Wedding Season Is a Contact Sport - By Divya Iyer

Written By: Divya Iyer

Category: Essay

Competition: Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In her essay titled "Wedding Season Is a Contact Sport," Divya Iyer delves into the intricacies of attending weddings within a Tamil family. A submission for the Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, this piece offers a humorous and insightful perspective on the vibrant yet challenging dynamics of familial gatherings. Through her narrative, Divya captures the essence of cultural traditions and familial interactions with warmth and wit.

About the Work

Divya's essay is a delightful exploration of the chaotic yet endearing nature of Tamil family weddings. The narrative is rich with humor and vivid imagery, presenting a tapestry of relatives with unique quirks and predictable patterns. With a blend of satire and affection, she portrays the balancing act of navigating family expectations and idiosyncrasies, highlighting the underlying bonds that hold them together.

Wedding season is a contract sport

Original Submission by Divya Iyer

Wedding Season Is a Contact Sport

Wedding season in a Tamil family is not a celebration. It is a contact sport. You and your husband walk in hand-in-hand, fully prepared, having done the mental equivalent of stretching before a marathon. You have a game plan. You have signals. One raised eyebrow means save me. Two taps on the wrist mean fake phone call. Three taps means I have genuinely lost the will to live and require extraction by any means, up to and including fire. You are ready.

The Maami Who Discovers You Every Time:

She appears at the lunch table like a seasonal fruit, at the precise moment you are about to devour your favourite pal payasam. "Kanna! Is this you? You've become so big!", always in the same tone, with the same surprise, as though you are a glacier that advances annually. Maami, I have been this size since my wedding, which was also where you discovered me the first time. She holds your face like you are a prize pumpkin at a village fair, turns it left, then right, and declares to the entire hall that you have "filled out nicely." Your husband is already halfway to the paniyaram stall. You make eye contact across the room. He mouths “bathroom” and vanishes. Coward.

The Periyamma with the Fashion Archive:

She does not remember your son's name. She does not remember what your husband does for a living. But she remembers that at Priya's wedding in 2023, you wore a teal Kanchipuram saree with a pink border, and that now at Karthik's reception you repeated your blouse. "Same blouse, no?" she asks, with the satisfaction of a CBI officer cracking a cold case. You want to explain that you are a working mother with an Excel sheet for a brain and that blouses are not a priority. Instead you smile and say, "Periyamma, your memory is so sharp." She takes it as a compliment. It was a warning.

The Chitappa Who Is an Expert on Everything:

He has not updated his resume since the fax machine was invented, but he will explain the stock market to your CA self. He will tell you how to raise your son, how to cook rice, how to park a car, and why your bank is doing everything wrong, occasionally pausing to ask if you have understood, which is a question in form only. He has strong opinions on subjects he discovered yesterday morning on WhatsApp, delivered with the confidence of a man citing primary sources. He does not ask questions; he delivers verdicts. Your husband tries to hide behind a pillar, but Chitappa spots him and drags him into a lecture about why his car insurance is a scam. The only thing wider than his knowledge is his appetite at the buffet table. You find your husband twenty minutes later, holding an empty plate and the face of a man who has just learned his entire life is a scam.

The Salary Archaeologist Mama:

He never asks directly. He is too cultured for that. He approaches with a warm smile and excavates. "Banking sector... tough, tough... so many taxes, no? Your salary must be... what... comfortable life?" He is digging for your CTC with the patience of a man who has dug before. You deflect with the skill of a politician. "Uncle, these days everything is costly... Inflation... what to do..." He looks disappointed, the archaeologist whose site yielded pottery. Your husband, who has been pretending to be fascinated by the nadaswaram, gives you a thumbs up behind his back.

The Fertility Forecasting Committee:

There is always one. She looks at your eleven-year-old son, does some mental math, and decides the gap is not too large. "One more?" she asks, with the subtlety of a billboard. You have perfected the response over a decade. "Maami, one child is a full-time CEO. Two is a merger and acquisition." She blinks. You escape toward the coffee counter.

By 9 PM, you and your husband reconvene near the exit, like survivors of a shipwreck comparing sunburns. You do not speak. You do not need to. You have survived another jungle safari. You get into the car, look at each other, and burst out laughing, the kind of laughing that has been loading all evening and finally finds bandwidth.

And yet, driving home with kalyana saatham still in your tummy and filter coffee still in your veins, you realize something. Periyamma noticed your blouse because she pays attention. Chitappa lectures you because he wants to feel useful. The Maami who pinches your cheek has been doing it since you were a new bride, and somehow, in her own dramatic way, that pinch has become a handshake of belonging. The Salary Archaeologist asks because he genuinely wants to know if you are okay. The Fertility Committee, bless them, thinks one more child means one more person to love you when they are gone.

These people are not perfect. They are loud, nosy, and have absolutely no concept of personal space. They will audit your weight, your wardrobe, your reproductive planning, and your parking, all before dessert. But they show up. To every wedding, every function, every hospital visit, every housewarming, every single time. They remember you. They feed you. They worry about you. They form the background noise of a life that would be far too quiet without them.

Once, I watched my son at one of these weddings, eleven years old, being forcibly fed second helpings by a great-aunt he had met twice, and instead of resisting, he leaned into it, grinning, completely at home inside the noise, a citizen already. He is building his own archive of pinchings and payasams, his own panel of auditors who will one day interrogate his choices and his blouse repetitions and his life, and he will, God willing, burst out laughing in a car at 9 PM and understand exactly what it all was.

So you go home, block the calendar for the next wedding, and start practicing your signals all over again. Not because you have to survive them. But because, somehow, over all these years, you have learned to love them exactly as they are: slightly mad, deeply nosy, and entirely yours.

About the Competition

The Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar celebrates the power of words and creative expression. This event invites writers from around the globe to share their unique narratives, offering a platform for diverse voices and stories. Participants engage in a literary journey, showcasing their talents in poetry, essays, and creative writing.

We extend our gratitude to Divya Iyer for her engaging contribution, "Wedding Season Is a Contact Sport," to the Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Her essay offers a humorous and insightful look at the nuances of familial interactions during Tamil weddings. Thank you, Divya, for sharing your voice and enriching our competition with your wit and wisdom.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.