Rohan Khurana
1
Aditya Roy hated alarms. Especially when they rang at 7 a.m. on a Sunday — which, to him, was a crime against humanity. But this particular Sunday, the alarm wasn’t just from his phone. It was accompanied by the rickety whine of the ceiling fan in his overpriced Bengaluru apartment and the unmistakable sound of his neighbor’s new puppy barking like it was auditioning for a street performance of Bhaag Milkha Bhaag.
Bleary-eyed and disillusioned, Adi sat up in bed, hair defying gravity, and stared blankly at the resignation letter on his laptop screen. Unsaved. Untitled. Unsent. Just like most of his adult decisions.
He’d had enough — enough of bug fixes, scrum meetings, managers who used the word “synergy,” and the constant soul-sapping buzz of startup culture. His life had become a loop of instant coffee, debugging nightmares, and group chats with names like “Code Blooded” and “Byte Me.”
“Bunty was right,” he muttered, rubbing his face. “I need to get out.”
Bunty was his younger cousin — a social media addict and proud resident of Ranchi — who had been trying to convince Adi to come back home for months. According to Bunty, Ranchi was “chill, peaceful, and full of aunties who still believed Adi was an IIT topper.”
By 10 a.m., Adi had booked a one-way ticket. No plan. No job. Just escape.
Three days later, Ranchi’s Birsa Munda Airport greeted Adi with a gust of hot air, a welcoming committee of mosquitoes, and Bunty holding a placard that read: “Welcome, CEO of Roy Weddings Inc.”
Adi squinted. “What the hell is this?”
Bunty grinned, chewing gum and wearing sunglasses indoors. “Marketing, bhaiya. We’re building your brand.”
“What brand?”
“You’ll see.”
The drive to their ancestral home was filled with honking, cows, and Bunty’s unfiltered commentary about every relative in a 5-kilometer radius. Apparently, Aunty Kusum’s daughter had run off with a tabla player, and Sharma Uncle was now vegan and insufferable.
Their house — a sprawling old bungalow with creaky doors and mysterious stains on the walls — was still standing, though gravity seemed to be negotiating with the balcony. Adi was welcomed by his mother’s emotional ambush, complete with tears, laddoos, and demands for him to “gain at least five kilos now that you’re home.”
He didn’t tell anyone he had quit his job. Not yet.
Later that night, as he lay on his childhood bed surrounded by glow-in-the-dark stars and a fan that groaned with every rotation, Adi checked his phone.
One new WhatsApp group: “Roy Events & Shaadi Solutions”
One new Instagram page: @shaadi.by.roys — with a profile picture of Adi looking confused at a wedding from 2019.
He bolted upright. “Bunty!”
From the next room: “You’re welcome!”
“What the hell is this?!”
“You said you needed a break. I made you a wedding planner. Break from IT, into shaadi IT.”
“I never said—”
“Bro, you’ve got one follower already. Some guy called ‘DJ Pankaj Vibe Machine.’ You’re going viral!”
Adi groaned and collapsed back into his pillow. He had no idea that Bunty’s joke was about to set off a chain of events that would involve a confused bride, a sneezing elephant, and possibly the most chaotic wedding Ranchi had ever seen.
But for now, he closed his eyes and whispered to the ceiling, “What’s the worst that could happen?”
The ceiling fan rattled ominously in reply.
The next morning began with a missed call from an unknown number, a reminder from Zomato that Adi had once ordered sixteen pani puris at 2 a.m., and a chai tray crashing in the kitchen.
Adi, still half-asleep, picked up the phone as it rang again.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Roy? This is Mr. Jaiswal. I heard you’re the best in the business. We need a wedding planner urgently. Budget is not a problem. But the timeline—”
Adi blinked. “Wait, what?”
“I got your number from your Instagram page. Lovely portfolio. So tasteful. My daughter’s wedding is in three weeks. You come highly recommended.”
Adi looked around, half-expecting a camera crew to jump out and yell Bakra!
“Sir, I think—”
“We’ll pay advance. Full planning, start to finish. Mehendi, sangeet, haldi, reception. Can you come to our house today for a discussion?”
