The Wedding Thief

This weekend, I attended an Indian wedding reception. For a couple of weeks now, I had been dreading looking decent in a sari but was pleasantly suprised at myself at how the metres of silky material draped around my curves but didn't leave me feeling billowy. When my mum wore a sari, my dad would tease her on how she wore it like a world-class flag. So with that in mind I was determined not to look like an hot-air balloon. The wedding reception got into full swing. Starters were served at a decent hour and I started to panic at the thought of eating too many fried nibbles.

Mogo chips, samosas and fattening paneer were quickly snapped up by the other guests at the table and I modestly picked at a couple of mogo sticks, dried samosas, and tepid paneer fried in peppers. Luckily for me, the starters were so spicy that anything I put in my mouth left an unbearably snake-like spicy sting on my tongue. What followed was a long spate of dancing. I charged to the dance floor and danced like there was no tomorrow. The mains were served at an unearthly hour of 10.30pm which for detoxers like me is criminal. All I heard was a big gong in my head like Big Ben chiming the 9pm watershed. But I managed to calm myself down and eat the platter of food: two pieces of fried bread (puris), a small portion of pillau rice, dhal and a mixed veggie dish. I forced myself to slow down and taste the food but it all tasted rather dispriting like the meal had been flung together haplessly. Again what followed was a spate of mad dancing to eighties classics with a mix of bhangra and Bollywood moves thrown in for good measure. But a sour end to the evening: I learned my simple black clutch bag had been stolen. Bizzare, as it's not as if I was at a nightclub! The host in charge of waiting staff was darn adamant that her staff would never steal: she instructed them to empty all the bin bags. But the wedding thief went undetected.