Kishore Singh: In the end, a happy ending

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The first to arrive, even before the hosts for the evening's functions, was a group of French tourists, who were on special invitation from a travel agent, who was not just particular about keeping a tight schedule, but had been given the wrong time to boot. So when the group drove up to the lovely farm just outside Jaipur where the wedding was to be held, the sashes on the chair backs were still being tied on, the musicians hadn't arrived, and there was nothing for them to do but sit and wait for things to warm up.

Instead, out in the wilderness, with the sprawling greens freshly watered and the swimming pool still to be drained, it got steadily colder and colder. The electricians were having a fight, the caterers hadn't arrived and were not responding to desperate attempts to reach them over their mobile, and the bar-in-charge complained he hadn't been provided enough glasses.

When the hosts for the evening arrived, it was in a state of panic. The lights had failed, the generator was not switching on, the security staff was playing truant, and the caterer was still missing. In all this, the French tourists wandered around looking bewildered. Was this the big Indian wedding?

The band to accompany the baraat didn't arrive in time either, so the guests were delayed too, which was just as well. The caterers' vans arrived with the decorators to put festoons over the canopies and lay out the tables. The photographer was upset the bride wasn't ready for him to take portraits. Little children demanded fizzy orange drinks, but of course, the bar wasn't open for them "" or the Gaul guests "" yet.

So they peered at the mandap, and when someone discovered that the mains had been deliberated switched off, and posted a guard to ensure no one tripped the switch again, and the fairy lights came on, they took pictures with the enthusiasm of teenagers. To keep them occupied, and because the bar would not open till the baraat arrived, even though it was now two hours overdue and the French group had been here for three hours, the hosts allotted a team to keep them occupied. One gentleman told them the entire history of the Rajput tradition of turban tying, with all the finer details about the differences between a Mewari and a Marwari paag, and if the tourists weren't impressed it was because the lesson was a long one, and in English "" a language they were not easily familiar with.

Finally, the caterers managed to arrive before the baraat did, but it was a close call. There was a flourish of trumpets, the bridegroom rode in on the white mare that had been retained there under duress (it was due "" and now definitely very late "" for a few more, evidently similar ceremonies). The tandoors were fired, the fires lit, and everyone heaved a sigh of relief: there would be dinner after all, that night.

The pandit wanted more illumination in the mandap, the person in-charge of the groom's presents disappeared, people wandered around looking for lost keys to rooms, dropped earrings or the soup counter, the barman began serving with a flourish, and the French tourists looked still more puzzled because the bride's face was demurely veiled for the entire evening.

While the marriage was happening in one corner, special anniversary cakes ordered as a surprise for two guests were being cut, alcohol was pouring out like water from taps, and the tourists were finally happy "" here was something they understood. Having Handycamed the entire ceremony, and eaten their way through a gigantic meal, they were ready to finally leave.

By then, so were we, but unlike them we still had a second wedding to attend "" and survive "" the same night.