Before Adi could protest, the call ended. He stared at the phone.
“Bunty!” he yelled.
“Bhaiyaaa?”
“WHAT did you put on that Instagram page?!”
Bunty sauntered in, holding a paratha in one hand and his phone in the other. “Just a few old photos and some captions like ‘Crafting Eternal Memories with Royal Touch’—you know, typical wedding planner stuff.”
Adi gawked. “And they believed it?!”
“Bro, half the wedding industry is vibes and hashtags. You’ll be fine.”
“But I’ve never planned a wedding!”
“Exactly why this is the perfect first one. Big budget, rich client, and it’s Ranchi. What could possibly go wrong?”
At that precise moment, the power went out. The fan groaned and stopped mid-spin.
Adi looked up at the ceiling, again.
The universe, apparently, had a sense of humor.
2
By 8 a.m., Aditya Roy was wide awake, staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror and wondering how he’d gone from software engineer to accidental wedding planner in less than 72 hours. His phone buzzed on the sink. It was Bunty, of course.
Bunty: “Don’t wear that checked shirt. You look like a LIC agent.”
Adi: “I am a fraud. Let me look the part.”
He settled on a blue kurta he hadn’t worn since Diwali 2016. It still had a faint smell of mothballs and regret.
As they drove through the potholed roads of Ranchi, Bunty gave Adi a crash course in the world of modern Indian weddings — which, as it turned out, had less to do with traditions and more to do with drone photography, LED-lit mandaps, and hashtags like #JaiHoJaiswals.
“The client’s name is Jaiswal Uncle. Rich. Owns four sweet shops, one gym, and an LPG agency. Basically, Ranchi royalty. His daughter’s name is Kritika. Final year MBBS. Fiancé is NRI. Lives in Texas. Huge expectations.”
Adi blinked. “I know nothing about planning weddings.”
“That’s where Google Bhaiya comes in,” Bunty said, tapping his temple. “Also, I’ve assembled a team.”
“A team?!”
Bunty grinned like a man who knew he had just made things worse.
The house was white. Blindingly white. With golden accents that screamed “new money” and enough potted plants to qualify as a botanical garden. A peacock-shaped water fountain gurgled at the entrance. Adi was 90% sure it served no practical function.
Mr. Jaiswal greeted them with folded hands and a mustache that curled like a villain from a 90s Bollywood movie. His wife, decked in a silk saree and enough gold to conduct electricity, offered Adi a plate of rasgullas before he could even introduce himself.
“Young man, we are trusting you. Kritika is our only daughter. Her wedding must be perfect. Royal. Elegant. Classy. But not too expensive, of course.”
Adi nodded, pretending to jot notes into his phone. He wrote:
Avoid peacock fountains
Learn what counts as ‘classy but cheap’
Then Kritika entered. Confident. Graceful. And immediately suspicious.
“You don’t look like a wedding planner,” she said.
Adi replied, “You don’t look like someone getting married under pressure.”
They stared at each other. Somewhere in the distance, Bunty silently munched a rasgulla, unsure if this was flirting or the beginning of a murder.
Back at home, Adi sat with Bunty, arms crossed.
“Alright, tell me about this ‘team’ of yours.”
Bunty pulled out his phone and opened a Google Sheet titled: Shaadi Strike Force.
1. Pinky Mausi – Makeup & Gossip Lead
A 52-year-old beautician who once did bridal makeup for a Bhojpuri film actress and hasn’t let anyone forget it since. She also has a PhD in passive-aggressive commentary.
2. Chiku Bhaiya – Logistics & Jugaad
A guy who once turned a broken water tank into a buffet counter. Drives a scooter with more stickers than body panels.
3. Tannu – Instagram Stories & Hashtag Manager
A 19-year-old aspiring influencer with zero filter, high enthusiasm, and a ring light she carries everywhere.
4. DJ Pankaj “Vibe Machine” – Music, Lights, and Random Shouting
An over-caffeinated DJ who speaks exclusively in rhymes and has never met a bass drop he didn’t love.
Adi closed his eyes. “We’re doomed.”
