American or Italian

I don’t like weddings.

In fact, I am a bit uncomfortable in the really fake, ostentatious, lavish surroundings where I see people covered in all the festal finery.

The same people whom I see in much less flattering claddings.

Actually, in much less.

Everyday.

Recently, I attended a marriage where the groom was a blue-eyed American. After the usual ritual of
- Handing over gifts
- Wishing the newly weds a grand success, whatever that means, and
- Getting myself photographed

I turn my attention towards that most interesting part of all weddings; no, not the gossip, but the food.

There were two counters, one Indian and one Italian. Since the Italian counter was a bit further away from the door as compared to the Indian, most attendees paid little or no attention to it. Additionally, the chef at Italian counter was tossing and mixing in a big pan, and most presumed it to be Chinese, the way it is made in India and may or may not have any similarity to the way our not-so-friendly neighbors make it.

After loading my plate with pasta and oat bread, I make myself comfortable in a chair, contemplating on the international nature of the wedding. Pasta, olives and white sauce make a good thinker better at thinking. A couple of solitary minutes pass by and in the chair next comes an old lady with silver hair and the typical ‘kind grandmother of Yashraj films’ look.

She flashed her dentures.

I flashed my steel capped teeth.

Since we started on a good note, I thought a chat would be appropriate. Diverting my attention from the excellently soaked olives, we begin chatting in Marathi. I have done my best to translate the conversation to the poorest of all languages I know.

Me: Did you check out the Italian……? (rest of the sentence cut short by Old Lady’s (OL) exclamation)
OL: What? Italian?? They told me he was American!!! He did not look American to me anyways. With those people, some ‘mix’, who knows?
Me: No, the groom is definitely American. I was talking about the food.
OL: (sheepishly) Ohh…food. No, I did not. Where are they giving it?
Me: Right next to the Indian one.
OL: He he…I just loaded my plate. Why didn’t I meet you earlier?
Me: Maybe because I wasn’t born then. (Again, I flash my steel)
OL: (Not understanding what I just said) I will empty this plate as soon as I can and get some Italian.

Her husband (OM) arrives and plonks himself in the chair next to her.

OL: Did you check out the Italian…..? (rest of the sentence cut short by OM’s interjection)
OM: He is not Italian. He is American. You are getting old, woman. Once we are done with the dinner, we are going to the first stationery shop and getting a diary for you. Forgetting nationality of the groom of our family friend’s only daughter! Ridiculous!!
OL: (coldly) No, not the groom. The food.
OM: The food is Indian. Just what looks Italian to you here?
OL: That counter…which has the words ‘Italian’ written in big words. You should not have forgotten your spectacles.
OM: Ohh…you mean the food? Why didn’t you tell me earlier?
OL: You didn’t let me complete the sentence.
OM: I get to talk in full sentences only on occasions like these, in the presence of other people. Otherwise….

I think it best to excuse myself on the pretext of getting some ice cream.

Which I do.

On my way out, I extrapolate this exchange of domestic pleasantries to those of my friend and her blue-eyed American groom.

Twenty years down the line.

Ahh…I just love weddings!