Chapter 1: The Family Showdown

“Arre, yeh kya badmaashi hai? I’m telling you, this is not how things are done in our family!”

My cousin’s finger jabbed so close to my nose I could smell the masala from his samosa-stained hands. His voice boomed across the room, full of attitude, and poor Mausi, mid-sip of her cutting chai, nearly choked. He didn’t care who was listening—it was as if we were at a panchayat and he’d just declared himself the sarpanch. The spicy aroma of aloo tikki only seemed to sharpen the sting of his words.

“Itni kamaai karte ho, par sab apne liye hi? Shaadi bhi hum logon ke bina? Kya faida paisa ka, haan?”

He wagged his finger, ticking off my supposed crimes, and I could feel the relatives—who’d been idly picking at their snacks—now sitting up, hungry for drama.

“Sun lo sab log! Not only do you have to invite us, but there better be Royal Stag and Classic Gold Flake. Baaki sab chhodo, bas yeh chahiye.”

He leaned back, arms crossed like a proper filmi villain, his wife giving a victorious sniff, eyes glittering like she’d just scored a saas-bahu point.

I swallowed my anger, trying to keep my tone even. “We’re skipping the traditional ceremony, but after the destination wedding, we’ll still have a reception back home.” Ma adjusted her saree pallav nervously beside me, her bangles clinking.

But my cousin only got angrier. He slammed the table, rattling glasses and spoons. The ceiling fan clattered overhead, barely stirring the thick, humid air as everyone waited for Dadaji’s verdict.

“No ceremony? Toh baraat bhi nahi? Aur teri dulhan ki saheliyan bhi nahi aayengi?”

He glared at me as if I’d cancelled Diwali itself. Aunties exchanged scandalised glances, lips pursed and eyebrows raised.

“Toh mere dost kahaan jayenge?”

He puffed his chest, looking for support from the uncles, his voice swelling to fill the shrinking room. The tension was thick, like the air after a power cut in June.

“I’m telling you, as long as I’m here, forget this travel wedding nonsense!”

His words boomed out, heavy as the temple bell at dawn in our mohalla.

*(‘Baraat’ is the traditional procession where the groom’s side dances their way to the bride’s home, usually with much fanfare and playful challenges from the bride’s family.)*

My ears buzzed. My mind blanked, short-circuited by the sheer absurdity. Baraat? Bridesmaids? My wedding, or his reunion?

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It was Dadaji’s 80th birthday—a rare day the whole joint family had gathered. Sneha, my girlfriend, arrived in a soft pink salwar, carrying expensive ayurvedic supplements as a gift, her smile shy but sincere.

The living room was filled with the scent of mogra and incense, Lata Mangeshkar’s voice floating from the speaker. Dadaji sat in his cane-backed chair, centre of the universe, adjusting his glasses as Sneha handed him the gift. He nodded, pleased, and I thought maybe, just maybe, this would be a peaceful family reunion.

But as soon as we sat, the surface calm fractured. My little cousin and his friends darted around, jalebi and samosa plates in hand, but one wrong word and the tension simmered beneath.

It started with my cousin’s wife eyeing Sneha up and down, then smirking, “Arre dekho, Rohan ki girlfriend—so fair and patli. Shaadi mein toh bechari ka kya hoga?”

She clicked her tongue, lips pursed, shooting my cousin a knowing look, as if they were plotting the next twist in a daily soap. Sneha’s eyes dropped to her lap; she folded her hands, fingers nervously twisting her dupatta, the gesture so heartbreakingly familiar in Indian homes.

I barely noticed, lost in small talk, so I replied lightly, “That’s why we’re not having a big ceremony at home. We’re going to Goa—destination wedding.”

I was adjusting my glass of Rooh Afza, trying to keep things light. But the word ‘Goa’ was a firecracker in a room full of dry leaves.

Sneha and I hate hassle. The thought of endless rituals is exhausting. From the start, we’d agreed: keep it simple, just both sets of parents, Goa, a holiday, waves instead of shehnai, no relatives fighting over the first mithai.

Both sets of parents were thrilled. The wedding planner, hotel—everything was booked. Just two months to go.

Mummy was researching seafood recipes, Papa was excited about casinos, Sneha’s parents were relieved to avoid the never-ending guest lists.

After my words, my cousin’s wife looked stunned. My cousin snapped his head up from his phone, eyes narrowing. “Destination wedding? Matlab?”

He frowned at his WhatsApp, then at me, as if I’d sent him a virus. His fingers hovered, group chat forgotten.

I realised maybe he didn’t get it, so I pulled up the Goa wedding company’s plan, ready to explain. But before I could, sweat trickled down my back—curse this North Indian summer.

He cut me off, voice rising: “No need to explain! I know what a destination wedding is!”

He folded his arms, chin up, daring me to argue. The room went silent except for the whirr of the ceiling fan.

I tried to clarify, but he snapped, “Don’t give me that! Are you having a baraat at home or not? Bridesmaids or not?”

He looked around, desperate for support. I tried to answer, “It’s a destination wedding, so no baraat, no bridesmaids.”

The words dropped like stones. Sneha fiddled with her dupatta again, eyes fixed on the table.

That set him off. He slammed the table and stood up, spoons rattling, water nearly toppling. Aunties gasped, clutched their pallus, eyes wide.

“I’m telling you, I do not agree!”

Even the cook peeked out, shocked. My youngest cousin dropped her samosa.

“If you have a destination wedding, what about my buddies?”

He puffed up, channeling Rajinikanth, looking for backup. The uncles looked uncertain, kids fell silent.

Both Sneha and I felt our brains crash. It’s our wedding. We agree. Parents agree. He doesn’t? Who is he?

The unfairness burned my chest. I clenched my fists, willing myself to stay calm. Suddenly, old memories flashed—the bullying, the teasing about my city accent, him swiping the last mithai, always acting the elder. I remembered hiding in the corridor, ashamed, while he laughed with his friends.

He made such a scene the whole room froze. The silence was so thick, you could hear the pressure cooker’s hiss from the kitchen. Even Dadaji’s radio seemed to pause, waiting for the next twist.

My dad, always the peacemaker, tried to smooth things over. He called everyone to eat and quietly scolded my cousin, “Amit, sab log yahan hain, Dadaji bhi. Thoda tameez se baat karo.”

He leaned in, gentle but firm, the look only elders can give. Chachi nodded, picking up a serving spoon, urging the others to eat.

“Rohan discussed everything with us. Your chachi and I both agreed—it’s settled.”

He placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Beta, let’s not ruin Dadaji’s big day.”