“No,” Bunty said cheerfully. “We’re viral.”
Adi spent the rest of the day Googling wedding planning terms like “mehendi color themes” and “difference between sangeet and DJ night.” He discovered Pinterest, which promptly gave him a panic attack, and a blog that insisted every successful wedding needs “a touch of Tuscany.”
By midnight, Adi had built a wedding plan spreadsheet with five tabs:
1. Vendors (a.k.a. Bunty’s cousins), 2. Budget (already over), 3. Timeline (missing) ,4. Damage Control ,5. Snacks
He titled the whole thing: Project Kritika: Mission Imposshaadi.
It came the next morning. Adi had just finalized the caterer (Chiku’s chacha, who made decent paneer butter masala and questionable Chinese), when he got a call from Kritika.
“We need to change the wedding venue,” she said.
“What? Why?!”
“Because my fiancé’s mother is allergic to mango trees. And the current venue has five.”
Adi considered suggesting antihistamines but decided against it.
“Okay. Do you have another venue in mind?”
“Yes. A resort in Netarhat.”
“In the hills? That’s four hours away!”
“She likes the view.”
Adi stared blankly at the wall, imagining himself rolling down a hill in frustration.
They gathered in the living room — Adi, Bunty, Pinky Mausi (with chai), Chiku (with tools), Tannu (with ring light), and DJ Pankaj (with fog machine — “for mood”).
Adi explained the venue change.
Pinky Mausi gasped. “Netarhat? So far! What if someone needs to pee during the baraat?”
Chiku shrugged. “I know a guy who owns a tent business there. We can make it work.”
DJ Pankaj did a small jig. “Netarhat party, under starry sky, dhol beats fly, DJ never shy!”
Tannu squealed. “OMG, I’ll do a drone reel!”
Bunty nodded. “Bro, this is your test. Like your IIT entrance. But with lehengas.”
That evening, Kritika called Adi for a “brief coordination chat.” It turned into a two-hour phone call about everything from her favorite mandap colors (lavender and cream) to her fears about marrying someone she barely knew.
“I’m not sure I’m ready,” she confessed.
Adi hesitated. “It’s okay to be unsure. No one really knows what they’re doing. I faked being a wedding planner, remember?”
Kritika laughed. “Touché.”
There was a pause. Then she added, “You know, for someone who never planned a wedding, you’re not half bad.”
“Don’t jinx it,” he said. “We still have to survive Tannu’s drone experiments and Pinky Mausi’s glitter obsession.”
By the end of the week, Adi found himself standing on the edge of Netarhat’s cliffside resort, surrounded by decorators yelling about fairy lights, a halwai demanding full payment in advance, and DJ Pankaj practicing a fire-breathing routine he learned from YouTube.
He took a deep breath.
Somehow, he was doing it.
Somehow, it was all coming together.
And somehow, the chaos felt… exciting.
Bunty appeared next to him, handing over a coconut.
“For the pooja?” Adi asked.
“No,” Bunty grinned. “Just wanted to see you hold something absurd while looking profound. Instagram story, bro.”
Snap!
Another photo. Another caption.
And so, India’s most reluctant wedding planner had his first event to finish — and maybe, just maybe, a second chapter to begin.
3
It was the kind of morning that promised disaster. The sky had turned a theatrical shade of grey, clouds hanging low like a suspenseful drumroll. Aditya Roy stared out the window of the rented Bolero, a garland of marigolds smacking against the windshield with every bump on the muddy Ranchi road.
Beside him, Bunty chewed loudly on a packet of Kurkure. “You look nervous,” he said, as if it weren’t obvious.
“I’m not nervous,” Adi lied. “Just…anticipating all the ways this can go wrong.”
“Classic wedding planner anxiety,” Bunty nodded like a veteran.
They were on their way to the Jaiswal family estate for the first official ceremony: the mehendi. The compound was already buzzing when they arrived — cousins running around, aunties arguing about bangles, and someone loudly demanding to know why the DJ hadn’t arrived with the dhol.
“Where’s the mehendi artist?” Adi asked, scanning the chaos.
Bunty checked his phone. “He said he’s stuck behind a baraat. From yesterday.”
