of “nooo, we couldn’t possibly” or “No ji roti tha kam nehee”, but god forbid if we didn’t prepare it fully. I looked up and saw my Sass had just passed down the hallway into the kitchen, I unconsciously picked up a cuddly toy from the floor and started strangling it.

“Pritam Kaur, they are only coming to have a look a Rekha you know, so is there any need to put on the whole rani-haar, gujjra and two dozen gold bangles on each arm?” I asked.
“Chup, you have to make a good first impression” came the reply, “and go and change your trousers and put a new tie on.”
“Whats wrong with my WWF tie?” I asked, as I struggled out of the armchair,“Hulk Hogan’s got quite a good pose there” I thought “and what’s wrong with my tiger print trousers?” I thought. As I went upstairs to change another chill ran down my spine, instinctively I looked around and saw the piercing eyes of the Sass at the bottom of the stairs. An uncontrollable shivered came over me, I kicked the cat that had inadvertently walked in front of me.

As I made my way downstairs in black flared trousers, figure hugging white shirt and the obligatory medallion I tried to hold my stomach in but it was no use, the aloo prathey were now taking their revenge. Chach Chachi had arrived together with my Nana, Taia Tai had arrived along with various Massies and massars and a myriad of kids. “Kiddha Sawan-aa?” asked Chacha Ji along with an out stretched sweaty hand. I shook it and said “Bass, teeka Chacha Ji.” . We all made small talk with Chacha Ji telling us all about his dodgy money making schemes. One of the kids was appointed to regularly look through the window to see if the guests had arrived. As normal this was “Indian time” which meant that no matter what time had been given you just turned up as and when you liked. An hour and half had passed, this was getting even beyond “Indian time,” then all of a sudden someone shouted “agaay” and everyone sprang into action. The women adjusting their chunnies the guys straightening their ties and before you know it we were all sat in the lounge/dining room on settees and rows of chairs brought in especially, eying each other suspiciously.

Idle chit chat was made with the guests, about the weather, the road journey, whether the directions were easy to follow, whether they had got lost on the way, in fact anything but the situation at hand.

Things had calmed down a little as the tea was brought in and the spread was laid on the table. Everyone politely ate trying to make as little noise as possible, except Chacha Ji of course, who slurped his tea and ate his samosas with his mouth open. “Ohh Chacha Ji” I thought “there’s always one to let the side down.”

Then one of the guest, who turned out to be the boys dad made the first move. “This is our son, Jorra.” Everyone turned to look, the poor lad nearly dropped his ladoo. The women sized him up and scrutinised his every move. I looked at him, he seemed nice enough, a bit nervous, but a huge belch soon sorted that out.

Of course now that the ice had been broken the inevitable statements started pouring out.
“This is sanjoog”
“Ha ji”
“This match has already been written”
“Teeka Ji”
“If it will happen it will happen, it is written as such”
“Bass poori gall kitee Ji”
“Sanjoog wajoog dhoai kaar chalaway”
“Ha Ji, ha ji” with copious shakes of the head.

This was the way to say that everything is written by God and we are only following His orders, but all along doing your damnedest to swing everything your way. Slowly but surely the boy was asked about his education “ki paraya hey?” What his prospects were “ki camm kardha hey?” and whether he was one of the lads “Khandha peendha be hey?” As planned Rekha was pointed out to the guests as she swiftly cleared up the table so that the full impact of her features were not fully felt.

The male guests began to fidget and looked a little nervous, Chacha Ji knew what was required. “Well, how about a celebratory drink eh?” he asked knowing full well what the answer would be.
“No, no it is okay, I don’t drink” replied the boys dad without any conviction.
“Come on Bhaji, little drink” Taia Ji intervened, winking.
“Nay nay ji, better not” the boys dad said but already his resolve was crumbling. As soon as he saw the Bell’s Whiskey bottle appear as if by magic from the side of the settee he caved in. “Chall ucha ji, only a little one we should be leaving soon.”
Three hours and two empty bottles later and I was dragging the boy off the table with his pag round his neck and his shoulders still twitching up and down to the bhangra beat. It was a good do, a good time had by all and the coming together of the two families was sealed with everyone taking turns in shoving ladoo down the boys throat.

“As we are all together we may as well start the planning of the wedding” the boys mother said, which generally went down as a good suggestion from the ladies, there were approving nods all around. Although sweating I suddenly felt a shiver, the cold stare of my Sass met my glance, no matter where I sat she always seemed to manoeuvre her self so that I was in direct line of sight.

My Nana Ji who had been sat in a corner in his own little world suddenly came to life and offered his pearls of wisdom. He is a strange chap, pale skin, flowing beard and always doing simran. Whenever you look at him his lips always seem to be moving all the time reciting some mantra. If he had spent a little more time on his worldly affairs he could have made something of himself but rather he wasted most of his life doing naam simran and sewa at the gurdwara. Now, don’t get me wrong I am all for doing paath and sewa but there is a time and place. Look at me, I do my paath, well, I do it when I can, but I ALWAYS put on a recoding of paath and I know Japji Sahib off by heart, well, the first three pauries, but that is not the point, Sikhi should be from within. And sewa is okay but what would people say if they saw me cleaning the shoes at the gurdwara? Especially with my name on a plaque on the wall.

“Which gurdwara shall we book for the wedding?” asked my Nana.
“We can book the Bollywood Palace for the reception?” asked Massi
“No, Millionaires Club is better“ interjected Massar Ji excitedly “they have good beer on draught there.”
“Oay, whose going to be dinking beer yaar?” said my Fuffer “It will be Bacardi or Bell’s.”
“Shall we be having an Akhand Paath before the wedding?” Nana Ji asked.
“We will need Tandoori Punjab caterers, they do a wicked chicken” said my Pooa. Everyone was getting a little excited at the prospect of some serious partying.
“Ha ji, Punjab caterers are good but do they do a good lamb keema sabzi?” asked Fuffer.
“What about the Raagi’s who will do the lava?” asked Nana ji who was now fighting a loosing battle.
“Don’t worry Nana Ji that is minor detail” Chacha said rather patronisingly to Nana Ji and then in a louder voice “but we need to think of the band!”
“Nachdah Punjab” someone shouted.
“No no, Awaaz are good or what about Apna Bhangra?”
“Wouldn’t it be great if we could get Gurdass Mann?” drew gasps of awe from all seated.
“Bhaio, what about panj-Sikh-da-parshadaa” persisted Nana Ji, but it all fell on deaf ears.

They were all so wrapped up in the whole situation that no one noticed the tear that slowly ran down Nana Ji’s milky skinned cheek as he looked up towards the ceiling and gave a little sigh. Unfortunately I was no different as I tried to shout over the cacophony “ and we need a disco DJ, pink limousines and pink Champaign, and a huge white wedding cake, four tiered, and a guy who plays the dhole, and booze, lots and lots of BOOZE.”

I feel a little ashamed now, as I sit hear in my favourite armchair fingering the remote control. It got a little out of hand. But what the hell, it’s a wedding isn’t it? You are allowed a good time aren’t you? What are we on this earth for anyway? Weddings are a time of celebration right? I had convinced myself. A little smile came over by lips as hands behind my head I settled back into my seat, I was already dreaming of the reception party.