CHARM - Big Fat Indian Wedding

The wedding hall stood in an eerie silence. No frantic calls for extra chairs, no aunties searching for lost earrings, no last-minute panic over the caterer running out of gulab jamuns. It was over—fifteen minutes before the hall's closing time.

For the workers, this was nothing short of a scientific anomaly.

Near the entrance, a group of them gathered with steaming cups of chai, their faces puzzled as if they'd witnessed a UFO landing.

Vikram, the sound technician, kept glancing at his watch. “Boys, am I in a dream? Because last I checked, Indian weddings do not start on time, let alone finish before the hall shuts!”

Ramesh, the decorator, leaned against a pile of folded chairs. “This is history. I’ll tell my grandkids about this day.”

Sunil, the lighting guy, smirked. “Oh yeah? And they’ll never believe you, old man. They'll say, ‘Dada, stop making up fairy tales!’”

Everyone laughed. But then, curiosity took over.

Vikram shook his head. “No baraat delay. No never-ending photo sessions. No last-minute ‘Beta, ek aur dance kar lo’ requests. How?”

“It doesn’t make sense!” Ramesh added. “Just last week, that one wedding had the groom stuck in traffic for two hours because his friends wanted to dance at every damn signal!"

Sunil grinned. “And don’t forget that one bride who took so long to get ready that we thought she was writing a novel inside the makeup room.”

Another round of laughter erupted, but soon, the discussion took a serious turn.

“Why can’t all weddings be like this?” Vikram wondered aloud. “It would make our jobs easier.”

At that moment, a deep, knowing chuckle interrupted them.

Mr. Suresh, the hall manager, stood nearby, sipping his tea with the air of a man who had seen every kind of wedding disaster imaginable. His glasses rested slightly lower on his nose, and his salt-and-pepper mustache twitched with amusement.

He took a slow sip before speaking. “Ah, youngsters. You see one miracle and want to turn it into the rule.”

The workers turned to him with interest. When Mr. Suresh spoke, you listened.

“Let me tell you something,” he continued, leaning against the wall. “This wedding was an exception. A rare event. A solar eclipse of Indian shaadis.”

The workers chuckled, but he remained serious.

“Time is not the priority in an Indian wedding,” he said. “Emotion is. Do you think people arrive late because they’re careless? No! They’re hugging long-lost cousins, catching up with childhood friends, reliving memories.”

The group grew thoughtful.

“Would you ask a father to rush his daughter’s bidaai just to keep a deadline?” Mr. Suresh challenged.

Silence.

“Would you force an old grandmother to stop blessing the newlyweds because ‘time’s up’?”

The workers shuffled their feet.

“Would you cut short the ‘Joota Chupai’ game just so the groom’s brother can go home early?”

Vikram sighed. “Okay, okay, we get it.”

Mr. Suresh smiled. “Good. Because what you call ‘delays’ are actually memories in the making. Without them, weddings wouldn’t be the same.”

“But sir…” Sunil started, still unconvinced. “Wouldn’t it be nice if things were at least a little more organized?”

Mr. Suresh smirked. “Of course. It would make our jobs easier. But tell me—would an Indian wedding feel the same if it ran like a corporate event? No last-minute lehenga malfunctions? No uncles fighting over the playlist? No kids running under tables, stealing sweets?”

They all laughed.

“No extra plates being ordered because some unknown ‘Chachaji from Canada’ randomly showed up?” Sunil added.

“No uncles getting slightly drunk and emotionally lecturing the groom about marriage?” Ramesh quipped.

“No aunties forming top-secret panels to judge every saree at the function?” Vikram grinned.

They all burst into laughter. Even Mr. Suresh chuckled.

“See?” he said. “The madness is part of the charm. If all weddings were like this one, we’d have less stress but also less fun.”

Vikram sighed. “You know what? You’re right, sir.”

Just then, the doors to the hall burst open. A frantic caterer ran in, looking around in panic.

“Guys! The bride’s uncle left his phone in the hall. We need to find it!”

Mr. Suresh smirked and picked up his tea. “Aaah, there it is.”

Vikram raised an eyebrow. “There what is?”

“The chaos,” Mr. Suresh said, dramatically sipping his chai. “I was starting to miss it.”

And with that, the workers rushed inside, back into the heart of the madness they had just been complaining about—because no matter how much they pretended to hate it, they wouldn’t have it any other way.