Of old friends’ weddings

I spent much of last week at an old friend’s wedding; an old friend who used to be my best friend growing up, until we drifted apart. The celebrations were surreal. Old friends gathered in song, and dance, and laughter and recounting horror stories from growing up, that should have been forgotten. Anuj for one didn’t know that boxers weren’t shorts, and we all giggled over the story of how he turned up to college in his synthetic black boxers. Poonam’s old boyfriend stories came tumbling out of the closet. Everybody muses over the misadventures of her past, and how she’s the first among us to be happily married now. Pictures from shirt-signing day come up, our faces are scratched with sketch pens of all colours. We had not a care in the world.

Toasts are raised. Toasts are raised to old memories, and new ones, and a love that has traversed a decade, until they finally decided to get married. The parents we grew up with are less worried, more teary-eyed. The friends are still the same.

I cannot understand it. Life has turned for all of us, and yet life brings all of us as the last ones in the bridal room, the ones to stand by every minute of the ceremonies, as if nothing had changed. As if we are still in that slumber party we begged so much to be in when were thirteen, still on that late night phone call we sneaked when our parents had left the house, still the last ones to leave each others birthday parties, so not a moment was missed.

It was beautiful, it was unimagined. Life can be so painfully fast, people can so easily come and go, and yet life and people can stand so still.

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