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Meher Tarapore’s hilarious reminiscences of the delightful fare dished out at Parsi weddings in days gone by ("Looking forward to a lagan,” Parsiana, November 7, 2018) reminded me of a favorite prank that my gang of five college friends and I often played, a lifetime ago. 
We were aficionados of Parsi khana (who isn’t?) and lagan nu bhonu was absolutely our favorite. The problem was we didn’t often get invited to a Parsi wedding. But the pangs of gluttony had to be sated; there was only one thing to do: gatecrash! 
So every few weeks we would arrive at the entrance of the baug at Charni Road whose name I have long ago forgotten, dressed in our best shirts and long pants and one of daddy’s ties. None of us owned a suit . . . but that only provoked a momentary hesitation. 
Lined up at either side of the entrance to the baug were the groom and bride’s parents, to greet guests. Our faces wreathed in smiles, we’d head for one or the other group, shake their hands warmly, and move swiftly to the seating arrangements before groom’s papa and family could figure out who exactly we were, or were not. Must be Homi’s college fiends, they’d say, as they turned to welcome another group of invitees. 
We spent the next half hour sipping some Pallonji cola, listening to dear old Nelly on her accordion with band, edging slowly and single-mindedly nearer the tables that were laid out for dinner, waiting impatiently for the ‘Jamva chalo ji’ call. And when it came, you needn’t guess who were the first to grab seats at the table, salivating visibly at the thought of the feast to come.
And came it did. One course after another. We fell upon it all like the trenchermen we were, driven not least by the fear of being discovered and flung out mid-way through the patra ni machhi. Of course it never happened, although now, more often not, the looks we got from the groom’s papa made it clear we’d been rumbled. But Parsis are nothing if not generous and kind, and we had nothing to fear.

 

 

 

Yet, there was one final hurdle to be crossed: part way through the dinner the bride and groom would come by each diner, to be congratulated and to thank us for gracing their wedding. The bride inevitably would be holding out the pallav of her sari, into which guests dropped an envelope of cash . . . the wedding gift. Did I remember to say Parsis are generous and kind and also practical? Guests were paying for their dinner, and we did too, though there was hardly any doubt that our contribution would fall far short of the feast we had dispatched over the preceding hour. No pocket money could cover that!
On our way out (after two helpings of lagan nu custard, of course), we’d wave to the groom’s papa who almost always had a twinkle in his eye and a look that said, "I hope you enjoyed yourselves, you young rascals!”
Those were the days. I am 75 years old now, spent 15 of them abroad, and the last 20 in Bangalore. So it’s been a long long time since I sat down to an old-fashioned lagan nu bhonu. If Tarapore is to be believed, them days have given way to butter chicken and Thai curry. But if you, kind reader, have a son or daughter or even a grandson or granddaughter to marry off, and are planning to hark back to ye olde fashioned lagan nu bhonu, please be so kind as to send me an invitation. I will arrive, with my envelope of cash. This time it will bear twice the price of the dinner.
Because, as the celebrated Michelin-starred chef Grant Achatz says, "Food is a necessary component to life. People can live without (Pierre-Auguste) Renoir, (Wolfgang Amadeus) Mozart, (Antoni) Gaudi, (Samuel Barclay) Beckett, but they cannot live without fine food.” And at my age, it may not be long before I join Renoir and Mozart and that lot, to tell them that for my last meal, I had eaten a lagan nu bhonu and it doesn’t get much better than that down on earth.