THE BRIDE: Priya, 7:30 PM, Staring at Paneer Butter Masala

I’m not eating.

Well, I’m eating. Obviously, I’m eating. The aunties would drag me to a doctor if I didn’t touch the food at my own wedding. But I’m eating the way you eat when your stomach is a tight fist of anxiety and your lehenga is cutting into your ribs like a beautiful, embroidered torture device.

Raj just piled his plate with everything. Paneer butter masala, dal makhani, three types of naan, biryani, and, I’m not joking, a samosa. Who eats a samosa with dinner? My husband, apparently.

Oh… My husband he is. We did the pheras two hours ago, but it doesn’t feel real yet. “Try the paneer,” he says, grinning. “It’s amazing.”

The paneer I didn’t want. The paneer that replaced the malai kofta I specifically requested because his mother said, and I quote, “Nobody likes malai kofta anymore, beta. Too heavy.” Too heavy. As if paneer butter masala floats like a cloud.

“It’s good,” I say, moving a piece around my plate.

I asked for one thing. One dish that reminded me of Sunday dinners at my nani’s house, where she’d make malai kofta so soft they’d dissolve on your tongue. But no. “The caterer says paneer is more popular,” his mother had said, and Raj just nodded. “Whatever makes sense, Ma.”

Whatever makes sense.

I look at Raj, whose mouth is currently full of naan, and wonder: Is this how it starts? Your favorite dish gets voted off the menu at your own wedding, and then what? Your favorite color disappears from the living room? Your career plans get reshuffled because someone else’s make more “sense”?

“You’re not eating,” Raj says, suddenly noticing. “Are you okay?”

I smile. It’s my wedding smile. The one I’ve been practicing for six hours. “Just not very hungry.”

He squeezes my hand, his fingers greasy with ghee. “Save room for dessert. The gulab jamun is supposed to be incredible.”

I didn’t ask for gulab jamun. I asked for ras malai.

But sure. Whatever makes sense.

THE GROOM’S FATHER: Vikram, 8:15 PM, Guarding the Bar

The bartender just asked if I wanted my whiskey neat or with ice, as if I’m some kind of savage who doesn’t know how to drink. Obviously neat. This is a Glenfiddich 18, not some roadside tharra.

My second drink. Maybe third. Who’s counting? It’s my son’s wedding. I’m allowed.

The food is exceptional. I made sure of that. When you’re paying six lakh rupees for a wedding dinner, the least you can expect is that the kebabs don’t taste like cardboard.

I personally met with that caterer (Sharma, was it?) and told him: “The seekh kebabs should melt. MELT. If I bite into rubber, you’re not getting the final payment.”

They melted.

I glance at the dessert counter at six different sweets laid out like jewels. Six. Adarsh only had four at his daughter’s wedding last month, and he wouldn’t shut up about it for weeks. “Premium caterer, Vikram. Very exclusive.” Four sweets. Four! I wanted to ask him: What kind of premium caterer can’t manage a proper dessert spread? But I’m not petty. I just made sure we had six. Gulab jamun, jalebi, kheer, ras gullah, barfi, and that chocolate thing the kids like. Let him count those at the next Rotary Club meeting.

And the kaju curry! I specifically told Sharma to double the cashews. DOUBLE. Because when people take that first bite, I want them to taste the richness. I want them to know this isn’t some corner-cutting operation. The cashews alone cost an extra twelve thousand, but what’s money
when it’s about respect?

The bride wanted malai kofta. Sweet girl, very polite when she mentioned it. But malai kofta? At a wedding of this scale? I had to put my foot down.

“Beta,” I told, “we’re not running a small family dinner here. Kaju curry shows class. Shows generosity.” My son tried to argue, something about it being Priya’s choice, but I reminded him: whose name is on the payment cheques? Exactly.

The bride’s father looks nervous. He keeps hovering near the chaat station like he’s worried someone’s going to judge the pani puri. I told him months ago, “Don’t worry about the food. I’ve got this handled.” He has enough to worry about with the photography bill. I saw the invoice. Highway robbery. But that’s what happens when you hire someone from Delhi just because they did your nephew’s wedding.

Raj just walked past with his new wife. Wife! My son has a wife!

I catch Raj’s eye and raise my glass. He grins and raises his water. Yes, water. I grin. That’s my boy. Responsible. Sensible.

THE CATERER: Sharma Ji, 9:35 PM, Sweating Through His Sherwani

The raita is over.

