Just about a week back, I was trudging amidst a fierce snow blizzard, feet numb from the subzero temperatures and back sore from the weight of 35 undergrad final semester answer scripts, back in Chicago. I literally had cold feet and butterflies in my stomach thinking about the wedding in three weeks. I heard my heart go thumpity thump at the airport as the blizzard raged on threatening to ground the very flight I would board for Mumbai!!

Yesterday I found myself lost in another world - standing in front of a musty, dusty , dingy shop filled with bright little things, swatting mosquitoes, jostling a crowd of buyers, and ignoring the steady trickle of sweat down the nape of my neck as an ancient grime covered green plastic fan whirred against the sticky Kolkata air, quite valiantly. My mother and I were buying the traditional "topor and shinthi" - ridiculous Bengali wedding headgear. Purbo banga na pashchim banga? - we were asked. How did it mattter? Apparently a lot. With much glee the elderly shop keeper with the proverbial "monkey tupi", dressed in dhuti and sleevelees brown sweater, thick glass frames that enlarged his pupils to frightening proportions, took it upon himself to educate these obviously novice modaaarn women about the manifold marriage customs of Bengal. It would have been a prolonged session unless my mother had sweetly interjected to enquire about the price, which had its desired effect of at once offending the old man and stopping the unsolicited sermon. We left him grumbling to himself, with a bagful of assorted colorful things that we would need for the ceremonies, smiling like kids in a candy store.

The phones since then have been ringing endlessly. People have been dropping in "un"invited incessantly. Long forgotten acquaintances have been knocking on the door, paying "surprise" visits, having smelt a marriage menu in the air. Mother has become pretty adept at handling these situations. In the end, the guests leave usually leave without the much sought for wedding invite.

Mr Sen and I sms each other with regular hourly updates about the madness in each household. "Stingy relatives...damn". " Brother's flight from London got cancelled, what will happen now?". " Can we meet for a movie, love?" "Tough, what's happening on the Sangeet menu front?" " Why is everyone smiling funnily at me?" " Why do all or most of my friends have kids, which means I have to invite them as well?" " I am tired of small talk and silly jokes and the friendly jibes" " I am tired of making silly trays of sarees and dhutis and bedsheets and towels- what a waste of paper". " let's run away". " Mumbai was so much more peaceful".

Come to think of it, Mumbai was a whirlwind of socializing and partying. But Mr. Sen already has done a wonderful job of describing the gastronomical adventures we had lived through without a single gelusil. Ten days to the wedding now. I am slowly begining to absorb the enormity of the event. The tremendous and painstaking planning that has gone into it right from the wedding trosseau, to the venu, menu, wedding cards and invitations. The tensions in the air. The underlying emotions of parents and wellwishers as they get together to celebrate a marriage. I feel well and truly spoilt. A tad nervous. Very excited. Overfed. Much loved.