I have mastered a criminally underrated skill: surviving large gatherings without being devoured by other people’s curiosity (read: nosiness, unsolicited advice, and thinly disguised insults soaked in ghee).
Nothing irks me more than a happy group of people in polyester and silk, armed with small talk and mithai.
Over the years, I’ve built a survival kit that has carried me through countless family functions – weddings, birthdays, housewarmings, and those mysterious pujas where even the priest looks like he’s guessing.
Consider this my field manual.
Step 1: Arrive Armed
Weapon of choice: food. Grab something the second you walk in. A samosa, a gulab jamun, anything greasy and unputdownable. Nobody interrogates a person mid-chew. Time it right, and the aunty charging towards you will be so distracted by the gulab jamun, she will forget to ask why you haven’t “settled down.”
Step 2: Perfect the Art of Vague
“How’s work?” → Good.
“When’s marriage?” → Soon.
“Kids?” → Someday.
“Bought a house yet?” → Almost.
“Salary?” → Enough.
“Promotion?” → Pending.
“Still writing?” → Always.
“Why have you put on weight?” → Metabolism.
“Why are you so thin?” → Genetics.
Think of it as corporate jargon meets Antakshari: one-word only, no follow-ups. Delivered with the polite gravitas of a government press release. It should be vague enough to kill all momentum and smother all curiosity.
Step 3: Create Diversions Like a Magician
Compliment someone’s sari. Point dramatically at the buffet. Casually announce that a cousin just got a promotion. Remember: Congratulations are the smoke bombs of family functions. The crowd swarms the new target, leaving you free to sneak away with your plate of pani puri.
Step 4: Master the Look of Urgency
Hold your phone like you’re on call with the Prime Minister. Walk briskly as if you’re solving a national crisis. Sit in a corner and type furiously. To the untrained eye, you look indispensable. No one bothers the “busy” cousin.
Step 5: Blend into the Furniture
This is an advanced move. Station yourself near the sofa where three uncles are dissecting petrol prices. You’ll vanish into the wallpaper of male opinions. Be warned: you may suffer mild hearing loss.
Step 6: Exit With Grace
Leave early, but not suspiciously early. The golden window is right after dessert, when everyone is too sugar-stunned to notice your escape. Bonus points if you smuggle out a box of kaju katli as your war loot.
And that’s it. Another function survived. Another night of unsolicited life advice dodged, marital prophecies deflected, and passive-aggressive compliments neutralised mid-air.
You lived. You ate. And most importantly – you revealed absolutely nothing.
"Mid-chew" might just be my favourite new gaali! 🤣