What remains in the end
My parents aren’t just any regular socialites. They are professional MBAs — Marriage & Bhog Attendees. Weekends for them are a blur of bhogs, high tea soirées and posh shok sabhas — and that’s just the beginning. As soon as Friday night arrives, they begin prepping for their ritualistic weekend marathon. The bhogs aren’t just a spiritual affair; they are a prime opportunity to catch up with the who’s who of the city’s social circuit. It’s a multi-course buffet of gossip, judgment and, occasionally, spiritual reflection.
It all starts by scanning the obit references in newspapers and then making phone calls. The typical bhog experience itself is a spectacle: ladies alighting from sleek Mercedes in shades so subtle they could only be described as the colours of an unspoken regret — pastel blues and sombre greys. The aunties — mothers, grandmothers and some long-lost relatives from distant towns — make their way down the aisle. As they glide towards the holy book, with their Tom Fords resting like tiaras on their foreheads, they have got their eyes locked on the who’s who in attendance. There’s no praying, no focussing on divine words — just a fast-paced, silent competition to see who has the best gathering.
Roving eyes circle the sanctum sanctorum, looking for prominent figures: the socialites with their immaculately manicured nails, landlords sporting crisply tied turbans, intellectuals and legal luminaries. And of course, the retired babus, who arrive like the aristocracy, ensuring that they don’t miss the fag-end of the ceremony — because it’s only during the last 10-15 minutes that the real mourners show up to mark their ‘attendance’. It’s truly tragic, because aside from the bereaved family, no one is remotely moved by the proceedings.
Over in a corner, Mrs Singh is deep into the latest gossip. “I told you so!” she says, clearly enjoying the sweet satisfaction of being the first to uncover that high-profile separation. “Their daughter is so fast!” she continues, as if it’s a matter of public record. At these events, there’s no room for subtlety when it comes to gossip. You are expected to lean in, whisper loud enough for everyone to hear and definitely pass judgment.
As the bhog winds down, the planning begins. “What are we doing for dinner tonight?” one auntie asks, casually glancing at her watch. “Oh, there’s a bridge game at the Golf Club, followed by the Chadhas’ soirée,” another replies, as though they have just secured a spot in the VIP section of life. So, while my parents are busy attending events like high-society robots — never skipping a beat between bhog, high tea, book launch and aperitifs — I’m left to marvel at their sheer dedication. They don’t just attend events; they embody them. The art of socialising is a well-oiled machine in their world, and they are at the helm, navigating through the sea of aunties, gossip and fusion desserts. May their tribe flourish.