THE RAITA IS OVER.

How? HOW? I made enough raita for 600 people. There are only 500 guests! Did someone bathe in it? Did a family of ten decide to drink it like lassi?

“Sharma ji!” One of my waiters is running toward me like the kitchen is on fire. Please God, don’t let the kitchen be on fire. “The gulab jamun is too sweet!”

“It’s GULAB JAMUN!” I hiss. “It’s SUPPOSED to be sweet! That’s like saying water is too wet!”

He backs away slowly.

The groom’s father, Vikram sahib, is watching me from the bar. I can feel his eyes boring into my skull. He’s probably counting the kebabs to make sure I didn’t short him. That man inspected my kitchen three times before this wedding. THREE TIMES. He made me remake the sample menu twice because the first naan was “too thick” and the second was “too thin.”

I wanted to ask him: Are you marrying your son or auditioning for MasterChef Australia?

Then came the instructions. “Double cashews in the kaju curry, Sharma ji. DOUBLE.” As if cashews grow on trees. Well, they do, but that’s not the point.

I’ve been doing this for twenty-five years. Not once, NOT ONCE, has anyone at a wedding said,”Sharma ji, that biryani rice was perfectly aged!” They say, “There’s enough food, no?” or “My cousin’s wedding had eight desserts.” It’s always about quantity. About numbers you can brag about at the next wedding. Nobody tastes the hing I tempered for forty-five seconds in the dal. Nobody notices I hand-rolled every single paneer ball. They just count: six sweets, four types of naan, two types of biryani. Like I’m running a grocery inventory, not crafting a meal.

But Vikram sahib’s cousin is getting married next month. Big society wedding. Even bigger budget. If I can just smile through tonight, if I can just let him feel like a king who discovered the perfect caterer, maybe, just maybe, I’ll cater that one too. Then it’s Sharma Catering’s name on everyone’s lips. Then I can finally afford to send my daughter to that engineering college she won’t shut up about.

GROOM’S MOTHER’S SISTER: Meena Aunty, 10:05 PM, Conducting Surveillance

I’ve been watching that girl all evening.

Not the bride. The other one. The friend in the pink sari with the loud laugh and the even louder appetite. Third trip to the buffet, if I’m counting correctly. And I’m always counting correctly.

She’s pretty. Good height. Fair enough complexion, though that could be makeup; you can never tell these days. But the way she’s eating? Like she hasn’t seen food in a month? My son deserves better than a girl who treats a wedding buffet like a competitive sport.

I make a mental note: too enthusiastic about food. Probably won’t maintain her figure after marriage. Reject.

My sister, Raj’s mother, is too busy playing the gracious hostess to notice my reconnaissance work, but someone has to think about these things. Weddings are perfect for rishta-hunting. Everyone’s dressed up, everyone’s in a good mood, and you can observe how girls behave in social settings. Much better than those awkward “come for tea” meetings where everyone’s fake-smiling and pretending to like coconut barfi.

That girl just laughed at something her boyfriend said. Of course, she has a boyfriend; they always do these days, and she loaded another gulab jamun onto her plate. Definitely a reject. My son needs someone with self-control. Someone refined and pure.

The bride, on the other hand, hasn’t touched her food. Just pushing that paneer around like she’s performing surgery on it. I don’t trust people who don’t eat at weddings. What is she? A model? A saint? At least the friend has an appetite, even if it’s excessive.

I’ve seen that non-eating look before. I wore that smile at my own wedding when my mother-in-law announced we’d be leaving for Banaras and no detour to my Amma’s house.

A girl in a blue lehenga just walked to the bride and said something, and finally, FINALLY, the bride laughed. A real laugh.

Well, she seems like a sweet girl. Good sense of humor, perhaps. I should keep my eye on her and her plate.

THE BRIDE’S FRIEND: Neha, 10:20 PM, Breaking All the Rules

I’m eating my third kebab.

Okay, fourth. But who’s counting? Certainly not me, because I threw my calorie-tracking app into the digital trash the moment I saw the kebab station.

My mother would have a heart attack if she saw me right now. “Neha, you were doing so well on your diet!” Yeah, well, Mom, I was also miserable, constantly hungry, and fantasizing about samosas during yoga class. Tonight, I’m FREE.

Actually, I know exactly who’s counting. That aunty in the maroon sari, Raj’s maasi or bua or some relation, has been staring at me for the past twenty minutes like I’m a science experiment. I caught her eye once, and she looked away so fast I thought she’d pulled a muscle.

