Destination Wedding

[I first wrote this as a teenager and tore it up because it hadn't turned out the way I had wanted it. But when IISc Bangalore organised a Literary Festival last month and announced a satirical poetry event as part of it, I considered reviving and revising Destination Wedding. I'm glad to say that my nineteen-year old self (with a little help from my present self) ended up winning Sultans of Satire!]

I snuck a furtive glance at the bride:

‘Let’s run away? Meet me outside.’

She looked away shyly at her papa and mama

and the other actors in her wedding drama

on stage, and slowly cried.

SHE loved me still after all these years.

Her big kohled eyes did shed black tears,

yet not for me but this thick smoke

of the holy havan that was making her choke

with soot up to her ears.

I saw her stand as Brahmins old,

with bellies holding pots of gold,

spat out chants shlok after shlok

in an archaic tongue that no one spoke,

nor whose meaning we were told.

SHE (hidden in the holy cloud,

exit stage right and) merged with the crowd

of wedding guests in showy silk saris

and treasure chests and excess accessories;

my eyes did course her out.

I stalked her walking up the aisle

of masquerades and put-on smiles,

past drunk uncles and sick of aunties,

uncalled-for pests, unknown invitees;

I followed her all this while.

SHE passed the caterer’s table in haste

whose food would mostly go to waste

like the gifts: the flowers and vessels,

microwaves and cooking utensils;

and still, the bride, I chased.

I met her out of her marriage hall:

her family’s savings spent on walls.

We mounted up the groom’s white mare

and rode away far from that fanfare

to the shehnai’s siren call.

WE eloped that day from our own wedding

and galloped for good, by goodbye bidding

to cacophony and phony ritual,

to somewhere silent and spiritual.

WE ran to the sea and a fantasy ending

up in each other’s arms.