Between the Buffet and the Blessings

We Came for the Wedding. We Left Holding On to Each Other.

Let’s be honest. Most of us spend our daily lives blissfully unaware that time is tiptoeing past us.

Until one day, you find yourself at a wedding in Dubai, wondering when exactly your niece… who once turned a movie theatre into her concert hall, belting out Bollywood numbers mid-dialogue like the audience came for her… grew up and decided to become a bride.

And not just any bride. A poised, graceful, jasmine-scented vision, gliding past in heels and elegance.

But weddings do that to you. They sneak up as a reminder that time doesn’t always wear a watch, but it moves fast.

We flew in from every corner of the globe… UK, US, Australia, India, Kuwait… and a cousin who turned up from a location so remote, we’re convinced he’s the sole Malayali there. Honestly, if there’s Wi-Fi and a coconut tree, you’ll find one of us.

Dubai, of course, rolled out its usual red carpet made of mirrored buildings and merciless sunshine.

Where else can you walk into a supermarket and be smacked in the face with breads of all nationalities?

German rye, French brioche, Arabic Khubz, Lebanese Manakish topped with za’atar and cheese, Ethiopian injera, Iraqi Samoon, Egyptian Baladi bread, Japanese milk bread, something called “protein cloud loaf,” and even a suspiciously crumbless bread that I’m sure would’ve left Hansel and Gretel stranded forever. Imagine their shock: “Where are the crumbs, Hansel?”
“They’re gluten-free now, Gretel.”

Speaking of things that look familiar but feel different, Dubai’s skyline seems to sprout towers the way toddlers sprout teeth… quietly, then all at once. Roads that once led to the corner petrol bunk now lead to four-lane highways, five-star hotels, or at the very least, a gold souk.

Yet, amidst the skyscraper jungle and the roundabouts with more ambition than the people living in Dubai, certain things held steady.

The church, for instance, stood just as we’d left it… peaceful, familiar, with that same echo of whispered prayers and a faint smell of candle wax that instantly resets your spiritual Wi-Fi… where your heart reconnects no matter how long you’ve been out of range.

And on the day of the wedding, as my niece stood there glowing like she’d swallowed fairy lights, the Bishop shared two timeless parables:
First, the wise man who builds his house on rock. Translation: Marry someone who doesn’t freak out over bad Wi-Fi or in-laws.

Second, the storm in the boat, where even seasoned sailors realised they needed the Captain’s help. A gentle reminder that when life throws its usual tantrums, sometimes you’ve got to look upward and say humbly, “Your turn, Boss.”

After the laughter, rituals, and more wardrobe changes than an awards show, people began flying out like well-fed migratory birds.

But it was the goodbyes… the ones that happened in the backseats of cars, outside elevators, or beside half-packed suitcases… that hit the softest spots.

Especially the young ones, who until then were more interested in Instagram filters than family stories, suddenly found themselves tearful.

Somewhere between the aunties fussing over their food, the cousins cracking inside jokes from a decade ago, and the grandparents offering silent blessings with their warm hands, they’d remembered what it felt like to belong.

Because no matter how many video calls you squeeze in, there’s something about being squashed between relatives on a couch at 1 a.m., passing around leftover cake and childhood gossip that simply cannot be downloaded.

It’s a quiet reminder: belonging isn’t tied to a place… it lives in the heart.

And that feeling stretched beyond those present.

It embraced the ones who couldn’t make it, caught in life’s logistical tangles.

And it gently held space for those who’ve moved on to another realm… watching over us, perhaps, with pride and invisible confetti.

Of course, we all slept less than a bachelor during board exam week. Every night was a laughter marathon, and every morning was a tribute to strong Arabic coffee.

Sleep-deprived, overfed, and overflowing with stories, we zigzagged across the city, occasionally falling asleep mid-ride thanks to Dubai’s unnaturally smooth roads and air-conditioning that could sedate a wildebeest.

Shout-out to every fuel station that saved us with caffeinated life support.

Now, here’s where muscle memory goes rogue.

After three years of finally getting used to the “correct” side of the car in India, I found myself walking confidently toward the driver’s side in Dubai… only to realise it was actually the passenger seat.

Not that I was driving, but the car, I swear, chuckled.

And just as I re-trained myself there, I’ve come back and resumed the old habit of walking straight to the “driver’s seat” here, which of course, is not.

It’s a humble reminder that once you start travelling, even your limbs develop an identity crisis.

Back home now, with gifts unpacked, shoes scattered, and WhatsApp groups still buzzing, I realise something.

When family gathers, something extraordinary happens.
We don’t just celebrate a couple.
We rediscover who we are.