We—Pawan, Ravi, and I—had thrown ourselves into the morning’s last-minute frenzy: stringing fairy lights across the entrance, folding extra invitation cards with precise creases, and double-checking the DJ’s playlist to ensure it overflowed with high-energy Bollywood hits, Punjabi bhangra beats, and romantic numbers to fuel the procession. Ravi, as the groom’s younger brother, had stepped up as the unofficial commander-in-chief, darting around with a crumpled checklist in hand, his face flushed with a mix of excitement and responsibility. “Vivek, make sure the lead cars are fueled and ready to roll! Pawan, grab those extra water bottles and cold drinks—we don’t want anyone collapsing in this building heat,” he called out, his voice rising above the din with practiced authority. By noon, the baraat had fully assembled into a spectacular caravan: a long line of cars, bikes, and a couple of tempos blaring horns and music, all lavishly decked with fluttering ribbons, marigold streamers, and twinkling lights. The procession was poised to wind its way through Pune’s bustling streets and highways, from Baner toward the wedding venue in nearby Pimpri—a journey brimming with dancing, fireworks, dhol performances, and the kind of joyous, unrestrained pandemonium that only a traditional Indian wedding could deliver.
As the group piled into the vehicles amid cheers, confetti showers, and playful teasing, a slight mix-up in the seating arrangements led to an unexpectedly intimate setup. My mother, Kalpana, had insisted on joining the baraat early to assist with family duties at the venue, her helpful nature shining through as always. Dressed in an elegant red silk saree that shimmered and flowed like liquid fire under the sunlight—chosen for the occasion to blend timeless tradition with a sophisticated modern flair, the fabric hugging her mature, graceful curves just enough to accentuate her poise—she ended up sharing the same spacious SUV with us three boys. “Beta, I’ll ride with you three rascals; it’ll be fun reminiscing about your wild school days and catching up,” she said with that warm, affectionate smile of hers, sliding gracefully into the back seat beside me. Pawan claimed the driver’s seat, his natural engineering instincts and confidence making him the default choice behind the wheel, while Ravi shotgun-called the front passenger seat, immediately fiddling with the radio dial. I squeezed in next to Mummy in the back, the car’s powerful AC blasting refreshingly cool air against the rising humidity and warmth outside, creating a cozy cocoon amid the external frenzy.
We rolled out amid thunderous cheers, bursting confetti, and the lead car blasting the infectious beats of “Badtameez Dil” from the speakers, instantly setting a playful, energetic tone for the ride. The conversation flowed as effortlessly as the traffic allowed, like old times but amplified by the wedding’s electric buzz and the close quarters. “Remember that time in class 10 when we bunked school for the Ganpati festival procession and got caught red-handed by your dad, Ravi?” Pawan chuckled, glancing in the rearview mirror as he skillfully navigated Pune’s infamous pothole-riddled roads and chaotic intersections. Ravi burst into laughter, slapping his knee in amusement. “Oh man, Vijay Uncle was furious that day! But he let us off easy with just extra chores at the printing press—stacking papers and cleaning ink stains for a week. Those were the good old days.” Mummy joined in seamlessly, her laughter light, melodic, and comforting, wrapping around us like a familiar embrace. “You boys were always up to such mischief. Vivek, you were often the quiet ringleader, dragging these two into your clever schemes. But look at you now—second-year engineers, growing into fine young men with bright futures ahead.” We teased her right back in good spirits, sharing fond stories of her school-teaching days, how she’d playfully catch us sneaking snacks during tuition sessions at home or scold us gently while secretly packing extra tiffins for our adventures.
