Bombay Bride

FROM 23RD DEC.
Yes, we've been invited to an Indian wedding party.... great excitement! Corinne finds bling on Colaba Causeway, I find $5 heels, we cobble together some cocktail outfits from our bottomless bags, get 'glammed' and brave the Bombay traffic in search of the 'Golf Club'. Our conservative Muslim driver looks uneasy at the red light, as two bombay bike boys pull up alongside, yellow.... 'hello!' green, they're no where to be seen! Our man stepsed on the gas and we zoomed away. We exchange incredulous glances and look back, yes, they're in hot pursuit! Another crossroad, "Munna and his pal Circuit" are swooping and weaving through the traffic to catch us up, too late we make another escape, laughing out load this time, our driver looks protective and concerned. We shook them! but no! The chase continues, through slums and suberbs, over bridges and under flyovers. Another red .... we're dead! With a death defying swerve they pull up next to our open window. 9568... what? Having left us with their cell no. they disappear off into the Bombay night, leaving us in fits of laughter,our poor driver trying to look poised and dignified.
Finding the 'Golf Club' proves a little tricky, requiring the usual Rickshaw driver exchanges, wagging of heads and retracing our tracks. Arriving at last we find not a coctail bar, but a flood lit lawn, filled with Mumbai's glitteratti, gorgeous sari's, salwars amd suits, bejewelled and sparkling ... not a 'coctail dress' in sight, and certainly no bare shoulders or cleavage! The bride stands resplendant in her jewelled scintillating sari, hennaed hands, bangled arms, flowered hair, next to the groom, very dapper in a black designer suit. Embarrassed, I hug my silk shawl around my bare shoulders as we step on the platform to meet them. They must greet every single one of their 500 or so guests personally before they can party. They must be tired of smiling and shaking hands. It is a love match, we are told, a significant point here in India where 80 or 90 percent of marriages are still arranged. Although Bollywood is full of flirting females, flickering eyelashes and India's answer to John Travolta to fuel romantic fantasy reality remains arranged, but not today.
After awkward introductions hard liquor and Bombay's best bites are on offer. Everyone unwinds to tasty tandoori, delicious dosa and mouth-watering masalas and the Bollywood DJ starts to rock the lawn. Finally the bride and groom are allowed to leave the stage, the music pumps up and sparkling saris and crisply pressed shirts wander onto the platform as I leave in search of the loo. A quick scan of the crowd confirms we are the only two gringos in town. Clutching my shawl I skirt the pool, under the lazor gaze of the lads .... I feel the heat rising, and have a sudden urge to dive in (but no skinny dipping here!) so I dive in the Ladies room instead. Squatting in my finery I thank god for thunder thighs and wonder how these sari-clad girls manage with six yards of silk on the slippery porcelain after a few vodkas?
On my return the dance floor is packed, Imran makes his Kashmiri moves dancing with Corinne, kids weave in and out of swerving saris and the bride groom bounces to the bangra beat taking his last chance to groove with the girls. We boogie on down with Bollywood's best until midnight turns us into pumpkins and Cinderella leaves her Swiss size slipper to catch 40 winks before our 5 am train departs.