“From yesterday?!”
“It was a long wedding.”
Meanwhile, Mrs. Jaiswal was approaching with the intensity of a woman who had been up since 4 a.m. yelling at vendors.
“Adi beta,” she said, lips tight, “where is the mandap?”
Adi blinked. “It’s being assembled. Should be done by 4.”
“It’s 4:17.”
From the back, a crash. Someone had knocked over the haldi bowls.
“Yellow is auspicious,” Bunty offered, picking up a chunk of turmeric-stained marigold.
Mrs. Jaiswal was not amused. “My daughter’s wedding looks like Holi in a traffic jam.”
Just then, the sound of a scooter sputtering heralded the arrival of Rafiq Bhai, the mandap contractor. He pulled up on a two-wheeler with PVC poles and a canopy strapped to the back.
“Traffic tha, bhai,” he said, like that explained everything. “But don’t worry, I’ll have it up in 20 minutes, max.”
“You said 20 minutes two days ago,” Adi hissed.
“Yes, and I meant it both times.”
Rafiq and his team started erecting the mandap in the middle of the lawn. Poles were hammered, fabric unfurled, fairy lights uncoiled. It might’ve looked impressive — if the canopy hadn’t immediately caught on a wayward mango branch and torn right down the center.
“Decorative ventilation,” Bunty quipped.
“YOU fix it,” Adi growled.
Meanwhile, the bride, Aditi Jaiswal, had emerged from the house in full mehendi glory, arms outstretched, palms adorned in henna, and a glare that could peel paint.
“Where’s the playlist I sent you?” she demanded.
Adi checked his phone. “I, uh, gave it to the DJ.”
She pointed to the speaker. It was currently blasting Bhojpuri remixes.
“That’s not Billie Eilish,” she said.
“It’s… Billi Eh-lash?” Bunty offered.
Adi wanted to dissolve into the lawn.
To make matters worse, the elephant arrived.
Yes. An actual elephant. Mr. Jaiswal had insisted on one for the baraat entry. “It’s tradition,” he had said.
But nobody had mentioned that the elephant, Shambhu, had a hay fever problem.
The majestic creature sneezed — a sound like a tuba falling down stairs — and a spray of half-chewed grass and snot landed squarely on the mandap.
A stunned silence fell.
Then: “Bhaiyaaa,” Bunty said reverently, “this wedding is going to be legendary.”
Adi sighed. “Remind me why I’m doing this?”
“To avoid debugging JavaScript in Bengaluru?”
Fair enough.
Despite the mishaps, the mehendi rolled on. Guests laughed. A cousin went viral on Instagram for doing the bhangra while slipping on turmeric. Mrs. Jaiswal was last seen instructing the caterers with the precision of a drill sergeant. And Adi? Adi took a breath, wiped his sweat-soaked forehead, and realized something very strange.
He was having fun.
Or maybe it was just dehydration.
Either way, the wedding had only just begun.
The morning sun in Ranchi decided to shine bright as if to cheer on the Jaiswal family’s chaotic wedding extravaganza. Aditya Roy woke up with a familiar knot of dread and excitement — the haldi ceremony was scheduled in just a few hours, and the sangeet was that very evening.
Adi stretched, already feeling the weight of a hundred pending problems, and reached for his phone. Notifications from the “Roy Events & Shaadi Solutions” group poured in, mostly memes from Bunty about wedding disasters and the hashtag #HaldiGate2025 trending locally (thankfully for now only among family members).
He knew the day would be eventful. What he didn’t know was just how eventful it would get.
The courtyard was a riot of yellow. Bowls of turmeric were arranged like tiny suns around the mandap, and family members draped in traditional clothes buzzed with anticipation.
Adi, dressed in a crisp kurta that felt a little too formal for the madness, tried to organize the ceremony like a seasoned general marshaling troops — but instead, it felt like herding cats on sugar.
“Okay, everyone,” he called out, “please—no throwing haldi packets like grenades!”
Auntie Kusum, who was known for her sharp tongue and even sharper aim, winked at her daughter and lobbed a fistful of turmeric toward the groom’s side, who retaliated immediately. The courtyard erupted into a full-scale haldi war.
