Indian weddings are about food, not love.
As I’m waiting in the buffet line, a rotund beast attempts to stand in front of me. I stick my knee out to stop him. He looks offended, as if it’s his divine right to cut any line even though his wobbling gait prevents him from walking in a straight line.
After the chef tosses a hot fresh Naan onto my plate, I join my friends at a table near the dessert section. They’re discussing how their parents have started pressuring them to get married and settle down. Meanwhile, I’m pressuring my stomach to make room for more Gulab Jamuns that I’m popping into my mouth like Pringles.
But then my wife sits next to me.
I stop eating.
She always keeps me in balance.