I promised myself that this time would be different. That at twenty-three, I was certainly no child anymore and that I should finally start following those oft-repeated exhortations ("You must Talk to everybody!") that every kid hears from his mother right through adolescence, all along the sulky drive to yet another family gathering that he’s dragged to.

The occasion that begat this thought is the "grand" summer wedding that the entire clan has decided to attend. Apart from Venguttu Maama (1) all the way from Bhilai (I wonder what he was doing up there in the first place. I must ask my grandmother, whose eyes never fail to light up at the prospect of delving into family minutiae to answer questions such as these), this includes everybody’s aunts and cousins seventeen times removed from several U.S. states. So if you hear of several sobbing women at the international terminal of the Madras airport eight days hence with strikingly similar stories of confiscated maanga thokku (2), remember you heard it here first.

I decide this time that I shall be the responsible young man and be there the morning of the day before the wedding. Come day-before, I conveniently "miss" lunch. Although aware that every conceivable opportunity can turn into an interrogation session, I figure that the chances of spluttering at the barrage of questions thrown at you when there’s food in your mouth is infinitely higher. It turns out that my decision takes me from the frying pan right into the line of fire. I must now head post-lunchtime to the room upstairs at the far end of the marriage hall. The sign outside the room doesn’t say Hunting Ground, but it well could have."

They’re all here. They’re waiting to meet you", my mother informs me gleefully. Expectedly, "they" turn out to be seemingly infinite numbers of aunts, all chattering, and all dressed in saris of the brightest shades of every colour you can think of. Panic hits, as I scan the room, looking for any sign of something, somebody who can get me out of this, or at least a fellow victim, in the hope that there will be strength in numbers. Where are the men when you need them the most? And I realize that they’re probably doing what I would’ve done if I’d thought with my head straight — sleeping with the air-conditioning on in the next room.

The volley starts even as I’m wiping the sweat off my brow. It is an even attack. A voice pops up almost magically from every corner of the room:

Do you remember me?
When are you getting married? 
Why haven’t you studied any further? 
Shall we start "looking"?

I don’t dare ignore any of them. I decide that the best way to keep everybody guessing and yet not sound disrespectful is to answer the questions in no particular order, as evenly as I can.

"Yes, of course" <wide grin>.

"No, not yet!" <frowning, but maybe I shouldn’t>

"I’m not too sure actually." <just smile man, and you’ll be fine>

"Maybe"<non-specific expression thrown at what I hope is the general direction of the question>

A couple of seconds of silence later, there are broad smiles all around, followed by the judges talking all at once: "You’ve put on weight since I last saw you" (what can I say, I guess I fattened up for the slaughter). "You didn’t visit me when you came to Bombay last month." "You look just like your dad did at your age." Of course, it’s easier when you don’t have to answer questions, you just nod and keep that smile going. The men enter with a barrel of coffee, and the heat seems to be off, at least for now. But now it’s time for what can turn out to be the more difficult challenge: the one-on-ones.

The first aunt approaches. Her sari is a screaming shade of purple. I look at her slightly dazed, and much to her consternation, call her Sachchu Akka (3), at which point she informs me indignantly that it’s actually Saroja Akka that I’m talking to.Later, my mother listens skeptically as I explain the concept of being blinded by oncoming headlights that are too bright.

"How is Veena?” I ask the next aunt in right earnest, deciding that taking the initiative can only bode well. It backfires, and I’m answered with an icy glare and "That’s my sister’s daughter. I have two sons". "Of course! And how is Karthik doing aunty?" I ask her, not batting an eyelid. (Smart man, I think to myself smugly — one of the two has got to be named Karthik). I see one of the men heading towards me.

Relief, I think to myself (“Can we please talk about the weather now?”). Hardly, as it turns out. A ferocious pat on the shoulder precedes a booming "How are you, young man?!” Deciding to match his spirits, I almost shout: "Venguttu Maama!!" The man who I later find out is the vaguely named Ambi looks pained. The real Venguttu Maama, only a few feet away, quickly walks over, nudges Ambi aside dismissively and beams at me, visibly pleased that I think other people are him.

And so it continues, with me stuttering my way through the horde. Luckily for me, the women want to get dressed for the reception in the evening, and the men are quickly shunted out of the room. I breathe a sigh of relief, licking my wounds but happy in the knowledge that the worst of it is over.  Sure, I’m still going to run into a couple of ombadhu gajam maamis (4) ordering me to get married at once, and the odd dismayed Ambi, but these are occupational hazards, and I will learn to live with them. As has always been the case, when the light at the end of the tunnel shines on good food, you can count on me being there.

Babelfish says:

(1) Maama: Uncle.

(2) Maanga thokku: A pasty mango pickle that I’ve never seen anybody NOT go ga-ga over. Some more curd rice to go with that?

(3) Akka: Literally, elder sister. Use on anybody older and female.

(4) Maami: Literally, aunt. Use on anybody older and female, but at the risk of being asked uncomfortable questions like "Do I really look that old?!"

Ombadhu gajam: Nine yard sari. Look out for these types, its rumoured that many of them walk around armed with horoscopes.

[Ashwin Raghu has been absconding from the scene of the family wedding for as long as he can remember. He changed tack only recently, when he realized he was missing out on one of the great continually unfolding sit-coms of our time.]

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