Adi ducked just in time to avoid a flying glob that splattered across his shirt, turning his kurta into a bright yellow canvas.
“Stop! Stop!” he yelled, waving his arms. “You’re supposed to apply haldi, not redecorate the entire place!”
Laughter and shouts filled the air as Bunty filmed the chaos, narrating dramatically: “Live from Ranchi — it’s the Haldi Hiccups! Stay tuned for the turmeric tornado!”
To add to the madness, the sangeet choreographer, a self-proclaimed dance guru named Swagdev, arrived mid-conflict, clipboard in hand and flashing a grin wider than the Ganges.
“Where is my dance troupe? Ready to make history?” he boomed.
Adi, still wiping turmeric off his face, groaned. “Swagdev, we need to fix the haldi situation first.”
“Haldi? That’s for amateurs. The real show starts tonight! I want energy, swag, and jhakkas!” Swagdev snapped his fingers like he was summoning a Bollywood production number.
—
Meanwhile, Bunty, in his usual impulsive style, had volunteered to help DJ. The playlist he had prepared, however, was a mix of his favorite regional hits — a recipe for disaster.
When it was his turn to DJ during rehearsals, Bunty’s “remix” of a traditional folk song devolved into a bizarre mashup of electronic beats, old Bollywood dialogues, and his own voice shouting “Dance, bhaiyo aur behno!”
Swagdev groaned. “No, no, no! This is not a rave party, Bunty. This is shaadi!”
—
As the day progressed, Adi juggled the mounting issues: coordinating the haldi ceremony, calming down angry relatives, helping with costume changes, and keeping the sangeet on schedule.
Just when he thought he might breathe, a new crisis erupted: the groom’s best friend accidentally revealed a tattoo dedicated to his ex-girlfriend during a rehearsed dance move. The moment went viral on everyone’s phone cameras faster than a trending TikTok challenge.
Adi facepalmed. “How do you even prepare for that?”
—
The day ended with laughter, minor injuries (mostly bruised egos), and a newfound respect for the madness of Indian weddings.
Adi collapsed into his chair, exhausted but exhilarated.
“Maybe I am cut out for this,” he muttered, eyes closing as the distant sounds of sangeet music filled the air.
4
The sun had barely cleared the horizon when Ranchi’s Jaiswal estate exploded into organized chaos once again. Aditya Roy stood in the middle of the sprawling compound, clutching his now dog-eared “Roy Weddings Inc.” clipboard like it was the only thing holding his sanity together.
Today was the baraat — the groom’s grand procession — the moment the entire wedding was supposed to peak in magnificence. Instead, Adi found himself trapped in what looked more like an overcaffeinated circus.
“Bhaiya! Look!” Bunty waved his phone in the air, grinning ear to ear as he live-streamed the madness to an audience already numbering in the thousands under #BaraatBlunders.
The star of the show? Shambhu — the elephant who had been promised a peaceful day but decided otherwise.
At this very moment, Shambhu was gallivanting down the muddy street, snatching guavas from a street vendor, and delighting local kids with his sneezing fits — which, let’s just say, were the size of small monsoons.
The mahout ran after him, waving a stick and shouting commands that only an elephant and a few confused neighbors could understand.
Adi’s checklist fluttered as the wind caught it. “Okay, elephant… not quite under control. Check.”
Next, he turned toward the brass band. If the elephant was the wild card, the band was the punchline.
The lead drummer was furiously searching pockets for his drumsticks, the trumpeter was blowing raspberries into his horn, and the lead singer—who had apparently caught the worst cold in human history—was croaking something that sounded suspiciously like a cough with a tune.
“Guys! We need to start in five minutes!” Adi shouted. “Where’s the backup plan?”
Bunty shrugged. “There is a backup plan?”
Before Adi could respond, his phone buzzed with a new message from an unknown number:
“Need help? — Ankit”
Ankit. The name hit Adi like a buggy deployment at 3 a.m. in Bengaluru. His former colleague from the startup, the one person he thought he’d never see again at a wedding in Ranchi.
