The Evolution of WMDs

Once upon a time, my only wish was to wear rain boots to weddings. Remember, pouring water on to the plate, rinsing the hand and the plate and then throwing the water under the table? With the accumulated water, we could have easily had a fish spa under the table. 

And then the ordeal of washing the hand after the meal. The same greasy laundry soap getting passed around from hand to hand like a precious family heirloom while accumulating mutton fat while the basin gets flooded with grimy water. Then someone drops the soap into the pool. Everyone waits for the most desperate to go on a fishing expedition.

After a long TOT (Time over Target), I withdraw from the battle zone, only to have a charging greasy hand scrape by my suit sleeve. Laundry time. 

Oh, the wedding consists of two separate parties – those of a stag and a hen, segregated by a serious cloth 'wall'. Upon arriving at the wedding, our family strategy: divide and hog out – no socialising, hit the first batch, eat, then greet and finally meet here at the wall at exactly 2300 hours, then head home. It's a mission with total radio silence – this is not yet the age of the cell phone. 

Meanwhile, we, the little boys, have access behind the female lines, not only to go on reconnaissance missions for the single guys, but also for my dad to send me to fetch mom and sister who are way past the 2300 hour rendezvous time. Another uncle seizes the opportunity, "Naveed, can you tell your auntie that I am ready to go home?" Snowball effect. I end up with a mission creep of a messenger mission turning into a search and rescue one – find eight aunties for the eight uncles. After a long and painful facial recognition exercise (ok, a few eye candies in the process), I find the eight aunties and send them to the respective uncles…I think. If there were cases of swapped couples, perhaps I am to blame. 

Years go by. As I graduate to being a teenager, so does the wedding into becoming a co-ed one as the cloth wall goes down from Ronald Reagan's call: "Tear down the [Berlin] Wall!"

Woo hoo! Armed with gum boots, I'm expectant to see which pretty dame sits opposite to me during dinner. So what if it's my friend's mom. As we start our hand-plate washing process (the silverware is yet to be introduced – change management must follow the Boiling Frog Syndrome), she takes some pulao on her plate, does the same exercise as us, and throws away the pulao.

"Auntie! What was that?"

"Oh, we in the Nawab family wash our hands with pulao."

You want to tell me that you brush your teeth with a chicken roast and rinse your mouth with burhani? She sure doesn't look like a Nawab, and I'm sure this is NOT a regal ritual. Besides, some of the Nawabs have been known to 'be around' and hence she may be a 'bifurcated' descendant.

So, these are the run of the mill weddings. But there are the 'upgraded' ones at Chinese restaurants. World War II food rationing by the Nazi like waiter as he serves the spring chicken: "2 is to 1!"

The upgraded wedding also evolves as the glamorous Pan Pacific Sonargaon Hotel goes into action. The bride's parents come to our place and hand me the invitation card which says: "Mr. and Mrs. Mahbubar Rahman and Simi". Thank you for not inviting me. Salt on the wound: "Naveed, please tell your parents to RSVP as we need an exact head count for Sonargaon." Needless to say, I gate crash.   

With the advent of traffic, invitation cards start coming via courier with a stapler pin right through the card and with a 70 percent rate of successful delivery. Oh what's that little chit inside? "Apologies we couldn't invite in person." Oh, as an afterthought, "No gifts, blessings only." 

I take the latter literally. I go to the wedding with my hands empty and my heart full of genuine prayers. In fact, I am taken to the podium to actually conduct the prayers, only to be greeted by someone, "Your munajat was not funny at all." The occupational hazard of being a comedian. 

And the decoration lights? Used to be just the house of the hosts, then the house and the gate, now the whole street is lit up. Weddings in 2020: the lights extended all the way to Kolkata. 

The WMD, aka, Weddings and Marriages of December (ok, a smooth spillover to January too), has evolved over time. But what has remained constant is the 1,000 indifferent and probably socially burdened guests (mostly the same ones) attending. One guest even came and asked me at my OWN gaye holud, "So, how do you know the groom?"

Maybe the Matrimonial Darwin Theory predicts the WMDs of the future will be a small affair, only with close family and friends, who would truly enjoy being there. A big burden lifted from the hosts, the bored guests and the resources of the city. And the matrimonial budget surplus? Give half to the newlyweds and the other half to charity.

Win-win…

The writer is an engineer at Ford & Qualcomm USA and CEO of IBM & Nokia Siemens Networks Bangladesh turned comedian (by choice), the host of ABC Radio's Good Morning Bangladesh and the founder of Naveed's Comedy Club. 
E-mail: naveed@naveedmahbub.com