Stuck in a baraat

From where I come from, when someone says, ‘shoot’, it usually means running for cover. But, recently, while participating in the filming of a web series based on one of my books, it meant breaking into a dance. Yes, I had a Hitchcockian cameo that entailed dancing in a baraat, along with other bedecked baraatis-on-rent. My part was simple — while placed precariously next to the mare ferrying the groom, I had to break into a jig, dance in my little spot, making sure I didn’t elbow the mare or step on the dancer next to me. Well, it took me just two takes to realise I needed to improvise.
 
‘Coz the moment ‘action’ was announced, the flounced, sequinned and embroidered baraatis turned into demonic dancers. Before I could muster a thumka, I was jostled by an aunty with a maang-tika that dangled till her nose-tip, jabbed in the ribs by her friend with glitter Medusa-locks and shoved around by a swarm of prickly outfits that doubled up as body-odour diffusers. When I came to, I figured I had moved backwards, as if I had just performed the moonwalk.

In a short while, I was exhausted, my saree fidgety too! Medusa suggested I fix it, while maang-tika told me how to. I dismissed their chit chat with starry snobbishness till the saree unravelled with bold rebellion during take-number 39 to the brave notes of Yeh desh hai veer jawaano ka.  
It was now two hours since the camera had started rolling and we were still going up and down the street like a song stuck on a scratched vinyl. My joints were sore and my lungs were lined with a generous coating of dust. 

But, we were far from done, it seemed. As we stood there waiting for the cameras to be recalibrated, I was appointed as judge by a group of warring female baraatis. Both were accusing the other of encroachment and poor baraat etiquette. I don’t know much law around this, and had no precedents to refer to. So, I gave a short speech on harmony and brotherhood and went back to shaping my palms into a snake’s hood and dancing dutifully.

It was post lunch now, and we were still ushering, and re-ushering in the patient groom and his even more patient mare. In a real wedding, the couple would have left for their honeymoon by now. Someone else lurking behind us was losing patience. It was the local bull. Maybe, it was time for his evening walk and he couldn’t fathom why a set of over-dressed folk could not decide whether to proceed or retract.

To the beats of emotional atyachar, he came charging down, registering his displeasure at his own atyachar. Immersed in Oscar-worthy performance, I ignored the shrieks in the background and kept dancing. The shrieks grew louder and the mare warned me with a hrrrumpph. That is when I noticed what was happening. I clutched my saree and ran for my life, first attempting to climb the crane on which the camera mounted, failing at which, pushing some spot boys on the heap of costumes, leaping over the monitor and landing on a lumpy chair.

I think that chair was the groom’s grandmother.(Bestselling author Rachna Singh is a sit-down comedienne)