Curiosity piqued and desperate, Adi replied, “Who is this?”
“Your friendly neighborhood sound engineer,” came the quick reply. “I heard about your little disaster. I’m here to help.”
Adi blinked. Of all the luck.
Ankit arrived, carrying an enormous duffel bag filled with cables, speakers, and what looked like the control panel from a spaceship.
“Welcome to the rescue, bhaiya!” Ankit grinned, setting up his gear like a pro.
Within minutes, the sound system transformed from a sad joke into a near-professional setup. The band breathed a collective sigh of relief.
As the procession began, Adi breathed in the smell of marigolds, turmeric, and adrenaline. The music blared, relatives danced like their lives depended on it, and Shambhu, surprisingly back on his leash, was now quite calm — until he sneezed again, dousing the lead singer with a spray of hay and elephant snot.
“Oh no,” Ankit muttered, “maybe I’m too late.”
The baraat made its way toward the wedding venue, with Bunty starting a viral dance challenge mid-procession, and aunties competing for the best selfies.
Adi spotted his mother furiously directing traffic, ensuring no cows or scooters collided with the groom’s fancy car. At that moment, he realized this wasn’t just a wedding—it was a full-on reality show.
And he was the accidental star. The chaos and comedy continued, but Adi found himself smiling. Between the mishaps and madness, the connections, the laughter, and the unexpected moments were what made this wedding unforgettable.
And maybe, just maybe, he was finally discovering a new kind of success.
5
By some miracle, the mandap stood tall and untorched.
The priest was already seated, chanting like a seasoned rockstar, unfazed by the wedding’s turbulent prelude. Guests were seated, fanning themselves with wedding programs, waiting for the main event to begin. And Aditya Roy—our weary, turmeric-stained wedding planner by accident—stood to the side, eyes scanning every corner of the venue like a nervous cricket captain in the final over.
For the first time in days, things actually seemed… calm.
The bride was radiant. The groom, despite riding an elephant earlier and nearly being unmasked as an ex-lover via tattoo, looked composed. The mandap was decorated with jasmine, marigold, and LED strip lights that someone’s chachu insisted made it “modern.”
Everything was—by Indian standards—perfect.
Until, of course, the scream.
“STOP THE WEDDING!”
Gasps rippled through the crowd like a gossip explosion at a kitty party. Phones flew out of purses. Aunties clutched their pearls. Someone dropped a samosa.
A woman in a red salwar stormed down the aisle like a soap opera villain, her eyeliner perfect and her rage more so. She pointed a bejeweled finger straight at the groom.
“You can’t marry her! He was promised to me! Since childhood!”
What.
Aditya froze.
Bunty, who had just finished a plate of jalebis, choked in the background.
The groom looked like a man who had been hit by a rickshaw and then reversed over by fate. “I—I don’t know her!”
The bride stood up, fists clenched, fury rising faster than a Chennai auto meter.
“I KNEW IT! I knew you were hiding something!” she hissed.
“Wait wait wait,” Adi called out, stepping forward like a referee in the World Cup final. “Can we just… breathe?”
He turned to the mysterious woman. “Who are you, exactly?”
“I’m Shalini,” she declared. “My grandmother and his grandmother promised our wedding when we were seven!”
In the corner, a few uncles whispered approvingly. “Woh toh rishta pakka tha na…”
Adi’s jaw clenched. “Ma’am. Do you have… evidence?”
Shalini dramatically whipped out a crumpled photograph. Two kids sitting on a charpai with mithai in their hands. The boy in the photo did bear a faint resemblance to the groom.
“Are you serious?” Adi said. “This looks like two children forced to eat laddoos. It’s not a wedding!”
The bride stomped over and snatched the photo. “That’s not even him. This kid has both eyebrows.”
A ripple of laughter broke the tension.
The groom, recovering slightly, pointed at Bunty. “I swear on Bunty’s YouTube channel, I’ve never met her.”
“That’s serious,” Bunty said. “My subscribers don’t forgive.”
Adi turned to the priest. “Panditji, aap please hold on the chanting.”