I know that look. That’s the “let me see if she’s suitable for my son/nephew/brother’s colleague” look. I’ve seen it at every wedding I’ve attended in the past two years. And the conclusion is always the same once they see me eat: too much appetite, not enough shame.

Last month at my cousin’s wedding, an aunt actually asked my mother, in front of me, “Is she always this… enthusiastic about food?” Enjoying kebabs is a character flaw. Like I should be nibbling on lettuce leaves and sipping water to prove I’m marriage material.

The worst part? If I didn’t eat, they’d say I’m too skinny. Too picky. “What will she cook for the family if she doesn’t even eat properly?” You literally cannot win. So I stopped trying.

Tonight, I’m having the kebabs AND the biryani AND whatever that cashew curry situation is. Priya looks miserable, though. I caught her eye during the ceremony, and she had that look she gets when she’s overthinking everything.

“Is she okay?” I ask our friend Karan, nodding toward Priya.

He’s working on his second helping of biryani. “She’s probably just overwhelmed. It’s her wedding day.”

Men. So simple. So clueless.

I grab a gulab jamun and head toward Priya, who’s now standing awkwardly near a pillar while Raj talks to seventeen uncles simultaneously.

“Eat this,” I say, shoving the dessert toward her.

“I’m not hungry.”

“I don’t care. Eat it anyway. You look like you’re about to faint, and I didn’t spend four hours getting ready just to watch you collapse during the bidaai.”

She takes a small bite. Then another. Then she looks at me with those big worried eyes and whispers, “He didn’t care about the malai kofta.”

“The what?”

“I wanted malai kofta. His mom said no. He just… agreed.”

Oh boy. Here we go.

“Babe,” I say carefully. “It’s just a dish.”

“But what if it’s not? What if this is how it starts? What if I just keep compromising and compromising until I don’t even recognize myself anymore?”

I glance at Raj, who’s now laughing at something an uncle said. He looks happy. Genuinely happy.

“Look,” I say. “Marriage is going to be full of compromises. That’s just how it works. But the right person? They’ll notice when you’re compromising too much. They’ll care about your malai kofta, even when they forget to fight for it.”

“How do I know he’s the right person?”

“Because you’re terrified and you’re still here. Because you love him enough to be scared. And because” I gesture at his mother, who’s currently arguing with the photographer, “you’re willing to deal with that for him.”

She laughs. Finally.

“Now eat another gulab jamun and come dance with me. I need to burn off these kebabs before my mom sees the wedding photos and schedules an emergency nutritionist appointment.”

SERVING STAFF: Akhtar, 11:45 PM, Counting Containers

My feet are killing me.

Four hours of standing, carrying trays, and smiling at guests who don’t see me unless their water glass is empty. But I’m not complaining. Not tonight. Not when Sharma ji already said we can take the leftovers home.

The leftovers. There’s going to be so much. There always is at these big weddings. People end up ordering for a village, but guests don’t touch half of it because they’re too busy talking or dancing, or showing off their jewelry. What they waste could feed my family for three days.

I’m already planning it in my head: the biryani for tomorrow’s lunch, the paneer for dinner, maybe some naan if there’s enough left. The kids will be so excited. Especially Zara, my middle one. She’s been asking about “party food” ever since she saw me leave for work in my uniform. “Abba, will you bring something special?”

Special. As if every day I can bring home kebabs and kheer.

In the kitchen, Sharma ji is arguing with someone on the phone. “Yes, yes, I know! Just send the van!” He hangs up and mutters something under his breath.

“Sharma ji,” I say quietly. “The gulab jamun trays…should I start packing them?”

He waves his hand. “Yes, yes. Start packing everything that’s left. These people are too busy drinking and dancing to eat dessert anyway.”

I start organizing the containers, mentally calculating what I can take. The biryani, definitely. The paneer. Some dal if there’s enough.

Tonight, my kids will eat like wedding guests. They’ll fight over the kebabs and race to finish the biryani, and my wife will scold them for eating too fast. And for one meal, just one, I don’t have to look at my wife scratching the empty pan looking for more.

But somewhere in my mind, I think about Zara. About how her small face lit up when she asked me ‘What is a malai kofta?’ last week.

I wish it were on the menu today.

Maybe at the next wedding, someone will order it, I think as I seal another container.