I navigate my way through the sweating mass, elbowing pale, faceless figures clad with clanging ornaments. Occasionally, I trip on silky fabrics of a myriad of colours, which triggers a groan from some nasal-voiced aunty or looks of disapproval from moustachioed uncles. There's hoards of similarly looking, smelling, thinking and talking people engulfing me.

I can't breathe. I need to get out.

My eyes scan the entirety of the room filled with expensive lights and fruity perfume, desperately looking for a way out of this glittering Hades. With lightning fast reflexes, I dodge eye contact with the pale aunties, who have garnered a reputation for inflicting trauma on youngsters by asking us about our plans for the future, only to contrast and compare with their own well-accomplished kids. I quietly convince myself that if I manage to avoid being in the same vicinity as them for long enough, they won't find me. Lord knows that's not true. They will always find me.

After inconspicuously shuffling inside the hall for a while, I am finally greeted with a welcoming scent. The food is served. I feel my muscles relax a bit and my teeth stop grinding. A faint glimmer of a smile appears on my face but is replaced with a grimace within a few seconds. I remember that the real hurdle has just begun: finding a table seated with the few people I can actually get along with.

I take a deep breath, utter a few words of silent prayers, and take a hesitant step into the dining area.

Immediately I'm greeted with a sight that easily overwhelmed all five senses. A battleground filled with people from all walks of life clamouring over the most desired piece of roast, friends and foes pushing each other aside with bloodlust in their eyes trying to grab plates of fuchka, a toddler crying in his high-chair while stuffing his face with food. Amidst all of the chaos, I hear the softest of whispers right as I walk in. Hushed voices emit from behind palms covering mouths and I know it's all directed at me. I try to think of what they could be saying as I slowly walk towards the deep end. Could it be my grades? My outfit? My inability to stay in touch with family members even though I'm technically an adult who should give a courtesy call every now and then? We'll never know.

Eventually, I find my light at the end of the tunnel. A single table shining like a beacon of hope, even with its white tablecloth decorated with fading stains of ghosts of kormas past. I slowly walk towards my wooden silver lining with as much discretion as I can muster up and get a seat. The servers with blurred faces lay down a feast before me and the other guests, with similarly blurred faces, who are sitting with me and it's like a trance comes over us all. We are reduced to our most primal form; the predator and the prey, the hungry guests who aren't even close to the people getting married and the plate of polao. We devour in a haze of intoxication and ecstasy, in our own little world separated from the chaos commencing just a few feet away from us and then suddenly, there is a brilliant flash of light erupting in my peripheral vision. My heart beat quickens and the blood drains from my face. My hand containing another morsel of food sinks back to my plate in quiet defeat. The Cameramen are here.

My mind starts racing to figure out what my next course of action should be. Should I try to evade the spotlight by leaving my food behind? Or should I just sit in my current position without moving a muscle in the hopes that the Cameramen will ignore me if I stay still?

But I'm too late in making a decision as the Cameramen have already reached my table, their portable spotlight burning with the fury of a thousand suns beating down on my face. I feel every muscle in my body freeze and lock in place, my breathing stops, my eyes focused on something unclear in the distance. The Cameramen record their footage with blooming disdain as I keep telling myself it will be over soon.

Finally, they have finished and then proceed to migrate to another table filled with equally uncomfortable poor souls. I start to relax and life flows back into my body as I finish the rest of my delicious meal. Feeling rejuvenated, I quietly contemplate why I perceive such a joyous event with such negativity and make a mental note to be more open-minded regarding such affairs. I get up, wash my hands and then start taking a stroll around the hall.

It seems as though the food has lifted a gloomy filter from my brain because everything that I see again appears to be much brighter and appealing. The league of judgemental aunties has been replaced with jolly women who sit together and share laughs. The scary moustachioed uncles have been replaced with agreeable men who merrily discuss politics over cups of tea. The gaudiness of the event still stays the same, but with a new aura of sophistication. I think to myself that maybe I have been exaggerating how unbearable the event actually is. Maybe, just maybe, it's not so bad.

As soon as I register the final thought, a hand, much akin to a claw decorated with gold bangles, grabs my forearm and pulls me towards an undistinguished area. I can barely gather my thoughts before I'm pushed into a group of people forming a queue, with me at the very front of it. My breath hitches as I realise that I'm on the stage with the bride and groom and, before I can run away, a photographer flashes his camera, as I'm immobilised in a state of perpetual embarrassment before my vision fades to black.

Fatima Jahan Ena considers herself to be a chaotically neutral egg with feelings. Fight her at mail2ena@gmail.com