Then to the audience: “Can someone find out who this lady really is?”
A teenage cousin came running back, whispering something in Adi’s ear.
Adi blinked.
“Wait—she’s… she’s not even from this family. She’s a plus-one brought by the bride’s cousin… as a prank?!”
Silence.
Then an uproar of half-horrified, half-delighted laughter.
The bride’s cousin Rinku doubled over, laughing. “Bro! You should’ve seen your faces!”
The bride almost lunged at him. “YOU NEARLY RUINED MY WEDDING, YOU IDIOT!”
The aunties resumed whispering, now switching from scandal mode to roast mode. One even said, “Kids these days, haaye Ram.”
Adi took a deep breath. “Okay. Okay. No more surprise guests, no more unannounced ‘childhood fiancées,’ and definitely no more photos from the 90s.”
The priest nodded solemnly. “Can I chant now?”
“Yes, Panditji,” Adi said, rubbing his forehead. “Chant away.”
The ceremony proceeded. Fire, flowers, feras. A few last-minute technical glitches—one mic caught fire briefly (don’t ask)—but otherwise, things glided surprisingly well.
During the vows, Adi found himself standing in the back, arms folded, a small smile finally forming.
He had pulled it off.
More or less.
And just as he took a moment to breathe, his mother appeared beside him.
“Beta.”
He froze. “Hi, Ma.”
She gave him that classic Indian mother look: a blend of disappointment, curiosity, and plotting.
“Now that you’ve planned everyone else’s wedding… when are you planning yours?”
He knew this was coming.
“A wedding planner doesn’t have time for weddings,” he replied, half-joking.
She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t think you can avoid me forever. I’ve already spoken to that girl from Kolkata. She’s an IAS officer. Very pretty. Watches Ramayan daily.”
“Ma…”
“And she’s allergic to elephants,” she added with a sly smile. “Perfect for you.”
The newlyweds took blessings. Rose petals rained from above. Dhols thundered.
Adi smiled as the couple beamed at him. “Thank you for everything, Aditya,” the bride said. “Even the fake scandal. Honestly… it made it more fun.”
He laughed. “You’re welcome. Next time, though, fewer elephants.”
As the evening faded and guests began to leave, Bunty handed Adi a cold glass of chaach and plopped down beside him.
“Bhaiya, what a shaadi!”
“Bunty, I have aged twenty years in four days.”
“You’re a legend now. Did you know #MandapMysteryGirl is trending?”
Adi groaned. “I don’t want to know.”
The lights dimmed, the music softened, and as stars dotted the sky, Aditya looked around at the carnage: strewn petals, dropped bangles, the faint smell of burnt mic wire…
And he felt it.
Pride.
Somewhere in the noise, he’d found his own rhythm. From IT guy to accidental wedding planner, he was no longer just surviving — he was thriving. In his own chaotic, hilarious, Indian way.
6
The day after the wedding felt like the morning after a Bollywood shootout — flowers trampled, half the decorations still clinging on for dear life, and Bunty sleeping inside a dhol.
But there was no time to rest.
Because tonight was the grand reception, and Aditya Roy — accidental wedding planner turned full-blown chaos manager — had one last mountain to climb.
“Why is there an ice sculpture of a penguin?” Adi asked, staring at the centerpiece being wheeled into the banquet hall.
The vendor looked proud. “Sir, you said ‘cool and classy.’ Penguins are both.”
“I meant a swan. A SWAN!”
“Too late. It’s already frozen.”
The banquet hall was massive — gold pillars, chandeliers, and a stage decorated in what could only be described as “floral warfare.” The DJ booth stood ominously in the corner, guarded by a man in sunglasses who looked like he moonlighted as a bouncer at a trance club.
Adi moved quickly — checking lights, seating charts, coordinating with caterers who insisted that mini-idlis were appropriate for a North Indian reception.
Meanwhile, Bunty was busy vlogging.
“Yo doston! Welcome to the final episode of #ShaadiSaga with Bunty! Today we’ll cover celebrity guests, chicken korma, and why this ice penguin might be cursed!”
