My daughter is getting married.
While my husband wallows in depression, I roll up my sleeves and crank-start the brain. Venue. Guest list. Invitations. Hotels. Caterer. Pandit. Panetar. Jewelry. Gifts. Tastings. Florist. Photographer ... Now I need the Prozac. And give me a Xanax while you are at it, because I am starting to panic as well.
At least she found her own soulmate. She spared us the agony of ‘Kai chokro-bokro che ke?’ and blessed us with the ecstacy of the best damaad we couldn’t have even conjured up in our imagination.
So for the next six months I will blog the excitement (as well the trials and tribulations) of getting this production on the road. And a production it is and will be, if it is anything like your typical, over-the-top Indian wedding. The mehndi. The pithi. The pooja. The garba. The sangeet. The wedding. The reception.
Aaarghhh! How about “the elopement”?
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