“Ma’am, even though the pooja will be over by 1 pm, you and Sir please come at 1.30 pm for the Prasad.” Jaya was explicit in her instructions, while inviting me and my better half for Prasad at her home. The reason for ‘half an hour after the culmination of the pooja’ was, “You always arrive ten minutes before the appointed time,” which was followed by an emoticon that signified ‘embarrassment’. What I could read between the lines was that ‘my reaching at the appointed hour is many a time a source of discomfiture for the hosts for they are not fully set to welcome the invitees’. My better half also falls in the category of ‘never sticking to time’ for he says that here in Nagpur, ‘when people say 1 pm, it means you must let at least an hour and half pass after the time on the invite before you make an appearance.’ This attitude is so not me - he is totally opposite in thoughts and deeds to mine. It was but natural for him to guffaw loudly when I showed him Jaya’s message. “See, I told you. You are forever in a hurry,” he grinned. So this time, while going to Jaya's house, I kept on restraining myself, chiding all the while, “Aasawari, there is no need to hurry, do not hurry.”

 

And we left at 1.40, ten minutes after the 1.30 pm cut-off, reaching there at 1.50 pm, only to find that the caterers had just arrived and were in the process of unloading the lunch containers. I so wanted to wipe that evil grin off the face of my better half. But ‘restraint’ was the name of the game that very day, so I simply swallowed my anger, and put on a fake smile, accepting the apologies that came my way, from the host. Sometimes I wonder, does the fault lie with me, or the world? Aren’t we taught about punctuality in schools - by teachers, by parents. But it seems that like most of our values that are handed down to us, this too, is only restricted to kitabi gyan. When it comes to putting it into practice, rarely will you find people who are sticklers for being punctual. Of late, ‘being not on time’ is in vogue. Case in point - weddings. Now shaadis are a grand affair and there’s not only a great deal of pleasure, but also a certain thrill in being invited to an Indian wedding. The ostentatious invite, comprising of several leaflets, each more flashy than the previous, announcing the many ceremonies, is proof of the extravaganza one is going to be a part of for several days. The lavish spread is what I look forward to. And as the eyes scan the invite, they stop at Reception: 7.00 pm.

 

“Aah! Just the right time,” I exult, for I have my dinner sharp at 7.00 pm, “the timing couldn’t have been more perfect.” But then I also know the routine by now - and it is now rumoured that bookies have started placing bets on ‘when the bride and groom will arrive to grace their own reception, slated to start at 7.00 pm.’ I, for one, have come to realise that this printed time is more of a suggestion rather than a concrete commitment. You see, no one, barring me, takes the time factor seriously; definitely not the bride, nor the caterer - the two stars of the evening. A reception that I recently attended, to begin at 7 pm, at a grand lawn on the outskirts of the city, hosted by a renowned doctor for his daughter, had me getting into the car, all decked up at 6.15 pm. It would take us at least 45 minutes to reach the venue. Sharp at 7 pm, we handed over the keys to the valet, and ushered ourselves in. We were the first ones at the venue, and as we strolled around, we were witness to the catering team getting their act ready. Fortunately, they served starters which kept us busy for some time. After an hour or so, people started trickling in - still no sign of either the newly weds or the bride’s family - who should have been there to welcome the guests - at least that’s what is expected. After annihilating three rounds of appetitisers, after having chit-chatted with many people known to us, and with nothing else to do, we explored the vast spread, tasting this and that, which was enough to satiate the hunger. Still no bride! “She’s still getting ready,” I overheard one of the relatives. It’s the norm these days - spending hours, getting drenched in layers of makeup, to look like a vision straight out of a bridal magazine - it is every bride’s wish. Who the heck cares that the invite might say 7.00 pm, she is more interested in getting the textbook pout, the perfect curl the way she wants it to - the tiny little curl to fall playfully over the left eyebrow. And she will not be satisfied till she gets that dewy, glowing complexion that people will gloat over. “Just one more minute. Almost ready,” is where the minutes are run over and hours go missing. The clock struck 10 - I am worse than Cinderella - when it comes to returning home - 10.30 is my deadline. The envelope was still in the purse and there was still no sign of the bride and her parents - our hosts.

 

“Will the beautiful floral decorations - fresh flowers mind you - still be that fresh by the time she arrives on the stage?” was the thought that crossed my mind when I looked at the stage. And just as we were contemplating leaving, ‘Khao piyo aur khisko’ - drum roll, a ripple of excitement ran through the crowd, and we pushed our way towards the stage so we could quickly bless them and leave. If wishes were horses! The walk, over the thick red carpet was ‘one small step at time,’ with a sparkler being lit at each step. The videographers and photographers and guests with their mobiles were jostling to click pics. It took her forever to reach the stage. Despite all our efforts to be the ‘first in line’ we were pushed to the back - and with each guest wanting to click pics with the newly-weds and their families - the wait was endless. By the time it was our turn - full marks to the bride and her late entry - she looked like a million bucks - as for me - I was a vision of a hapless woman stuck in a traffic for two hours with a malfunctioning air conditioner. So I avoided any pictures and after the perfunctory greetings were on our way, happy that we were able to bless the kids and hand over our envelope. Many a time, we’ve had food at the reception, and walked away, still carrying the envelope because no one from the hosts' family was around to whom it could be handed. Their loss! Wedding receptions are at least bound by a time limit - even though the invite might say, ‘aapke aagman tak’ no one comes at 4 am the next day when the invite states 7.00 pm. But if it’s a party scene, time in not the limit. These are events where ‘fashionably late’ is not a concept but a cultural norm. At one such event, I showed up at the time mentioned, and I am ashamed to list out the things that I had to do - things that I never do at home - like arranging chairs and laying out dinnerware, stirring the punch, and testing the lights, setting up decorations. I have help at home over whom I lord, and here I was - an unpaid intern at the host’s house, who are still deciding whether or not they should make an appearance, choosing between Netflix and social obligations. At one such event, two hours after my ‘on-time’ entry, the doorbell rang.

 

It wasn’t another guest; it was the caterer, who himself had taken the liberty of being late. Apparently, it’s not just guests who follow this unwritten rule of tardiness-it’s universal. The DJ, the bartender, the waiters, all drifted in like they were arriving for a casual brunch, not a 7:00 pm soiree. Be it a wedding reception, or a party or a dinner where your guests trickle in as late as 9.30 pm for a 8.00 pm sit down dinner, which you cannot start until the table quorum is full, this nonchalant attitude toward punctuality seems to have become and accepted as a new norm. Showing up on time is seen as overzealous, while being fashionably late? That’s a talent. My better half, who has mastered this art,is of the opinion, “You need to create a sense of mystery. Let them wait for you!” I'm convinced this is less about mystery and more about terrible time management. Over the years, I have learnt a lesson. I, now, do not rush out of the door, worried that I might miss the start of a function. I take a deep breath, look at my better half getting ready in a leisurely manner, brew a cup of tea, and sometimes even catch an episode of my favourite show. After all, no one’s in a hurry, least of all the people who invited you. Running Fashionably Late seems to be The New Punctuality. n