The Wedding Procession Merger

Rohan was heading to an appliance shop to argue about a washing-machine warranty when the road beside a wedding hall became temporarily occupied by drums, flowers, and one uncle dancing with the confidence of a man whose knees had signed no consent form.

His cab driver, Salim, stopped well back and waited. Rohan, in the rear seat, sighed at his folder of receipts. He had prepared a stern opening statement about service commitments. The drums made it difficult to maintain a consumer-rights mood.

Outside, a young cousin noticed him tapping along and grinned. Rohan grinned back. This was his first mistake, although it would eventually improve his lunch.

A woman carrying a tray approached the stationary cab from the pavement side. “Sweet?”

Rohan accepted one. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you. Groom’s side?”

“Actually—”

She had already moved on. A marigold petal landed on his sleeve. He considered brushing it away, then ate the sweet instead. Salim watched in the mirror with interest.

“Sir, your complaint meeting looks festive.”

A few minutes later, the procession began entering the hall. The road opened slowly. Rohan checked his watch and called the appliance shop. Their service manager was unavailable until two. He could either sit in the showroom being annoyed or make better use of the next hour.

Beside the hall entrance stood a man holding a sign that read FAMILY LUNCH UPSTAIRS. Rohan stepped out of the cab only after Salim had pulled into an appropriate stopping place. He intended to ask whether there was a public café nearby.

Instead, a harassed cousin handed him a bag containing four small gift boxes.

“Please take these upstairs, anna. Second floor.”

Rohan opened his mouth to clarify. The cousin’s phone rang. Somewhere behind him, an aunt demanded the missing coconut. Circumstances appeared advanced. Rohan took the boxes upstairs.

The second floor contained a dining room, several relatives, and an elderly man urgently seeking someone tall enough to adjust a decorative string. Rohan was tall. His appliance folder went under one arm while he performed the task. The elderly man thanked him, asked his name, and immediately introduced him to someone as “Rohan, very helpful boy”.

Rohan was thirty-four. He had not been called a helpful boy since he reset his mother’s television.

A banana leaf appeared in front of him. He attempted to explain that he was not a guest. The server asked whether he wanted more beans. Rohan answered the simpler question.

By the time Salim called, Rohan had eaten rice, sambar, and something delicious whose identity he was afraid to question. Salim was parked nearby on his break. Rohan confessed the situation.

“You went to complain about a machine,” Salim said. “Now you are attending a marriage.”

“Briefly.”

“Please don’t come back with responsibilities.”

The bride’s uncle finally stopped beside him. “Which side?”

“Outer Ring Road,” Rohan answered automatically.

The uncle blinked. Rohan put down his spoon and explained everything: the cab, the sweet, the gift boxes, the string, the beans. The uncle listened carefully and then burst out laughing. He called his wife over to hear the story.

“So you are the extra person in the family photo,” she said.

Rohan had indeed stood at the end of a photograph while holding the gift bag. He had assumed it was quicker than explaining why he should not.

They insisted he finish lunch and invited Salim for a takeaway parcel. Rohan thanked them, congratulated the couple properly, and left with no new relatives legally established.

At two, he reached the appliance showroom. The service manager braced for an angry customer. Rohan sat down, placed his folder neatly on the table, and said, “Let’s sort this out calmly.”

The manager looked relieved.

There was a flower petal in the warranty booklet.

Read when you’re a passenger or safely off the road. Never while driving.