Guests began pouring in. Sarees shimmered. Sherwanis sparkled. The bride and groom posed onstage, surrounded by a rotation of relatives and floral explosions.
Everything seemed… under control.
Which, of course, meant disaster was looming.
It began when the DJ played his “mood-setter” track.
Instead of romantic Bollywood, the speakers blared… mournful shehnai music straight from a funeral procession.
Everyone froze.
A great-uncle started tearing up, muttering, “Reminds me of my own shaadi… so tragic.”
Adi ran to the DJ booth. “WHAT IS THIS?!”
The DJ shrugged. “Sir, playlist got corrupted. This was under ‘Shaadi Mix Vol. 3.’”
“THIS SOUNDS LIKE GHOSTS ARE GETTING MARRIED!”
After silencing the wailing shehnai, things smoothed out. For five glorious minutes.
Then the ice penguin melted — dramatically. Its beak fell off and landed in someone’s biryani.
Adi buried his face in his hands. “Just one normal event. One.”
Amid the reception chaos, a well-dressed gentleman approached him.
“You’re the wedding planner?”
Adi stood straight. “Well—technically—yes.”
“I’m Mr. Talwar. My daughter is getting married next month in Udaipur. I want you to handle it.”
Adi blinked. “I—I’m actually not a real wedding planner—”
“You are now,” Talwar said, handing him a gold-embossed card. “I’ll pay double your usual rate.”
“My usual rate is… free.”
Talwar smiled. “Triple, then. Call me.”
As the man walked away, Bunty sidled up. “Bro. That’s THE Talwar. Talwar Pharmaceuticals. Their weddings have elephants and camels.”
“And monkeys?”
“They outsource those.”
Later, while guests attacked the dessert table like vikings at a sweet shop, Adi stepped outside for a breath.
His mother joined him, holding two kulfi cones.
“You look like you just fought a war,” she said, handing him one.
“Only difference is the war had more structure.”
She looked at him with a softness that had been rare lately.
“I was wrong, beta,” she said. “You’re not wasting your life. You’ve created something… uniquely yours. Chaotic, yes. But yours.”
Adi stared at his melting kulfi. “I didn’t plan any of this. I fell into it.”
“Some people fall into drains. You fell into a purpose. There’s grace in that.”
He blinked. “That’s… strangely poetic, Ma.”
“I’ve been watching Ted Talks,” she sniffed.
Back inside, Ankit joined him near the mandap-turned-dessert-corner.
“Hey,” he said, nudging Adi, “what if we teamed up?”
“You and me?”
“Tech and tradition,” Ankit grinned. “You handle weddings, I handle the backend. We’ll build an app. Custom matchmaking, smart scheduling, AI that predicts baraat delays based on humidity.”
“You want to start a startup?”
“Roy Weddings Pvt. Ltd.,” Ankit said. “We’ll go pan-India.”
Adi stared at him.
And for once in his life, said yes without a full risk analysis.
“Let’s do it.”
By midnight, the guests had thinned out, and the lights dimmed.
Bunty uploaded his final vlog.
Adi helped pack up the last of the flowers.
As he sat quietly, watching the bride and groom wave goodbye to their guests, his phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: “Hello. I heard you plan weddings. We need someone in Goa. Urgently. It’s… complicated.”
Adi smiled.
Reply: “Complicated is my specialty.”
Two months later, Aditya Roy stood at the edge of a beach in Goa.
Behind him, fairy lights danced between palm trees, a mandap made of seashells shimmered in the moonlight, and a local Goan band was warming up beside a tabla player from Mumbai who was having an existential crisis.
In front of him, a chaotic rehearsal dinner was underway where the bride’s brother was fighting with a dolphin trainer.
Yes. A dolphin trainer.
Adi just smiled.
Ankit walked up, sunglasses on at night, holding a clipboard titled “Roy Weddings Pvt. Ltd. — Destination Edition.”
“Ready?”
Adi took a deep breath, looked at the glowing sea, and grinned.
“Born ready.”
From tech code to dress codes, from keyboard shortcuts to baraat detours, Aditya Roy had come a long way.
He wasn’t just accidentally good at this.
He was officially in business.
End
