Mangalore Wedding Baila: Dearest Mangalore, Especially You, Church Hall

Dearest Mangalore,
especially you, Church Hall.

I’ve been listening to the same wedding numbers every day.
Not even variations. Instead, it is the same recycled joy on loud repeat.
In fact, the soundtrack of every Mangalore wedding baila now bleeds through walls, through balconies, and through the last nerve of anyone who didn’t RSVP.

At least get a new rhyme.
Even the bench on my balcony is losing its shape,
bored into splinters by repetition.
Meanwhile, wood gives up faster than guests forced to clap to the same beat.

So when are the weddings going to stop?
Honestly, get a life, Mr and Mrs.
After all, you know they are going to complain anyway.
About the food.
ta-start=”1087″ data-end=”1090″ />>Then your outfits.
=”1108″ data-end=”1111″ />>Then the toast.
>Then the length of the toast.
And finally the quality of the toast.
Because, of course, no Mangalore wedding baila is complete without a full post-event autopsy.

Today in particular, the music isn’t even music.
Instead, it’s just thumping.
Moronic, joyless thumping.
Somewhere, a live band is massacring another classic,
while trumpets gasp for mercy
and drums, meanwhile, refuse to die.
So how about a fresh medley for once,
or at least a reckless baila mix that remembers
we live by a wild, salty sea
and not inside a social-media algorithm?

And yet, the first waltz, Jesus Christ.
It has completely lost all charm.
Not only has it been murdered by practice runs,
it has also been buried under the social-media vapour of choreographed love.
Wasn’t nuptials and the torture of it all enough,
that now we need flash mobs
just to pretend this is still sacred?

These days, every Mangalore wedding baila feels like content before it feels like a vow.
First the phones come out.
Then the drones start buzzing.
Meanwhile, uncles sweat through polyester joy.
Aunties, however, film sideways.
And forever, somehow, is sponsored by bad lighting.

From my balcony, I watch it all.
The lace lights, looping playlists, relentless happiness on cue.
Yet even so, I swear God himself has put in earplugs.

Somewhere inside the church hall,
another couple is declaring forever
over a remix that died ten weddings ago.
Outside, however, the sea keeps breathing,
unimpressed,
unchoreographed,
and infinitely more sincere.

So here I remain,
Yours,
a very tired witness
to forever.