The Nirvik Bureau, Bhubaneswar, 12 February 2025
An evening of gridlock gastronomy and cultural erasure.
Ah, the famed Odia Big Fat Wedding – a proudly Odia event where the only regional element is the traffic. The invitation proudly declared, “A Celebration of Odia Tradition.” Translation: “A six-hour civic endurance test disguised as a feast.”
The adventure begins in Bhubaneswar’s traffic – a sacred initiation ritual where honking replaces hymns and each red light lasts longer than the average marriage. Forty minutes and three minor existential crises later, you arrive at the venue, glowing with LED lights and bad decisions.
A man in a shiny uniform greets you like a prophet of despair: “Sir, parking is there.” “There”, as you soon discover, is a distant plot of land that might technically be in another panchayat. You park, walk back, and lose ten years of joint strength before finally reaching the venue.
Inside, the pandal gleams – crystal chandeliers, artificial orchids, and an expensively imported absence of the bride and groom. They’re stuck, of course, in the same divine traffic you survived. So the guest crowd stands, staring reverently at an empty stage, the true deity of the night.
The Great Culinary Betrayal
A thirst for vengeance – or perhaps water – drives you to the “welcome drink” counter. There it is: a lineup of unlabelled, recycled Pearl Pet bottles, filled with liquid whose origin could be Himalayan springs or a bathroom tap. You drink anyway. Survival instinct overrides decorum.
Then, the “starter section” – an international graveyard of flavor. Export-reject stuffed mushroom cheese, corn fries straight out of a school canteen, and prawns that seem to have been smuggled out of quarantine. The server announces the fish is “continental style,” which must be code for “no one knows what this is.”
Not a single Odia starter in sight. No Dahi Bara Aloo Dum, no Mudhi Mansa, no Chhatu Besara – just global confusion served on disposable plates. The chicken, allegedly “tandoori,” tastes like it died of stress in a battery cage.
The soup promises chicken but delivers deception. You peer inside, wondering if the bird dissolved out of pity.
Main Course: The United Gravy of India
Dinner is an anthology of repetition. Garlic naan so faintly garlicky you might need forensic testing. Dal fry where lentils float, calling for rescue boats. Every curry is the same oversweet gravy, renamed for variety. Paneer, korma, mutton, jackfruit – all equal under the sauce, because equality apparently tastes like sugar and despair.
You suspect the chef made one massive vat of “mystery base” and divided it with courage and a thesaurus. The mutton and jackfruit have such identical flavors you wonder if they were bunkmates in the same degchi before being separated for diversity casting.
The dessert – “Tender Coconut Kheer” – is an act of culinary satire in itself. The coconut refuses tenderness with the stubborn dignity of an old tree trunk. And as for Odia sweets? Erased like a cancelled heritage site. No Rasabali, no Chhena Poda, not even a mercy Khaaja.
The Grand Farewell and Return to Reality
Finally, you join a serpentine queue to greet the couple – the newlyweds who look less like lovebirds and more like survivors of civic catastrophe. Fifteen minutes to reach them, five seconds to say “Happy married life”, and the next sixty to relocate your car in the parking wilderness.
By the time you reach home, it’s been five hours of traffic, sweat, and gastric trauma. And you sit there, pondering the mystery:
For all the grandeur, lights, and “premium catering,” what was Odia about the Odia Big Fat Wedding?
Just the traffic, my friend. Just the traffic.
