To the Aunty in the Purple Bellbottoms,

I am sorry I stepped on your foot as I plunged my hand through the human wall blocking my access to the buffet table. It was an accident rather than fowl play. The delectable-looking chicken roast - brown with masala on the outside, tender and white on the inside – seduced my senses. As in war, I believe acts committed in the procurement of food at a wedding are entirely forgivable. I think there is a UN convention on this, to which Pakistan is a signatory.

There were extenuating circumstances. As I explained, the dinner table was surrounded by a horde of people whose patience had been stretched thin. It was twelve o' clock and the five hundred bedecked, besuited, and bejeweled people had lost something of their sparkle and acquired a wild, feral look. By the time dinner was announced, they broke the leash of civilization and fell upon the table like untamed animals.

In my defence, my feet were also trampled on by two children running recklessly through the hall, a tendency of children under the age of eight which is sadly enhanced during weddings. This made me cranky, and I strongly suspect one of them was yours.

I was also elbowed out of the line at the buffet table by a kindly looking uncle in a shiny brown suit, whose kindliness clearly went the way of his fashion sense when food was involved. This made me go mad. While I waited impatiently for my turn, three women cut into the line, piling their plates with chicken roast and salad with enough to feed a family of four; they kept passing plates to other women pressed up behind, and I believe the one in the peach sharara was your sister. This made me desperate.

I sincerely hope all was forgiven once you tucked into your reshmi kebab, because I noticed the beatific expression that fell upon your face as you bit into its juicy flesh. You did not care that your magenta lipstick was escaping your lips and traveling errantly to your nostrils.

Oddly enough, everyone tends to lose interest in the bride and groom once dinner is served at a wedding. Dinner may be an interruption in the festivities for the family, but it is a goal for the guests. In an ideal world, they slap on the make-up, pour themselves into their most uncomfortable clothes, tear themselves away from the latest development on the Shoaib Malik and Sania Mirza soap opera, and generally bear all manner of discomfort supposedly in order to celebrate the joy of the newly-wed couple. In reality, it’s all about the food.

And, Aunty of the Purple Bellbottoms, was dinner worth the pain? By midnight, even boiled eggs acquire a sheen of gastronomic sophistication. After all, wedding fare tends to be erratic: the chicken makhni may be moist and flavourful, the palak paneer may be prepared just so, but the kebab will be bloody pink from the inside and the soufflé unforgivably gelatinous. It also tends to be formulaic because the biryani, pulao, kebab, chicken tikka, qorma combination is designed to feed the maximum number of people with the minimum of fuss.

Still, we groaned and complained when the government tried to enforce the one-dish rule at weddings in Punjab…. what was it called… the Marriage Functions (prohibition of Ostentatious and Wasteful Expenses) Ordinance, first in 1997 and then again in 2008. The motive was apparently noble: simplify weddings and reduce the economic burden. But a number of petitions were filed against the ordinance because people like their meals at marriages to be varied, rich, and spicy. Such legislation is bound to fail – not because rich people get away with everything in this country, but because our people simply love their food.

Ultimately, wedding fare is a reward for patience. Aunty of the Purple Bellbottoms, going by the mountain of chow on your plate, I believe you were amply rewarded for yours. All is forgiven then?

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